CHAPTER 17
Justin
Justin was sure the hammering pain in his head had cemented his eyelids shut. Wherever he was, it was dark, warm, stuffy, and stank like dead clams. His conscious mind began to spin, swirling his senses.
Oxygen, he thought. I need air.
As he inhaled a deep breath, bubbles of thin plastic fluttered inside his nostrils. He immediately turned his head so as not to suffocate. He forced his eyes open. All he saw was black. Nothing was visible. His left shoulder was throbbing.
A bullet wound, he thought. He must have blacked out after he got hit.
He assessed his body position. He was lying partly on his right side with his arm jammed beneath him and his back resting against something soft. With every breath, the plastic heaved in and out. An icy cold ran through him.
I’m in a body bag.
The loud roars of outboard engines became clearer. He was on a fast-moving boat and whoever was out there thought he was dead. Something heavy was lying on top of him. There was a wicked bounce and whatever lay on him pounced down hard, nearly crushing his left shoulder. He quelled a scream, trembling to the fiery pain. As he calmed, he recalled the dreadful events that brought him here.
Bauman was going to kill over two thirds of the world’s population, including all of its leaders. A wave of horror enveloped Justin as he recalled his last memory. He was of lying on the floor and helplessly watching everyone’s heads jolt back from the bullets going through their foreheads. His stomach churned to the grisly flashback. The vision would haunt him forever.
Rina! Panic engulfed him as he remembered Bauman’s words: “The dead bodies of her and Shiro are at the bottom of the Mariana Trench”. His spirit collapsed and he wanted to wail in agony. My baby is dead!
Vivid memories of her playing and laughing as a child kept racing through his mind and he couldn’t stop whimpering. Her long black hair and bright green eyes made her beautiful. He’d raised her to be compassionate, caring—a fighter for justice—and it got her killed. More tears streamed out, his aching heart swallowing the blame. She’d seen through Bauman and fearlessly confronted him. She had more courage than an army of soldiers and yet at times he’d doubted her judgment, passing it off as punitive hostility.
What kind of a father was I?
He loved her more than life and did everything possible to raise her right. He imagined how frightened Shiro must have been as they neared their demise and how Rina would have tried to console him. The death of his two children would not go unnoticed. They were murdered along with his office staff and who knows how many others. Justin’s bones and muscles tightened to an upsurge of hatred. Bauman’s betrayal had to be exposed or millions would die, and killing his henchmen on this boat may be unavoidable.
Bauman will not win this.
He only hoped he still had his keychain with Mary’s knife in his left pocket, and his cell phone but he doubted the latter, Bauman would have taken it. The upper part of his right arm was wedged tight beneath his side; all he could use was his bent elbow and hand. This meant his injured left arm would have to reach into his pocket. It was throbbing like a drum beat. The slightest stirring may alert anyone within view, but there was no choice. He would have to be discreet.
His face scrunched in pain as he bent his left elbow and slid his hand into his black pants pocket. A warm trickle of blood flowed from the wound and down his white shirt. The cell phone was gone but he sighed in relief when his fingers touched the pocketknife between the many keys. Cautiously, he began pulling the key ring out, keeping his motions slow and precise. The giant wad jammed up on the rim of his pocket. He tugged several times with no success.
If I had just listened to Rina and lightened the load. This is going to hurt.
With his hand clutching the heap, he yanked hard and the keys popped out. A horrendous pain shot through him like a thousand knives tearing into his skin. His whole body shook with each breath as he waited for the torment to subside.
He kept his left elbow bent and with both hands fiddled through the key chain until he found the small knife. He slipped the blade out; a four-inch incision would be a start. In front of his chest, he pushed the knife though the black plastic and began slicing upward. After cutting two inches, the slit flared open and a glob of dark, reddish-tan gelatin plopped onto his shirt. He froze. The mangled blonde hair told him it was Barbara. The back of her head was blown out. He turned away from the foul stench and his stomach lurched, vomiting his food.
Poor Barbara, he thought, weeping silently.
