Power (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 8) Page 8

  She squeezed his hand. “Hot tonight. Want to swim in the pool? You could use my brother’s swim shorts.”

  He changed in the small pool house. When he turned on the light, he saw a panorama of World War Two. A retired admiral built the pool house when he retired in 1950. The plaster smelled of hot weather and mold. On the walls were faded paintings of the Pacific War with American dive bombers attacking Japanese aircraft carriers. At the side of the room were two rusty bicycles with bamboo baskets attached to the handlebars.

  “You’re too slim for those shorts,” she said, floating in the pool, her hair already wet and floating around her face.

  A horsefly attacked his shoulder and he jumped in. When he surfaced, she was beside him.

  She said, “Stephanie told me about you. She was right. You are a special person.”

  “You are, too,” he said, seeing her bright eyes, even in the darkness.

  Their mouths touched and pressed closer. His thoughts moved away from the danger he faced and travelled into this new territory they offered each other. It was a place for the moment where they could find the love and peace they both wanted.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday

  Even with the police holding them back, the crowd of a hundred demonstrators at the pier managed to press against his car. The late morning sun at the Baltimore pier was hot and he saw and listened to the anger, swelled by the heat and sweat.

  The gate pulled back as the police pushed the overheated mob back on the street. Once inside, he followed a line of three eighteen-wheelers carrying freight toward the ship. He parked his car to the side of the pier and watched as cargo containers were hoisted up by the ship’s cranes along the blue side of the ship.

  Up at the bow, a team of dock workers were touching up the letters River Niger on the bow. He smiled. Joe Henry had shipped on this same Victory freighter during the Vietnam War. When he came to Africa, he found the freighter used as a gambling ship out of South Africa. He told Loggerman he won the ship in a poker game.

  River Niger. Not a bad name for her. After all, she was part of the New City they had developed in Nigeria. Joe had a vision of the New City being like the American story. It was to be a place where local people could manufacture and invent, keeping the high wages to themselves and trading with the world. The ship was part of this, being constructed in a similar tradition in the United States, a symbol of enterprise and strength.

  Ringo, Captain Jimmy’s first mate, walked up to him. He had his ever-present toothy grin, He was in charge of packing the holds and making sure the ship retained its buoyancy for the best speed. Containers and other cargo were moved as he directed so the ship’s five holds were balanced bow to stern and so the vessel sat level side to side in the water.

  The muscles in his bare arms rippled in the sunlight as Ringo slapped a baseball bat against his palm. He said, “We no worry about these people at the gate. I take them down same as in my home Haiti village or at Joe Henry oil wells.”

  “Crew know their stations if those protestors charge the ship?” asked Loggerman.

  “Me, Captain Jimmy, all us ready. We have the plan, you see. Haw haw.” His grin widened.

  Loggerman nodded and stared at the gate several hundred yards from the ship. The people had their hands raised in anger beyond the fence. The boom engines lifting cargo to the holds drowned out the yells of the crowd but Loggerman knew the human noise was loud and steady.

  Two of the trucks beside the freighter held the long-awaited oil drilling pipe. More was still to arrive but he was pleased with the progress. Pickup trucks with flashing lights were in front and back of the pipe haulers. The vehicles were manned by the longshoremen and women who had found the waylaid pipe and brought it to the pier.

  He visited the rearmost pickup. Its driver was a small man dressed in blue coveralls. He said, “We had a little fun getting the pipe.”

  Loggerman smiled. “Tell me about it.”

  “We come up on them at a truck stop this side of the West Virginia border. We stopped down the road and figured out the thieves. Seemed to us Polly, who was with us, could walk up to their lead driver and talk to him.”

  “Polly?”

  “She’s driving the first truck. You meet her, you know she can convince the fellow to step out of his truck. Polly is the best looking woman I ever met.”

  “So she gets him out of his cab and then what?”

