Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (18 page)

“I’m OK. A broken wrist is all. Chief Mate’s got a concussion, and the bosun’s leg is broken. Alvarez, Green, and Thornton are with me—minor injuries.”

Blake’s face hardened. “Why are you here?”

“It’s all over the news. We came to help.”

Blake looked a question at Calderon.

“Panic was rising,” Calderon said. “We released the plan to calm things a bit.”

Blake turned back to Arnett. “But I told that goddamned agent—”

Calderon interrupted. “
Señorita
Arnett can be quite… persuasive. She threatened to remove certain anatomical features to which the agent is very attached should he fail to provide transport. She was very convincing. I authorized the boat, hoping you might reason with her.”

Blake and Milam smiled as Arnett reddened.

“I appreciate this, Lynda,” Blake said, “but we got it covered.”

“The chief mate’s down and the third mate’s green. I’m staying.”

“God damn it, woman,” Blake said, “you got a busted arm, for Christ’s sake.”

“Wrist,” she corrected, “and what’s this ‘god damn it, woman’ shit? Pissant chivalry? Or discrimination? Put me off and I’ll sue your freakin’ socks off.”

Chief Steward Dave Jergens spoke from the doorway, breaking the tension.

“Lynda,” he said, “Cookie put supper back. Y’all come on in, and I’ll warm it up.” He inclined his head to include the three sailors in the passageway.

Blake shot Jergens a grateful look.

“Thanks, Dave,” he said. “Go on, Lynda. Go eat. I’ll think about it, OK?”

She left with a stiff-necked nod. Jergens stood aside to let her pass but hung back.

“Something else, Dave?” Blake asked.

“Cap,” Jergens said, “my guys want to help, too. We’ll handle lines or… something.”

“Christ on a crutch—” Blake caught himself.

“Look, Dave,” Blake said, “I appreciate it, I really do, but you can’t stay.”

“Ain’t right, Cap’n,” Jergens said. “We got as much right as anybody to help.”

Blake stalled. “OK. OK. I’ll get back to you. All right?”

Jergens nodded and left. When he was out of earshot, Blake turned to Milam.

“Did I just hear the chief steward volunteer to work on deck?”

“Same with the engine gang,” Milam said, “right down to the wiper. They’re all ready to whip my ass if I even suggest puttin’ them off.”

“Christ, what’s goin’ on?” Blake asked.

“Maybe it’s understandable,” Milam said. “Remember how you felt on 9/11?”

Blake grew quiet.

“Stunned, outraged, but mostly helpless,” he said finally.

“I figure everyone did,” Milam said. “Now we
can
do something. Nobody wants to be left out. We should let them help.”

“I can’t risk their lives unnecessarily,” Blake said.

“Just let ‘em contribute. They can haul gas cylinders, pull hoses, rig lights, whatever, then ride until just before the lock.”

“Might work, and it’s better than a mutiny,” Blake said, turning to Calderon.

“Can you arrange a launch to remove nonessential crew before the lock?” he asked.

“
Por supuesto, Capitán
,” Calderon said, “it would be my honor.”

“Thank you,
señor
,” Blake said, turning back to grin at Milam.

“What the hell you waiting for?” he said. “You got holes to cut. And I have to convince Arnett to disembark with the rest.”

“Glad I got the easy part,” Milam said, heading for the door.

Judicial Investigative Directory HQ
Panama City, Panama

Dugan kept moving so he didn’t stiffen up. The old doctor had been thorough and seemed competent, though his English was limited.

“Is OK. I see much worse,” he’d said, leaving as Perez arrived with rice, beans, and strong, sweet coffee. Despite the beating, Dugan was starved. He’d wolfed down the food, slowed only by swollen lips. The empty plate sat on the table as he limped around it.

He looked up as the door opened and read Ward’s face.

“Christ, Jesse,” Dugan said, “I can’t look that bad.”

“You OK?” Ward asked.

“Well, a guy who might be a doctor told me I was just peachy.”

Ward nodded as Dugan glanced at Carlucci, who stuck out his hand.

“Frank Carlucci,” he said. “We almost met at the airport. You look better than I expected. Reyes is tough.”

