Kevin Anderson - Artifact

Beneath the square tank hatches, the tanker deck throbbed as the big engines pushed theYucatán through the calm water, heading into the open straits. Far in the distance to the west, Keene could make out the Venezuelan mainland—a dark line with few marks of civilization. Even without a moon overhead, the billions of stars were like pinprick spotlights; the sparkling wire-caged bulbs scattered around the expanse of the giant ship shone down like guard posts around a prison, and the tall and brightValhalla production platform was like a lighthouse towering over the water.

Looking at the receding platform, Keene figured that by now the disembarked members of the tanker crew, the lucky ones who had drawn R and R time aboard theValhalla, would have noticed that the ship had pulled away from the loading derrick and lurched silently out to sea.

High up, in the center of the top deck, fore and aft walls of windows glowed with yellow light, showing the ship’s main control rooms. Keene looked up and saw shadows moving in the otherwise quiet bridge, two silhouettes inside the control deck, backlit by the fluorescents. One was the trim and compact figure of a woman, directing the show.

The woman leaned forward. Her voice came out of the 1950s-era public address system, old bell-shaped metal loudspeakers stationed along the deck. “Everything is secure. The crew has been eliminated. Dump all the bodies overboard. When Oilstar finally catches up with this ship, I want it to look like theMarie Celeste . They’ll never know how many of their crew members were part of our operations, and they’ll waste time and effort looking for traitors among their own employees.”

“That must be Selene,” Keene said. He had expected her to have a French accent, but what came through the speakers was a flattened version of Peta’s Caribbean lilt with a few hints of Spanish.

Lucky for Green Impact that the production rig’s efficiency stopped short of security, he thought. She didn’t know that they had called Frik and that Oilstar had its security response on the way, but she must know that her group didn’t have much time. “She’s gotta act fast. It’s not like you can hide an oil tanker, and these things don’t get up a lot of speed.”

Hunched in the shadows of one of the derrick brackets, McKendry nodded again, which was the usual extent of his conversation during an operation.

“I am afraid the oil load is not what we expected,” Selene continued. “Apparently, theYucatán docked at the platform two hours late, so there wasn’t enough time to fill the storage chambers to the level we had hoped.”

From his vantage point, Keene saw several members of Green Impact pause in their furtive duties by the equipment bunkers to look up at her. Before groans could ring out from her team members, she raised her voice. “There’s enough to send a message around the world. Oilstar will never get this stain off its shoes!”

20

Following McKendry’s lead—which was mostly to remain flexible and mobile until something better came up—Keene worked his way into the shelter of the thick deck manifold tubing. There, safely hidden, they watched in angry horror as the terrorists emerged from the bridge housing and crew cabins, dragging limp bodies toward the railing as if they were out-of-fashion mannequins.

“Cleaning up their mess. The sharks will take care of the rest,” Keene muttered as Selene Trujold’s followers went to the white deck rails and, one at a time, wrestled the bloody forms overboard into the sea.

McKendry looked even more concerned. “They’re going to get the captain, too. When they enter his cabin, they’ll find the guy we left on the floor.”

“Crap! They’ll know we’re aboard. Let’s go.”

McKendry put on a burst of speed, sprinting forward to where one lone man had wrestled the uncooperative body of a thin dark-haired crewman to the side. The terrorist used his shoulder to push the victim up and over and waited for the splash. He turned just in time to see McKendry and Keene closing in on him from both sides.

As if they had coordinated it ahead of time, Keene punched the terrorist in the jaw while McKendry smashed a pile-driver fist into his gut, making the man retch. Then the two men picked him up and dumped him over the tanker railing to join the dead bodies he had dropped into the calm water.

Keene looked at his partner. “Pity he didn’t have a chance to take off those bloody clothes. With so many hungry sharks around tonight, I’m sure he’ll be quite the dining attraction.”

Moving at its top speed, the tanker soon left the floating bodies behind.

They heard the bass chatter of helicopter blades, fast dark aircraft coming in from the main Oilstar complex on Trinidad. They saw lights in the sky drowning out the stars above the dark and quiet channel.

“Party’s over. Good old Frikkie to the rescue,” Keene said.

On the bridge, Selene’s silhouetted form stood straight, like an empress surveying newly conquered territory. “Time to go. Set the detonators for twenty minutes.”

With a click, she switched off the loudspeaker system. She and her companion on the bridge disappeared from the lit windows and came around the bridge housing, running down the outer stairs to the main deck level.

Once again hidden from sight, Keene and McKendry watched Green Impact troops drop packaged, blinking explosives through the flung-open hatches for the below-deck storage chambers. Top hatches led down into the crude-oil storage chambers, a honeycomb of tanks that comprised theYucatán ’s cargo space. Keene and McKendry saw the terrorists link the timers and detonation cables, rigging everything together on a small cluster of timers outside the top hatches.

“I thought the point of Green Impact was to protect the environment.” Keene shook his head in disgust. “Some conservationists.”

The Green Impact members began to scramble toward the bow of the tanker. Selene gestured urgently for her team to hurry. Apparently the terrorists had boats tied up to the hijacked oil carrier. As each man finished, she signaled him to go over the side and climb down ropes tied to the anchor windlass. When only one of her group remained, she waved to him and grabbed the rope herself. He gathered the wires from the explosives by the petroleum cargo hatches and ran back to the detonator.

That’s some piece of work, Keene thought, watching Selene go over the side, moving with the sleek grace of an otter. At that distance, he could make out cinnamon-colored hair, cut short and practical, and skin the color of burnt sienna. He couldn’t really see her face, but judging by her narrow frame he would guess that she had delicate features. Dangerous, beautiful, tough; doubtless a challenge for any man. “There goes our chance to get Frik’s Cracker Jack prize.”

“I’m more interested in saving this tanker,” McKendry said. “No matter what Frik tells us.”

“Looks like now or never, Terris.” Keene scanned the tanker deck frantically for a means to get to the linked detonators before all the bombs went off.

“Any ideas?”

“Got it.” Keene pointed to two old company bicycles leaning against the fifty-gallon drums; the bikes were used for traversing the long deck on regular inspection runs. “There’s our mode of transportation.” He grabbed one, holding the handlebars as he swung himself over and began to pound the pedals. McKendry mounted a bicycle of his own. The dented wire basket rattled between the handlebars as they closed the distance.

Keene’s sense of the absurd made him wish he had a little bicycle bell to ring. “Not exactly James Bond style,” he said, hunched over and gripping the handlebars. “More like Encyclopedia Brown.”

McKendry grinned. “I vote for Harry Potter.”