Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

They would readily agree to freezing the oil, shutting down the TAPline for a couple of months or forever if that’s what they’d been led to believe. That would be a great victory for their cause. But to actually destroy it? Spill the hundreds of thousands of barrels of oil it contained? They would never agree to it.

He tried to imagine Aggie Johnston being part of something so repugnant, something that went against every law of nature and man, and he felt that she never would. There was no way she would sit idle while her group destroyed Alaska, leading Mercer to believe that she knew nothing about Kerikov’s ultimate goals. And if she, Jan Voerhoven’s girlfriend, knew nothing, then it was certain that the rank and file of the organization had been equally duped. Anger welled within him, anger at Kerikov and anger at himself for not realizing the danger sooner, for not sounding the alarm when he first found the Jenny IV .

Kerikov watched as the change swept through Mercer. He was a good enough judge of moods and character to almost read the thoughts of those around him. It was a gift that had served him well throughout his career in the Soviet Union. “You are just beginning to see the enormity of what I’ve done,” he sneered. “Consider this: What happens here, the destruction of the line and the devastation to the precious ecosystems, is nothing more than a sideshow for my true aims. It’s only one tine in a three-pronged operation. Had Russia ever had the balls to use it, Charon’s Landing would have ended here in Alaska, but I’ve expanded it, adapted it to the world today and made it astronomically profitable. You would be amazed at the number of people who want to see the United States still dependent on imported oil,” he chuckled harshly. “And you’d be surprised to learn that many of them are Americans themselves.”

“Charon’s Landing? That’s the name of this little adventure?”

“Originally it was a Cold War scheme to slow American oil production while our forces launched a lightning attack into Western Europe. The plan called for a combined commando assault against the pipeline and the terminal facility. The planners envisioned the region around Valdez turning into a conflagration of mythic proportions, so they named it after the site where the mythological ferryman, Charon, docked his boat after leading the souls of the dead across the River Styx.”

“Hell.”

“Precisely.”

“Why don’t you tell me your other fronts,” Mercer invited as casually as possible. “What do you have to lose?”

As soon as he’d spoken, Mercer knew he’d made a mistake. Kerikov’s entire carriage changed. No longer did he slouch in his seat. He set his cigar in the glass tray on the table to his left and put down his drink, taking a few seconds to arrange it on a previous water stain. Kerikov’s face, brutal at its best, was absolutely deadly when he turned back to his prisoner, his thick eyebrows pulled tightly together as if to keep his eyes from bursting from their sockets.

“Just because I’ve found you wanting as an adversary doesn’t mean I’m going to get stupid with you.” Kerikov’s voice was chilling, dredged up from some deep well of hatred. “Alam, get in here!” The paneled door swung open and Abu Alam, “Father of Pain,” entered, the Franchi SPAS-12 semi-auto shotgun hanging from its special rig against his lean flank. There was a dangerous edge to him that Mercer could feel from across the room.

“Can I have him now?” Alam asked.

“No. I want him locked up with the other, and I don’t want either of them touched until later. We have a great deal to finish tonight.”

“You promised me, and by the blood of the holymen, I’ll make you pay if I don’t get them.”

Mercer knew that the jittery maniac was afraid that the opportunity to kill him and some other prisoner would be taken away from him. And it was clear he would enjoy the task.

He also saw there was a rivalry between these two. Anyone could tell that the Arab resented taking orders from Kerikov. Without knowing who, Mercer sensed that Alam worked for someone else and that his being with Kerikov was on behalf of this other person. The alliance was one of convenience, nothing more. Not that it really mattered, he thought, considering his circumstances, but Mercer would have loved to know who that other person was.

“We have more important tasks than to worry about our guests.” Kerikov glanced at Mercer, no longer considering him a threat, then looked again at Abu Alam. “Get a few satchel charges from the stores I brought aboard. After we’re finished tomorrow, I guarantee you’ll be able to enjoy yourself with our esteemed doctor here. The other prisoner, well, we have to wait about that for now.”

“It’s time to do away with the activists?” Alam asked brightly.

“It’s time to make the preparations, yes.” Kerikov’s patience with Alam was wearing thin. It appeared to Mercer that he was having trouble reining in the Arab’s desire for death and his love of pain and suffering. “Now take him below, get the explosives, and meet me back here. I want to be off the rig within the hour.”

To Mercer, it sounded as if part of Kerikov was patronizing Abu Alam while some deeper element was in total accordance with the young assassin. Despite Kerikov’s more sophisticated polish, and his more urbane attitude, he was just as sick as the Arab killer. It was like comparing the madness of Hitler to that of his henchman, Joseph Goebbels — darker and lighter shades of the same evil.

Alam yanked Mercer from his chair and shoved him across the room. Mercer calculated the odds of escape and rejected the idea as suicidal. His hands were still bound, and Alam and his two agents had seven visible guns between them. He knew they would love a chance to draw one or all of them and cut him in two, so he allowed himself to be pushed around. The sinking feeling of defeat was overcoming him. He was facing an optionless situation, a trap with no escape, a puzzle with no solution. But he would not let it end here. At the doorway, Mercer turned to look at Kerikov once more. The Russian quietly sipped his drink as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“It’s too bad that the computers in Valdez detected a drop in the temperature of the oil moving through the pipeline two weeks ago. One of your nitrogen packs leaked, Kerikov. Alyeska has been following behind your PEAL work crew, removing the packs just as quickly as they were attached.”

Kerikov swiveled around, searching Mercer’s face with an expression bordering on pity. When he spoke he almost sounded sad, as if Mercer’s bluff was too pathetic to warrant a response. “Of course, you’re lying.” He smirked. “I’ve had control of those computers for nearly a month. There hasn’t been a single anomalous reading since I tapped in. I really did expect more from you.”

Gotcha, Mercer said to himself.

Abu Alam jammed the barrel of his shotgun into Mercer’s back, forcing him out into the hallway. For now, his only choice was to allow Alam to lead him into the mechanical decks of the rig, where the brightly lit corridors gave way to a warren of twisting crawl spaces and work shafts whose function Mercer couldn’t even guess.

They walked for nearly fifteen minutes, and even with his strong sense of direction, developed over years of working in labyrinthine mines, Mercer was lost. He knew he was deep within the superstructure of the oil rig, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. The dark serpentine walkways merged from one to another so easily that every new junction resembled the previous. If he had any hope of escape, only Ariadne’s string could save him from this maze.

They stopped in front of a six-foot hatch, its dogging wheel all the way open. It was as unremarkable as the two dozen similar hatches they had passed during their silent march through the Omega . Mercer spun, but his captor had already stepped back, the black SPAS-12 held levelly.