Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

Jacob was all encouragement. “Right, dad, let’s go for it.”

“Cadee, what do you say?” Dan asked. “We’ve got to take a vote, before we spend any of our cruising kitty.”

Cadee looked at her mom, worried that their disagreement about this might turn into a serious argument. “I don’t know,” she stammered, her eyes on Nicole.

Nicole sensed her daughter’s insecurity, and knelt to look her in the eye. “Hey, it’s okay, kiddo. No big deal here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Nicole assured her. “What’s your vote?”

“Well then,” – her face lit up – “I vote to see what’s inside. It’s like a giant Christmas present.”

“So, since it’s only early November, does that mean we have to wait a couple months?” Dan teased.

Cadee clapped her hands. “Okay, late Halloween,”

“So let’s see by show of hands,” Dan said. “Only unanimous votes are moved upon, so we don’t go against the wishes of anyone.”

Cadee’s hand went up first, followed quickly by Jacob’s. “You know where I stand,” Dan said, looking toward Nicole, who still had her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Come on, mom,” both kids pleaded in unison. Jacob offered the final encouragement, “At least we should find out what it costs to salvage it.”

“So where’s the nearest salvage operation?” Nicole asked.

Dan picked up the VHF radio microphone. “Reach out and touch someone.” He shrugged. “If everyone agrees, I’ll see if I can raise someone on the radio who can give us a lead to a salvage company. Who knows, maybe there’s someone right here in the islands.”

After a moment of holding out, Nicole relented. “Okay. Let’s at least make the call.”

Susan Vellum stood at the door to Josh Adams’ hotel room and knocked quietly.

He heard the faint rapping, looked at the clock on the nightstand and shook the sleep from his brain. “Three in the morning? What the heck is important enough to wake a man at three in the morning?” He threw back the covers, grabbed his robe and walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Susan.” The voice was intimately familiar, but it made no sense that Susan was here in Panama. Wasn’t she in a hospital in the Philippines?

He threw off the chain lock, flipped open the deadbolt and swung the door wide. Susan melted into his arms, and they kissed deeply.

A bioelectric shock from somewhere in his nervous system shot through his body, and he jumped, waking himself from the dream. He was sweating. His t-shirt was wringing wet around the collar, and his breathing came hard and fast. In the distance, he heard a knock at the door and wondered if his dream had written itself in his brain at the speed of neurons, to make rational sense of the knock; a rational sense that was acceptable to him – even longed for.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“Mr Adams,” a young male voice responded in perfect American English, “Captain Pfister sent me to get you. They’ve located a container.”

Josh reached for the lamp and switched on the light. “I’ll be right there!” he yelled through the door, then scrambled into his pants and shirt, tucking his pistol into the back of his waistband. In less than a minute he was out the door and heading down the steps behind a young man in a Coast Guard work uniform. They got into a car that had been left at the curb, and raced off into the night.

“What’s the situation?” Josh asked.

“Don’t know the specifics, sir,” the young man answered. “Only that a report came in from a cruise ship that they had hit a hard submerged object. Turned out to be a container.”

Minutes later, they checked in through the security gate and drove to the captain’s office. Through the window, Josh saw Pfister talking on the phone.

“Thanks for the lift.” He got out, slammed the car door and waved as he headed up the steps.

The door opened as he was reaching for the handle, and the captain stepped into the night air. “You ready for a ride?”

“You’re asking if I’m ready to cheat death again?”

Pfister grinned. “A Carnival cruise ship hit something hard and metallic about an hour ago. They hit it so hard that it punched a triangular hole the size of a Volkswagen just below the waterline.”

“You figure they hit the corner of a container?”

“Looks that way. After they sealed off the damaged compartment so the whole ship wouldn’t flood, they trained spotlights on the water to see if they could spot what caused the damage. There it was, about ninety percent submerged, a shipping container.”

“Color?”

“Your favorite and mine, red lead.”

“Were they able to see a serial number?”

“Not that lucky, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’d say let’s go have a look. Can we land a chopper on the ship?”

“Oh yeah,” Pfister said. “I’ve already deployed a cutter, but the chopper will be faster for us. And the cruise ship is equipped with several full sets of scuba gear onboard, so we can go down and check the serial number from under water, if necessary. You’re certified, I assume?”

“Since I was eleven years old. Got certified with my dad, so we could spend some quality father and son time getting a nitrogen fix.”

“Good. By the time the cutter arrives to take the container in tow, we’ll already have some answers.”

The sun was still below the horizon when Josh spotted what appeared to be a Las Vegas hotel with all the lights on, floating on the black sea below them. The chopper circled, then fell into an approach toward a helipad on the stern of the ship. The skipper met them at the pad and handed them off to a crewman who showed them down seven flights to the equipment room where the scuba gear was stowed.

“I’ll be right behind you,” the skipper said. “Just have a few things to take care of first. I have a skiff waiting for your use on the swim platform. It’ll save you having to swim a couple hundred yards to get to the bow.”

“Is the container still at the bow?” Josh asked.

“Yes. Actually, it hung up in the penetration, so we know exactly where it is.”

Moments later, Josh buckled his weight belt and took a suck on the second-stage regulator to check the system and make sure the air was clean. Even the slightest hint of an oily taste indicates a compressor problem that would fill the tanks with lung-damaging contaminated air. He switched on the dive light to check its operation, then turned if off again.

“I’m almost there,” he said. “Just got to spit in my mask and I’ll be ready.”

“Here,” – the equipment room steward handed him a small plastic bottle – “we don’t encourage our guests to spit in the masks. Use this anti-fog, instead.”

“Hey, my spit’s clean,” Josh said in mock protest.

The steward rolled his eyes, showing no sense of humor. “Right.”

With fins in hand, Pfister and Josh followed the steward down the hall, through the door leading to the swim platform where the skiff waited with a driver aboard. The pilot pushed the throttle forward and two minutes later, they were at the bow of the ship. Looking up from the skiff, Josh thought it was like sitting at the base of an enormous white skyscraper that slanted out overhead to block part of the sky. Lights from more than a thousand staterooms shimmered from the black water like a sea full of silver mirrors.

Under the skillful hands of the skiff pilot, the small boat hovered effortlessly in the corner created by the ship’s hull and the container that was still loosely stuck in the penetration. The two men made eye contact, gave the ‘okay’ hand signal, placed a palm against their masks and rolled backward off opposite sides of the skiff.