Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Just like me, sir?” Moyes’ voice was almost a whisper.

“Uh-huh. Now you go rest. In an hour or so, we’re all going to be extremely busy on the bridge, fighting to keep the ship. The command team will need you to be at full strength.”

Peter Moyes turned and, on unsteady feet as the ship rolled to the waves, headed across the bridge toward the stairway that led to the captain’s cabin. As he reached for the door, he turned back. “Captain Sleagle, sir…” When he saw the ship’s commander turn to face him, he stood erect and snapped a crisp salute. “I’m sorry for what I said, sir.” Then he turned and disappeared through the door.

Captain Sleagle felt the eyes of his first officer and navigator. He turned his head to face them and, perceiving their thoughts, decided to answer the question he knew was in their minds. “That was me twenty years ago,” he smiled. “But don’t you guys get any funny ideas about me being a pushover. And keep this to yourselves, okay? I’ve got a reputation to protect. Now get back to work. We’ve got a tough day ahead of us.”

Almost in unison, the men sounded off. “Aye, sir.”

Over the next hour, Desdemonda rolled and pitched to the waves. Wind screamed through the radio and radar antennas atop the bridge deck. Swells hit them from just aft of the starboard beam, maximizing their impact on the hull, and causing the ship to roll violently and shoving the stern sideways. It was the most dangerous way for a ship to stand to large oncoming waves, and it set the vessel into a slow, wobbling spiral motion with the bow describing a circle in a rhythm just opposite the circle being described by the stern. In a smaller vessel, the motion was called a death roll. It was uncomfortable, but there was no real risk of a ship the size of Desdemonda actually spiraling into a wave-driven broach. The danger was that, if the cargo got loose in the holds, the ship could become unbalanced or sustain hull damage from a container slamming around like a wrecking ball.

Driven rain slanted sideways, shutting down visibility to just beyond the bow of the ship. The world around them was slate gray and growing steadily darker. As if a sudden hill had appeared behind them, the stern angled up and the men on the bridge deck hung on to steady themselves as the ship rose and then fell off the back of the large wave. The whole ship shuddered under the impact, as the flat-sided hull slammed into the trough that followed the wave. Then she rose again and slammed once more, sending a shattering reverberation through the length and width of Desdemonda.

“That one was over sixty feet sir,” the first officer shouted.

“Bring us about,” Sleagle ordered. “We’ll never survive unless we get the bow into those monsters.”

“Aye, sir,” the first officer responded as he laid the control stick over.

As the ship came beam-to, another wave hit, this one larger than the last, and the Desdemonda was rolled into a thirty degree list. Everyone grabbed for something solid, and everything not bolted down shot into the downhill end of the bridge. Sleagle held his breath for so long that it seemed as if time had stopped while the ship held steady on the extreme angle of heel. He knew that at a certain point, the weight of cargo above the ship’s center of gravity would overwhelm the righting moment, with no coming back upright. She would just lay over on her side with cargo bay hatches bursting open and the ocean flooding in, sending them to the bottom.

While his officers strained to hold on, under his breath the captain prayed for the ship to right itself. After what seem an eternal wait, he felt the hull slide off the huge wave and fall into the trough. It was just enough to start the ship coming back up, but he knew the next wave was waiting to finish the job the first one started.

“I’ve got the helm,” he shouted as the ship came level, and grabbed the joy stick and throttle controls. He rammed one control full forward and the other full reverse in a desperate effort to spin the enormous ship on its axis and get her pointed into the waves before the next onslaught.

Mercifully, there was a pause in the waves, and Sleagle knew that they had been slammed by a short series of rogue waves that were created by the unusual joining of two or three waves that combine their force and build to enormous height. If he could take advantage of the relative calm that followed those rogues, they might have a chance. But another set of rogues could come along at any time.

Slowly, Desdemonda regained her feet, and the giant propellers dug into the thrashing seas. Gradually, the scene before them rotated. Another wave slammed them, this time exploding across the cargo deck and drowning the bridge windows. A falling sensation followed the lifting of the wave, and they were back in the trough, but the ship was still turning. The next wave lifted them like a fast elevator ride, then they fell again, and this time the bow went down first.

“We’re getting there, men!” the captain shouted. “Just a little more!”

The next wave broke over the bow, sending a mad river of foam raging toward the bridge windows from more than 800 feet ahead. It smashed into the glass and the bridge shuddered under the impact. Captain Sleagle thumbed the joystick and adjusted the throttles to bring the ship into a quartering position that would save them from taking the waves directly on the nose.

“Sorry, men, but I don’t think we’re going to find a comfortable way to ride this one out.”

Through the thick glass of the bridge windows the scene was ghastly. As far as the eye could see, mountainous gray-green cresting waves, shredded by violent wind, fought their way toward the ship, each seeming to shove the other aside for the privilege of being first to punish the Desdemonda. Captain Sleagle exhaled deeply, wiped the sweat from his brow and turned his thoughts inward. He didn’t want to tell his men just how close they had come to disaster.

He never believed it was possible to suffer such a pounding in a ship this size, but now all doubts were gone. It was a freak of nature, this late-season hurricane, and he knew he was staring down the throat of a monster that can tear a container ship apart.

October 29th – Panama

“I understand your request, but we’re not flying a chopper into that storm.” Captain Pfister’s graying flat top hair bristled, as the commanding officer of Coast Guard Sector Panama tightened his jaw, planted his palms firmly on the desk and glowered at Josh Adams.

“Do you understand that this is a matter of national security of the highest magnitude?”

Pfister leaned back, exhaled and tried again. ”Mr Adams, I hear what you’re saying. I’ve already been in contact with Mr Delamo. But it is a physical impossibility for us to put you on the deck of that container ship right now. The ship you’re chasing is caught in the middle of one of the worst hurricanes this sector has ever seen, and there’s not a thing in the world we can do about it until the storm moves out of the area. Then we can go in and see what’s left of the ship.”

Josh pushed back from the desk, straightened up and reached for his cell phone. “Thanks. I’ve got some calls to make. I’ll get back in touch with you later.”

“Just for the record,” – Pfister brushed back his bristled hair – “it wouldn’t matter if the president himself ordered us into that storm right now.”

“Are you saying you would disobey an order from the president?”

“Not saying that at all, sir,” the captain was quick with his reply. “But if we followed those orders, nobody on the mission would live to tell about it.”