“I cleverly lapsed into unconsciousness,” Dugan said. “Even a psycho doesn’t get off beating an inert body. What’s up with that asshole?”

“A dead wife and injured kids, thanks to
Asian Trader
,” Ward said. “Figure it out.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dugan said softly. “I didn’t know.”

He listened, subdued, as Carlucci summarized the attack.

“There’s more,” Ward added when Carlucci finished. “You were set up—fake e-mails, a Cayman account, your authorization on a priority transit slot, all very elaborate.”

Dugan nodded and looked thoughtful.

“If Braun went to that much trouble to set me up, that means he’s looking to deflect attention and maybe buy a little time. And if he’s still in London,” Dugan continued, “odds are he has more attacks planned.”

“I think so, too,” Ward said. “I’m going straight to London.”

“What about me?” Dugan asked.

Ward looked at Carlucci.

“We’re working on it,” he said.

***

Luna sat with his subordinates in a room nearby. He’d promised not to record the earlier conversation but said nothing about future surveillance.

“So,
señores
. What do you think?”

“Their words follow the earlier story,” Juan Perez said, “but they may suspect we listen.”

“True. Manny?” Luna prompted.

Reyes shrugged. “If Dugan is dirty, he’s our only lead.”

“Emotion aside,” Luna asked, “what does your gut tell you?”

Reyes shrugged again. “Ward’s logic seems sound, and this Gardner is an obvious idiot. I think it is possible Dugan is innocent, or at worst, a dupe.”

Luna nodded. “We must face facts. We lack resources to operate overseas. Our only real hope lies with the
yanquis
and the English.”

Reyes’s face clouded. “And so we let Dugan go and hope our kindly Uncle Sam will come back later to pat our heads and tell us what is going on? This is an atrocity against Panama, and we have a suspect in custody. I do not think we should release him so easily.”

“And what if Ward is right?” Luna asked. “What if this Dugan’s expertise is required not only to prevent more attacks but to bring the perpetrator of this one to justice?”

“I did not say Dugan should not be allowed to go with Ward,
Capitán
,” Reyes said, “only that he should not leave our custody.”

Tocumen International Airport
Panama City, Panama

Reyes settled back in the leather seat of the Gulfstream and glared at Dugan in the seat across from him. The man was already snoring, thanks to heavy-duty painkillers courtesy of Carlucci.

“Thank you for releasing him,” Ward said from the seat beside him.

“To be clear, Agent Ward,” Reyes said, “we did not release him. He is traveling in my custody. I can return with him to Panama at any time. I expect both your government and the British to abide by the terms of our agreement in that regard.”

Ward looked as if he were about to speak and then seemed to think better of it. He nodded instead and turned to stare out the window, leaving Reyes to his own thoughts.

His sons were both awake now, and the doctors said there was no great physical injury, but they were confused and frightened. Leaving them had been hard, made possible only by the presence of his parents and in-laws. It had taken all his resolve, but he knew in his heart his sons would want him to bring Maria’s murderers to justice.

For all his bluster with Ward, his mission was anything but “official.” It was an arrangement hammered out between Ward and Luna, with the Walsh woman on the telephone from UK. Reyes was not even officially assigned to the task. Things were too chaotic in Panama to hope to get such an arrangement approved quickly. Reyes had merely put in for his annual leave, with a promise from Luna that he would clean up the paperwork after the fact.

As the Gulfstream leveled out at cruising altitude, Reyes unbuckled his seat belt and leaned toward Dugan. The man stirred but didn’t wake as Reyes unlocked the handcuffs and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you,” Ward said. “I’m sure he will appreciate that.”

Reyes shrugged. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

***

The watchman at Pedro Miguel Lock raised his eyes as the Gulfstream passed overhead. As he watched the lights fade, he heard a muffled screech and then a gigantic groan as the mass in the lock shifted.

