Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

He’d timed the attack so there would be only about twelve hours between the assault on the pump station and the release of the nitrogen, but every second they spent here increased their chances of either being caught or being forced to release the nitrogen prematurely, reducing its effect. In a small way, he blamed himself for not telling Voerhoven to sabotage this critical section during the beginning of the operation and not waiting for it to be the last set of packs coupled to the pipeline. Coming here was a calculated risk, but like any calculating man, Kerikov planned to stack the odds in his favor.

“Tell your men to stop helping the PEAL members placing the packs. I know it’ll slow us further, but I need you and your troops ready for the American response. By now, they must know we’re here. I expect a counterassault shortly.” Kerikov spoke with confidence. He was back in his element. “Deploy the Grails and the RPG-7s and send a vehicle down the road as a rear guard. The authorities haven’t had enough time to organize their attack, which gives us the tactical advantage. And remember to make sure the missile strikes count. If you miss even one of their helicopters, they’ll be able to radio for reinforcements. I’m sure by now, those vans of Alyeska employees that were run off the road by the trucks have attracted police interest. The cops could show up quickly if they knew something was happening here.”

While the brunt of the PEAL activists had arrived at Pump Station 5 in the lumbering trucks transporting the heavy nitrogen packs, Ivan Kerikov, Jan Voerhoven, and Kerikov’s two bodyguards had flown to the station in a helicopter. He thought that if the Americans managed to land a large number of shock troops, they could use the chopper again to escape, leaving the environmentalists to fend for themselves.

If Voerhoven had any misgivings about allowing his people to be used as cannon fodder, it didn’t show. He was outside, braving the arctic storm, cheering on his workers like this was some great adventure that they would all reminisce about in the years to come.

There was no way Kerikov would allow any of them to live even if they somehow survived the imminent American attack. He smiled tightly and lit a cigarette.

According to the tiny constellation of luminous dots on Lyle Hauser’s watch, it was twenty minutes before midnight, twenty minutes until his deadline for Chief Engineer Patroni to shield Hauser’s launching of the lifeboat from the vessel. But that would not happen now. Those twenty minutes would tick by. Midnight would come. Then go.

An hour earlier, he’d heard a rippling stitch of automatic gunfire through the lifeboat’s fiberglass hull. The shots sounded as if they’d come from the bridge, but to Hauser, the sound was as deadly as if he’d been shot himself as he lay cocooned under layers of blankets, the crumbs of iron ration crackers sprinkled around him. The gunfire could only mean that Patroni had been prevented from deactivating the bridge indicators for the three lifeboats. JoAnn Riggs and her terrorist comrades must have discovered Patroni’s actions and killed him, sawing his body in half with lead slugs from their Uzi machine pistols. Hauser couldn’t get the gruesome image out of his mind.

All was lost. Riggs would surely investigate why Patroni wanted to disable the indicator panel, and trapped as he was, there was nothing Hauser could do. There were no weapons in the craft, only an orange flare pistol, its great muzzle over twice the size of a ten-gauge shotgun. But to fire it within the life raft was tantamount to suicide. The phosphorus flare would ignite the boat, its toxic fumes overcoming anyone trapped within, leaving them incapacitated as liquefied plastic and fiberglass poured onto their inert bodies as the craft melted around them.

Ten minutes till midnight.

Patroni was dead, but maybe Riggs didn’t know what he had been attempting, Hauser hoped. Maybe he could hide in the hyperbaric lifeboat for a few more hours and then decide what was best, not only for himself but for the rest of the crew. If he launched now, the panel on the bridge would light up, sounding a number of alarms. Riggs would have plenty of time to send a soldier to investigate long before Hauser could motor away from the tanker. A machine gun from the stern rail would make his the shortest escape in history.

He began working on a new plan. It was obvious that he couldn’t get off the Southern Cross undetected. Riggs and her followers had the ship locked up too tight. His only hope lay in sabotaging the vessel again and making sure that she didn’t reach a continental port. Hauser remembered hearing how important it was to Riggs that the tanker reach Seattle. According to his dead reckoning, they were still a day away from Washington’s port city.

Suddenly a nearby voice called into the night, “Checking aft lifeboat now.”

Hauser reacted instantly, thrusting aside the blankets, bringing the flare gun to bear on the boat’s hatch. Outside, hands fumbled with the double closure of the craft.

This was it. Of all the fear Hauser had faced, nothing could compare to this. His throat was dry, his hands trembling as they gripped the flare pistol. Sweat slicked his face, burning his eyes as he watched the inner door of the life raft rotate to the unlocked position. A few more ounces of pressure and the terrorist would swing the hatch inward and discover Hauser’s secret hiding place.

No matter what, he would fire. Riggs knew about him through Patroni’s actions, and it had been only a matter of time before he was ferreted out and summarily shot. It was better that he discharge the flare at the terrorist as he peered into the life raft. Hauser would die, but he would take one of the bastards with him.

The inner hatch finally released, a slight hiss escaping as the circular door was pushed against its internal stops. Lyle Hauser had tucked himself back under the blankets so only the open mouth of the flare gun gave away his presence. It wasn’t until the outer door was opened that he became aware of how stale the air in the lifeboat had become. The cold, tangy breeze that enveloped the terrorist as he leaned into the lifeboat was like a moist caress, intimate and loving and just as fleeting.

The guard was dressed in black, an Uzi draped around his broad shoulders and a Colt.45 automatic pistol gripped in one fist. He pushed himself halfway through the boat’s tight entrance. His flashlight, a mini Maglite, was clamped between his teeth like a cigar. In its erratic glow, Hauser was nothing more than a dark lump. The terrorist held a walkie-talkie in his left hand, his thumb resting lightly on the transmit button. Hauser didn’t know that the guard hadn’t recognized him as a person until he unintentionally shifted on the tough rubber floor mats, the blankets on his body moving like a wave.

“I think I’ve found somebody,” the guard shouted into his radio.

In that instant, Hauser was more alive, more perceptive than he’d ever been. The guard’s eyes went wide and white at the sight of the flare pistol, and he barely managed to open his mouth to scream before Hauser pulled the trigger.

The ignition of the flare gun was a concussive thump that sucked all the oxygen from the lifeboat. The molten ball of red phosphorous shot from the gun and hit the guard square in the chest. His heavy parka burst instantly into flames. Hauser saw that the burning body blocked his only escape from the lifeboat and knew his death was not far away.

Joann Riggs was feeling the strain of her new command; it etched her face and darkened the circles under her eyes. She was exhausted, her mind dulled. The brief respite she’d had an hour ago, when Wolf had shown her how to fire one of the Uzis, was all but forgotten. Firing rounds off the flying bridge had delighted her; holding the weapon as it spat fire and shook in her arms was intoxicating. But now she was back on the bridge, ever vigilant, watching her captive crew.