Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (29 page)

Gowan shrugged. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to figure out a man would be worried about his family with all the craziness going on. But Laura’s a smart lady, and y’all are pretty well supplied for emergencies. Like I said, they’re all right.” The chief engineer shook his head. “But Trixie’s a different story. I do believe that woman wakes up in a new world every day, bless her heart. I am a bit anxious about her.”

“Well, we’ll find out soon enough, I guess. I figure we’ll be hitting Sabine bar right at daybreak.”

“You figured out what you gonna do when we get there?” Gowan asked.

“Yeah, I’d kinda like to know that myself, Captain,” said Matt Kinsey as he stepped out the wheelhouse door onto the bridge wing.

Hughes sighed. “A day ago I’d say it depended on what we find when we get there, but the more I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve come to the conclusion it doesn’t matter. For sure there’ll be some ships anchored out, and I’m presuming there won’t be a pilot. I mean, why would there be? Most of the traffic is tankers, and with no power to the refineries, there’s no need for crude inbound, and no petroleum products outbound. So I’m thinking there’ll be ships stacked up, not knowing what to do. I’m not gonna join that circus. I’ve timed our arrival for first light and we’ll just head between the jetties and go upriver.”

“No pilot? You seemed pretty worried about that at Wilmington,” Kinsey said.

“I still am,” Hughes said, “but this is a lot different. There’s not that much current to contend with and we’ll be heading into what little there is, which is a hell of a lot different than Wilmington. And while I’ve been to Wilmington maybe a dozen times, I’ve made the Sabine-Neches transit many times, probably pushing a hundred. I know all the waypoints and landmarks cold. I’ll be nervous as hell, but it’s not nearly as scary as coming down the Cape Fear River with a four- or five-knot current behind you. My biggest worry is what to do when we get where we’re going.”

Kinsey looked confused. “What do you mean? I figured you’d just tie up at your refinery dock.”

“I have a couple of concerns. When we put the gangway down, it runs both ways. With resources in short supply, being a tanker loaded with fuel with containers full of food aboard makes us a pretty tempting target. My second concern is the crew.”

Kinsey shrugged. “What about them?”

“They’re all civilians, with families nearby they want to check on. I put that gangway down and we’re liable to have an immediate exodus, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. For that matter, I’m pretty sure you and your guys are thinking the same thing. But if everyone hauls ass with the ship tied to the dock, we can neither move it nor defend it,” Hughes said. “I can’t blame them, really. I certainly intend to go look for my family.”

“Then don’t tie up,” Gowan said.

Hughes stroked his chin and nodded. “I guess we could anchor, not many places with enough water, though, since we’re loaded. I’m thinking the Sun Lower Anchorage is probably the best. We’ve poked our bow in there to turn around often enough when fully loaded.”

“Sounds like the best choice,” Gowan agreed. “Then nobody can get to us except by boat, and it’s plus twenty feet from the water to the main deck. We use the fast rescue boat or the Coasties’ patrol boat to get back and forth to shore, and we can land pretty much where we want, out of sight of the ship. If anyone sees us, they can’t really tell where we came from. And we can set up some sort of structured rotation for going ashore to look for families. The guys might not like it, but if you’re controlling the boats to and from shore, they can’t just say screw you and run down the gangway.”

“That’s it, then,” Hughes said, turning to Kinsey. “Now we just have to worry about the Coasties and the navy. You think they’re just gonna let us do what we please?”

Kinsey shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out at daybreak tomorrow, won’t we?”

Chapter Fifteen

M/V
Pecos Trader

Approaching Sabine Pass, Texas

Day 16, 5:00 a.m.

Hughes studied the radar as
Pecos Trader
moved toward the sea buoy at reduced speed. Two dozen ships crowded the anchorage ahead, their Automatic Identification System transmissions broadcasting many familiar names—other tankers, all in ballast. Their presence was both expected and disappointing. Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Kinsey moved up beside him at the radar screen.

“Looks like Wilmington, Act 2,” Kinsey said. “Any luck with a pilot?”

Hughes shook his head as he stepped to the VHF and picked up the mike. “I tried twice. Let’s see if anyone is home at the Coasties’ house.”