“Central Control. This is Pedro Miguel. The plug is shifting. Repeat, the plug is shifting.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

M/T Luther Hurd
Gatun Lake Anchorage, Panama
0325 Hours Local Time
5 July

Calderon stood at the rail. Deck lights made
Luther Hurd
a bright pool on the dark surface of the lake. Sailors swarmed, rigging hoses and lights into tanks with shouts and curses and rough humor, to the din of impact wrenches loosening tank manholes. A launch scraped against the shipside, and he watched two men climb the accommodation ladder toward him.

The shorter man shook his head. “It is not good,” he began.

“Wait, Carlos. The
capitán
should hear,” Calderon said, leading the men to where Blake stood with Milam, checking off breached bulkheads on a tank layout.

“Go ahead,” Calderon said, nodding at the senior of the two pilots.

“The plug shifted,” said Captain Carlos Sanchez. “The current is increasing. And we have only thirty-feet depth before the lock. It will be difficult, even now.”

“We need to move then?” Blake asked.

“We should heave anchor in an hour to start into the cut at first light,” said the second pilot, Captain Roy McCluskey.

Milam nodded. “I can finish in transit. ETA at the lock?”

“About 0700,” Sanchez said. McCluskey nodded agreement.

Milam checked the time. “OK, we can make that.”

Sanchez raised a hand. “There’s more. We must modify our approach.
Señor Milam
, may I?” Milam passed him the clipboard. The pilot flipped the paper to draw on the back.

“We block the east lock,” he said, “with the starboard stern against the center guide wall and the bow against the east bank. The problem is here”—he tapped his sketch—”where the east bank narrows to the lock at this diagonal wall. If we cannot hold the bow against the bank while you ballast, it will be pushed down onto the angled wall and funneled into the lock.” He paused. “We must ground the bow fast and hard so it cannot shift. Then the current and tugs will hold the stern to the wall while you ballast down.”

Blake nodded. “What’s the depth near the bank?”

Sanchez and McCluskey exchanged glances. “Ten feet and falling.”

“Christ,” Blake said. “Chief, what do we need aft to immerse the prop?”

“Twenty-one feet, minimum,” Milam said. “And we lose some power at that draft.”

“I can get the bow up to eight feet,” Blake said, “but we’ll be like a fat man in the stern of an empty canoe. She’ll handle—”

“Like a pig,” McCluskey finished.

“It will be difficult,” Sanchez conceded. “The current is over four knots now. We must go in at speed, two to three knots faster than that.”

Blake stared. “You want to put a forty-thousand-ton ship in the worst possible condition, then try to ground at a specific spot at an over-the-ground speed of eight knots?”

Sanchez nodded.

“And if we miss? Or a pressure wave forces the bow to shear? Then we go into the lock ‘at speed,’ with the weight of the whole lake behind us. This is… this is…” Blake stopped, speechless.

“Total lunacy,” Milam finished. “I unvolunteer.”

The pilots exchanged looks. “Gentlemen,” Sanchez said, “there is no alternative. It is not now a case of slowly losing the lake. If the plug fails, thousands will die downstream. We must attempt this. With or without you.”

“You can’t do it without us,” Blake said. “There is no time.”

“Quite a choice,” Milam said. “Risk death or spend the rest of our lives looking at news footage of floating corpses. I’ll go, god damn it, but I’m not happy about it.”

“I agree,” Blake said, “but we’re only speaking for ourselves.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Sanchez said, his relief evident.

“Tugs?” Blake asked.

“Only room for two,” Sanchez said. “One to push the stern into the wall while the other pulls back from our port bow to help turn us into the bank.”

“OK,” Blake said, “but I’m going to hang off the port anchor. If necessary, we’ll drop it to help turn. Warn the bow tug to stay clear.”

“Given the depth,” McCluskey said, “we might run over it if we drop it.”

“If we end up having to use it, that’ll be the least of our worries,” Blake said.

Calderon looked at the two pilots, who nodded agreement, conceding the point.

“Very well,” Calderon said to Blake and Milam, “it is decided. I leave you gentlemen to your work.
Capitáns
Sanchez and McCluskey remain. If you need anything at all, just ask.”

Handshakes were exchanged, and the group parted. Milam flipped the paper on his clipboard and studied the diagram.

