Charon's Landing, page 48
“Those people . . .” she said, referring to the PEAL members still on the Hope.
“Signed their death warrants when they allied themselves with Kerikov,” Mercer finished. “We gave them a chance they never would’ve had.”
“Where are we headed?” Aggie resumed that calmness that so fascinated Mercer.
“To the Marine Terminal. I don’t know. Maybe there is something we can still do.” Mercer knew it was too late; the damage had been done. All that remained was to help clean it up. Even over the vibration of the plane and the whining drone of the engine, he could hear the sirens calling from across the water.
Valdez Harbor
Abu Alam had barely left himself enough time after planting the explosives to disable the Hope’s radio equipment and dash down to the boat deck. He had cut the margin much too thin. He was a good mile from the rocky beach at the head of Valdez Bay when he heard the alarms from the Marine Terminal. Kerikov had triggered the nitrogen packs. Alam was too exposed on the open water to detonate the explosives aboard the Hope. To do so now would attract attention, and he still needed time to steal a vehicle that would take him to Anchorage’s airport.
Every second now increased Ivan Kerikov’s chance to escape the doomed ship, and one of Rufti’s most explicit orders was that the Russian must not survive. Alam balanced caution with his desire to kill Kerikov. He knew that until he reached land, caution by necessity must prevail. He’d considered motoring the Zodiac toward Valdez, but it was very possible that he had been spotted kidnapping Aggie Johnston. It would be smarter for him to head for the Alyeska Terminal where he could beach the rubber raft a short distance from the facility and steal a vehicle during the confusion created by the detonation of the liquid nitrogen.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the decks of the Hope were quiet, the young people obviously still enjoying their morning celebration. Alam hated using explosives. It was too distant, too impersonal. He much preferred seeing his victims die, smelling their fear as their life drained from a slit throat or a bullet in the chest. He had used bombs before, but he felt a little cheated inside, as if the explosives did the killing, not him.
A big wave grabbed at the Zodiac, forcing Alam to concentrate on his course. Just beyond the outside perimeter of the tanker loading facility, a small stream emptied into the bay. It was screened on both sides by thick copses of trees and would make an ideal landing spot. Even this far out, Abu Alam could see a low bridge crossing the water-washed ravine. The Alyeska access road was only a couple dozen yards away. Perfect.
Because he was unfamiliar with the workings of small boats, Alam focused all of his attention on bringing in the Zodiac and didn’t turn back again until the bow was bucking against the stream’s flow, the motor churning brown silt from the bottom. When he finally twisted around, he immediately reached for the detonator in his jacket pocket. A steady stream of tiny figures were leaping over the yellow side of the Hope. At this distance, they looked much like the proverbial rats leaving a sinking ship. The PEAL members were escaping, Kerikov probably among them. Alam didn’t waste time thinking of this, didn’t even notice the red speck that was a damaged aircraft racing from the ship. He thought only about the pounds of artfully placed explosives aboard the Hope and the deaths they were about to cause. Clearing the detonator from his pocket, he keyed an activation code, noted the green indicator light, and pressed ENTER.
LIKE a crippled fledgling that doesn’t know it can’t fly, the aerodynamics of the Cessna kept trying to loft Mercer and Aggie Johnston skyward as they skimmed along the surface of Valdez Bay. Aggie struggled to keep the Cessna level, forcing nearly all of her weight against the starboard rudder pedal to compensate for the destroyed port wing. As it was, she could only manage to crab the plane sideways across the bay, the nose pointed almost thirty degrees away from their direction of travel.
Mercer now knew enough about planes to know he didn’t know enough about planes to help her. He kept his hands and feet clear of the controls. He focused instead on the tiny mirror placed high on the dash and watched the Hope shrink in their wake. No matter how fast they traveled, it seemed they were still too close to the research ship. If it had been rigged with enough explosives to panic Kerikov into his suicidal jump, he and Aggie were in for a rough ride. With nothing better to do, Mercer grabbed the bottle of whiskey still in the cockpit and dosed himself with a little liquid courage.
