Neither man moved, not even when Kessler crawled over to them and laid a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. Lichtermann’s head was back, his blue eyes unblinking. His face was dark red, suffused with blood pooling in his skull. Kessler touched his cheek. The flesh was still warm, but the skin had lost its elasticity. It felt like putty. He flashed the light over to the radioman/gunner. Josef Vogel was also dead.
Vogel’s head had smashed against a bulkhead—Kessler could see the blood smeared against the metal—while Lichtermann’s neck must have been broken when the plane flipped over.
The rank smell of gasoline finally burned through the fog in Kessler’s head, and he staggered to the rear of the aircraft, where the main door was located. The crash had crushed the frame, and he had to slam his shoulder into the metal to pop it open. He fell out of the
He wasn’t sure how imminent the threat of fire was or how long it would be before he could safely return to the damaged
Kondor
Having a plan helped keep the horror of the past hour at bay. He just had to focus on surviving. When he was safely back in Narvik, he would allow himself to dwell on his dead comrades. He hadn’t been particularly close to any of them, preferring his studies to their carousing, but they had been his crew.
Kessler’s head pounded, and his neck became so stiff he could barely turn it. He took bearings on the mountain that hid so much of the tight fjord and started trudging across the glacier. Distances on the ice were hard to determine, and what had looked like just a couple of kilometers turned into an hours-long walk that left his feet numb. A sudden rain squall had drenched him, the water freezing on his coat flaking off in icy bits that crackled with each step.
He was thinking about turning back and taking his chances with the plane when his eye caught the outline of the building thrust partially out of the ice. As he got closer and details emerged from the dark, he began to shiver with more than the cold. It wasn’t a building at all.
Kessler came to a stop under the bow of a huge ship, constructed of thick wood with copper sheathing and towering over his head, that had become trapped in the ice. Knowing how slowly glaciers moved, he estimated that for the vessel to be so deeply buried it had been here for thousands of years. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d seen pictures of this ship before. There were illustrations in the Bible his grandfather used to read to him when he was a boy. Kessler had much preferred the Old Testament stories to the preachings of the New, so he even recalled the ship’s dimensions—one hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide, and thirty cubits tall.
“. . . and onto this ark Noah loaded his animals two by two.” CHAPTER 1
BANDAR ABBAS, IRAN
PRESENT DAY
THE TIRED-LOOKING FREIGHTER HAD LAIN AT ANCHOR off the busy port of Bandar Abbas long enough to arouse the suspicion of the Iranian military. An armed patrol boat was dispatched from the nearby naval base and streaked across the shallow azure waters toward the five-hundred-plus-foot ship.
The vessel was named the
Scaffolding of metal struts had been lowered over her fantail, and men in grease-smeared coveralls were working on the freighter’s rudder bearing.
As the patrol craft approached, the NCO acting as captain of the nimble boat raised a megaphone to his mouth. “Ahoy,
A moment later, a grossly overweight man wearing a sweat-stained officer’s shirt appeared at the head of the gangway. He nodded to a subaltern, and the boarding stairs began to descend.
As they drew nearer, Ghami saw captain’s epaulets on the man’s shoulders and sourly wondered how a man of such rank could let himself go so badly. The
With one of his men standing behind the patrol boat’s .50 caliber machine gun, Ghami nodded for another sailor to tie the rigid-hulled inflatable to the gangway. Another sailor stood close by, an AK-47
slung across his shoulder. Ghami checked that the flap over his holster was secured and leapt onto the boarding stairs with his second-in-command at his heels. As he climbed, he observed the captain try to smooth his hair and straighten his filthy shirt. They were futile gestures.
Ghami reached the deck, noting that the plates were sprung in places and hadn’t seen paint in decades.
Rust caked nearly every surface except for the shipping containers, which probably hadn’t been on board long enough for the crew’s lack of diligence to affect them. There were gaps in the railing that had been repaired with lengths of chain, and corrosion had eaten into the superstructure so much that it looked ready to collapse at any moment.
Hiding his disgust, Ghami snapped a crisp salute at the captain. The man scratched his ample stomach and made a vague gesture at the bill of his cap.
“Captain, I am Ensign Muhammad Ghami of the Iranian Navy. This is Seaman Khatahani.”
“Welcome aboard the
“What seems to be the trouble with your steering gear?” Esteban cursed in Spanish. “The bearing froze up. Fourth time in a month. The cheap owners”—he spat—“won’t let me have it fixed in a shipyard so my men have to do. We should be under way by tonight, maybe in the morning.”
“And what is your cargo and destination?”
The captain slapped one of the shipping containers. “Empty boxes. They’re all the
“Barely enough to cover our costs,” Esteban said bitterly. “No one will insure us with anything more valuable than boxes of nothing.”
“I need to see your crew manifest, cargo manifest, and the ship’s registration.”
“Is there some kind of problem?” Esteban asked quickly.
“I will determine that after I have seen your papers,” Ghami said with enough menace to make certain the disgusting man complied. “Your vessel is deep in Iranian waters, and I am fully in my right to inspect every inch of this ship if I see fit.”
