Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“Why guard her? There’s no place Aggie Johnston can go.”

“No names, goddamn it! I need you on the Omega to go over the final preparations, including taking out our computer expert after I fire off the nitrogen canisters.”

“What’s going on here, Kerikov? You assured Minister Rufti that you had everything under control, that you trusted your people, that you didn’t need any help. This will be the second time you’ve asked me and my men to bail you out. Are you certain that you know what you’re doing? I believe it is time to inform the Minister that things here are not going as planned, yes?”

“No, they are going as planned. It’s just that you don’t know the full plan,” Kerikov said angrily. “Just grab the woman, get her to the Omega , and await my instructions. You knew when Rufti bought into this operation that you would be much more than an observer.”

“Rufti will hear of this,” Abu Alam threatened. “You can be sure of this. You are not the person you think you are.”

“Oh, yes, I am.” Kerikov folded his phone back on itself and put it in his pocket.

After a lifetime in the intelligence game, Kerikov never ceased to marvel how quickly an asset could turn into a liability. Ally and enemy weren’t antonyms; they were the same thing. Only circumstance and timing made them different. It was as true of superpower relations as it was of personal relationships. And in the spy trade, it was the truest of all.

He pitched the cigarette butt onto the tarmac, grinding it to a shredded pulp under his heel before turning back to the aircraft. The pilot saw him approach and kicked the engines back to life, their knife-edge blades cutting into the cool air so quickly they disappeared into silvered disks.

The pounding on the door had the sharp rhythm of machine gun fire, crisp and piercing. Mercer covered his ears for a moment before rolling out of bed. Forgetting where he was, he took the covers with him as he plunged to the carpet, nearly concussing himself against the nightstand. He pulled himself together quickly, moaning as his aching brain reminded him that he was in Alaska — and that he’d had more to drink the previous night than he’d thought.

He threw on a pair of jeans and answered the door. Three men stood in the hallway outside his room, all of them wearing dark blue nylon windbreakers. Mercer knew that the backs of their jackets would read FBI in large gold letters. It was time for the raid on the Hope .

“Dr. Mercer, my name is Dave Fielding,” the agent in the middle said. “I was instructed to pick you up this morning before we moved on the PEAL ship.” Fielding was a solid statue of muscle, sinew, and testosterone, his heavy forehead sloping into strong hazel eyes. Had his chin been any sharper, it would have cut the air.

“Just give me a minute,” Mercer said as he turned away, leaving Fielding and the two other agents at the door.

Mercer grabbed a heavy shirt from his garment bag, buttoning it on the way to the bathroom. As he peed, he licked a dollop of toothpaste from the tube he’d left on the vanity top. Swishing it around his mouth, he zipped up his jeans, washed his hands, then rinsed with a palmful of water. In the mirror, his eyes were equal shades of red and gray.

Fielding and his men waited as Mercer slipped on a pair of socks and laced up his heavy boots. They were out of the room only two minutes after the knock. It was just before 6:00 A.M.

The harbor was only a couple of blocks from the hotel. As they walked to the water’s edge, Mercer wished fervently for a cup of coffee, but it was obvious by the tension in Fielding’s stride that he was eager for the raid. The morning held the unmistakable expectancy of trouble. The holstered pistol under Fielding’s windbreaker wrinkled the material of his jacket.

At the harbor, a forty-foot Coast Guard vessel burbled softly at idle, its gleaming white hull and superstructure slashed by the distinctive orange stripe of the service. Twin fifty-caliber machine guns were mounted in a cupola midway along her foredeck while a half dozen armed sailors cluttered the aft cockpit, their M-16s held tightly, fingers never far from the triggers. There wasn’t another soul at the docks; the big fishing trawlers sat quietly at anchor. The charter and pleasure boats were equally forlorn and abandoned. Mercer had no doubt that fishermen heading for their vessels had been told to take the morning off and bill the lost time to the FBI.

He hoped he was right about PEAL.

Fielding ushered Mercer onto the Coast Guard boat and escorted him to the bench seat running along the transom. The FBI men and the Coasties moved with a rigid efficiency. They had been up for hours, planning for this morning’s raid. For the Feebies, this assault was the payoff for months of dead-end investigation work. They’d been in Alaska for too long, waiting for some action, and this morning it had finally come. Mercer alone knew that the morning raid was meant to be a warning more than anything else.

He was certain that they wouldn’t find anything aboard the Hope . Even if his suspicions were correct about PEAL’s involvement with Ivan Kerikov, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave evidence lying around. This morning’s assault was designed, in Mercer’s mind, to be a type of harassment, letting Kerikov know that he was now being hunted. Mercer guessed that Dick Henna realized his intentions last night on the phone, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now, but it appeared that Henna hadn’t fully briefed his men. They seemed ready for a full-scale naval battle. The M-16s had a smooth greasy smell to them.

A sailor in a Kevlar vest and combat helmet cast off the bowline, his actions mimicked by another in the stern, and suddenly they were free of the dock. The helmsman edged the throttles forward and the vessel jumped from the quay. As the boat pulled out into the quiet bay, Agent Fielding sat down next to Mercer, an assault rifle propped between his knees.

The mountains surrounding the bay looked like sleeping animals under their thick canopies of pine and oak, each ridgeline bristling like a badger-hair brush. The air was sharp and clean as it blew across the Scarab-built patrol boat. It caused tears to stream from Mercer’s eyes and brought a little function back to his brain.

The Hope lay dead ahead, gentle swells running sedately along her lemon yellow hull. The empty arms of her portside davit hung over the main deck railing like skeletal arms eager for an embrace. Only a few portholes emitted any light; the rest were just dark spots on her paintwork. She appeared quiet. No one was on the decks this early in the morning, and only a trace of smoke escaped her blunted funnel. A couple of seabirds, puffins or terns, floated just off her stern, scavenging the food scraps the chef had thrown over the side during the night.

“This is kind of unprecedented,” Fielding said over the din of the engines. “As I understand it, you called in this tip, right?”

Mercer nodded. He still wasn’t awake enough to speak. The excitement that held the men enthralled hadn’t affected him.

“I want you to wait aboard this boat until we’ve secured the Hope . We’re not expecting any trouble, but it would be safer if you stayed out of the way. You are more or less an observer, right?”

“Mr. Fielding, this isn’t an invasion,” Mercer said, finding his voice finally. “There’s no real evidence behind this raid, just gut feelings. I suggest that both you and your men calm down a bit. These people aren’t going to offer any resistance other than a few mumbled complaints.”

“Well, just in case.” Fielding unzipped his jacket and unsnapped the safety strap of his shoulder holster. The big Colt.45 was ready for a quick combat draw.