The MV Hope, formally a Hecla class research vessel in the British navy, vanished just as the bottle came away from his lips.
One second the ship was centered in the mirror and the next it was gone in a blooming explosion of red, yellow, and black, huge slabs of the hull splitting apart, chunks of metal, wood, and flesh arcing through the air. The devastation was total. Even before the shock wave hit the fleeing Cessna, the main part of the ship had sunk beneath the rippling bay, nothing to mark its existence except a greasy fire raging on the surface and the human misery wallowing near its grave.
The overpressure wave blew out every storefront window in Valdez, killing four people, and overturned all but the largest boats lying at anchor in the public harbor, claiming a further eight victims. Had the explosion been delayed by a few more minutes, the civilian death toll would have been much higher, as onlookers were just converging at the shore to see what had caused the alarm at the tanker facility that shared their waters and gave many of them their livelihoods. Of the PEAL environmentalists, Mercer’s shouted warning had saved all but twelve. Eight died immediately and four later in the hospital.
Two potential victims the blast did not claim were Aggie Johnston and Philip Mercer, but it was a close call all the way.
“Brace yourself,” Mercer shouted as soon as he recognized what had happened, dropping the bottle to the floor.
The concussion of the explosion grabbed the Cessna, tipping it so high that the prop ripped at the water, slicing it into a plume that obliterated their view. Aggie pulled back on the yoke immediately, releasing the rudder at the same time. The plane tried to lift, and for a precious moment it was back on an even keel, the pontoons barely keeping purchase, the forces of the wings and that of the concussion wave holding the aircraft steady.
Then the concentric swells radiating from the explosion caught up to the plane, lifting it higher and, like a bodysurfer caught on a perfect crest, bore it even faster along the Bay of Valdez. The water raced from the explosion’s epicenter at nearly one hundred fifty miles per hour, piling up a mountain of water thirty feet high, and at its very crest, Aggie maintained an unsteady control of the Cessna, not sure if her adjustments to yoke and rudder were effective in keeping them in place or if the aircraft was at the whimsy of the raging onslaught.
As her ears stopped ringing and she became aware of the sounds of the torrent around her, she also heard Mercer laughing. “What’s so goddamned funny?” she shrieked.
“Half hour ago, you were complaining about my flying. I don’t see this as an improvement.”
Before Aggie could come back with an obscenity-laden rejoinder, the wave smashed into the breakwater protecting the Alyeska facility, the top of it battering the seawall built specifically for just such a tsunami, although the designers expected waves generated from earth tremors, not catastrophic explosions. The pontoons were ripped from the Cessna by the concrete wall, and much of the force of the wave was beaten down by the massive cement structure, leaving the plane to sail clear for an instant before it plowed into the rocky ground, its belly scraping off their speed brutally, the prop blades folding back around the engine cowling like the tentacles of some sea creature.
The threat of fire was real, and both Aggie and Mercer launched themselves from their seats as the plane finally ground to a stop.
“Remember, this flight counts double for your frequent flier miles. We want to thank you for flying Mercer Airlines. Have a nice day.” He was out the cargo door of the Cessna as the last words rolled from his lips, with Aggie right behind.
The sprint to the Operations Building took forever, both of them hampered by their injuries and by the countless vehicles they had to dodge as technicians and employees raced to evaluate the situation. Mercer pounded through the door, tossing a hapless employee back about ten feet as the edge of the door caught her square in the chest. He raced for the control room, ignoring the dazed woman completely. The room was packed. Voices clashed angrily over the wail of countless alarms, the normally calm professionals driven to the point of panic by the scope of the catastrophe facing them. Andy Lindstrom was in the center of it, his face red and his shouts muted to angry growls from hoarseness. He scanned the multiple panels and video display units, assessing the damage to his precious pipeline. Twenty or so engineers were gathered around him, ranked by seniority so the most experienced was at his shoulder and the juniormost stood in the back of the room. The windowless room was filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of fear’s sweat.
