The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) (34 page)

Oh Highway 17A, near Monck’s Corner, South Carolina, Jack Marino slammed his phone on the dashboard of the car.  From the passenger seat Sam Smith spoke.

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“The Georgetown cops missed Hamm at the hospital.  Idiots.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Take the phone.  See if you can reach Stew Marks.”

Sam complied, but there was no answer.  Jack nodded.

“I’m turning around.  We’re going back to North Charleston.”

No sooner had he spoken, than a blue Ford passed them in the other direction.

Jack gaped.  The driver was a woman with red hair.

Ryan!  And the man with her must be Hamm!

Jack spun the wheel.  Tires screeched as Sam’s shoulder was flung against the passenger door.  The car swung about and ended in the opposite lanes, headed after the Ford.

Jack hammered the accelerator.

His prey were no longer in sight, but they would be soon.

Jeannine Ryan drove Bill Hamm’s Ford on Highway 17A near Moncks Corner, South Carolina.

Bill nudged her shoulder.

“Don’t look in the mirror, but someone is following us.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We’ll be at Moncks Corner soon.  Highway 52 turns right, and Highway 17A continues straight ahead.  Take Highway 52.  Maybe that car is not after us.  Maybe it will stay on 17A.”

Jeannine turned right onto Highway 52.  Bill studied the mirror.

The car had turned with them.

Jeannine turned to Bill.

“Bill, do you have a gun?  We don’t know who is behind us.”

“I have the Beretta I took from Ian Callahan.”

Jeannine pressed her lips together and drove.  Moments later her cell phone buzzed.  She put it on speaker.

“Jeannine, this is Stew, is Hamm with you?”

Bill spoke.

“I’m here.  What do you want?”

“Gutera got his truck back.  The rockets are headed back to North Charleston.  I’m headed there now, but I’m far out on I-26.  Where are you?”

“We’re past Goose Creek, on Highway 52.  We’re a lot closer than you.”

“Hamm, you have to stop them while they’re still in port.  Marino won’t notify the police or the Coast Guard.  He thinks you’re using Gutera and his thugs as a scapegoat.  He doesn’t believe there is a plot. He says you made it up as a diversion.”

“Someone’s been following us since Moncks Corner.”

“A maroon Ford Crown Vic?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Marino.  What will you do?”

“I’ll think of something.  I can’t shoot back, he may be wrong-headed but he’s still FBI.”

“Hamm, you have to ditch him.  Those rockets must not leave port.”

The connection was broken.

Bill turned to Jeannine.

“We need to give Marino the slip.  They’re hanging back so we won’t spot them.  There’s a Burger King ahead.  Speed up and turn as fast as you can.”

Jeannine nodded.

She spun the wheels to the right into the Burger King parking.

Bill shouted.

“Now quick, loop around back and park!”

Jeannine did.

In the Crown Victoria, Sam Smith looked up.

“What happened, Jack?  I don’t see Hamm’s car.  That’s St. James Road ahead.  Did they turn there?”

“They turned into the Burger King.  We’ll get them.”

Jack turned into the lot. Ahead was another exit, onto St. James Road.  And Hamm’s car was not in sight. Jack drove out onto St. James Road.

Hidden on the other side of the Burger King, Jeannine backed out of her space and turned back onto Highway 52.

Bill pointed to the left.

“It worked.  Bear left right away and turn onto Red Bank Road.  That will take us to the port terminal.”

Jeannine complied.

On I-26, Superintendant Ralph Morris drove the truck towards North Charleston.  He would not relax until this damned container from
Kenya-Carolina Apex Distributors
was loaded on Gutera’s ship.

He called the gate at the terminal.

“This is superintendant Morris.  I’m on I-26 about thirty minutes away.  I have the last container for that African ship.  I know you’re closing, but have Jim ready on the ZPMC crane.  Tell him he’ll get overtime.  I want this damned container loaded right away.”

