Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“What do you want done?” Henna asked.

“Search their ship, find out if the liquid nitrogen is aboard or if they have any special type of refrigeration units, something they could have used to store the stuff. Arrest them all if you find even a goddamn ice cream machine. I know they’re involved.”

“Mercer, I can’t just go around seizing ships flying foreign flags.”

“Come on, Dick, you control the goddamn FBI. Surely you can think of something to get men aboard the Hope . Use the cover of health inspectors checking for Brazilian crotch lice, I don’t know. Anything.”

“If you’re wrong about this, your ass is going to be in a sling,” Henna threatened.

“I thought it already was for coming to Alaska in the first place,” Mercer quipped.

“All right, what else do you have?”

“Nothing. Or maybe everything. I found out that Burt Manning used to work for Max Johnston. And Johnston knew exactly what time the attack on my house took place.”

“What are you saying?” The President sensed a scandal immediately. He’d just played a round of golf with Johnston.

“I don’t know, sir, but I just spoke with his daughter and he’s got her pretty spooked.”

“Mercer,” Connie Van Buren chimed over the speaker phone, “you don’t think Johnston’s involved? He’s got more at stake in Alaska than almost anyone.”

“I agree with you, Connie. That’s why I’m not sure yet if he’s in any way connected. It’s just a piece of information I picked up and wanted to pass along.”

“We’ll check out the Hope for you, but I want you back in Washington ASAP,” Henna interrupted.

“I will, Dick,” Mercer said seriously. “But I want to be part of the team that boards the Hope .”

“This is a federal matter. You’re just a civilian.”

“Come on, give this civilian some credit. I may have given you a lead, while the couple hundred agents you’ve got bumbling around the state haven’t turned up anything.”

“Dr. Mercer, I’ll make sure you are part of the assault, but only as an observer.” The President’s tone was cool and neutral. “However, I want your personal guarantee that you will be on the next plane back to Washington afterward.”

“Trust me,” Mercer said.

Richard Henna shut off his cellular when he realized that Mercer was gone and leaned back heavily into his chair. He and Connie Van Buren were seated before the President in the Oval Office. While they were dressed casually, there was a stiff formality in the air.

They had been here for almost two hours, discussing the implementation of the President’s energy policy and Henna’s involvement to ensure that it went through smoothly. None of the more powerful Washington insiders were naive enough to believe that there wouldn’t be serious recriminations, both nationally and internationally, for what the President had proposed. Oil companies and environmental groups weren’t the only players who saw themselves threatened by the proposed isolationist move.

A large number of the oil-producing nations saw this as one more step in the American plan to destroy their way of life, and they were currently meeting in London. Militant factions within OPEC could threaten and browbeat the United States because they still held a powerful economic weapon. The three people seated around the large desk had to make sure that possible reprisals never touched America’s shores.

“That son of a bitch,” Henna said fondly as he strode to a sideboard near one wall that acted as a small bar. He poured a heavy dose of Scotch into a glass and downed it in one easy swallow.

“Why do you say that?” Connie asked.

“Because he knows more than we do. Again. I swear to God, he creates these crises just to make me look bad,” Henna said tiredly. “But I don’t think you handled that very well, Mr. President.”

“Why not?” The chief executive bristled.

“Because he might actually follow your order and come home, and we’d lose the best man we have in Alaska.”

“What about the rest of your agents, two or three hundred of them, I believe?” Connie asked.

“I’ve got two hundred agents who’ve turned up nothing. I’ve had men following FedEx delivery people if a package looks suspicious. That’s how desperate I am. In just a couple of days, Mercer has given us more leads than my entire staff combined. None of my men have his scientific qualifications or the savvy to make the connections he does. Mercer knows what liquid nitrogen can do and what it could be used for while I’ve got a lot of eager men with short haircuts and linebacker attitudes waiting to kick down doors and crack skulls. None of them are piecing this thing together the way Mercer is. He’s our best asset in Alaska, and if he decides to head home, we may all pay the price for it.”

“Dick, I’ve known Mercer even longer than you,” Connie Van Buren said. “Don’t you think you’re giving him just a little bit too much credit?”

“Connie, you weren’t part of the Hawaii crisis,” the President replied sagely. “Nothing Mercer does could surprise me anymore.” He turned to Henna. “Do you think there is anything to his suspicions of PEAL and Max Johnston?”

“PEAL, maybe. Their leader is one pathological bastard.” Henna fell back into his chair. “But Johnston, no way. The guy is true blue all the way.”

“Dick.” The President’s voice was heavy with the gravity of the situation. “We both know Philip Mercer. He bailed my ass out of that Hawaiian incident. If he’s suspicious, well, so am I. Do a little digging on Johnston. Quietly.”

Dawn was hours away and the night sky was as black as pitch. Even the stars seemed especially remote and cold in the silence of space. The town, too, was quiet. Only the gentle lapping of waves and the occasional whistle of wind through loosely strung power lines disturbed the night. It was almost four in the morning, the time when humans and all other nonnocturnal creatures were at their lowest ebb. Even with electric lighting and sophisticated technology, man still feared this time of night and hid from it as surely as his primordial ancestors had eons ago. It was the time of witches and devils. It was the time of Ivan Kerikov.

The still of the night was stirred by a persistent buzzing noise approaching the town from the north. The buzz built into a whine and then to the throaty roar of two fuel-injected six-cylinder engines of a Cessna 310 prop aircraft, its landing lights brilliant in the darkness. The pilot keyed on his mike and the automated runway lights of Valdez’s airport sparkled on, outlining the single 6,500-foot asphalt strip. He crabbed the aircraft, mindful of the crosswind coming from the Sound.

With just the right touch of throttle and flap, the executive plane scuffed the runway, then settled on its tricycle landing gear, the pilot giving himself more than enough room for his rollout. A flashlight beckoned him to the hard stands where a small group of people waited at the otherwise deserted airport. Their breaths were like cigarette smoke in the predawn chill.

The pilot cut the engines, and silence once again enveloped the field. A few moments later, the rear passenger door hissed open and Kerikov stepped down to the tarmac, unlimbering his bulky frame from the six-passenger aircraft. His face was drawn and deeply shadowed in the Cessna’s dim cabin lights, but his pale eyes retained their deadly stare.

“Voerhoven?” he called evenly.

Jan Voerhoven stepped away from his men and strode to the aircraft, keeping the beam of his flashlight on the silvery wet asphalt. He’d arrived at the airport just moments before Kerikov’s plane, leaving Aggie curled up and asleep aboard the Hope .