Trident Force (30 page)

The second engineer, who had been staring intently at the display, looked even harder as the ghostly image of the two-foot-high pipe rotated on the screen. “That looks clean to me, Captain.”

“Very well.”

“Jerry, I want you to follow it over to the end of the tank—to the discharge.”

“Roger.”

“That's it!” shouted Acosta a few minutes later. “The siphon goes through a simple flange when it leaves the tank. There's something next to the flange that I've never seen before. It looks round . . . or maybe a hemisphere!” As he spoke, he pointed at the ghost image.

“Tell Jerry to find it and check it out by hand.”

“Roger.”

“It's like a hemisphere, all right,” reported Jerry a few minutes later as, surrounded by what could have been the blackest of pitch, he saw with his hands. “More like half an egg. About two feet long and maybe one high and one deep.”

“Your evaluation?”

“A large-shaped charge designed to blow a hole in the end of the tank.”

“How's it attached?”

“I would guess either magnetic or suction. You want me to try to pull it off?”

“Hell no!”

“Good.”

“You think it's booby-trapped?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. That's why I'm still alive at my advanced age. Whoever planned this attack is pretty damn sophisticated.”

“Leave it and stand by for a few minutes.”

“Roger.”

Mike then pulled out his walkie-talkie and asked Covington to come below and join them.

“You don't want to remove it now?” said Covington after Chambers had explained the situation to him.

“No, not now. We have the detonator, but we have no idea whether or not it's booby-trapped. The odds look better to me to leave it. Once we get to Ushuaia, we can do it right.”

“Ummm,” remarked Covington skeptically.

“How much of the oil can you transfer to other tanks?”

“Maybe half.”

“I suggest we transfer what we can while flooding the tank with nitrogen from the firefighting system. After the transfer is complete, cover the surface of what's remaining with foam and then pump it over the side. That way, even if it does blow, the damage will be limited. If we manage to meet
Polar Duchess
in twelve or so hours, we can probably hold out—especially if we keep the ship buttoned up.”

“Understood. Now, who's going to explain all the oil we're dumping to Rod Johnson?”

“Remind him that diesel is much less destructive than bunker fuel. Especially out in open waters.”

“I'm sure that will make him feel better.”

 

The farther north
Aurora
got, and the more the day advanced, the better the weather became. By 1300 hours, when the first helicopter reported its imminent arrival, the winds were down to a breeze-like forty knots and the seas a modest ten to fifteen feet.

On learning of the helo's approach, Covington turned
Aurora
into the seas and slowed in order to reduce her motion and make it more predictable. As the first aircraft approached—an Argentine naval one—the first five evacuees were brought on deck.

MacNeal watched as the craft edged in, then hovered directly overhead, lowering a stretcher as it did. Once the stretcher had touched the deck, the boatswain and two men rushed for it. They disconnected the wire from the stretcher. MacNeal and one of them connected the wire to one of the occupied stretchers—one of six the ship carried—while the third man carried the just-delivered empty off. MacNeal waved his arm in big circles and the helo whisked the first patient up and away, then returned for the second.

The first five transfers went faultlessly, and the first helo sped off over the horizon as the second sped in to repeat the process.

The first four transfers went like clockwork, but during the fifth—the patient was Chrissie Clark—near disaster developed. Just as Chrissie, her broken jaw wired in place and her bullet holes all patched, was being lifted off the deck, the helo was knocked to one side by a gust of wind and the stretcher was dragged across the deck toward the bulwark, screeching as it went.

The boatswain and several hands jumped forward, grabbed the stretcher and raised it as they were all dragged toward the side. Thanks primarily to luck, they got Chrissie up and over the bulwark just in time. The injured singer then swung in a great arc away from the ship. On the return swing she barely avoided a bath in the shimmering, oil-fouled waters as the pilot finally managed to regain control and haul her up. Later, much later, when the incident was described to her, Chrissie said she was sorry she'd been so doped up at the time. She'd missed it all.

The last four of the fourteen persons whom Dr. Savage considered seriously enough injured to risk the transfer were called for by the same contract supply helo that had delivered the Trident Force. All went smoothly.

The operation had a large number of spectators. While most had, by now, expressed the strongest possible desire to be “off this damn ship,” none expressed any wish to leave as the wounded were. Except Katie, now wearing a new cast on her left arm. She thought it looked like great fun—as long as you didn't have to be shot already in order to be allowed to do it.

Most of the other passengers smiled and admired her cast, especially when she pointed out Arthur Covington's signature on it. A few averted their eyes and edged away, embarrassed, it would seem, and hoping not to be recognized as having been one of those who contributed to her injury.

 

At 2215 hours, to the immense relief of everybody aboard
Aurora
, the brightly lit cruise ship
Polar Duchess
appeared on the horizon. An hour later she had approached and circled in order to steam back to Usuaia alongside the
Aurora.
Her boats were all swung out, just in case they were needed in a hurry.

18

Rio de Janeiro

At first, Mamoud al Hussein paid only limited attention to the live broadcasts from
Aurora.
They were, after all, mere puffery—focusing almost exclusively on just the sort of petty minds in which he had no interest. But as the situation became more confusing to him, when things that he had no hand in started happening, he began to pay attention. By the time Marcello Cagayan launched his campaign of destruction and death, Mamoud's eyes were fixed with horror on the TV. But it wasn't the pain and suffering that horrified him, it was the seeming failure of his plan, which Omar's little monkey had clearly hijacked. Al Hussein loathed disorder and illogic. He considered both to be the most odious forms of insanity. Now it was just this form of insanity that was driving what had been
his
plan.