But the container was not Ralph’s only concern.  His driver, James Hyde, was missing and that bastard Maximilien had refused to answer queries about the whereabouts of the young trucker.

Ralph turned to the African seated next to him in the cab of the truck.

“So your name is Claude, Claude what?”

“Claude Senteli.”

“You know trucks?”

“I drove one in the past, yes.”

Morris fell silent.  His thoughts were of his driver, James Hyde.

“Tell me, what happened to my driver.”

“You must ask my chief.  I was not there.”

“To hell with him.  You know what happened.  Tell me!”

Morris drew the .38 from his rear belt and pointed it at Senteli’s nose.  At the same time he slammed the brakes hard and stopped truck and trailer on the shoulder.

Claude stammered.

“I was not there, but we found your man dead, shot.”

He wanted to add,
“and my friend Pierre Sehene too.”
  But there was no time.  Morris screamed and waved the gun in his face.

“Dead!  And you did nothing.  Get out, you son of a bitch.  Get out now!”

Claude backed out of the cab.  He left his phone on the seat.  Morris threw it at him.

“And call that chief of yours.  Tell him he’d better have a good explanation for my man’s death or his container will end up in the Cooper River.  I’ll dump it there myself.”

Claude Senteli was more afraid of Maximilien Gutera than of Ralph Morris.  No way would he call Maximilien and admit that he had lost the truck.  And he could not allow Morris to destroy the container and its contents.

As Morris ground gears to pull back onto the highway, Claude jumped up onto the catwalk between truck and trailer and hung on as the truck pulled away.

Claude knew the function of the two “Suzies,” the hoses that carried air to the trailer.  In the blue hose, air pressure increased as the driver applied the brakes to stop the truck.  In the red hose, over 60 lbs of constant air pressure kept the brakes unlocked.  If the red hose was disconnected, the trailer’s brakes would lock on, a safety feature that Claude would use to his advantage.

He held his hands on both hoses, ready to unhook them and stop the truck.  He waited for a stretch where no other vehicles were on the road.

Now!

He swung the connectors upwards.  They released.

The brakes on the trailer locked.  It swung wildly from side to side as Morris struggled to maintain control.  Claude hung on.

Truck and trailer slid sidewise to a stop on the shoulder.

Claude shook his head and struggled to his feet.  He was OK. He reconnected the hoses and climbed down from the catwalk.  Morris lay unconscious across the seat, a red welt on his cheek and forehead, his chest heaving in a regular rhythm.

Claude wrestled the heavy man to the passenger seat and strapped him upright in the shoulder belt.

Claude started the motor.  He tried the brakes.  They were unlocked.  Then he looked back at the highway behind.

There was no sign of Maximilien Gutera.  Perhaps the police had delayed him.

Too bad.

Claude Senteli hummed to himself as he drove off.

He had heard the superintendant’s instructions.  The crane operator, “Jim,” would be waiting for their arrival. If only the guards at the gate would not check Mr. Morris closely, he would be home free.

When Claude Senteli arrived at the gate to the North Charleston Terminal, superintendant Morris was unconscious, but upright thanks to his seat belt.

The guard glanced at Morris and gave a quick wave.

Claude whistled.

Thanks to him, and no thanks to Maximilien, the rockets soon would be on their way to Mombasa.

He headed towards the dock where the
Étoile d’Afrique
was berthed.

At the North Charleston Terminal, Jim Rivers stood on the dock underneath the huge Super Post Panamax gantry crane and watched the crew of the African ship prepare for departure.  After a long day, Jim was tired and irritated.  The boss was late.

But Mr. Morris paid well, and he could not complain.

Jim yawned and closed his eyes, only to jerk awake.

A truck with a container drove up and stopped precisely at the marked pickup spot for Jim’s crane.

Jim sighed with relief.  Mr. Morris was in the front seat.

The truck had arrived.

Claude Senteli stopped the truck at the pickup mark under the huge crane and awaited the “lift-off” of the container.  The rockets would soon be safely stacked on board the
Étoile d’Afrique.