She was innocent and yet Bauman shot her without hesitation. There was a heavy bounce and more grey matter spilled through. He had to get out of there. With the next bounce, he stiffened his body and shoved Barbara’s corpse off him. After recovering from the pain, he noticed a ray of light shining through. With the tip of his knife, he quietly continued slicing until he could see out. He was in a cuddy cabin and hopefully alone. Another vicious bounce sent a glob of blood and brain from his chest onto his chin.
Justin desperately tore his way out of the bag, not caring who was in the room. With the top-half of his body free, he quickly sat up taking several breaths. The odor of gasoline satiated the air. He covered his mouth as he coughed against the burning sensation in his throat. The light tan ceiling was only inches away so he looked down. He was sitting on a stack of body bags. Barbara’s sack was to his right, wedged between a bench and another body. Mortified, he ripped at the remaining plastic with the knife, kicking with his legs, anxious to get off the pile of death. He tumbled down recklessly, banging his injured shoulder and landing on his right side with a thud. A shooting pain gripped his body and he felt himself losing consciousness.
Not now, Justin. Hold on.
He focused his eyes straight ahead, determined to freeze the twirling images and relax his tense muscles. To his surprise it worked. He was facing a smooth almond-colored wall and lying on an ocean-blue padded seat. It was soft and he struggled to sit up despite the grinding pain in his shoulder. The body bags were blocking most of the bench, and he sat with his legs stretched across the cushion. If others were in the cabin with him, they would have revealed themselves by now. He scooted back against the wall that curved around the bench and rested, studying his surroundings.
The almond walls domed the cabin all the way down to both bench seats set across from each other. Blue curtains covered twelve round portholes, six on each side and above the two seats. He peeked out the curtain next to him. The sun was bright and it was a calm day; however, judging from the size of the water crests, the ship was hauling butt. They were in a hurry to get somewhere. The teak exit door was behind him to the left and up two steps.
A muscle near his pierced shoulder spasmed and he flinched. Black, coagulated blood filled the wound and a small stream of red was draining out. The bullet was lodged deep inside. His shirt was soaked with blood, grey matter, and vomit; the smell was sickening. Nauseated again, he hurried and slipped it off, tossing it aside. To his right, a small compartment sat within the sidewall. He unlatched the lock and slid the door open. Inside were four neatly folded green camouflage shirts and he took one out.
The military is always efficient, he thought.
The big shirt was clean and all he needed. With his knife, he slashed off a sleeve and rolled it up, pressing it into the wound and feeling the lump of the embedded bullet. Tears were running down his cheeks. He tore off the other sleeve and wrapped it around his shoulder, creating a pressure bandage. With the remaining shirt, he constructed a splint. He slumped back to relax a bit when a deep pain burrowed through his chest. It wasn’t the bullet.
Rina. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to blink away the tears.
Too many lives are at stake; there’s no time to mourn.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and swung his legs off the bench, when he noticed a twine of colored wires leading into the compartment beneath the seat across from him. He had to check it out.
Standing should be easy; staying on his feet would be difficult. The dizziness and the moving vessel were a bad combination. He cautiously rose to his feet and pressed his back against the wall, using it as a support to glide along sideways and not fall down. Upon passing the stairs, he counted ten body bags on the floor. His heart ached as he remembered the faces of his friends. He reached the bench and lifted the seat. Six five-gallon gas cans stood side by side wired to each other. The same colored wires ran beneath the other bench he’d just come off. The ship was rigged to explode.
Great, thought Justin. How much time do I have?
The door leading out was shut. He kneeled on the second step and with his right hand cracked open the door about an inch. He could see the helm of the ship. No one was driving, a sure sign he was alone.
He flung the door open and got up to his feet. After two dizzying steps, he slipped on the damp floor and hit the main deck face first. Lying on his stomach, he felt warm blood running from his nose. Angry now, he sat up and swiped at the blood pouring down his chin. He shook his head in disgust and pinched the nape of his nose.
I’m such an idiot.
