Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“May I make a suggestion?” Mercer pointed back toward the docks, now two hundred yards distant. “There’re three thousand people in that town, most of them early risers. Unless you want to make yourself into a public spectacle, I think it would be smarter if we boarded the Hope from the starboard side, away from prying eyes. Last night, I noticed that PEAL has two Zodiacs. I didn’t see either of them at the town dock, nor are they on this side of the ship. I’m guessing that they’re tied to a boarding ladder on the far side.”

Agent Fielding looked at Mercer angrily. It was obvious from his expression that he hadn’t thought about this and may have actually been looking forward to storming the PEAL vessel using grappling hooks and ropes. He broke eye contact with a shake of his head, then went forward to tell the helmsman to swing around the Hope and come up on her starboard side.

The patrol boat cut a wide arc through the water, its wake widening into a boiling white fan. Its hull canted over so sharply that the freeboards were only a few inches above the waves. Rounding the stubby vertical bows of the Hope , the agents saw a set of stairs that had been lowered to the water level. The Zodiacs were secured to the bottom landing. On the main deck above the steps, a man watched the Coast Guard boat through binoculars, a rifle held in his other hand.

Seeing the weapon, Fielding and the other agents reacted instantly. Those not clutching their weapons did so, lifting assault rifles from the deck or slipping pistols from holsters. Their actions were so fast that Mercer was startled. Someone tossed a megaphone to Fielding; the agent caught it with his off hand and swung it to his lips fluidly.

“This is the FBI. Lay down your weapon and place your hands on top of your head. Do not move from your position, or we will open fire.” His amplified voice echoed over the water in the silence created by the now idled engines of the patrol boat.

As inertia edged the Scarab closer to the Hope , the agents’ weapons tracked the man on the deck with the precision of anti-aircraft guns. The environmentalist on the research vessel made no move to lower his weapon, though he did let the binoculars dangle from a leather strap slung around his neck.

“Drop the fucking gun. Now!” Fielding shouted.

“You cannot board this vessel,” the man called, his voice small compared to Fielding’s electrically enhanced hails. His accent was French, maybe Dutch. “We are registered in Holland. You have no jurisdiction. We fly the flag of a friendly nation.”

“Asshole, you are in United States territorial waters,” Fielding shouted angrily. “If I want, I’ve got the jurisdiction to blow your boat out of the fucking water.”

His words were punctuated by the mechanical crash of the twin fifties’ bolts being slammed home, their belts of ammunition rattling like chains.

More figures appeared on the deck, most fully dressed, which told Mercer that they had been watching the Coast Guard boat ever since it left the docks. Fortunately, no one else was armed that he could see. The Scarab was nearing the boarding platform. The crew on the Hope leaned over the railing, watching the sleek vessel and the agents.

“Francois, put that gun down now,” a female voice called out. Mercer recognized her instantly. The combination of natural authority and throaty allure was unmistakable.

“Aggie, we can’t allow them to board us,” the man named Francois protested. “You remember what the French did to the Rainbow Warrior .”

“Do it.”

While Francois was talking with Aggie Johnston, Fielding and his men leaped the few feet separating the two ships, their boots pounding against the heavy marine-grade wood as they swarmed up the stairs. In just a few seconds all eight government men were aboard the Hope , screaming orders for everyone to lie flat with their fingers laced behind their heads. Masculine shouts mingled with feminine screams as the FBI men pushed the PEAL activists to the deck. Mercer heard Aggie shout, and he was in action, ignoring Fielding’s order to remain behind. He was on the Hope in a flash, searching for Aggie among the supine figures.

An agent plucked a small automatic pistol from the waistband of one man’s jeans while another trained an M-16 on the man’s head. Along the promenade, a series of plate-glass windows looked into the mess hall. Faces appeared there, then rushed off when they saw their ship being assaulted. Screams of fear and panic could be heard from the interior of the vessel.

“Goddamn it, Fielding, you’re making this worse than it has to be,” Mercer shouted.

Fielding turned to him, eyes glazed with battle lust. “I told you to wait behind. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Like hell I will,” Mercer shot back, striding to where Aggie lay on the deck. He knelt at her side and laid a gentle hand on her back. She lifted her head and turned it until she could see who was behind her.

Seeing Mercer, her green eyes blazed with anger. “You son of a bitch.”

“I just wanted my jacket back.” Mercer smiled and helped her to her feet. Aggie wiped her hands and backed away, as if contact with Mercer had somehow dirtied her.

One agent stayed behind to cover the ten or so activists while the rest entered the superstructure through a bulkhead just forward of the boarding platform.

“Listen, Aggie, this can go a hell of a lot easier if you get Voerhoven on the intercom and tell your people to cooperate.” Even as he spoke, they both heard a high-pitched scream from inside the ship followed by an almost eerie silence.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and the prisoners flinched. Several got to their knees.

“Stay the fuck down,” the agent covering the deck party shouted, the barrel of his assault rifle sweeping across the environmentalists.

“Aggie, do it for Christ’s sake.”

“He’s not here,” she said flatly, the enormity of the situation finally reaching her.

“Come on,” Mercer said, grabbing her hand.

He led her into the ship, almost having to drag her along the deserted passageways, guessing his way toward the bridge. He found it up two flights of narrow steps and through a watertight door. Two armed PEAL men were there, training their pistols with unerring accuracy at his head, their fists steady as they gripped the big automatics. Without a gun of his own, Mercer had no choice. He released Aggie and held his hands over his head. Beyond the windscreen, the bay was as smooth as a puddle.

“No,” Aggie Johnston said to her two comrades, “it’s all right. He’s with me.”

They lowered the weapons but regarded Mercer with a mixture of mistrust and anger. Aggie crossed to the communications set and lifted the hand mike from its steel clip.

“Attention.” Her voice sounded throughout the ship. “This is Aggie. Everyone please cooperate. Don’t put up a fight. That’s what they want. Believe me, this is going to cost them a lot more than it will cost us. Just do what they say for now and we’ll have them by the balls.” She snapped off the microphone and turned to Mercer. “You have no idea what you’ve done here. My God, this couldn’t be any better if we’d staged it ourselves.”

“Sorry to beat you to the punch. I hear staging events is a normal PEAL practice,” he mocked, then turned deadly serious. “Where is Jan Voerhoven?”

“I told you, he’s gone.”

Mercer detected a shadow behind her eyes and he realized that she and Voerhoven were lovers. The revelation jolted him. Suddenly, he was very jealous of Voerhoven and that made him angry at himself. He should feel nothing for her, but he did and it hurt. He felt a tremendous sense of loss, though Aggie had never really been his. “Aggie, your trust fund isn’t going to bail you out of this one. Tell me where he is.”