At his side, Morris stirred.  Claude clubbed him with his Browning.  The superintendant sagged against his shoulder strap.

Claude looked back.  The crane operator who moments before had stood next to crane, had not entered the elevator to the control cabin.  Instead, the man was walking to the truck, towards the passenger side.  Claude frowned.

Forget your boss.  Stop! Load the damn container like you were told.

But the man continued forward.

Claude grabbed his phone and spoke.  The message was brief.

“Michel, I need you after all.”

Then Browning in hand, he slipped out the driver-side door.

Jim Rivers, the crane operator, knew something was wrong. The boss was not driving and he had not acknowledged his wave.  Now up close, he saw that Mr. Morris’s eyes were shut.

What the hell?

He stared through the window.  Was Morris breathing and unconscious, or dead?

There was no time for further observation.  Jim heard a noise behind him.  The butt end of Claude Senteli’s Browning crashed against his skull.

Jim fell senseless to the ground

On board the Étoile d’Afrique, Michel Iranzi put down the phone.  Claude Senteli needed him ashore.

Right away!

Michel was checking containers.  He left the deck and descended the multiple steps to the dock.

The gantry crane that towered above him was a ZPMC, a brand he had used elsewhere.  Michel knew cranes.  He had worked dockside at the port of Mombasa.

He spotted Claude and ran to him

“Is this the container you want loaded?”

“This is the one.  It’s Maximilien’s special container.  The ship won’t leave without it.  Don’t screw this up.”

Michel did not need more warning.  He too feared Maximilien.

He took the elevator to the cabin and sat at the controls.

He peered through the glass floor.  Below him the truck was parked precisely at the mark.

Good.

He manipulated the right-hand joystick and lowered the spreader to lock onto the container.

“Clank.”

The spreader locked on.

He lifted the container into the air.

The control cabin was suspended from a trolley that rolled on a boom extending from the dock to well over the ship. Suspended in the air beneath the cab the container hung motionless.

Michel checked the controls once more.  Every movement needed to be precise.

From far below, Claude stared upwards with satisfaction.

Almost done!

Bill Hamm and Jeannine sped down Remount Road, near the North Charleston Terminal.

“Stop here, Jeannine, I’m getting into the back seat.”

Bill stepped out.  Once in back, he crouched to the floor and covered himself with a blanket.

“You’ve got to get us through the gate.  I don’t care how.  If they try to stop you, spin the car about so I can roll out where they won’t see me.  Get me inside.”

Jeannine set her lips and drove toward the gate.

There a guard stopped her.

“We’re closed, ma’am, we close at six.”

“But superintendant Morris wanted me to meet him at the office.  I have something for his birthday.”

The guard had seen Morris enter only minutes before, but he was not a fan of the big man.  He paused.

Is Morris human?  Does he even have a birthday?
 
This woman is too hot for that toad.

With those confused observations he turned to consult his superior.  But behind him a motor revved.  He turned back.

Too late!

Jeannine jammed the accelerator to the floor and rammed the gate.  The wooden slat split and cracked in two.

She was through!

Immediately she turned sharp right and raced along a row of stacked containers towards two towering cranes that dominated the dock.

But a parked truck with an empty trailer blocked the passage.

She hit the brakes and spun the wheel.  The car skidded sideways.  Its rear end scraped the rig and stopped.

Bill rolled out of the backdoor and under the rig.

Jeannine collapsed, head on the steering wheel.

A short distance away she heard the shouts of her pursuers.

But she no longer cared.

Bill was in.

Bill Hamm ran along the row of containers towards the giant crane.  Gasping for breath, he reached one of the thick steel legs of the huge structure.  The elevator was stopped high above, but alternate access to the control cabin was afforded by metal steps attached to the steel support.

On the ground a short distance away, Bill noted a black man staring at a container, dangling high in the air.  He recognized the logo,
Kenya-Carolina Apex Distributors
.

Gutera’s rockets!

