R.E. McDermott
Deadly Straits
For Andrea
Acknowledgements
Every author’s work benefits from the review of others, and mine was no exception. I am greatly indebted to the following people who helped make DEADLY STRAITS a better book. First and foremost, my wife Andrea, who patiently read countless revisions and was always there as my sounding board. Dennis Wright, my best friend of fifty years, who gamely read and commented upon the early “not ready for primetime” drafts I inflicted upon him. Our sons Chris and Andy, and our daughter-in-law Jennifer, were also early readers who provided comment and encouragement. Longtime friends and colleagues from the marine industry helped me translate the sometimes arcane terminology of ships and shipping. I owe thanks in that area to Theo Mandopoulos and Paul Hagstrom, Captain USCG (retired). Ed Hoffman provided (and continues to provide) tremendous help and support both via thoughtful comments and his efforts to ‘spread the word.’ Both are appreciated more than I can say. Ed’s wife Suzanne provided input critical in helping me strengthen several characters in the story, and Pamela Ksenak, SSgt. USMC (retired) was my Glock expert. And last, but far from least, Brian Carlson MD, physician, friend, and writer, kept me from having my characters do the medically impossible. Any mistakes I’ve made, despite all this excellent counsel, are mine alone.
Thank you for taking a chance on a new author. I sincerely hope you enjoy Deadly Straits. If you do, please consider the links to the other books in the Tom Dugan series listed at the end of this ebook. And if you'd like to be notified when I release a new book, please consider signing up for my mailing list at this link.
Epigraph
“Whosoever commands the sea commands the trade; Whosoever commands the trade of the world commands the riches of the world, and consequently the world itself.”
Chapter One
Alex Kairouz turned from the screen and swiveled in his chair to bend over his wastebasket, barely in time. He vomited as his nausea crested, then slumped head down and sobbing over the basket. A hand appeared, holding a tissue.
“Wipe your bloody face, Kairouz,” Braun said.
Alex did as ordered.
Braun continued.
“Mr. Farley, please be good enough to refocus our pupil on the task at hand.”
Alex tensed against the pain as he was jerked upright by his thick hair and spun around to once again face the computer screen. He closed his eyes to blot out the horrific sight and tried to put his hands to his ears to escape the tortured screams from the speakers, but Farley was quicker, grabbing his wrists from behind and forcing them down.
“Open your bloody eyes and cooperate, Kairouz,” said Braun, “unless you want a ringside seat at a live performance.”
Alex looked not at the screen but at Braun.
“Why are you doing this? What do you want? If it’s money — ”
Braun moved his face inches from Alex’s.
“In due time, Kairouz, all in due time.” Braun lowered his voice to a whisper. “But for now, you need to finish our little lesson. I assure you, it gets much, much more amusing.”
Dugan moved through the humid darkness of the ship’s ballast tank, avoiding pockets of mud. At the ladder he wiped his face on a damp sleeve and turned at muttered Russian curses to shine his flashlight on the corpulent chief mate struggling through an access hole. The man’s coveralls, like Dugan’s own, were sweat soaked and rust streaked. The Russian pulled through the access hole with a grunt and joined Dugan at the ladder. Sweat rolled down his stubbled cheeks as he fixed Dugan with a hopeful look.
“We go up?” he asked.
Dugan nodded and the Russian started up the long ladder, intent on escaping the tank before Dugan had a change of heart. Dugan played his flashlight over wasted steel one last time, grimacing at the predictable result of poor maintenance, then followed the Russian up the ladder.
He emerged on the main deck at the tail end of a tropical thundershower so common to Singapore. His coveralls were already plastered to his skin by sweat, and the cool rain felt good. But the relief wouldn’t last. The rain was slackening, and steam from the deck showed the negligible effect of the brief shower on the hot steel. Two Filipino seamen stood nearby in yellow slickers, looking like small boys dressed in their fathers’ clothing. One handed Dugan a wad of rags as the second held open a garbage bag. Dugan wiped his boots and tossed the rags in the bag, then started aft for the deckhouse.
He showered and changed before heading for the gangway, stopping along the way to slip the steward a few dollars for cleaning his room. The grateful Filipino tried to carry his bag, and, when waved away, ran in front, holding doors as an embarrassed Dugan made his way to the main deck. Overtipped again, thought Dugan, making his way down the sloping accommodation ladder to the launch.
He ducked into the launch’s cabin and settled in for the ride ashore. Three dogs in six weeks. He didn’t look forward to telling Alex Kairouz he’d wasted his money inspecting another rust bucket.
An hour later, Dugan settled into an easy chair in his hotel room. He opened an overpriced beer from the minibar, then checked the time. Start of business in London. May as well give Alex a bit of time to get his day started before breaking the bad news. Dugan picked up the remote and thumbed on the television to Sky News. The screen filled with images of a raging refinery fire in Bandar Abbas, Iran. Must be a big one to make international news, he thought.
Alex Kairouz sat at his desk, trembling, his eyes squeezed shut and face buried in his hands. He shuddered and shook his head, as if trying to physically cast out the images burned into his brain. Finally he opened his eyes to stare at a photo of his younger self — black hair and eyes in an olive face, and white even teeth, set in a smile of pure joy as he gazed at a pink bundle in the arms of a beautiful woman. He jerked at the buzz of the intercom, then struggled to compose himself.
“Yes, Mrs. Coutts?” he said into the intercom.
“Mr. Dugan on line one, sir.”
Thomas! Panic gripped him. Thomas knew him too well. He might sense something wrong, and Braun said if anyone knew —
“Mr. Kairouz, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Coutts. Thank you.”
Alex steeled himself and mashed the flashing button.
“Thomas,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “how’s the ship?”
“Junk.”
“Damn.”
“What’d you expect, Alex? Good tonnage is making money. Anything for sale now is garbage. You know how it works. You built your own fleet at rock-bottom prices in down markets.”
Alex sighed. “I know, but I need more ships and I keep hoping. Oh well, send me an invoice.” He paused, more focused now, as he glanced at a notepad on his desk. “And Thomas, I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Asian Trader is due into the shipyard there in two days, and McGinty was hospitalized yesterday with appendicitis. Can you cover the ship until I can get another superintendent out to relieve you?”
“How long?”
“Ten days, two weeks max,” Alex said.
Dugan sighed. “Yeah, all right. But I may have to break away for a day. I got a call from Military Sealift Command this morning. They want me to inspect a little coaster for them sometime in the next few days. I can’t ignore my other clients, even though sometimes it seems I’m on your payroll full-time—”