He spoke into the mike. “Port Arthur Traffic, Port Arthur Traffic, this is the tanker
Pecos Trader
. My ETA at Sabine Bank Buoy is zero five thirty and I require a pilot. Repeat, this is the tanker
Pecos Trader
. My ETA at Sabine Bank Buoy is zero five thirty and I require a pilot. Over.”

There was no answer and Hughes repeated the call, with the same response. He shook his head. “With all the ships at anchor, even if Port Arthur VTS doesn’t respond, I’d think someone at anchor would be butting in to let us know what’s going on—”

“Tanker
Pecos Trader
, repeat, tanker
Pecos Trader
, this is the tanker
Ambrose Channel
. Do you copy? Over.”

“Now that’s more like what I expected,” Hughes said, and keyed the mike.

“
Ambrose Channel
, this is
Pecos Trader.
We copy. Over.”

“
Pecos Trader
, be advised there is no pilot service and Port Arthur VTS is nonoperational. At least they haven’t responded to any calls from anchorage in the ten days we’ve been here. Over.”

“We copy,
Ambrose Channel
. What’s going on? Over.”

“Who knows? Most of us have no loading orders. A navy ship came by five days ago and instructed us to wait here at anchor. I guess they’re trying to figure out where they might need us. So here we sit, at least as long as we have fuel and stores, which might not be very long. Welcome to the club. Over.”

“Thank you,
Ambrose Channel
, but I don’t think I want to join. This is
Pecos Trader
, out.”

Hughes reracked the mike and looked over at Chief Mate Georgia Howell.

“You ready to do this, Mate?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Hughes sighed. “Not really.”

***

Hughes was sweating, despite the early hour, as he kept
Pecos Trader
in the middle of the channel and crawled upstream at a fraction of the speed an experienced pilot might employ. Periodically he moved from one bridge wing to the other, looking down the side of the ship to gauge his position relative to the shore from different perspectives. If he put her aground, there’d be no tugs to pull her off. He had Pete Sonnier, his best helmsman, on the wheel, and Georgia Howell was handling engine orders, but despite the presence of his ‘A Team,’ the stress was palpable. Kinsey was on the bridge in case they encountered the Coast Guard, but Kinsey seemed to sense the tension and was keeping to the chartroom, available if needed, but out of the way.

For all Hughes’ anxiety, things were going well. He’d timed their arrival and transit at high slack water to avoid the strong westerly set of the current, and successfully negotiated the known shallow spot on the inside of the turn some distance from the entrance to the jetties. They were in protected waters now, less subject to the vagaries of wind and current, and he let himself relax a bit as he walked to the port bridge wing. They passed the Sabine Pilot Docks on the west bank, the pilot boats all tied up and the small parking lot completely empty.

“CHIEF KINSEY,” he shouted back towards the wheelhouse, “COAST GUARD STATION COMING UP. YOU MIGHT WANT TO HAVE A LOOK.”

Kinsey was at his side in seconds, and they watched as the ship drew abreast of the Coast Guard station, a neatly kept jewel in the otherwise scruffy industrial blight of the shoreline. The building was a sparkling white in the Spanish style with a red tile roof, and set in a broad expanse of verdant green lawn. But even at a distance, the beginnings of decay were obvious; the St. Augustine grass was overgrown and encroaching on the sidewalks, and there were no cars in the parking lot or boats at the dock. The place looked abandoned.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” Hughes said.

Kinsey nodded. “They must’ve been re-tasked somewhere, especially since the boats are gone. If they’d just taken off on their own, I doubt it would have been by boat, so I’m thinking they probably got reassigned to the Houston-Galveston area. There’s a lot more marine traffic there, especially if the refineries here in Beaumont and Port Arthur are shut down.” He shrugged. “But that’s just a guess.”

“Good a guess as any,” Hughes said, “and at least we don’t have to worry about having to finesse our way around another obstacle.”

Kinsey looked relieved, and Hughes moved back into the wheelhouse, leaving Kinsey alone on the bridge wing.