“Andy!” Mercer shouted over the arguing voices, but the noise drowned him out.
To gain attention, he pulled out Kerikov’s pistol and fired into the floor, silence echoing after the shot.
“Andy, how bad?” Mercer asked calmly. If he was bothered by the stunned crowd around him, it didn’t show on his stony face.
“Jesus Christ, Mercer, what the hell are you doing?” The shock on Lindstrom’s face was a combination of seeing Mercer with a pistol, seeing Mercer even alive, and the stress of the nitrogen packs freezing his pipeline as solid as a Popsicle. “Great to see you again, but I don’t have time for this — your friend the Russian has destroyed my pipe.”
“I know.” Mercer couldn’t afford the delay caused by emotional answers. “I need to know if the pumps are running right now.”
Before Andy could answer, an engineer seated at the console spoke up. “No, the computer logs show they shut down about a minute before the nitrogen packs went off. Right now they’re off-line. And it looks like they’ll never run again. Preliminary reports indicate at least forty spots where oil flow has stopped completely and a couple more with minimal flow. It looks as if there are at least two ruptures, one at the center of the Tanana River suspension bridge.”
“The bridge collapsed?” Mercer asked fearfully.
“Yeah. Oil is flowing toward it through open check valves like a spigot.”
“Where is that computer guy, Mossey?”
“He was in the computer room a moment ago,” replied a technician standing near Mercer.
Mercer turned so fast he bumped into Aggie, whom he’d all but forgotten. She was sickened by the fact that the pipeline had been cut by the nitrogen freezing. As a member of PEAL, she was, by default, responsible. “This isn’t over yet,” Mercer said and ran down the hall.
The computer room, in comparison to the Op-center, was sterile and clean and empty save for one frantic figure stuffing papers and computer discs into a soft-sided leatherette bag. Mercer didn’t give Ted Mossey a chance to even turn around. He used his left hand to smash Mossey’s head down to the desk while his other pressed the automatic pistol into his face so hard that Mossey’s teeth ripped the delicate inner skin of his cheek. When Mercer spoke, his voice was a white fury, his eyes glazed with hatred.
“Shut the program down! Now!”
“I can’t,” Mossey stammered, saliva and blood dripping from his mouth onto the computer station. “I was locked out as soon as Kerikov triggered the nitrogen.”
Mercer snicked back the hammer of the pistol, the small click sounding very final in the quiet confines of the room. “That’s too bad. You’ve had the program for a couple of months. I’d thought you’d have broken into it and set up a back door. Last mistake you ever made, pal.”
He was willing to let the bluff go for a few seconds before knocking Mossey unconscious, but it wasn’t necessary. Mossey folded instantly. “Wait, please. God, don’t kill me. There is a back door. I put it in soon after Kerikov hired me to reinstate his old program.”
“Use it now, you little ferret, and stop the pumps from coming on-line or, so help me Christ, I’ll pull the trigger and use your brains as finger paint.” Mercer let Mossey back up but kept the pistol screwed into his ear. The younger man started working on the terminal, his fingers blurring across the keys.
Aggie stood in awe at the back of the room, fascinated by the absolute control Mercer showed of both the situation and Ted Mossey. It wasn’t the gun that gave Mercer power, it was the man himself. His conviction and his unwavering belief in himself held her rapt. As unpredictable and wild as his actions had seemed to her, once the resolution became clear, his was the only logical course. Standing as he was, grim-faced and tensed, Mercer was the most desirable man Aggie had ever seen. The sight of him gave her a delicious thrill.
“I’m in,” Mossey said at last. “Just a minute more.”
“I blow your skull apart in thirty seconds.” No one, not even Mercer, knew if he was still bluffing or not.
