69

From the bridge, Mitchell Redwing could see Huntington Beach on the starboard side and could barely make out the gantry cranes of the port of Los Angeles past the bow, both because of the distance and because they were obscured by four other vessels waiting their turn to be searched. Off the port side he saw a much larger container ship bypass their conga line and continue to the port. He said, “How come the other ships are allowed in?”

Biggs, the first mate of the vessel, said, “It’s something to do with the port of Panama. The other ships are from the Far East, so they’re letting them in.”

The closest ship to them had a US Coast Guard cutter alongside it, and Mitchell could see a group of men swarming around a container stack. He said, “How long are we supposed to wait here?”

“Until they’re through with that ship. Then they’ll come to us. They’re here to run some sort of test or inspection on our containers.”

“They’re going to do each and every one?”

“Apparently so.”

With the ship holding upward of three thousand containers, Mitch knew they might not make it into port tonight. He checked his phone for signal, then texted his girlfriend, letting her know he would probably miss their date.

Biggs said, “Call the captain. Looks like they’re headed this way.”

Mitchell put away his phone and saw a group of men in blue descend a ladder to the cutter. Twenty minutes later, they were pulling alongside, a small contingent from his ship ready to meet them, led by the captain of the vessel himself.

The first man up the ladder was a Coast Guard lieutenant commander named Marks, followed by a small platoon of men, some struggling under equipment bags. Mitchell noticed that at least five were civilians.

Marks stuck out his hand and said, “Captain, I’m sorry about the trouble, but we’ve received some information about a possible terrorist device being smuggled out of Panama. Before you can proceed, we need to inspect each container.”

“That’s physically impossible. There’s absolutely no way to inspect each one without unloading. I can’t even open the containers while they’re stacked on my deck.”

“Sir, I understand. The threat is radiological. We don’t need to enter; we just need to get to the outside and test.”

“Radiological? What do you mean?”

“Sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss the full parameters. I just need your help to get you on your way. Four of these men will go through your paperwork, and the six you see breaking out the detectors will go through your ship.”

Mitchell saw each man powering up and testing what resembled a handheld spotlight, like a modified Q-beam, with an LCD display attached to the head and a pistol grip sprouting below it.

The captain nodded and said, “My first mate will show you the paperwork. Mitchell here will guide you through the ship. Where would you like to start?”

“Wherever you think is best.”

—

Two hours later, with the sun beginning its inevitable slide into the Pacific Ocean, Mitchell stood off to the side, watching the six engineers place their radiological detection devices against a container, take a reading, then move on. Some were tasked with climbing the stacks, the containers piled five high on the deck, forcing the use of ridiculous safety lines and climbing gear, which did nothing but slow the process down. He wished he could give his Filipino seamen a lesson on the device, then turn them free. It would take half the time.

His radio crackled from the first mate. “Mitchell, how’s it going? Over.”

“Slow and steady. We’re about finished with the deck, but still need to do the hold, over.”

“Okay. The captain is considering allowing nonessential crew to disembark. Anyone you want to nominate? Over.”

“Martin. His mother is in the hospital, and we can risk losing him for the small duration we’re out here, over.”

“Don’t think the captain will think highly of losing an engineer, but I’ll ask, over.”

Mitchell heard one of the survey technicians shout, pointing at the base container of the corner stack at the bow of the ship. He clicked the handheld and said, “Hang on. Something is happening, over.”

One of the technicians ran up to him, saying, “We have a gamma emitter in that container. The survey equipment is saying it’s a radioisotope consistent with cobalt 60.”

Befuddled, Mitchell said, “What the hell does all of that mean?”

“It means you’re carrying a dirty bomb, and we need to get this ship moving out to sea.”

Mitchell said, “Dirty bomb? What are you talking about?”

He looked at the men on the bow of the ship, taking repeated readings of the base container. Before the technician could respond, the container turned into a ball of fire, the rear exploding out and shredding the circle of men.

Slack-jawed, Mitchell watched one scientist cut in half, his upper body clawing the deck, pulling himself forward and leaving a trail of intestines. Another, his body in flames, ran around screaming, then collapsed, his blackened face crusting with blood.

The base container, with smoke billowing out of it, began to collapse in on itself like a beer can being crushed by a giant, causing the four containers above, each weighing twenty tons, to heel over and hammer the next stack. The domino effect caused that stack to topple, hitting the one that Mitchell was standing next to. He shoved the technician forward, screaming, “Run!”

He made it five feet before the corner of a container drove him into the deck, the force of gravity slamming twenty tons of steel into his fragile body, turning it into an unrecognizable grease smear.