Esteban said with oily smoothness. His grin was more grimace. “Why don’t we step out of this heat and into my office?”
Bandar Abbas sat tucked in the tightest curve of the Strait of Hormuz, the narrow entrance to the Persian Gulf. Summertime temperatures rarely dipped below a hundred and twenty during the day, and there was little wind. The metal decking beneath the men’s feet was quite literally hot enough to fry eggs.
“Lead the way,” Ghami said, and swept his hand toward the superstructure.
The interior spaces aboard the
Esteban led Ghami and Khatahani up a tight companionway with a loose railing and onto another short corridor. He opened the door to his office and gestured for the men to enter. The captain’s cabin could be seen through an open door on the opposite side of the office. The bed was unmade, and the sheets that spilled onto the floor were stained. A single dresser stood bolted to the wall, and the mirror above it had a jagged crack running from corner to corner.
The office was a rectangular room with a single porthole so rimed with salt that only murky light came through. The walls were adorned with paintings of sad-eyed clowns done in garish colors on black velvet. Another door led to a tiny bathroom that was filthier than a public washroom in a Tehran slum. So many cigarettes had been smoked in the office that the stale smell seemed to coat everything, including the back of Ghami’s mouth. A lifelong smoker himself, even the Iranian naval officer was disgusted.
Esteban jammed the bare wires of a desk lamp into an outlet next to his desk, cursed when they sparked but seemed pleased that the lamp came on. He eased himself into his chair with a groan. He indicated for the two inspectors to take the seats opposite. Ghami used a pen from his shirt pocket to flick the dried-out carcass of a cockroach from the chair before sitting.
The captain rummaged through his desk, coming out with a liquor bottle. He eyed the two Muslims and returned the bottle to its drawer, muttering in Spanish. “Okay, here’s the manifest.” He handed over a binder. “Like I said, we’re carrying nothing but empty containers bound for Hong Kong.” He set other binders onto the desk. “My crew’s manifest. A bunch of lazy ingrates, if you ask me. So if you want to detain any of ’em, be my guest. These are the
Norego
There was nothing here to arouse suspicion, but Ghami wanted to be thorough.
“It says here you are carrying eight hundred and seventy containers.”
“Thereabout.”
“They are stacked in your holds?”
“Those that aren’t deck-loaded,” Esteban agreed.
“I do not wish to insult you, Captain, but a ship such as this was not designed to carry containers efficiently. I suspect there is room in your holds where contraband may be hidden. I wish to inspect all six.”
“Until my steering gear’s fixed, I’ve got nothing but time, Ensign,” Esteban breezed. “You want to go over the whole ship, you be my guest. I have nothing to hide.”
The office door was suddenly thrown open. A Chinese crewman wearing coveralls and wooden flip-flops jabbered excitedly at the captain in Cantonese. Esteban cursed and launched himself from his desk. His quick movements alerted the two Iranians. Ghami got to his feet, resting a hand on his holster.
Esteban ignored him entirely and raced across the room as fast as his extra hundred pounds of flab would allow. Just as he reached the bathroom door, the plumbing made a throaty, wet gurgle. He slammed the door shut, and, a moment later, they could all hear the sound of water erupting like a geyser and splashing against the ceiling. A new, more pungent smell overwhelmed the cramped office.
“Sorry about that,” Esteban said. “Seng here’s been working on our septic system. I don’t think he quite has it yet.”
“If they’re hiding anything,” Seaman Khatahani whispered to his superior in Farsi, “I don’t think I want to find it.”
“You’re right,” Ghami replied. “There isn’t a smuggler in the Gulf who would trust this fat lout or his broken-down scow.” Considering that smuggling along the Persian Gulf was a time-honored and noble tradition, Ghami wasn’t being facetious. He addressed Esteban, “Captain, I can see that your hands are full with simply maintaining your vessel. Your paperwork appears to be in order, so we won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You sure about that?” Esteban asked, cocking a bushy eyebrow. “I don’t mind giving you the nickel tour.”
Ghami got to his feet. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Suit yourself.” Esteban led them out of the office and back along the dim hallways. The glare of the afternoon sun was especially brutal after being in the dim confines of the ship. Backdropped against the hazy horizon behind the
Ghami shook Esteban’s hand at the head of the gangplank. “If your steering problem isn’t corrected by morning, you must notify the Bandar Abbas port authorities. They may need to tow your vessel farther from the shipping lanes and into the harbor.”
“We’ll get this pig fixed soon enough,” Esteban said. “She’s tired, but there’s still life in the old
Standing at the rail, Esteban made to wave at the Iranian vessel if any of her crew looked back, but it was as if they couldn’t distance themselves from the Norego fast enough. The captain scratched his ample belly and watched the patrol craft vanish into the distance. When it was no more than a speck, a second man emerged from the superstructure. He was older than Esteban, with a fringe of thinning auburn hair wreathing his otherwise-bald head. He had alert brown eyes and an easygoing demeanor, and while he’d done a good job keeping himself in shape, a slight paunch pressed at his beltline.