He was too late!

Bill dashed up the metal stairs.  Halfway up, his progress slowed.  At each landing (created by the change in direction of the steps) he paused to inhale.  His lungs burned, but he struggled upwards. Finally, just as his legs went rubbery, he reached the level of the control cabin.

But the operator had moved the cabin away from the steps and towards the ship.

A gap of several feet separated him from the railing at the back of the cabin.

Bill looked down.  The drop to the dock below was at least ten stories.

But he had to stop the rockets.

He launched himself into the air!

For the first time in over a month Maximilien Gutera was on his own.  His bodyguard Alain had shot the state patrolman from ambush, and Maximilien had fled without knowing the fate of his follower.  He did not know if Alain was still alive.

Nor did he care.

After himself, his only concern was for the rockets, and with Morris in charge their delivery was assured.  The superintendant would not dare fail Maximilien.

Success was at hand.

He turned onto Remount Road and drove towards the entrance to the North Charleston Terminal.

But something was wrong.  Port Security vehicles with rotating red lights blocked the entrance while two local police cars, bars blinking blue, had closed the exit.  Several groups of uniformed men stood near the vehicles.

Maximilien stopped on the shoulder and took out his phone.  He called the Captain of the
Étoile d’Afrique
.

“Is my container on board?”

“In a minute it will be.  It’s in the air now.”

“Good.”

Maximilien was about to hang up when the Captain added.

“It is Michel Iranzi who is operating the crane.”

“Iranzi?  Where is Morris’s man?”

“I do not know.  Claude Senteli is in charge.”

Maximilien paused. 
In charge?
 
Senteli? He will take the credit!  He is too ambitious.

“Captain, a word of caution.  You must watch Senteli carefully.  He is dangerous.  He has put his ego ahead of our movement.”

His thoughts turned to the police vehicles surrounding the entrance to the terminal.

“And Captain, I have decided not to board the ship now.  I will engage a helicopter and join the ship tomorrow morning when you are at sea.”

Maximilien hung up, turned his car about, and headed away from the terminal towards Charleston.

Jeannine Ryan, physically and mentally exhausted, rested her head on the steering wheel.

A guard pulled the car door open.  She opened her eyes to an angry glare.

“Lady, what’s wrong with you?  You could have killed someone.”

Strong arms pulled her from the car, bruising her against the car door as she fell outwards.  She stood up only to be pushed through a crowd of guards and watchmen.

Then out of the mix of hisses and angry murmurs, one voice stood out.  She had heard it before, in Maryland when the FBI had first visited her.

Jack Marino had arrived.

“All right Ryan, no more of your damned tricks.  Put your arms behind your back.”

He did not wait for her to comply, but wrenched her arms into position.  At her cry of pain, a security guard stepped forward, but Marino shoved him away.

“FBI!  Stand back.  The bitch is my prisoner.  I’ve been searching for her for weeks.”

He tightened the cuffs.  Blood appeared on her wrist.  She winced and leaned forward, but he jerked her upright.

“All right, where is that scumbag partner of yours?  Where is Hamm?”

Face florid, he slapped her from behind.  Jeannine fell forward, head spinning.

At that blow, a port guard grabbed Jack’s arm.

“Stop it mister.  She’s helpless.”

Jack pulled free and glared.  He stepped toward the guard, fist balled.

But the voice of Sam Smith, his present partner, stopped him.

“Good God, Jack what are you doing?”

Jack straightened.  He flung the helpless Jeannine at Sam.  She stumbled, hands bound behind, and fell forward.  Sam caught her.  Jack sneered.

“All right Sam, you want her.  You take care of her.”

He pulled out his Beretta and glared at the encircling guards.  Then he turned back to Sam.

“Stay here with the ‘Ladies,’ I’m going to find Hamm.”

Jack turned away.  Before him, long rows of containers formed an alley that led to the dock.

Gun in hand, he raced towards the river.

