Trident Force (23 page)

“I have no objection to aborting the voyage at this point. Like I said, keep me posted.”

“And one more thing—the stabilizer system has crapped out, so you may see a lot very unhappy passengers on TV soon.”

“Rounding!”

“No, a gasket on the hydraulic system. They figure it will take four to six hours to repair.”

“Keep me posted.”

As Mike switched the phone off, Jerry stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered and looking almost alive. “You look pissed, Captain. That must have been Alan Parker.”

“You want to do a press conference—tell the world how we tracked down and killed a dangerous terrorist?”

“Pleased to take care of it, sir, but Parker won't be happy with the result.”

“I guess we'll forget about the press conference. Instead, we'll go back to looking, just in case Rounding or somebody else did leave us a present after all.”

 

“Okay, Cagayan, take a break,” one of the engine room supervisors shouted down into the bilges. “Get some chow and some rack time and be back in six hours.”

“Okay,” replied Marcello. He worked his way back to a hatch and popped up and out. After using a solvent to clean off much of the oil and other crud that had accumulated on his hands and shoes, he trudged up two ladders to the passageway leading to the crew's mess. Bilges, he thought. They were his destiny, his whole reason for existing. Up till now.

When he reached the mess, he collected a bowl of stew and bread and sat down to eat while he watched the TV. The stew was good, so he got a second bowl, figuring he would need it that night. Once done, he started to leave, but found he couldn't take his eyes off the TV. Especially now that the media people had taken over one of the ship's channels and were providing almost nonstop coverage so the passengers could see what interested them most: themselves.

He knew he should hit the rack and get some rest because he had a very busy night ahead of him—almost certainly his last night—but watching the drama unfold was simply too enthralling to miss. Contrary to Alan Parker's calculations, the passengers—all eager to be interviewed—were becoming increasingly nervous about who and what Rounding might really have been and seemed angry and frustrated, convinced that somebody was hiding something from them.

Many were certain the culprit was Captain Covington. Others seemed to think it was the United States government. One, some guy named Ivy—or maybe it was Ivory—was shouting he was going to have the captain arrested and sue the owners. Marcello could see the fear behind his threats and enjoyed the theater. The jerk thought he was a “big man.” He had no idea how small he really was in comparison with Marcello Cagayan. Marcello reached into his pocket and stroked the cell phone gently.

“Hey, man, lots of excitement today!” said Vido, the young Ecuadorian deckhand, as he sat down next to Cagayan and put his iPod on the table.

“You're right there, Vido,” replied Cagayan in Spanish. “It's the devil's own work. Makes me wonder sometimes why I signed on.”

“It's the money, man. And the adventure.”

“Must be.”

“You're an engineer. You know anything about this Mr. Rounding? I mean, you work for him, don't you? Did he kill himself or did the American navy guys do it? What's that all about?”

“Rounding?” said Cagayan as he reached into his right pocket for the cell phone. “I don't know. He wasn't a bad guy.” The truth was that Rounding's behavior had Cagayan dumbfounded.

“You really think there's a bomb aboard?”

“It worry you?”

“Of course! You're not worried?”

“Whatever happens, happens.”

“There's a rumor we're going to go back early because of him. They think he was a terrorist.”

“Yeah?” Cagayan started paying closer attention.

“At first I thought they were talking about going back to BA, but now I hear its Ushuaia.”

“That's good for some people.”

“Those that have their families stay there during the summer.”

“I guess I better get some rest before I go back to looking.”

“See ya.” Vido plugged himself into his iPod and was instantly lost to the surrounding world.

Cagayan walked down the passageway to his room, rubbing the cell phone as he went. With every step his sense of personal power grew, until it was about to explode. He was the most powerful man on the ship. More powerful than Covington. More powerful than that navy guy. The lives of over six hundred people were in his hands. They would live as long as he wished for them to live, and they would die when he chose to kill them. It was becoming intoxicating. As so many men have found throughout history—some much more worthy than Marcello Cagayan—it is terribly, terribly difficult to set power aside.

