“All notices to mariners have been noted and logged?”
“Yes, sir,” Sozansky said. His primary duty was navigation officer.
“Diagnostics have been conducted on all our electronic equipment, including radar?”
“Yes, sir,” Kiosawa said. “We are ready in all respects for sea.”
“Very well,” Graham said. Oil tankers were infinitely less complex than the Trafalgar Class nuclear-powered submarines he had commanded in the Royal Navy. And with a crew of only nineteen aboard versus seven times as many to operate a submarine, personnel problems would be infinitely less complex.
In any event, before the Apurto Devlán left the second Gatun lock she would be a ghost ship, with a dead crew and no skipper. The ultimate solution to insubordination and dissention.
Graham smiled, and his officers visibly relaxed. “I would like to see my ship.”
“Yes, sir,” Vasquez said. “Would you like to start with the product spaces, or the engines?”
“First I want to meet the rest of my crew, and inspect their quarters and workstations.”
“Sir?”
“Without them, Mr. Vasquez, we’d never leave the dock,” Graham said. He glanced at his chief engineer and other officers. “The heart of any ship is her people, not her engines, don’t you agree?”
“Naturally,” Vasquez agreed.
“Very well, everyone but Mr. Vasquez will return to work, we get under way at ten hundred.”
His officers nodded and left.
Starting three decks down, Vasquez led Graham on a quick tour of the crew’s quarters and mess. None of the twelve men and two women would be off duty now until they got under way, and started ship’s-at-sea routine of six hours on, four hours off, six hours on, and eight hours off.
In addition to the five officers, there were fourteen in the crew: three in engineering under Kiosawa, and the rest, seven able-bodied seamen, the cook and his assistant, and two stewards under Vasquez. Their sleeping quarters were grouped together down the main athwartships alleyway on B deck, with direct access to the stairways and the port and starboard deck hatches. They were unoccupied for the moment, but Graham insisted on inspecting each.
One deck down he was introduced to Bjorn Rassmussen, their cook from Oslo. He was a giant of a man with an infectious smile, a massive belly, a filthy bloodstained apron, and long blond hair covered by a hairnet. “Son of a bitch, Captain,” he boomed. “You’re going to like my cooking for sure.”
Graham considered for a moment reprimanding the man, and ordering him to cut his hair and get a clean apron before they got under way, but it didn’t matter. One hundred hours from the time they slipped their loading dock lines, they would arrive at the Panama Canal. It would not be long before the cook would be dead, the blood on his apron his own.
A woman came up behind them and said something in Russian that Graham could not understand. He turned around.
“Irina Karpov, assistant steward,” Vasquez said.
Graham stared at her for a long moment. “The language aboard this vessel is English, Ms. Karpov,” he said sharply. “Is that clear to you?”
She nodded uncertainly. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry—”
Graham held up a hand to silence her. She knew something was wrong, he could see it in her eyes. But she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t be sure. But if need be she would have an unfortunate accident.
“She was just trying to be pleasant,” Vasquez said on the way down to the engine room.
Graham stopped and fixed his first officer with a hard look. “I’m not master of this vessel to be made pleasant with. I’m here to see that the product we have loaded transits the Panama Canal and makes a smart run to Long Beach, takes on ballast, and returns. So long as you and the rest of my officers and crew understand these simple facts, we will get along fine.” Graham stepped closer. “I’m not your friend, Mr. Vasquez. Nor do I wish to be. I’ll be pleased if you pass the word.”
“As you wish, Mr. Slavin.”
In the fifteen minutes before the Apurto Devlán was to slip her lines, Graham had returned to his quarters to quickly scan the personnel folders of his four officers, beginning with Vasquez. Standing now on the bridge, the ship’s engines spooled up, line handlers aboard and on the loading dock ready, an AB at the helm, his second officer ready to radio the exact time of their departure to Harbor Control in Maracaibo, and his first officer standing by for orders, Graham hesitated.
Conning a 280-foot submarine away from a dock was different than directing a fully loaded Panamax tanker away from her loading facility in the middle of a lake. Completely different.
His officers were looking at him.
“I understand that this is Mr. Vasquez’s last trip as first officer aboard a GAC vessel,” Graham said.
A cautious flash of pleasure crossed the first officer’s face, but then was gone. Like everyone else aboard he wasn’t sure about the new master.
“He’ll be given command of his own ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
Graham handed him the walkie-talkie used to communicate with the line handlers. “Take us out to sea, Mr. Vasquez. I want to see how you do.”
FIVE
“They shot the men they came to rescue, and then blew themselves up,” Gloria Ibenez told Otto Rencke. They were on their way up to the DCI’s office on the seventh floor and Gloria was walking with a cane. The wound in her hip throbbed, but it wasn’t impossible.
Rencke held the elevator door for her. “I’m surprised they didn’t wait for the chopper to drop in on them. Could’ve bagged some of our guys.”
“I don’t think they were on a suicide mission. They just didn’t want to get recaptured.”
Just off the elevator they were subjected to a body scan with electronic wands, something that everyone visiting the DCI had to go through. Sometimes it felt like all of Washington had been on lockdown since 9/11 with no real end in sight. It was a couple minutes after 10:00 A.M., and the director had just finished his morning briefing via video link with Donald Hamel, the director of National Intelligence, and the heads of the other fifteen intelligence services. He had a few minutes for them, and in fact had specifically asked Rencke to bring her up when she got back from Guantanamo Bay. The incident at Gitmo was gaining momentum in the world press, and the White House was already beginning to feel the heat.
Down the plushly carpeted corridor, they entered the DCI’s office through glass doors etched with the CIA’s shield and eagle. The director’s secretary, Dhalia Swanson, a stern and proper white-haired older woman, looked up and smiled warmly. She’d been secretary to four DCIs now, and was practically a permanent fixture in the Company.
“My poor dear, how are we doing this morning?”
“It’s not bad, Ms. Swanson,” Gloria said, unable to stop from smiling, even though she couldn’t get Talarico’s death image out of her head. “Really.”
“Were you able to speak with Toni this morning?”
Gloria closed her eyes for a moment and nodded. “Yes.” It had been all the more horrible because Talarico’s widow had not blamed her for Bob’s death. Her husband had made her understand from day one that such a thing was ultimately possible.