He gazed around the boat. It had an inboard engine and was at least thirty-five feet long. The main console sat beneath an extended roof, which protected him from the weather and sun. The name “Boston Whaler” was engrained on the backrest of the Captain’s vinyl seat.
Nothing but the best, he thought.
The detonator had to be near the helm. He grabbed onto the stair railing and pulled himself to his feet. Over the dashboard, a streamlined glass-domed window gave a full view of the empty bow and the barren ocean. A sudden rush of loneliness came upon him. If he failed, he would die alone and no one would know what happened to him. Rina and Shiro’s deaths would have meant nothing.
There’s no way Bauman’s winning this.
He settled into the captain’s seat. The console consisted of the ship’s silver steering wheel, speedometer, compass, and several flip switches for the accessories like bilge pumps and bait wells. A short chain dangled from the inserted key. Lining the top and sides of the white console was stainless steel railing. A small blue box was attached to the base of the steering wheel that was moving on its own.
Programmed, he thought.
The vertical silver gearshift controlling the speed was almost all the way up. The ship was doing over seventy knots. He leaned to the side and looked underneath. A timer was attached to four gray blocks of the explosive, C4. The L.E.D. read three minutes.
“Crap! ” he said aloud.
He quickly slid to the floor and laid down, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and studied the set-up through tear filled eyes. He recalled his days as a field geologist and the many times he’d used C4 to study the earth. This detonator was a military standard issue, the same kind he used on geological sites.
There was no reason to use an expensive one, he thought. Everyone was supposed to be dead.
He had to leave the countdown intact. If they were reading it, he didn’t want them to know anyone was alive. He set the timer on his wristwatch to match the readout and disconnected the red and blue wires to the detonator, leaving the green and white wires alone. The countdown meter was still active.
The engines and the remote device had to be shut down simultaneously. He got to his knees and followed the wires leading out from the bomb. They were taped inside the console wall and ran along the floor then up into the enormous ice cooler making up the captain’s bench. His watch read two minutes. He flipped up the seat cushion. Colorful wires looped in and out of the cup-sized remote mechanism wedged between two blocks of styrofoam.
He lifted it out, shut the seat cover, and set the unit on the bench. When he stood, a wave of dizziness almost made him fall and he clutched the railing for support.
I’ve got to keep it together.
Standing sideways between the console and bench seat, he clamped his right hand around the gear-shift, making sure to loop two fingers into the chain dangling from the inserted key. Engine shut off was critical. He wobbled on his right leg as he slowly lifted his left foot until it reached the top of the seat. He pressed his black shoe against the remote control unit, pushing it into the backrest, holding it in place.
So far, so good.
He carefully slipped his arm out of the splint, leaned over his bent leg, stretched his left arm, and gripped the green and white wires that needed to be torn from the remote. The pain was creating more tears and it was going to get worse.
One minute. I can do this, he thought; his left fingers tingled, straining to hold the wires.
Thirty seconds. His arm quivered as he pulled the damaged muscles in his shoulder.
Ten seconds. Sweat rolled down his face. His arm began trembling.
Two seconds. Now!
He ripped the wires out, slammed the throttle down, and yanked the key out. The engines rumbled to a halt and the ship jolted forward. The bow sank beneath the water with a swish sending a big wave splashing over. Justin bashed into the console and grabbed the railing above the wheel to keep himself from flying off the vessel. The boat teetered with the thrashing waves then settled in the calm seas.
The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. The pressure bandage was soaked in blood. He tossed the shredded wires on the deck and slipped his arm back into the splint. Whether or not Bauman knew he’d escaped, he didn’t know.
I’ll find out when I hear a missile coming.
He leaned on the wheel, exhausted. A beeping sound came from his wristwatch. At OSRI, he had set it to chime every thirty minutes to remind him of the President’s speech.
The igniting of the nukes. They had less than four hours to evacuate over eight million people.
He had to get back to OSRI. Bauman was sure to be gone by now. He could barely see land. He faced the console and turned the key, the engines roared to life. He pushed the gear shift all the way up, spun the wheel around, and headed back to land at full speed.