“Shift ballast anytime,” he said to Blake. “I’ll be out of the last ballast tank before the water reaches me.”

“You sure?” Blake asked. “I don’t want to get your feet wet.”

“Might be better to drown early and get it over with,” Milam growled.

M/T Luther Hurd
North of Centennial Bridge
Panama

Blake gazed at Pedro Miguel, visible in the distance below Centennial Bridge, as the engine labored astern to hold
Luther Hurd
in the current, and the crew descended to the waiting launch. They’d all volunteered, but he kept a minimum, all unmarried except for himself and Milam. Despite his efforts to put her ashore, Arnett had asserted her prerogative as ranking deck officer to man the bow. She was there now, with three seamen to handle lines and run the anchor windlass. Green, Blake’s best helmsman, manned the wheel. Milam kept his three engineers.

Blake had refused ACP help. There were enough grieving families in Panama. For the same reason, the pilots had refused offers of their colleagues. The plan would work or fail regardless of the number of pilots aboard.

The second engineer began tugging hoses from the last tank as Milam emerged and flashed a thumbs-up. Blake waved in reply as the engineers started aft.

“I should get forward,” McCluskey said, starting for the stairs.

“God be with you, Roy,” Sanchez said softly.

“God be with us all, Carlos,” McCluskey replied.

The launch with the crew moved away, Blake silently wishing he was aboard. A chopper approached, cameraman perched in the door. Wonderful, he cursed.

M/T Luther Hurd
Centennial Bridge, Panama

Blake watched the crew scramble to safety on the west lock wall before stowing the binoculars. Arnett’s group passed a line to the bow tug, which moved away, connected and ready to match the tanker’s speed. The tug at a safe distance, he saw Arnett signal Alvarez at the windlass, then peer down over the bulwark to watch the port anchor. Alvarez eased the anchor out, the massive chain clunking in the hawse pipe, until Arnett’s balled fist shot up and Alvarez stopped the wildcat. She barked an order, and he spun the brake tight and disengaged the wildcat, leaving the anchor dangling, ready for release. Blake felt quiet pride at McCluskey’s approving nod.

***

Sanchez spoke into his radio, alerting both tugs.

“Dead slow ahead,” he said.

“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Blake repeated, at the engine controls.

“Steer one two five,” Sanchez ordered.

“One two five, aye,” Green said.

“Slow ahead,” Sanchez ordered, then after a moment asked, “How’s she answering the helm?”

Sweat rolled down Green’s dark face. “She wants to do as she pleases, Cap’n.”

“Half ahead,” Sanchez ordered.

“Half ahead, aye,” Blake replied as they increased speed to gain steerage way.

Soon they were moving fast. Too fast. Sanchez felt like a man on his first ski jump, deciding halfway down it was a bad idea. They accelerated as the cross section of the channel decreased and the laws of physics took over. The same volume passing a smaller opening in the same amount of time must move faster. He couldn’t control her at this speed. Better to use the tugs.

“Dead slow ahead,” he barked.

“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Blake confirmed, concern in his voice.

On the bow, McCluskey raised his radio, then lowered it without speaking. There could be only one command pilot.

***

The stern crabbed to port, and Sanchez barked an order to the tugs, overcorrecting into a series of wider and wilder swings as he struggled for control. With the bow pointed dead center at the lock, he ordered an all-out pull to port by the bow tug.

Water frothed as the tug strained. The line snapped taut and parted with a crack, recoiling in both directions, a huge rubber band. It killed one tug hand instantly and knocked a second overboard. On the ship, the other end struck McCluskey and men near him at knee height, slamming them into the steel bulwark, before whipping around a fairlead to strike Alvarez at the windlass controls. Only Arnett was spared, and she stared down at Alavarez’s bloody remains.

***

“LET GO THE ANCHOR!” her radio screamed, and she clawed at the brake, panic rising as it didn’t budge. She bent to pull a wheel wrench from beneath Alvarez’s corpse as she heard Sanchez shouting tug orders into the radio.

***

Sanchez ordered the bow tug back to push the stern to starboard and the stern tug forward to push the bow to port. The stern tug captain hesitated, then dashed forward through the rapidly closing gap between the ship and the guide wall, all too aware of the risk.

