Arctic Fire (38 page)

Dorn lay on his back on the comfortable king-size bed with his hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling fan that was rotating slowly above him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going to talk to the Secret Service again. I want their take on this venue one more time.”

“I’ll make it easy for you, Rex. They don’t want me doing it there either. But it doesn’t matter. I’m the commander in chief, and what I say goes.”

“If the Secret Service says not to—”

“The people of California love me. They don’t want to hurt me. They want to be close to me. Besides, I’m as popular as any president in the last hundred years. Look at the numbers.”

“I’ve seen the numbers, Mr. President.” Stein glanced through the window beside the desk, out over Los Angeles, so Dorn would be certain not to see his frustrated—and slightly disgusted—reaction. He still couldn’t tell if the man was that arrogant or that naïve. “But it only takes one nut job.”

“Go be useful, Rex,” Dorn said.

The man from Vermont was so sickeningly full of himself. And it was getting worse every day. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Call Daniel Beckham and find out if he’s gotten that list from Roger Carlson yet.” Dorn sat up and swung his stocking feet to
the floor. “The one that’s supposed to detail all of those Red Cell Seven assets I’m interested in.”

Stein gazed at the ocean in the distance. It was sparkling beneath the late afternoon sun. He’d tried to reach Roger Carlson twice today. Once on the regular number and once on that number he’d been given at that first national security briefing in Langley, Virginia. But he still hadn’t heard back.

“Make that call, will you, Rex?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right now, Rex. Make it for me
right now
.”

T
URNER POINTED
at Speed Trap’s chest. “Is that one of his canines?”

Speed Trap pulled a thin silver chain out from beneath his plain gray T-shirt and let the tusklike trophy tumble from his fingers. “It is.”

“Damn.” Turner’s gaze intensified as he watched the sharp four-and-a-half-inch bear tooth swing back and forth across the kid’s chest at the end of the chain. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve been tracking grizzlies up here for a while. That’s impressive.”

“How’d you know there was a tooth on the chain?”

“If I shot a bear like that, I’d do the same thing,” Turner answered, tapping his own chest. “And I saw the outline of it beneath your shirt,” he admitted. “How many rounds did it take to put that beast down?”

“One.”

“Wow.”

“I dropped him right where he was standing with my thirty-thirty, man. The bullet hit his head and his chin hit the ground. It was my best shot ever. The guide said it was a one-in-a-million pop because most times even a thirty-caliber bullet just gives them a headache and makes them mad. Their skulls are that tough.”

“That’s right,” Turner agreed. “Well, like I said, it’s damned impressive, pal.”

“My guide thought so too.”

“I wish I’d been your guide that day, Bobby.”

For the last ten minutes Speed Trap had been telling Turner the story of shooting the massive, nine-foot Kodiak bear as they sat at the small, smoky bar of the Fish Head Pub. Turner was listening closely to the story of the hunt and seemed to be sincerely appreciating and enjoying every detail as they sat there drinking beers—which Turner was paying for.

It had been over a year, and Grant still hadn’t bothered to listen to the whole story of what had happened on Kodiak Island that day. Grant always walked away whenever the topic came up, and Speed Trap knew exactly why—because his Kodiak bear was so much bigger than any bear Grant had ever shot. And Grant couldn’t stand his little brother beating him at anything, especially hunting.

“Actually, Ross, people call me Speed Trap.” He liked that handle so much more than Bobby. It made him sound important and daring.
Bobby
made him sound like a little boy.

Turner broke into a wide smile after taking several gulps of cold amber from his tall, twenty-two-ounce glass. “Got a few tickets under your belt, huh? So you like going fast?”

“I
love
it. I always wanted to win Daytona, you know? I always wanted to drive one of those cars for a living. Shoot, what I really wanted to do was fly fighter jets.”

“Me too,” Turner agreed. “But I was too tall. So what kind of rig you got?”

“An F-one fifty.”

“Of course you do.”

“But it isn’t stock anymore, if you know what I mean. I made a few changes to the engine and the transmission and it goes now, man. I mean, it fucking
flies
.”

