The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“No,” Seng replied. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This thing’s dead across the board.”

A moment passed while Max considered their options. “Okay,” he finally said, “here’s what I want you to do. Down in the engine room there will be manual valves to shut off the inlet pipes. You need to reach them and close them. We can’t pump her out, but at least we can stop her from sinking farther.”

“Is that really enough?” Eric Stone had been listen

ing on the open channel. In the few minutes since he’d laid the Oregon alongside the heavy-lifter, they’d started pushing the Hercules laterally through the water, creating waves that rocked both ships. Already one of the indestructible fenders separating them had exploded under the pressure. “I don’t know how long I can hold her.”

“Do your best, lad.”

* * *

LINC AND MIKE TRONO went for the direct approach. Rather than mess around with torches or blasting charges, Mike fitted an RPG to his shoulder as soon as Adams was clear and fired down at the doorway leading into the ship’s superstructure. The resulting explosion blew the door completely off its hinges and sent it clattering along an internal hallway. He and Linc clambered down the rope that Max had left behind. The paintwork around the destroyed door was on fire from the blast, but they were ready, and Linc sprayed it with a small fire extinguisher and cast the little canister aside when the flames were gone. The metal was still blisteringly hot, so they eased their way through carefully.

Both carried powerful three-cell batteries and matching 9mm Sig Sauers in case the Hercules wasn’t as deserted as they believed.

Entering the ship in the condition she was in was the same as a fireman running into a burning munitions factory, but neither man gave it a second thought.

The interior of the Hercules was in rough shape. The walls were peeling, the floor was lifted in places, and the cabins had all been stripped bare. Wire conduits sagged from the ceiling and walls where their brackets had snapped over the years. She didn’t look quite as bad as the Oregon was meant to, but it was clear she belonged in the breaker yard where her previous owners had sent her. Mike and Linc were making their way up to the bridge when they overheard Eddie and Max on their tactical radios. They turned as if in lockstep and retreated the way they had come.

The ship’s motion in the water remained sluggish because her ballast tanks continued to fill. However, when she yawed to starboard, she went deeper and recovered slower than when she pitched the other way. With her belly so full she was struggling to remain upright, and no matter how skillful Eric Stone was at the controls of their ship, it was inevitable that the Hercules would capsize.

To make matters worse, the clouds Cabrillo had seen at dawn had moved into the area, and a freshening breeze was affecting the surface waves, making them march in long columns that slammed into the side of the ship.

Moving even faster than them, Eddie Seng soon caught up to the pair. All their expressions were the same mask of grim concentration. Juan’s and Linda’s lives depended on them staunching the gush of water flooding the ship’s cathedral-sized tanks.

While every oceangoing vessel was different, the efficiencies built into the field of maritime architecture meant there were only so many ways to access the engine room, and its placement was always logically thought out. It was because of this that the men quickly descended three decks and came across a metal door stenciled ENGINE ROOM. A chain had been wrapped around the handle and padlocked.

Linc set about blasting the chain apart, since shooting the lock off with a pistol in such a confined space would most likely end with the shooter catching the ricochet. He stuck a wad of plastique the size of chewing gum onto the padlock, jammed a detonator to it, and hustled the other two men down the hallway and around a corner.

The blast wave hit them like a hurricane gust, and the noise was deafening even with their ears covered. A thin wisp of acrid chemical smoke hung in the air. The padlock and half the chain links were gone. Eddie quickly stripped away the rest of the chain and was about to throw the door open when the Hercules was caught by a particularly strong wave that seemed to bury its rail in the ocean. For thirty long seconds she hung there, while the massive oil platform shrieked its way closer to oblivion as it slid across her deck.

The Oregon fought her with everything she had, but the damage was done. The rig had moved enough to upset the heavy-lifter’s center of gravity, and her list was now as bad as ever. The wave had dealt her a fatal blow.

“That’s it,” Max called over the radio. “Get out of there. That goes for you too, Juan.” He waited a beat. “Chairman, can you hear me? Juan? Juan, if you’re receiving this, get off the rig. Damnit, Juan. Answer me. You are out of time.”

But Cabrillo never answered.

16

JUAN WAS SO DEEP INTO THE J-6I RIG THAT ITS STEEL BLOCKED his walkie-talkie from sending or receiving. He probably wouldn’t have heeded Max’s warning anyway. He’d pushed too hard to fail now.

The guts of the platform were as confusing as a Cretan maze, with countless passageways that crisscrossed and doubled back on themselves. It didn’t help that his little light stabbed just a few feet into the darkness. He’d cracked his head several times on unseen obstructions and had bruises on his shin and quite possibly dents in his prosthesis.

Cabrillo had a highly developed spatial sense and had known when the Oregon had first arrived and shouldered the ship closer to an even keel. He could also tell that she was now losing the fight to keep the Hercules on the surface. The ship’s list was the worst it had ever been, and when the rig had slid across the deck several feet, he knew he was out of time, and yet he didn’t falter and didn’t question if he had done enough and should get out.

He tore down a flight of open metal stairs two at a time, cradling his bad arm with his good to lessen the impact. Down this deep the rig was an industrial forest of massive cross braces, bulkheads, and thick columns. The floor was bare metal coated in a thin layer of spilled crude that had congealed to the consistency of tar. It was slick and sticky at the same time.

“Linda?” he roared, and in the silence that followed his fading echo he thought he heard something. He called her name again, louder.

There!

It was muffled and indistinct, but he heard a response. He raced toward the sound of a woman screaming for help. In the far corner of the space was a closed-off room without windows. A wedge had been rammed under the door as an added precaution, though the handle was locked from the outside.

“Linda?”

“Is that really you?”

“Galahad to the rescue,” he said, and dropped onto his butt to hammer at the wedge with his artificial leg.