Yes, the little whoreson had terrified half the world and made the Brotherhood of Faith a feared name, but what of the last two charges? For Mamoud, there was more to the affair than terror. His ego was involved. His ability to conceive, to manage, to organize, to execute. And now, to his shame and fury, it was not his plan being displayed on every TV in the world. It was the mad caperings of a little Filipino nonentity.

It took Mamoud several minutes to get his anger under control. To move on to the next question: If it was not his plan being executed, then were his defenses still intact? Or had the vicious little lunatic exposed him to new danger?

He had, all along, assumed that once his plan had been executed the world's eyes would turn to Tecmar. He was certain that, in the end, while there might be whispers, the world would agree that whatever had happened had happened despite management's best efforts. And, as for himself, he was clearly above it all. He was a friend, a confidant—in some cases almost a savior—of countless men of great importance. His engineering textbooks were used at the most prestigious universities around the world. He wasn't some ignorant tribesman from who knows where. He was more scientifically and technologically advanced than 95 percent of the American population.

While some might whisper vague suspicions, he was, in the end, as safe as was the king of Saudi Arabia.

On the other hand, he thought, as he finally got his breathing under control, the little creature's performance had been so mad that no sane person would ever associate it with any but the most obviously insane. Some minor desert Mahdi with delusions of grandeur. He would stick with his initial plan, even if Cagayan had not. He picked up his phone and called Roberto Palmeira, Tecmar's COO.

“Have you been watching the TV, Mamoud?” asked Palmeira.

“Yes. It's stomach-turning.”

“I will never understand the terrorist mind. I know about poverty, religious fanaticism, drugs, but it still escapes me. I hope to God it's not connected in some way with the overhaul.”

“Unfortunately, I'm beginning to suspect that some connection does exist, and even if it doesn't, I'm afraid many may believe it does. Or may wish to believe it does.”

“Do you want me to call the federal police and have them redirect their investigations?”

“Yes, and I would also like you to call the United States Embassy and see if it would be possible for the Rio FBI office to send a team. If something happened here, I want to know about it. If nothing happened here, I want the world to know that nothing happened here.”

“As you've pointed out on several occasions, Mamoud, it's logically impossible to prove a negative statement.”

“Indeed it is, but we must do our best.”

19

Ushuaia

There was a stiff breeze blowing as
Aurora
approached Ushuaia harbor. There was also a light rain, a high-powered drizzle that obscured much of the town and the mountains beyond. The temperature, however, was well over sixty degrees, mild for the world's southernmost city, even at the height of its summer.

Mike Chambers was standing alongside Covington as the pilot boat surged up to the ship's starboard side, delivering not only the pilot but also Commander Artemio O'Brien, the captain of the port.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Covington to the two Argentine mariners, both of whom he knew, having sailed out of Ushuaia for some time. He then went on to introduce Mike.

“You two have had a very difficult voyage,” remarked O'Brien as the pilot walked out on the wing of the bridge to conn the ship.

“Yes,” replied Covington with little enthusiasm.

“I'm sorry I have to put you on a buoy for the time being. We can move you alongside a pier once we're certain the ship is safe. We'll get all the passengers off just as soon as we are moored.”

“I wouldn't want it any other way, sir.”

“And you, Captain Chambers? Are you satisfied with my desire that our people should remove the charge and take custody of the detonator—which will be immediately flown some distance away so our technicians can examine them without the risk of doing further damage?”

“It's your harbor, Commander, and my people are very beat-up and tired. When you're tired, you make mistakes. I'm also very much aware that you've had more experience with terrorists than we have.”

O'Brien turned and looked astern, out toward the Beagle Channel. “At one point in our not so distant history we had the misfortune of having terrorists on both sides. It was very uncomfortable for those of us in the middle, especially those of us who may have known a little more than the others and found what we knew hateful, yet failed to act decisively. But that, I hope, is over forever in Argentina.”

Chambers looked down at the Argentine's left hand, which was missing the pinkie and ring finger.

O'Brien followed his glance, then smiled slightly. “That is not the result of the ‘Dirty War.' That is the result of frostbite. And youthful stupidity. When I was younger, I served in a supply ship down here, and one winter I was a little careless. Far too careless.”

“About the press. It appears that those who are aboard have no desire to stay. However, I'm sure there are more ashore.”

“Our people have no more desire than yours to have them looking over their shoulders when they're trying to disassemble bombs. There are plenty of passengers to talk to, and if any press get by me, throw them off and blame it on us.”

The conversation petered out as a large harbor tug came alongside. The pilot stopped
Aurora
's engines and used the tug to edge the ship toward the rusty mooring buoy, which had once been painted white. Lacking an anchor windlass, Boatswain MacNeal had to make use of the smaller tug to pass one of the ship's anchor chains to the buoy and secure it. The job was completed with surprising speed, and a few minutes later the first passenger ferry appeared—this one assigned to bring ashore those of the wounded—excluding Ray—whose injuries had not been considered serious enough to justify the many risks of being medevaced.

“Arthur,” said O'Brien quietly as he and the pilot were leaving the bridge, “we both will be very busy the next few days, but after that I hope you will find time to dine with Gloria and me. She insists.”

“Yes, thank you. I doubt I'll have a choice, right?” Covington smiled for the first time that morning.

A few minutes after O'Brien, and then Mike, had left the bridge, Arthur Covington, his back just as straight as ever, walked slowly down to the landing stage. He felt it was his duty, undoubtedly one of his final duties, to say good-bye to all the passengers, the vast majority of whom had chosen to fly north in the morning, directly back to the United States, where many would immediately grab their phones to call their attorneys. Or so Covington assumed.

It hurt to think that his future and his reputation would, in the end, be decided by one or more civil juries composed of men and women who had never been to sea at all, much less to the Southern Ocean. And he had little confidence in the owners. They wouldn't hesitate to damn him with the faintest of praise then throw him to the lions.