***

Arnett had the wrench now, gripped in her left hand and multiplying her leverage. The wheel broke free, and the anchor splashed as the giant chain surged through the spinning wildcat. She closed her eyes as the shower of dirt from the running chain peppered her face. The chain slowed as the anchor hit the bottom, then paid out in jerks as the ship’s motion dragged the chain out.

“SNUB IT UP! NOW!” her radio squawked.

She tightened the brake with her good hand. The chain stopped, only to break free again as the ship’s motion lifted links off the bottom and the weight overcame the brake. She cursed as the wrench slipped from her hand and bounced under the windlass, then gripped the wheel with both hands and pulled, screaming as bones separated. She collapsed over the wheel with a relieved sob as the brake held at last.

A muffled boom mocked her as the anchor jerked free to crash into the hull, and
Luther Hurd
continued her headlong rush.

***

Carlos Sanchez was a vigorous sixty, respected and near retirement. If unequal to the task at hand, he was by seniority the “least unqualified,” and both honor and pride had precluded his refusal when the task arose, despite the dull chest pains he’d suffered for days without complaint. Only a coward would hide behind such trivial discomfort in the face of his responsibilities. But the pain struck again as he started the run at the lock, exploding this time, clouding his judgment during the most stressful minutes of his life. The final sledgehammer blows induced visions of floating bodies, each staring up as if they knew they’d been sacrificed to an old man’s pride, as pain stole his breath and speech. He turned apologetically to Blake, sure in his last moments he was the architect of a great failure, shamefully grateful he wouldn’t live to see it.

***

Blake knew Sanchez was dead before he reached him.

“Oh shit,” Green murmured as Blake searched for a pulse.

Blake moved on instinct, ignoring the tugs as he rushed back to the console and jammed the stick to full ahead. The ship shuddered as the big propeller bit.

“The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want…” Green prayed, hands tight on the wheel.

“Ten left,” Blake barked, praying himself that they had enough speed to steer.

“Ten left, aye.” Green spun the wheel. “…lie down in green pastures…”

They turned, Blake timing the rate of swing against a landmark ashore. Too slow, he thought, we’re done. But due to luck or Green’s fervent prayer,
Luther Hurd
caught a break. The anchor, bouncing through the mud and periodically holing the hull, drove its flukes under a buried boulder. Momentum ripped it free, but not before it jerked the bow, hastening the turn to port. The bulbous bow crumpled and rode up the bank, pushing a huge pile of mud, while the ship pivoted on the bow like a gigantic door in a draft. The starboard stern smashed against the guide wall in a din of screeching steel on concrete and a cascade of sparks, as momentum and current drove
Luther Hurd
tightly into place.

***

Upstream, the channel calmed abruptly, and the captain of the tug now astern cruised in circles, calling Sanchez on the radio. Downstream, unsure what was happening when the ship started to turn, the captain of the second tug had sheltered in the narrow lock entrance. He hovered there now, his bow upstream, holding on his engines as his little boat road atop the dropping water. He made for an escape ladder recessed into the lock wall. The boat was lost, but the crew might escape.

***

Blake rose from where he’d been thrown over the console.

“Thank you, Jesus!” Green cried, clinging to the wheel. “We fuckin’ did it, Cap’n!”

The pair were grinning at each other so hard their faces hurt when a terrible screech sounded from the lock. They watched in horror as the changing conditions in the lock disturbed the equilibrium of the debris plug. A creeping crack in the weld between the deckhouse and ruined main deck accelerated through the last few feet of its length, and the mass came undone, tumbling from the lock with a huge splash. Water boiled through the lock, overturning the captive tug just moments before it reached the escape ladder. Then
Luther Hurd
shifted, and the stern screeched against the wall as she settled. Blake rushed to the phone.

“Engine Room. First Engineer,” a shaky voice said.

“First. Where’s the chief?”

“In the Cargo Control Room,” the first said.

Blake heard the hydraulic ballast pumps winding up. Thank you Milam, he thought as he hung up. He started for the stairwell.