“I bet.” Turner took another long look at the tooth hanging from Speed Trap’s neck. “Well, Speed Trap, people call me Griz.”

It was Speed Trap’s turn to smile broadly. “I can see why.” He could feel the beer starting to kick in, and he chuckled loudly as he thought about Turner’s nickname. “You look like a damn grizzly bear, and a Kodiak at that. Not some inland midget brown that eats nothing but bugs and berries.”

“Yeah, well, I—”

“Did you really come to Dutch to talk about bears?” Speed Trap asked out of nowhere. “Or are you here to talk about something else?”

Turner stared intently at Speed Trap for a few moments. “What do you mean?”

“I called Wilson Keats right after you called me the other day.”

“And?”

“And he said you’d been asking around about the
Fire
for the last week. He said you talked to some of your friends on the state force over in Anchorage about what happened to Troy Jensen. He said you talked to some of the Coast Guard guys about it too.”

Turner nodded deliberately. “Yeah, I’ve been asking around. I’m not going to lie to you, Speed Trap.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“Well, what’s the deal?”

Turner took a long guzzle of beer. “OK, here it is. I go back a ways with Troy’s older brother, Jack. I’m doing him a favor on this.”

Speed Trap finished what was left in his tall glass and put it down on the bar. Then he leaned back in his stool. He appreciated Turner being a no-bullshit guy.

“Want another one?” Turner asked, pointing at Speed Trap’s empty glass.

Speed Trap wanted Turner to appreciate that he was a no-bullshit guy too. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“You don’t have to bribe me with beers.”

“I’m not,” Turner answered firmly. “I’m just trying to find out for an old friend what happened to his younger brother.”

Speed Trap thought about what was at stake here. This could end up being a mistake, he knew, but if Troy was still alive out there somewhere, he wanted Turner to find him. Troy had saved his life that night on the
Arctic Fire
, and he’d never forget the huge debt he owed the guy for as long as he lived. No matter what Sage and Grant did to him, he’d never forget.

Jack grabbed Karen’s arm as they stood at the end of the alley down the narrow street from the Fish Head Pub. “Oh, Christ.”

“
What?
What’s the matter?”

Jack gestured at the two guys who’d just sauntered past them. One was a man-mountain with long blond hair, and the other was short and wiry. But the little one still looked to Jack like he could hold his own in a fight. In fact, he looked like he could hold his own in a fight with the devil. “Look at that jacket,” he said, pointing at the guy with the long blond hair.

“
Arctic Fire
,” she whispered as she read the flowing white script that was embroidered on the black jacket beneath the colorful image of the ship bursting through the top of a wave. “What do we do?” she asked breathlessly. “We can’t just leave Ross in there.”

“We’ve gotta go get—”

“What’s wrong?”

Jack and Karen whipped around. Turner was now towering over them. He’d exited the pub through the back door by the restrooms after taking a leak and walked up the alley behind them.

“Look at that.” Jack stabbed excitedly in the air at the
Arctic Fire
jacket, which was about to disappear into the Fish Head Pub.

Turner glanced at the jacket and the man wearing it. Then he put one hand on Jack’s shoulder, the other on Karen’s, and leaned down so his mouth was close to their ears. “We’ve gotta get out of here, boys and girls. And we’ve gotta get out of here
now
.”

They were so close to the United States now the leader swore he could smell it. He swore he could smell the scents of trees and dirt and fresh water drifting eastward toward the ship on the wings of the prevailing winds. He was so close to guiding the
Pegasus
to its target, he realized anxiously. He was so close to changing world history forever.

He knelt down on the bridge and touched the dark, round scar on his forehead to the metal floor. Please, he prayed. Please let this happen.

“What did you tell that guy at the bar?” Maddux demanded angrily.

“What guy?” Speed Trap asked innocently. His wrists and ankles were tied tightly to a chair in the Arctic Fire’s galley, and he was terrified. Over Maddux’s shoulder he could see Sage and Grant watching from the doorway.

“Whoever it was that you met at the Fish Head,” Maddux snarled. “I want answers, and I don’t want to have to ask twice. I don’t have time for this.”