Things continued smoothly, and apart from some anxiety when transiting the highway bridge just north of Texas Island, Hughes was growing confident he might actually reach the anchorage without going aground. They’d seen zero activity ashore, but given both the circumstances and the early hour, he wasn’t surprised. That changed as they drew abreast of downtown Port Arthur and Hughes caught movement ashore out of the corner of his eye. He took a quick look at the arrow-straight section of the channel ahead, then moved out to the port bridge wing, grabbing the binoculars from their storage box on the way out the wheelhouse door.

“What we got, Chief?” he asked Kinsey.

“Looks like cops, so maybe things haven’t gone completely to hell here.”

Hughes nodded and raised the glasses. A police cruiser was stopped on the road paralleling the channel, with two officers standing at the open doors and staring at the ship.

“Sheriff’s deputies based on the car and the uniforms,” Hughes said.

He watched the men jump back in the car and race along the road, lights flashing and siren wailing, to a small waterfront park in the far distance well ahead of the ship. The cops exited the car and left the lights flashing to race out on to a small dock projecting slightly into the channel.

“What the hell …”

“Well, this is a first,” Kinsey said. “I think they want you to pull over.”

“Those friggin’ idiots! Don’t they realize I can’t …” He trailed off and shot Kinsey an exasperated look.

“Probably not.” Kinsey shrugged. “Your call, Cap, but stupid though they may be, they might represent the only authority around here. It might not be wise to piss ‘em off at this point.”

Hughes looked at the channel again. He had plenty of water depth and no traffic in a straight channel, and he was only creeping along. He could probably accommodate them without too much risk. He nodded and handed Kinsey the binoculars before stomping back into the wheelhouse.

“STOP!” he called out to Georgia Howell.

She looked startled, but after a moment’s hesitation confirmed the order and passed it to the engine room while Hughes gave the helm orders to edge the
Pecos Trader
a bit closer to the west bank of the channel.

“HALF ASTERN!” Hughes ordered, and the ship began to slow from its already snail-like pace. Moments later he ordered ‘STOP’ again and nodded with satisfaction as the big ship drifted to a halt about fifty feet off the dock where the two cops stood. He turned to Georgia Howell.

“Mate, keep an eye on things while I talk to these knuckleheads. If it looks like we’re drifting into trouble, let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, and Hughes hurried back out on the bridge wing.

“Y’ALL COME ON IN AND TIE UP,” shouted one of the cops.

Hughes suppressed a curse. “I CAN’T TIE UP TO THAT, IT’S A FISHING DOCK,” he called. “IF I PUT THIS SHIP ALONGSIDE, I’LL CRUSH IT LIKE AN EGG. BESIDES, WHY DO YOU WANT US TO TIE UP?”

There was a discussion between the cops, as if they were unsure. The spokesman turned and yelled back to the ship, “WE NEED TO SEARCH Y’ALL FOR CONTRABAND AND HOARDED GOODS. ALL SUPPLIES ARE BEING CENTRALIZED BY THE COUNTY GOVERNMENT FOR THE RELIEF EFFORT.”

Beside Hughes, Kinsey studied the cops through the binoculars. “Unless the cops are okay with swastika neck tattoos,” he said under his breath, “I suspect those guys aren’t really cops.”

Hughes nodded slightly and improvised.

“WELL, I CAN’T TIE UP HERE,” he yelled back down, “SO WHAT DO YOU SUGGEST?”

Another conversation between the fake cops.

“TIE UP AT THE FIRST DOCK THAT WILL TAKE YOU. WE’LL FOLLOW YOU THERE,” the spokesman said.

“THAT WOULD BE WHERE WE’RE GOING ANYWAY,” Hughes yelled back. “WE NEED REPAIRS. DO YOU KNOW THE BLUDWORTH MARINE SHIPYARD IN ORANGE?”

“NO, BUT WE’LL JUST FOLLOW YOU.”

“WELL, GOOD LUCK WITH THAT UNLESS YOUR CRUISER’S A MARSH BUGGY BECAUSE THE ROAD DOESN’T RUN BESIDE THE CHANNEL. BESIDES, IT’S NOT EXACTLY LIKE WE CAN RUN AWAY FROM YOU.”

More conversation ashore.

“ALL RIGHT, WE’LL MEET YOU AT THIS SHIPYARD, BUT DON’T TRY NO TRICKS,” the spokesman said.