Tonight was to be his night, he told himself again and again as he walked to his quarters. Tonight had to be the night. Everything was ready. He rubbed the bandages on his arm. So much blood, he thought, and so little pain. Tonight would be better. Much better.

Except all the shit about old Rounding worried him a little. Was it possible the guy really had been a terrorist? All the newscasters said he was. So what had he planned and what had he done? Was he going to steal Cagayan's glory from the grave?

It worried him but he knew it shouldn't. If it happened, it happened, but his plan was set. Tonight he would prove the “
mono
” was really a giant. When he reached his room, he took out the cell phone and opened it. He then dialed 1111 and set the device where he could easily reach it.

Cagayan lay in his rack, dozing. When he heard the grating and clanking of the anchor windlass one deck above his head and the thumping and banging of the anchor chain in the hawse pipe, he picked up the phone and pressed call.

 

The process of raising and housing a ship's anchor is a mundane necessity of the ship's operation. Without its being done, a ship cannot perform her function. But that same act has an almost mystical dimension for most seamen. Once the anchor is lifted clear of the bottom, the ship is under way. Once under way, the ship is considered infinitely more at risk than when at anchor, and the rules change. The ship is now at sea, fulfilling her destiny. Adventure beckons, even if the voyage is only from one anchorage to another in the same harbor, and the crew knows it is doing what sailors are meant to do.

Mike Chambers was not overly romantic, but he was sensitive to the mystique of the anchor ritual and made a point to take a break and watch. He would have preferred to be on the bridge, to pretend
Aurora
was his ship, but he didn't want to get in Covington's way, so he settled for the forward rail of the third deck.

On the forecastle, Boatswain MacNeal stood all the way forward in the prow. After looking over the bulwark at the growing seas attacking from ahead, he signaled the man on the windlass control. With a clank the windlass started to turn slowly and the anchor chain, composed of thick, foot-long links, jumped then started to slowly come home. Meanwhile, a deckhand hosed the chain down at the hawse in order to remove any muck and other crud that might foul the boatswain's carefully tended decks.

A brilliant flash suddenly erupted like a fountain from the windlass motor housing, followed immediately by a tremendous
boom
and a thick cloud of black smoke. The windlass stopped and the hand on the controls was blown back ten feet.

“Shit!” MacNeal groaned. “You two,” he grated at the two men standing close to him, “slap that pelican hook on the chain and stop it just in case the windlass lets go.” He then noticed the windlass operator lying on the deck and ran over to him. He was alive but he didn't look good. He looked as if he'd been shot by a cannon filled with scrap. MacNeal knelt next to him then shouted into his walkie-talkie: “One of my men is injured. Get the doctor here quick.”

“I think we've got trouble, Boss.”

Chambers, his stomach beginning to churn, turned to find Alex standing behind him.

“Tell Jerry and Ted to get forward and find out what's happening. You and Ray stand by. I'm going to the bridge.”

Even as Mike spoke,
Aurora
's general alarm burst to life. Several moments later, while the crew ran to their emergency stations and automatic watertight doors slammed shut throughout much of the ship, the alarms were muted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Covington. An explosion of unknown origin has occurred on the ship's forecastle. I'm not totally certain of the explosion's extent, but the damage appears to be limited to the area around the anchor windlass. As a precaution I must ask all of you to do the following: Get your personal flotation device and then report to one of the following public areas. Those of you whose last names start with A through J, please report to the main dining room; those of you whose last names begin with K through S, please report to the main lecture hall; and all those whose last names start with T through Z, please report to the main lounge. Try to make yourselves comfortable and please be considerate of the feelings of your fellow passengers. I expect to be able to give you more information by the time you have arrived at one of these gathering places.”

“It happened,” said Covington to Mike as the latter arrived.

“I'm afraid so. Motors explode but not that way. I'm going to establish some security for the passengers.”