Hurtling through the air more than a hundred feet above the dock, Bill Hamm stretched to reach the railing of the moving cab.

His left hand seized a vertical bar and held.

He struggled to swing his right arm towards the rail.

“Whap!”

His right hand missed and his body swung sideways.

But his left hand held.

Once again he rotated towards the railing.  Ian’s Beretta twisted loose from his rear belt and fell, spinning until it clattered on the dock below.

But this time Bill’s right hand gripped tight.

With both hands secure, he swung one leg upwards toward the landing.  His right foot lodged between two uprights.  His right ankle twisted in pain but he clung to the rail.  He struggled and rolled over the rail onto the cab’s metal “porch.”

Bill lay still to gather his breath.

Below him on the dock, He saw a man brandishing a handgun.

But the man (Claude Senteli) did not see Bill.  Instead, the man ran to board the ship docked below.

Bill stood up.  He carefully opened the door to the cabin.

He stepped inside and looked down.

He froze.  There was nothing between him and the dock below. Then he realized, the floor of the cabin was transparent.  His shoe met solid support.

“Thump!”

At that sound, the man at the controls (Michel Iranzi) turned.  His eyes opened wide.  He reached down and picked up a gray object, mostly metallic.

A panga!

Bill reached for the Beretta in his rear belt, but his hand came away empty.

The gun was gone.

The man swung the bush knife above his head and charged.

The panga flashed in a wide arc as Bill ducked.

“Clang.”

The blade crashed against the wall jarring the man’s grip.

Bill seized that arm and twisted.  The panga fell to the floor.

Now they were even.

But the man was strong.  He shoved Bill away and kicked him in the groin.

Twisted in pain, Bill collapsed back against the door.  His hand felt the latch just as the man lowered his head and rushed at him.

Bill ducked to the side and pushed the door wide.

The man flew out.

He balanced a moment over the railing.

Then he fell out of sight.

Bill shut the door and rushed to the controls.  The container hung over the
Étoile d’Afrique
, ready to be lowered in place.

He studied the deck below.  Several rows of stacked containers spanned the width of the vessel.  He counted quickly.  The widest row had thirteen containers, each about eight feet wide.  She was a Panamax vessel, able to pass through the locks of the Panama canal.

He recalled his conversation with Tim, hours earlier.  The crane he now controlled was a Super Post Panamax, it could stack a row of over twenty 8-foot containers.

He looked down.  Sure enough, the boom of his crane extended well beyond the ship, and the tracks for the trolley reached near to the end.  He could move the container past the deck and drop it into the water.

But how?

He leaned forward in the chair.  There were joysticks on both sides as well as other levers.

If only I had paid more attention to Tim?

He strained to remember. 
Maybe this?

He pushed the stick.

Bill stared through the glass floor.  Below, the container had not moved.

He tried again.

This time the trolley wheels above him rolled forwards.  Cabin and container moved towards the open water of the river.

Bill held his breath.

He let go of the joysticks and looked below.

Now he was above the open water.  The container swung slightly but did not detach.

He strived to visualize what control Tim had used to lift and load the same container on the trailer only hours before.  Were the controls in the ZPMG the same?

He shut his eyes to visualize Tim’s actions.  He opened them, pushed a lever, and peered down through the glass floor.

Success!

The empty spreader dangled beneath the cab, swinging in the air while the loosened load plunged downwards.

The container hit the water, displacing magnificent plumes of spray skywards on all sides before it disappeared.  Moments later, it shot back up, almost clear of the surface, only to settle sharply downwards at an angle that left only the top rear edge in view.

For some seconds a lone back corner remained visible as the container drifted down river with the outgoing tide.  Finally it too disappeared, leaving only swirling eddies to mark its final sinking.

Bill struggled to his feet and looked out towards the harbor.

The container was gone.

Only swirls and spirals on the surface marked its passage.

Then even these disturbances dissipated in the out-flowing current.

And Maximilien Gutera’s dream drowned in the murky waters of the Cooper River.