  “He didn’t have much to say. She put him out, tied him, and did the same thing with another of the trucks in the parking area.”

  Loggerman grinned, “Like a one woman army.”

  “You got it right. We took the trucks and left those fellows sleeping in the parking lot.”

  It wasn’t long before the flat beds had been unloaded. As he watched a skid of the pipes go up the side lifted by a deck boom, he spotted Jimmy up on the railing. He waved and proceeded to the long wooden walkway which allowed him access into the side of the River Niger hull.

  “Joe Henry wants a report,” Captain Jimmy said.

  He called Africa.

  “Yeah, Loggerman,” said the familiar voice on the line.

  The first meeting he ever had with Joe Henry flashed through his mind. He was sitting by himself in the Intercontinental bar in Lagos when this huge white man with a broad cowboy hat approached him. He set down his cap on the bar and asked Loggerman if he was looking for a job.

  He had looked up at the booming figure and smiled. “You got good information.”

  Joe said afterward he was looking for the man, not the credentials. He figured Loggerman could do any job needed. Later on when the computer system was competently installed, he repeated with a grin his faith in a man, not in credentials.

  Joe carried three miniature books in his coat pocket. They were the Bible, the Torah, and the Koran. “I got something for everybody,” he boasted.

  Joe’s voice boomed on the phone, “What do you think about the loading? Jimmy is worried about the crowds on the pier.”

  “We’re keeping our eyes open. Some pipe just arrived.”

  “River Niger in good shape?”

  “Yes. I’d say another two days and we can get out of Baltimore. All cargo for the States has been picked up. We want to avoid problems with the street protesters.”

  “I guess it’s all around the country. Friends of mine in the industry say it’s an energy thing run by a guy named Tinker.” He added, “You get a chance to see Stephanie?”

  “I finally got a call from her.”

  “How is she?”

  “Not good. She’s with her mother working with Tinker.”

  “Get her over here. Those are not good people, from what I hear.”

  “I want to get her out. I talked to Bill Eddison. His people are looking at the Tinker managers, including Elizabeth.”

  “I could have told him.”

  “They are trying to catch them at something they can hang them on. It takes time.”

  “Time we ain’t got.”

  “Stephanie doesn’t either. I know.”

  “You want any help?”

  “Jimmy wants to help, too. Thanks. I don’t want you guys to get hurt. I’ll take care of her.”

  “You watch your back. We’ve fought these kinds of people before. They are fanatics. Soon as kill you as see you.”

  “I know.” Loggerman remembered what he had seen in other countries, the unknowing uncaring violence in the faces of the young killer terrorists.

  It was mid-afternoon when Ringo knocked quickly on the captain’s cabin door. Loggerman and Jimmy were going over bills of lading. Papers were spread all over the work table as they worked.

  Jimmy looked up, “What?”

  “We got trouble, Captain.”

  They followed the man to the side of the freighter facing the channel.

  “What is it?” asked Loggerman.

  Jimmy had stopped at the railing and was leaning over.

  “The Goddamn protesters
. They’re trying to board us.”

  Alongside the ship far below were several small boats filled with protesters, some of them Tinkers, climbing several boarding lines. Ropes with hooks were caught tight on the railing.

  “Call the Baltimore marine police,” said Loggerman.

  “Yeah.” The captain held his cell. “We’ll have to fight these people.” He turned to Ringo, “Get everybody up here. Tell them what’s happening.”

  “Come on,” said Loggerman. “Let’s cut these lines.” He reached for his knife and then remembered it had been taken at the compound and never returned.

  “Here.” Jimmy threw him a cargo hook and began working with his own knife on the nearest grapple.

  Loggerman pried a rope loose form the rail as he stared into the eyes of the man coming up toward him. He saw hate in man’s eyes - the youthful idealism of a man intent on his mission to kill.

  “There’s too many lines for just the two of us,” shouted Jimmy.