Andy Lindstrom had followed Mercer and Aggie to the computer room and, after watching the drama unfold for a moment, crossed to a terminal next to Mossey, the computer screen before him indicating pump and pipeline status. Though the program had been installed by a mole at the height of the Cold War, only now was it active. All ten pumps had spooled up to full power, building a tremendous back pressure against the solidified oil plugs. Mercer had been too late to stop that from happening, but pipe integrity was still holding. If they could shut down the pumps in time, the line wouldn’t blow apart as Kerikov had planned.
“Internal pressure?” Mercer demanded without taking his eyes off Mossey.
“Twelve hundred pounds per square inch within the pipe casing at nearly every sensor,” Lindstrom cried. “We’re over the maximum rating. The whole thing’s going to let go at any second. Pumps are still in operation. This isn’t going to work.”
“Someone already told me that today.” Mercer stole a glance at Aggie, who smiled at him in response.
Mossey pushed himself from his keyboard computer, his slight frame spent. “That’s the most I can do.”
“Status?” Mercer barked.
“Twelve hundred twenty-five psi. It’s thing is going to burst.” Lindstrom screamed. “Massive pressure drop at one of the sensors, pipe blowout. Pumps are still . . . Wait, pumps are off-line. They’ve stopped.” Lindstrom’s voice trailed off as he watched fearfully. The internal pressure sensors placed within the line continued to climb higher and higher, now 15 percent beyond their rated maximum tolerance. Finally he spoke again, filling the thick silence, excitement crowding his words together. “Pressure going down across the board, steady drop. My baby held together. Oh, thank you, God, and thank the union welders for making this bitch stronger than we ever thought.”
Mercer looked over at him in relief, his face and body showing the extent of the battering he’d been through since last night. “What about the steel mills that rolled the pipe sections?”
“Fuck ’em, it was a Japanese firm.” Lindstrom laughed, emotion bubbling over. While still facing a major disaster — there were three huge leaks belching out thousands of barrels of oil — the extent had just been reduced to manageable levels. With Mossey as a witness, Alyeska would be found blameless for the entire affair.
“Human error,” Mercer said, as if reading Andy’s mind. “Not the negligent kind, but the type found when people do the wrong thing for the wrong reason.”
“How’d you know about Mossey?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Right now I need a drink, a hot shower, and a bed — in whatever order they come.”
“Drink first.” Andy grinned. “That I have in my office. But no matter what you did here today, I’m not sharing my bed with you.”
Mercer glanced at Aggie and smiled at the shy look on her face. Andy followed his gaze, forcing Mercer to make introductions. “Andy Lindstrom, this is Aggie Johnston, Max Johnston’s daughter.”
“I know your father.” Lindstrom shook her hand as he led Aggie and Mercer back to his office. “Listen, I don’t have time for that drink. I’ve got to get crews to the damaged sections of the line and start on the repairs. I can tell from the sensor panel where PEAL placed their nitrogen. There are miles of open pipe between the plugs, so we’re going to lose a shitload of oil. The leak on the Tanana Bridge is spilling something like five thousand gallons an hour. Every minute we wait is going to make this more of a mess than it already is.”
Lindstrom paused, then asked, “Listen, Mercer, can you stick around for a while? I need to get details of what happened at Pump Station 5. We still haven’t managed to get a team up there. The fire at the depot in Fairbanks is still raging out of control, tying up a lot of my people.”
“Eddie didn’t make it?” Mercer was stunned. He thought rescue crews would have found the fearless chopper pilot before his injuries claimed him.
“Eddie’s fine. He’s in a hospital in Fairbanks right now, but he’s been sedated since his arrival. An army chopper picked him up last night, but they didn’t return to the pump station. They’re still ferrying the injured out of Fairbanks.”
Somehow, knowing Eddie Rice had survived meant more to Mercer than preventing Kerikov from destroying the pipeline. But that was how he thought; human life always took precedent over all other concerns. In mine rescue work, he had spent millions to save one lowly worker, and to him it was a bargain. And whether it was money he was gambling or the environmental fate of an entire region, his decision was always the same. Life, anyone’s life, came first. Perhaps it was a superior attitude to take considering the new-world thinking, but it was the way he was.
