Ian Slater - Choke Point

As Skate ’s signal lamp flashed golden above the blue of Admiralty Inlet and the patrol ship drew closer, only a quarter mile from the ferry, several gunners checking their laser-aiming point boxes were surprised to see that there were no vehicles on any of the ferry’s three decks. And no one on deck.

“Damn ghost ship!” said a starboard gunner.

“On autopilot,” suggested an increasingly nervous second mate, the third mate organizing the boarding party.

“Damn peculiar!” conceded Skate ’s captain. “Slow to twelve knots.”

“Slow to twelve knots, aye, sir.”

The sudden decrease from dash speed to twelve knots created a surge of water from the stern that broached the afterdeck. But there was none of the gusto of a wave breaking over the bow, exiting quickly, foaming through the scuppers. Instead, the water sloshing against Skate from astern seemed markedly lethargic.

The starboard door of the ferry’s bridge flew open and a heavy, bearded individual stepped out, bullhorn in hand. “What in hell are you doin’?”

“What is your cargo?” asked Skate ’s captain.

“Classified,” came the reply. “Headed for Keystone.”

“Stop your engines and prepare to receive a boarding party from USS Skate .”

“What in hell for?”

“Prepare for boarding,” Skate ’s captain instructed the first officer, who gave the winch man the signal to lower the RIB.

Few reporters had qualms about using their sex appeal and charm to get a story, but Marte Price did it better than most. She had even bedded the formidable Freeman once because, she’d confided to a friend, she liked his gruff intelligence and manly disposition, so much more attractive than the petty, self-indulgent young studs of the entertainment world. Most were more interested in their coiffed hair and makeup than what was going on in the real world, where men like Freeman and his Spec Ops warriors were at the sharp end of things. So that Bel Air brats could pout over multimillion-dollar contracts, she thought, and America’s kids could go to school without living in the perpetual chaos of hatred that marked the totalitarianism of much of the non-Western world.

Compared to Douglas Freeman, the fiftyish captain of the Port Townsend — Keystone ferry was a pushover for her. He redirected his stare from the tightly sheathed orbs of her Angora sweater to his radar, amusing the third mate, who, standing behind Marte as the Skate first hailed them, gazed without embarrassment at her curvaceous derriere enveloped in a pair of tan microfiber pants that seemed no thicker than Saran Wrap. The ferry’s captain, annoyed that the Skate was making such a “big deal” of his radio being out, reverting to a signal lamp, lifted his bullhorn again and told the Skate he was on a tight schedule. “I’m transporting highly classified personnel to Keystone.”

“Who are they?”

“None of your business.”

This retort snapped the ferry’s third mate out of his reverie with Marte Price’s anatomy. Aware of the guns bristling all over the Skate , he dared suggest to his captain that he should welcome the boarding party, which was now bobbing up and down in their RIB immediately aft of the Skate .

“I was specifically told by Washington,” the ferry captain told his mate, “not to allow anyone on board other than the NR-1B’s scientific party and Ms. Price’s assistants, and she is only permitted a camera interview with them for later broadcast, subject to the military censors and—”

“We’re coming aboard! Stand by to assist!”

Admiral Jensen, watching through his binoculars from the Keystone ramp, was as perplexed by the boarding party as Marte Price aboard the ferry. But to the Marines, there was nothing perplexing about it — it was FUBAR, situation normal, fucked up beyond all recognition, a classic case, the age of electronic wizardry notwithstanding, of one branch of the government not knowing what another was doing. In this case, someone, somewhere, had failed to notify the admiral that the military airlift flight scheduled to deliver NR-1B’s two scientists and their crew from the east coast to NAS Whidbey had been canceled due to anonymous but “credible” bomb threats. Instead of having the NR-1B’s personnel from out of Newport en route to Keystone, the new delivery point selected was Port Townsend.

As the Skate ’s RIB approached, the bellicose ferry captain, reverting to his high school macho in front of Marte Price, was about to call up the four heavily armed military police who had been assigned to guard the NR-1B team on the cafeteria deck.

Marte, quick to see the possibility of tragedy and brushing her hair back, its sheen enhanced by the early morning sun, said, “Captain, you’re handling this superbly. I wonder, though, if it wouldn’t be just as well to lend them a hand. You know, everyone’s so jittery these days. Besides, I was wondering if I could get a shot of you welcoming the Navy aboard. Brothers in arms, you know. I think the American people need to see that sort of thing. What d’you think?” Her smile could have launched a thousand RIBs.

“Er, well—” began the captain.

Marte was hurrying the cameraman. “You think you could put on your cap?” she asked the ferry skipper. “I think that would give us just the right air of authority.”

“What — my cap?”

“Yes.”

“Huh — I guess, if you think—”

The Skate ’s mate snapped him a salute from the RIB. That did it. Marte heard an intake of air, the captain’s chest visibly expanding, his waist morphing from a generous 44 to an alarmingly fit 36, possibly even a 34. The captain barked at a deckhand, “Look lively!” and brusquely indicated that the RIB party be given prompt assistance up the rope ladder. Another deckhand, hastily unfurling the wooden-slatted ladder against the ferry’s side, all but knocked the Skate ’s mate out of the RIB.

“Steady on, man!” barked the captain with the authority of a Royal Navy chief.

“They’re aboard, sir,” the Skate ’s OOD informed the gunship’s captain via his walkie-talkie.

“I can see that, Rolston! Who’s he got on board?”

Freeman’s RIB was taking punishment, Alvaro, at the console, doing all he could to cross the ocean swells that had rolled in through the choke point between Vancouver Island and the Olympic peninsula. Because of the rain that periodically poured down on the Olympic peninsula — up to twelve feet a year on Mount Olympus itself — hundreds of waterfalls cascaded here and there over rock cliffs into the sea, new falls born overnight as the Pacific-bred storms caused fresh erosion of the peninsula. To the bitter disappointment of Freeman’s six-man recon team, when they reached the position, the isotope anomaly had disappeared.

“Probably sucked out in the high tide’s drain-off from the strait,” said Sal, his voice all but drowned out.

“Either that,” shouted Aussie over the crashing of the nearby surf against the rugged sea-stack shoreline, “or the spill’s faded because the sub’s turned into some supply cove or something.”

No one else commented. Everyone, including Aussie and Sal, were gripping hard on the handrails midships of the inflatable, its fiberglass keel smacking hard into swells, over unbroken crests, then sliding fast into the troughs. Had it not been for Alvaro’s seamanship, the RIB would have capsized in a backflip several times over. The Mexican-American saw that one of the SpecFor warriors, the Welsh-American they called Choir Williams, was turning a faint yet distinct shade of green, made even more sickly looking by the drizzle of rain that continuously leaked from the gray status along the coast and the dreary mist, which, unlike the cloud cover sixty miles to the east, around Whidbey, had not yet been burned off by the pale disk of autumn sun.