“Please do.”

Mike then called Alex and instructed her to collect up Ray and Dave Ellison and each go to one of the gathering places to provide security and maintain order.

“Bridge, this is MacNeal,” squawked Covington's walkie-talkie.

“Bridge, aye,” replied Covington.

“The windlass is totally destroyed, Captain. I'm going to have to buoy and cut the chain and slip if you want to get under way.”

“That's what we're going to have to do. We can't just sit here and wait for something else to happen. How's your man?”

“He's a mess but he's conscious and seems alert. There's a lot of blood but . . . Here comes Dr. Savage.”

“Have her call me as soon as she knows something. And you get going on the chain. Advise me as soon as you're ready to slip the anchor.”

“Roger.

“Sam,” snapped the boatswain to one of his more experienced hands, “you and, ah, Dawson get a sledge and a chisel and get down to the chain locker. Find the next split link,” he continued, referring to the special chain link that was split the long way and used to connect the separate ninety-foot shots of chain, “and split it. And be goddamn careful. Don't get tangled in the chain, just in case something up here carries away. I don't want you going through the hawse.”

“Okay, Boats.”

“The anchor windlass?” said Covington to Chambers. “You think this is all of it? Some sort of message?”

Chambers looked at him and shook his head. “What other ships are in the area?”

“Several other cruise ships—one's an old Russian research vessel—and an Argentine supply ship, but they're all well to the east of us, dodging drift ice. Anyway, they're all smaller than we are. One's not any bigger than a mid-sized trawler.”

“Nothing to the west?”

“An American supply ship returning to New Zealand from McMurdo, but she's over three thousand miles away and I suspect having more than enough troubles of her own.”

“So we're on our own until we get to Ushuaia?”

“Once we get partway across the Drake Passage, somebody might be able to reach us from Ushuaia, but I'm not sure what they'll be able to do. Especially if the weather keeps deteriorating. All the same, I'll request that any of the larger vessels that might be there get under way to meet us as soon as possible.”

 

Marcello Cagayan felt the thump then heard the alarms. Phase one of his mission had been executed. He jumped out of his rack and dashed down the corridor. Mumbling a loud “What the fuck!” he joined the stampede and headed for his emergency station at switchboard number one in the electrical Auxiliary Room.

“What the hell's happening?” he demanded of the electrician in charge.

“Some sort of explosion in the anchor windlass. Roberts—he's there—thinks it was a bomb.”

“A bomb! Anybody hurt?”

“One deckhand. Roberts doesn't seem to think it's caused much damage, though. Except to the windlass.”

“That's fucking strange.”

“Yeah, that and Mr. Rounding.”

“You think he did the bomb?”

“What else can I think?”

 

“An explosion, Dad? Like a bomb?”

“I suppose so, Katie. Something like that. We're just going to have to wait and see.”

“Isn't there something we should be doing to help?”

“At the moment I think we should leave it to Captain Covington and those navy people, so keep moving. We're supposed to go to the lecture hall.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. You think they'll have any food there? I'm starved.”

“Tim,” said Dana, starting to laugh, “you've come up with a real adventure for us this time.”

 

“This is Jen Harris broadcasting live from the long-troubled cruise ship
Aurora Australis
a few miles from Antarctica.” As she spoke, the reporter and her team stood in the opened door of a cabin, facing a passageway filled with passengers headed toward the Main Dining Room. “For several days now, there has been rising concern that the ship is a target for terrorists. Today, those concerns have proven all too accurate. Not six hours ago, American military personnel, after a long boat chase across the stormy, bitterly cold Bellingshausen Sea, shot and killed a member of the ship's crew who was suspected of being a terrorist. Then, not fifteen minutes ago, what was almost certainly an explosive device went off on the ship's foredeck, seriously injuring at least one member of the crew, maybe more. As of right now the passengers have been ordered to assemble in certain safe zones. Although there is little sign of panic yet, everybody is very much on edge.