  Loggerman freed one of the grapples and he watched as the man fell backward screaming into the harbor water. Beside him, though, a young woman, screaming curses at him and hate, was quickly coming up. He turned to the grapple hook and worked to release it as quickly as he could.

  Then he heard the shouts of the rest of Jimmy’s men coming to help.

  “Don’t kill them,” hollered Jimmy. “Just throw them off our boat.”

  “There’s a fire been started up forward on one of their boats. She’ll set us alight, too,” one of the crew yelled.

  “Ringo, “Jimmy ordered, “Get the deck hose set up. Be quick.”

  Loggerman heard fire trucks coming down the pier.

  In front of him, a green-suited teenager ran back to the railing. Loggerman pushed a folding chair under the boy’s feet. He went flying against the railing. He seemed unconscious as Loggerman approached him, ready to hold him for the police. At the last minute the youth jumped up and, before Loggerman could restrain him, catapulted over the railing. In a moment he heard him crash against the hard deck of his barge far below.

  The attack boats, including the one on fire, were now pulling away. Each peeled off in a different direction and mixed with tourist boats in the main channel. Spectators on the tourist boats began to cheer for the attackers.

  “We’ll never find them,” said Loggerman.

  “They are gone and we won the first round,” said Jimmy.

  “You think there will be a second round?”

  “Terrorists keep on attacking until they are dead,” the captain said, scanning the water with his binoculars.

  * * *

  Stephanie read her latest newsletter from her app.

  01 100 50 55

  07 633 22 55

  The speech was coming up in Maryland. Cole, number 100, would target the whole country and get more street protests. The Institute certainly needed the awareness. She’d watch it on television. She couldn’t attend because she was on duty with a 77. The guy was a big shot, and helpful to the cause, but he never washed. Maybe it was the reason he had trouble with his wife.

  Ugh.

  How about this attack in Maine? Hope the volunteer 633 can carry through with the fuel attack.

  I remember all the stories my dad told me about the state. Nice people.

  Hope the free energy helps them.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Loggerman’s drive back from Baltimore in twilight, his cell phone pinged. He was crossing the high spans of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, observing the ship lights below. He identified her as a tanker travelling out from fueling Baltimore far below in the channel.

  Doctor Mike said, “Come right to my house when you get to River Sunday.”

  He replied to the urgency in her voice. “Are you ready?”

  “Everything is set. You go this evening.”

  When he arrived at the clinic, shadows fell around the tall street light at the end of her street. The nighthawks dived in its glare attacking insects like dive bombers. A red pickup truck with rusty dents in its fenders was parked in front of her lawn and fanciful statues. Its cargo box held two lawn mowers with their handles high in the air amid rakes and spades. As he got out of his car, Loggerman smelled magnolia perfume and fresh cut grass.

  He stepped on the porch and his right booted foot touched a loose board. Doctor Mike opened her door immediately. The light from inside flooded the porch, surprising and halting him, keeping her in silhouette.

  “Come with me,” she said, quickly closing the door behind him as if to hide his visit from passersby.

  A heavy-set middle-aged man wearing a sweat-stained straw hat and dirty overalls was behind her. He was taller than Loggerman.

  “Who is this?” asked Loggerman.

  The man said, “They call me Big Ben.”

  Doctor Mike said quietly, “He’s my friend and he’s taking you to the compound.”

  Ben did not smile, but said gruffly, “Let’s go.”

  “He’s the brother of the sheriff but he hates the man. It’s one good reason we can trust him,” she added.

  They left the house. Loggerman followed the large man, moving in the darkness to the pickup.

  “I’ll get you there in my boat. You just keep quiet,” Big Ben said. His voice was deep and throaty.

  The truck springs sank as the heavy man got into the driver seat. Loggerman clambered over piles of tools grass seed and gas cans. The engine started and ran with clicking weak sprung valves as they left Doctor Mike’s home. A small cloud of oil exhaust smoke followed them down the street.

