[An Account from the PRISM Chronicles]
Chapter 1
Darkness
The darkness seemed to have a shape and a movement of its own.
His thoughts were filled with a mix of fear that he would be waylaid by somebody and an excitement at the size of the payment he and the guard beside him would receive for their work tonight. In this part of the Port of Salvador, Brazil, you could never be too careful. Both men appeared for all the world like any other drivers of a loud, huffing gasoline vehicle who, day or night, struggled to make a life for themselves and discovered unfailingly that no matter how great their efforts, the odds were stacked against them.
The one at the wheel kept his eyes down, not meeting the gaze of anyone else, laborer like himself, street corner troublemaker, or the dangerously few policemen who patrolled that late at night. He snorted with contempt...how many of them ever wanted to lay themselves open to doing their job without
un soborno
, the eternally necessary money under the table to get anything done in Latin America. They were all far more corrupt than he was.
Beside him the other man hunched against the door in his greatcoat, an Ithaca 12-gauge coach gun resting across the lap of his duster. He hadn't yet eared back the external hammers, but he was ready for the possibility of some idiot trying to hijack their load. He would show the weapon only if that happened; if that didn't work, he'd kill the thief without a second thought.
He was partial to these short-barrel weapons. The Americans, as they did with everything else, had names for them. The "street howitzer," "the town-tamer," "the crowd-pleaser." As a student of some history, he was fascinated by stories of Wyatt Earp, John "Doc" Holliday, and particularly details of the growing fact / legend of the gunfight at the OK Corral that had taken place in the mining town of Tombstone, Arizona, on October 26, 1881. Holliday had used a 12-gauge Greener. He affectionately gripped the fore-piece of his Ithaca and held it closer to the door, just in case. At this hour you never knew who or what....
Three very heavy boxes lay in the back of the truck, covered with a canvas and packed among other sacks of vegetables and the junk any laborers would be expected to be moving for sale the next day. Traffic along the Avenida da França at this hour was spotty, but the main street along the long strip of docks and wharves was never empty. Carts, wagons, trucks, and their cursing, often-aggravated drivers always plied the street along which ships from all over the world were docked for loading.
The driver was searching for one of the largest. His instructions were specific, Pier 12, Dock 3, and her name was
Cyclops
. She was flagged United States and she was a naval support ship, meaning that it was likely there would be armed guards somewhere along the dock and certainly at the several loading stations where her cranes would lift the palletized cargo onto her decks.
There she was.
He and his rider leaned out of the cab to stare at the behemoth. They had never seen one as large as she.
Cyclops
was longer than any other ship docked there and taller than the other steel-hulled ships by far. An odd-looking series of girders, overhead stanchions, braces, brackets and cables ran the length of the ship and both sides were lined with enormous derricks, obviously for loading ores, earth and fuels.
Having found the pier and dock, he drove directly to Loading Station 7, circled to offload from the rear of the truck, and backed up to the platform where a pallet with hoisting cables already attached sat empty, surrounded by a trio of Brazilian guards, all armed with pump shotguns and, from what he could tell, Mauser C96 semi-automatic pistols. Four U. S. Navy seamen stood behind them, each armed with identical shotguns and holstered Browning .45 caliber pistols.
"Somebody important is moving this stuff," he muttered to his guard. "These broom-handle Mausers are expensive, and they've all got them. See those red 9s engraved into the grips...usually, only officers have those side-arms because they cost so much."
"For sure, my friend," came the reply. "Let's get this job done, get paid, and get out of here. This whole thing makes me nervous."
With considerable grunting and cursing the waiting seamen hauled the heavy crates from the truck bed and shifted them to the pallet. Heavy winches far above on the
Cyclops'
deck whined, groaned, and hauled the pallet skyward until it disappeared over the side of the ship. At that point a smartly dressed man in civilian clothes stepped to the door of the truck and handed each of the two men inside a heavy envelope.
"Inspect it, please," he said in a quiet voice that, nevertheless, carried a warning. "We want to ensure that you are properly compensated for your loyalty and your work. We know this was risky for you. I'm sure I don't need to emphasize that you will forget all about this night's work and this transaction."
"What work tonight, sir, and what transaction?" the driver responded with an understanding air.
"I can't imagine," smiled the well-dressed man who disappeared into the mists swirling along the wharf.
Later that day, February 16, 1918,
Cyclops
picked up the pilot who would guide her out of the bay, through the narrows of the coastline, and into open water. Four snorting tugs belching black smoke from their tall stacks shoved and towed her away from her berth until the giant vessel began to move under her own power. Once into open water she dropped the pilot and put to sea.
Chapter 2
Heavy Weather
The gigantic ship creaked with the increasingly heavy seas. Overhead the wind of the South Atlantic, never a friend to sailors or ships, howled through the massive structure of king posts, girders, guy wires and coaling booms that defined the purpose of the craft. She was a combat support ship, a fleet collier or coal hauler for American and British ships in that part of the world.