“FINE, WE’LL SEE YOU THERE IN THREE HOURS,” Hughes yelled back.

The pair moved to their car, and Hughes flashed Kinsey a smile. “I guess those boys aren’t from around here.”

“I’m not from around here either, but I know there’s no way a ship this size is getting anywhere near Orange. That’s a tug and barge yard anyway. Why’d you pick that?”

“Because it’s the farthest place away I could think of that might sound reasonable to someone without a clue. Right now they’re probably rushing to look it up in the phone book or someplace. It’ll be listed as a shipyard, and they don’t exactly strike me as the sharpest tacks in the box, so I’m hoping they’ll haul ass for Orange. If they’re as dumb as I think they are, they probably won’t figure it out even after they get there, so they’ll sit around and wait for us to show up, for a while at least. By that time, we ought to be safe in our anchorage.”

***

“What kind of ship? A navy ship. A cargo ship? What?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Spike! A big one.”

Spike McComb looked at the pair before him and suppressed an urge to kill them.

“So lemme get this straight. You two spot a big-ass ship comin’ up the channel and lose it? How do you lose a friggin’ ship, for Christ’s sake?”

“There was one of them orange Coast Guard boats on the deck and one of the guys on board had on a uniform of some kind,” the second of the pair volunteered.

“Shit!” McComb said. “That ain’t good. We don’t need the Coast Guard around here messin’ things up.”

“Maybe they stole the Coast Guard boat,” Snaggle said, joining the conversation. “WE got uniforms, so that don’t necessarily mean nothing.”

McComb rubbed his chin. “Could be you’re right, but I still don’t like it. We need tight control of our territory and I don’t like the idea of no Coast Guard pukes running around. Hell, they’re as bad as cops, worse maybe ‘cause they got better guns. And for all we know, this ship’s full of prime cargo of some kind.”

He thought about it a moment longer and then turned to Snaggle.

“Snag, get on top of this. It ain’t like there are a lot of places to hide a big ship. Figure out where it might be and start lookin’ for it.”

“Okay, Spike, whatever you say. But things are goin’ pretty smooth and we’re really bringin’ in the loot now that we got ‘police backup,’“ Snaggle said. “You want me to pull some boys off scavengin’ and put ‘em looking for this ship?”

“Maybe we should do both. We got anybody lookin’ at the river? You know, houseboats, marinas, places like that? A lot of them boats have generators, so there’s likely people living aboard. Might be a whole new source of loot and labor.”

“I never thought of that,” Snaggle said. “The sheriff’s department has a boat somewhere, maybe we’ll start up the Marine Patrol again.”

“Get it done,” McComb said.

State Highway 11

West of Currie, NC

Day 16, 10:00 a.m.

Luke studied the thick woods on either side of the road ahead, alert for an ambush. They’d looped far inland, avoiding interstate corridors and population centers, keeping to local roads and the occasional small town, stretching the four-hundred-mile trip to twice that, and lengthening it farther by traveling only during daylight. They’d consolidated all their stores into a single pickup to save fuel and abandoned the second truck in the Publix parking lot along with the two bodies. Plenty of good people were going unburied, and none of the now ex-SRF troopers had the slightest remorse about dumping the remains of the dead mercenaries like the trash they were.

Two nights running, they set up the vehicles in a triangular laager well off the road, with trip wires and noise makers all around and someone keeping watch on one of the Ma Deuces. Keeping to the hinterland had been a wise choice—one they’d debated at some length given their Humvees’ thirst for diesel. They’d maintained a constant watch for abandoned gas stations along their route, and possible sources of residual fuel in underground storage tanks. As it turned out, stations farther off the beaten path weren’t yet scavenged as thoroughly as those in more populated areas.

Fuel wasn’t plentiful, but it was adequate, helped no doubt by scavengers concentrating on gasoline rather than the diesel their Humvees guzzled. Luke smiled at the memory of their only ‘armed confrontation’ at a dilapidated country store as they hand-pumped diesel into their Jerry cans. An older gentleman had appeared, brandishing a shotgun and less than happy over the theft of fuel. Some placating discussion and allowing him his choice of the contents of the stores truck ended the affair without bloodshed.