  Big Ben drove for ten minutes, his truck radio spouting country music. Outside of River Sunday, he entered a dirt road, almost hidden with overgrown bushes.

  “Not much further,” he said. He drove on, the headlights feeble against the dark trees lining the road. He made a final turn and stopped at a river bank.

  “Nanticoke River,” he said.

  They got out and walked to the shoreline. Big Ben pointed at a far light to his left.

  “We’re up the river from the compound. Them are the lights of their big house. We’ll row down and meet our contact.”

  The darkness was hot near the river. The insects began to attack Loggerman’s face as Big Ben led him through heavy brush and tall reeds along the shoreline. Bugs swirled from the brush. They came to a small rowboat pulled up in the mud.

  The boat was pushed off. Loggerman sat forward and Big Ben rowed powerfully as the boat moved into the river current. The water around them was lit by starlight. Slight glints appeared as fish jumped nearby. He listened to the cuts of the oars and smelled the semi salt brine aroma. An owl flapped overhead as it sought prey. He sensed life here in America similar to his second home on the African riverside.

  Big Ben watched Loggerman and said softly, “Tinker keeps patrols out on the river. They come up on you any time of day checking you be coming too close to his place.”

  “I’d think with all the independent watermen around here, there’d be some fights once in a while.”

  “The boys try every once in a while but their shotguns are no match for them machine guns. They try to run their trot lines for catching crabs in close to shore. Tinker, he’s got one of the best shorelines around here. The watermen, they only try one time before they get some of them bullet holes in their boat hull. They forget all about fighting back and get away pretty quick before they get wet.”

  There were two quick blinks of a flashlight near the compound.

  “It’s him.”

  Big Ben slowed and came into the shore. He drifted among the seaweed.

  “Something else coming up. We’ll wait now.”

  They heard the whine of a turbine aircraft engine. They could see the landing lights of the plane as it circled. It came over above them but except for the lights it was lost in the darkness.

  They could hear it making a landing run now over the river channel.

  “Fellow has a lot of guts coming in this late at night witho
ut lights,” whispered Big Ben.

  The aircraft was on the water now. It was the same plane he had seen before with Eddison. He recognized the whine of the engine. He watched the blinking lights on the plane’s wing as the plane slowed and turned toward the shoreline.

  “She’s flying into Tinker’s,” whispered Loggerman. “Should distract them up at the house. The guards will be busy with the occupants of the plane. “

  “Don’t count on it.”

  They waited, listening to the muffled voices as the pilot climbed out on the pontoon and dropped the anchor.

  “The boys will be glad to see you,” the pilot said to the passenger. They heard a motorboat start up in the dark, its engine coughing as the exhaust pipe gurgled in the water. The boat moved toward the seaplane, its searchlight turned on, perusing the water in front, and the white beam of the light like a sword sweeping back and forth over the rippled waves.

  The door of the plane opened and the dim light of the cockpit outlined Tinker’s bulk.

  “You boys get in closer,” he ordered.

  Then, as the boat was close to the pontoon, Tinker struggled and almost fell into the runabout.

  Big Ben chuckled, “Drunk.”

  The motorboat started up again, its engine straining with the bow high up in the air trying to balance the weight of Tinker.

  The river grew quiet after Tinker entered the compound. The aircraft was tied down and the pilot left.

  A blink of a light came from the brush in close to shore.

  “He’s here,” whispered Loggerman. Loggerman felt the boat being pulled into shore now. He shifted his weight to keep his balance.

  “Come on,” said Big Ben, stepping into the shallow shoreline water. Loggerman followed him, the warm river fluid coming over the top of his boots as he stepped along in the ooze of the bank mud.

  They stood in the light brush near the bank. A corn field was above them.

  Gramps appeared without noise. He signaled Big Ben to row the boat offshore and wait.

  Gramps said in a low voice, “I ain’t doing this for you. It’s the girl. She don’t deserve what they been doing to her.”