Charon's Landing Read Free

to the door that Mercer had smashed through, another led down a short hallway to the cargo holds. Of the door itself nothing remained, and the casing and bulkhead near it had been blown outward by an explosion farther belowdecks. That explained why the fire hadn’t totally destroyed the boat. The explosion must have robbed the flames of oxygen, snuffing the inferno.
    Mercer wondered what the fishing boat could have carried to cause such an explosion.
    The vessel’s engines were in the stern, and logically the fuel tanks would be close to them, but there would be evidence of that sort of explosion abovedecks. Certainly that would have sunk the vessel. It was something else.
    Murky green water reflected Mercer’s flashlight as he trained it into the holds. The smell of burned wood and plastic couldn’t mask the overpowering stench of years of fishing. A thick scum choked the surface of the water, pools of fuel flashing rainbow hues in the few clear areas. Mercer took a cautious step into the flooded hold, feeling for a step as he made his way down. The water leached his body heat through the thin protection of his pants.
    He knew, as he stood thigh deep, that nothing could be accomplished here without diving equipment. He was just turning to leave when the beam of the flashlight reflected something in the water one step below where he stood.
    He groaned as he reached under the surface to retrieve it, soaking his arm up to the shoulder. It was a piece of bright stainless steel about ten inches long and six wide. Whatever had exploded on board had torn the steel as if it were paper; its edges were distorted like a chunk of shrapnel. Mercer turned it in the beam of his flashlight and saw the name roger on one side, the last letter being the point where the steel was shredded.
    He slipped the fragment into a cargo pocket of his jacket and made for the upper deck. He took a few deep breaths in the veiled daylight, realizing he’d been breathing shallowly since entering the vessel.
    “Find anything?” Jerry called.
    “No,” replied Mercer, noticing the damage to the net derricks for the first time.
    The top of the A-frame fishing gantry was gone, as if it had been removed with a cutting torch. He looked closely at the two steel stumps, all that remained of the net hauling crane, and saw that the breaks were clean and sharp. There was no evidence of explosive damage. Whatever had destroyed the derrick had sheared it off. Curious, he turned and saw that the antennas for the
Jenny IV
’s radios also had been snapped off, about a foot above the wheelhouse roof.
    He had no explanation.
    “Did you contact the Coast Guard?”
    “Yeah. They’re sending a cutter from Homer. It should be here in about an hour.”
    “Fine.” Mercer jumped back to the
Wave Dancer
after taking another look at the body on the commercial ship. “There’s no sense remaining tied up. Her lower decks are flooded and she could sink at any time.”
    Jerry fired up the engine while his son cast off the securing lines. Once they were fifty yards from the
Jenny IV
, Jerry idled his boat and kept her at a constant distance from the derelict. There was a mystery about the burned-out vessel and its skeletal crew that went beyond an engine explosion, and all four men knew it. They were silent for many long, unsettled minutes, watching the deathly quiet
Jenny IV
as she swayed with the rolling waves. The two bodies aboard her would never give them the answers they wanted.
    “Well, I guess that takes care of fishing for the day.” Jerry’s voice was unnaturally loud.
    Mercer turned to him and smiled back his own misgivings. “Hell, fishing’s just a reason to drink, and I’ve never really needed an excuse for that.”
     

The White House October 19
     
    T he President’s long-legged stride carried him easily across the informal dining room in the first family’s private quarters. He smiled warmly as his sole guest got to her feet to shake his hand. She