Mercer didn’t wait for the chauffeur to open the door. He did it himself, then tossed his bag into the back and swung himself into the front seat. “Morning,” he said in greeting to the startled driver. “I’m not important enough for the full chauffeur treatment so I’ll ride up front with you.”
“Guy gets off a private jet and says he’s not important, don’t know his place in the world, but it makes me no never mind.” The driver eased the big Lincoln into gear and headed out of the airport complex. Soon they were on Route 33 headed west toward an area of industrial warehouses along the Niagara River.
As the car eased between two metal buildings and onto the dock, Mercer saw a tight cluster of people huddled around the gangway of a large flat-bottomed barge. Above them a street lamp cast their faces in heavy relief. Sitting atop the barge was a crane with a modified smooth silhouette. It reminded him of the low-slung turret of a modern battle tank rather than a lifting derrick. It was tied to a small tug with side-mounted exhaust, so the vessel was no more than ten feet high from the waterline to the top of its radar dish.
Mercer recognized Cali Stowe standing with the people. She stood several inches taller than all of them. When he got out of the car, she looked over and waved. She wore a dark windbreaker and her hair was covered in a baseball cap. Her jeans were just tight enough to outline the lean shape of her legs.
Mercer grabbed his bag, thanked the driver, and approached the group. The drizzle had stopped and dawn was fast approaching. The air remained crisp with the smell of Lake Erie.
“Welcome to Buffalo,” Cali greeted.
It was the first time they’d seen each other since the meeting with Ira Lasko four days earlier, and he had to resist the urge to kiss her cheek. Had they been alone he would have done it.
“Let me introduce you around,” she said. “Philip Mercer, this is my boss, Cliff Roberts.” Because Cali and Ira had a low opinion of the director of the Nuclear Emergency Search Team, Mercer knew he wouldn’t like him either. Roberts had mouse brown hair and indistinct features, except for a pursed mouth that looked as if he’d just swallowed something sour. His stance made certain that his trench coat was open enough for everyone to see it was a Burberry. He didn’t meet Mercer’s eyes when they shook hands, and his grip was limp.
“Pleasure to have you with us,” Roberts said with little warmth. It was obvious he resented Mercer’s presence in what was to be NEST’s highest profile operation when or if word got out about what they were doing.
“I’m glad to be here,” Mercer replied neutrally. “When Admiral Lasko wanted an observer I happened to be available.”
Roberts said nothing so Cali piped in, “And these two characters are Jesse Williams and Stanley Slaughbaugh. They’re part of my regular NEST team. Stan’s a Ph.D. from Stanford and Jesse joined our outfit after babysitting nukes for the air force.”
Mercer shook their hands. He eyed Jesse Williams. “Didn’t you play for the Air Force Academy?”
“Good memory, man.” Williams grinned. “That was fifteen years ago. Missed the Heisman by five votes.”
“I have a friend who, well, he’s a bookie.” Mercer was talking about Tiny. “He said the most money he ever won on a game was when you upset Michigan State in the Cotton Bowl.”
Williams’s smile faded just a tick. “Same game I blew my ACL and any chance of a pro career.”
“And finally this is Lieutenant Commander Ruth Bishop from the Coast Guard,” Cali said, not wanting to hear another insufferable football conversation. “Ruth’s here to ensure we follow the Coasty’s regulations concerning the salvage and she’ll act as liaison with her Canadian counterpart since the Wetherby is pretty close to the border.”
She was a short woman in a Coast Guard utility uniform. Her hair was streaked with silver and there were lines around her mouth and bright blue eyes. Mercer had the impression they were laughter rather than frown lines. She glanced at Cali before saying hello, which made Mercer think the two women had talked about him prior to his arrival.
“Just think of me as your den mother,” she said with a toothy smile that made her glow with warmth. “When you’re not sure about something ask me for permission before you do it.”
“So when I have to pee-pee?”
Her smile deepened. “Ask me and I’ll give you a hall pass. Just don’t make on the Canadians. They’re touchy about that.”
Mercer laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ruth is also a bit of the local expert on the Wetherby,” Cali added. “She’s made four dives down to her over the years.”
“Not for a few years now,” Lieutenant Commander Bishop admitted.
“What’s her condition?” Mercer asked. Before Ruth could answer, he asked another question. “First of all, why don’t you tell me what happened to her and what kind of ship she was.”
“Okay. First, the Wetherby was a tramp steamer, what’s called a stick ship. She was only two hundred twenty feet long and thirty feet at the beam. She was coal fired, had a single stack, and from what I’ve been able to learn hadn’t seen a moment’s maintenance after she put to sea.” Bishop corrected herself. “That’s not entirely true. She served admirably during World War One on convoy duty but after that she was a derelict waiting to happen.”
“So what happened when she reached Buffalo?”
“The Wetherby put in here on the night of August 9, 1937, where she was picking up some machine parts headed for Cleveland. She was then supposed to go on to Detroit, Milwaukee, and finally Chicago, where Cali said the cargo you are interested in was destined.”
“That’s right.”
“Early morning August 10 she unloaded some fuel oil barrels she’d picked up in Montreal that were supposed to have come down the St. Lawrence on another ship. During the transfer a fire started in the hold. Since no one physically inspected the wreck because she sank, investigators had to go along with eyewitnesses who claimed she was struck by lightning.”
“There’s a problem with their story.” It was a statement more than a question.
“It was raining that day but no one other than the crew in the hold recall any lightning in the area. It’s possible a static charge built up and its discharge ignited one of the fuel barrels, but I’m putting my money on either a longshoreman or a member of the crew smoking in the hold. A dropped match in some spilled bunker fuel and voilà.” She made the motion of an explosion with her hands.
“How many men were killed?”
“Six in the hold, including the Wetherby’s second officer, Kerry Frey. Another man was killed on the dock, a local vagrant well known at the time. Another body was recovered from the river about a mile downstream but he was never identified.”
“No idea who he was?”
“None. Everyone was accounted for. A lot of people said he had nothing to do with the Wetherby because his body wasn’t burned, but I think it’s too much of a coincidence.”
Mercer glanced at Cali. She was already looking at him. “Janissary,” he mouthed but she just shrugged. He turned back to Ruth Bishop. “Go on.”
“As the fire raged out of control, a crane operator on the dock panicked. When he jumped from the cab of his crane, he hit a lever that sent a pallet of fuel drums plummeting back into the blaze. When they exploded a second later, it blew out the side of the Wetherby as if she’d been torpedoed.”