Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“I don’t know. He left in the middle of the night.”

“I left you about midnight, and he took off a couple of hours ago. Must have been a great reunion.”

“It was better than anything you’re capable of,” Aggie spat.

Standing before him in an oversized T-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants, her hair floating around her head in a wild tangle, her face flushed from sleep and by the action of the past few minutes, she was still the most beautiful woman Mercer had ever seen. Why did it have to be like this, he asked himself, the ache in his stomach growing. Why did they have to face each other as enemies for a cause that was so much bigger than either of them?

He angrily pushed these questions aside, once again burying his emotions under a protective veneer that seemed so much thinner around Aggie than it had been for any other woman he’d known. He didn’t want to think about the consequences if it ever cracked.

Fielding and another agent burst onto the bridge as Aggie and Mercer glared at each other, tension crackling between them like a static discharge. One agent had his M-16 tucked hard against his shoulder, viewing the scene through iron sights. The two PEAL crewmen laid their weapons on the main navigation console, their hands going up.

Mercer ignored the commotion and spoke so softly that it seemed unnatural. “Where did he go, Aggie?”

“Like I would ever tell you.” She raked a hand across her scalp, taming her hair so it settled back against her head. But again that shadow was there; some deep part of her was hurting.

“I’ll tell you right now, Voerhoven doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Kerikov will crush him and the rest of PEAL when he’s finished here. Your boyfriend is in too deep to realize it. Help me, Aggie. Help him. If need be, I can have everyone on this ship arrested. Those not holding U.S. passports will be deported, and all the American citizens will be charged with whatever I decide. I told you that you’re involved with something far more dangerous than you thought. Last night was your first warning, and I’m not going to give you a second one.”

Dave Fielding had lowered his weapon, his head twisting from Aggie to Mercer and back again. He saw, even before Aggie knew, that she was going to give in.

“He didn’t tell me, all right?” she said angrily. “We went to bed last night and when I was awoken this morning by you and your fascist friends, he was gone. I don’t know where he went. He was acting strangely when we talked. He said something was about to happen, but he didn’t tell me what it was.” Her voice lowered to a menacing hiss. “I hate you.”

“I want to be able to say the same, Aggie, but I can’t.”

Mercer left the room, brushing by Fielding’s agent as if the man wasn’t there, Fielding following a moment later. He caught up to Mercer one deck below the bridge. Grabbing Mercer by the elbow and spinning him around, Fielding pinned him to a wall. Mercer let himself be manhandled. Fielding’s face was reddened, knotted muscles bunching at the hinge points of his jaw as he fought to keep his anger in check.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Spittle bubbled at his lips as he spoke.

“You did your job. Charge the guys who carried guns with weapons’ possession and then get out of my face,” Mercer said tightly. He tried to twist away, but Fielding held him, his meaty hands pressing Mercer’s shoulders against the wall.

Mercer jacked up his knee, slamming it against the juncture of Fielding’s thighs. The FBI agent doubled over, his breath exploding. The pain radiating from his groin dropped him to the deck, his lungs nearly in convulsions. Mercer stood impassively as Fielding tried to ease the agony by massaging his crotch.

“This mission was intended to be a warning,” Mercer said evenly, looking down at the FBI agent. “However, the person I wanted wasn’t here. I can only hope that maybe I got through to someone even more important.”

Mercer looked in the direction of the bridge, a saddened smile on his face. He turned and went below to the main deck, eager to get off the research vessel.

Only time would tell if he’d done more damage than good.

The squawks and calls of the gulls above the Hope sounded like laughter.

The seas had calmed. The huge ship no longer rolled or yawed but ran as smoothly as a skiff on a mountain lake. Her main engine, though damaged, still moved her tremendous deadweight through the water at a healthy ten knots. Fat wedges of deep green water peeled back from her bows and raked along her sides in an unending rhythm. The wind was backing the tanker at the same ten knots of her speed so the massive decks felt becalmed.

Belowdecks, the mess hall smelled of unwashed bodies cramped too long in one space, stale cigarettes, and the heady stench from the overflowing bins of garbage next to the scullery. Because the doors leading to the nearby head were left open and nervous men had poor aim, the stink of the lavatory reached deep within the large mess. All together, it was nauseating.

The crew, who’d been prisoners for four days now, were quiet, subdued by both a pervasive sense of torpor and the omnipresent machine pistols of the terrorist watchers. Faces were ashen under grizzled beards, eyes dull and lifeless. As they mechanically slurped from coffee cups that they continuously recharged, their gestures were slow and deliberate. Such was their depth of despondency that the crewmen rarely made eye contact with their shipmates.

When the ordeal had begun, there had been fervent glances and subtle gestures of reassurance, keeping alive some hope of escape or rescue. But as time dragged, one day leading to the next and the vigilance of the terrorists waxing rather than waning, hope quickly dimmed. Now they sat docilely, heads hanging, cigarettes dangling from slack lips even among those who’d never smoked before. Rather than experience the much-hyped Stockholm Syndrome, where captives commiserate with their keepers, the officers and crew of the supertanker had fallen into a stupor.

All except Chief Engineer George Patroni and his three assistants.

Patroni had managed to inform his two men about Hauser soon after he’d been confronted by the Captain in the elevator. He’d told them just as the engine went back on line, its deafening roar ensuring that their conversation wasn’t overheard by their two guards. They were professional enough not to let the news distract them or make them act any differently from the rest of the listless crew. Apart from their regular inspections and heavy workload, they sat in the mess hall with the others, sleeping on the floor when they could, or slurping coffee with slow regularity, not once betraying their special knowledge.

Short and stocky but incredibly strong, Patroni was the son of a New York longshoreman and had grown up knowing that he would spend his life at sea. While his father had wanted him to finish high school and then follow in his footsteps, unloading the giant vessels that kept New York City filled with goods from around the globe, the older Patroni understood when seventeen-year-old George had signed on with a container ship as an oiler.

When he’d gotten his first look at the massive power plant that moved the cargo vessel, George Patroni knew that someday he would master one of these huge machines. It took twenty years before he would make chief engineer and another five before he could tame the tremendous engines of supertankers, but he never once regretted his youthful decision. Today, his wife and three teenage kids were secure in a modest slice of Jersey City. They packed more family bonding and love into his infrequent leaves than most people who worked the nine-to-five treadmill.