ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 325 million copies worldwide. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions and Maximum Ride series. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past ten years in a row. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

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title page for Deadly Cargo

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Epub ISBN: 9781786531773

Version 1.0

Published by BookShots 2017

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Copyright © James Patterson 2017

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James Patterson has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published by BookShots in 2017

BookShots
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781786531766

CHAPTER 1

Freighter M.V. Ossora, Bering Sea – 1240 nautical miles west of Anchorage, Alaska

NIGHT HAD FALLEN on the frigid stretch of water that lay between Alaska and the eastern tip of Russia, the weak disc of the sun disappearing behind dark ominous clouds that seemed to stretch across the whole western horizon. The sea beneath this overcast sky was a roiling mass of dark waves and churning foam, whipped up by strong winds howling in from the north.

And it was through this stormy weather that the massive bulk of the M.V. Ossora floundered slowly southward, rolling and pitching in the heavy seas as powerful waves crashed against her rusted bow. Every once in a while her single propeller would roar as the ship’s roll lifted it right out of the water, only to crash back down amidst a torrent of churning foam.

A relic of the days when the hammer and sickle still flew over the Kremlin, she had been designed without the slightest consideration for aesthetics or comfort – her hull was wide and squat, her bow blunt and uncompromising, her superstructure little more than a gigantic white box streaked with corrosion. Now almost forty years old and suffering from neglect by a company unwilling to scrap her but unable to overhaul her, she required the combined efforts of her entire engineering staff just to stay running.

These matters were of little to concern to Leonid Ivanov however as he hurried down a narrow corridor lit by flickering electric lights, its yellowed walls and ceiling testimony to the countless sailors who had passed this way with cigarettes in hand. Turning right, he ascended a steep flight of steps to the next deck, silently cursing as the ship’s roll threatened to pitch him backward.

Clutching at a handrail, Ivanov waited a few moments while the vessel temporarily stabilized before resuming his climb, intent on reaching his destination.

The ship’s bridge was, in contrast to the rest of the dilapidated vessel, a haven of order and cleanliness, its navigation and communications equipment carefully maintained. He might have been in charge of a run-down cargo tub destined for the breaker’s yard, but Captain Nikolaev took his responsibility as ship’s master seriously.

The atmosphere in the control room was tense and silent as Ivanov entered. Men were hunched over navigation consoles and chart tables, or peering out into the freezing darkness as if they could pierce the gloom beyond their vessel through willpower alone. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and fraught nerves.

Nikolaev himself was standing near the ship’s wheel, surveying the radar plot with a grim, unhappy expression. A bear of a man who must have been seventy if he was a day, Nikolaev was an old navy veteran who had long since moved into commercial shipping. He was soft spoken and reserved for the most part, radiating a silent calm and rarely raising his voice in anger. When he did, however, he was a force to behold. Ivanov had seen more than one outspoken sailor cower before his wrath.

“Captain,” Ivanov began.

Several pairs of eyes turned to him, then quickly glanced away again as the bridge crew resumed their difficult task of navigating the Ossora through rough seas. A lowly cargo handler, Ivanov wasn’t important enough to warrant their attention.

“What is it, Leonid?” Nikolaev asked, stirring from his ruminations.

Ivanov moved closer and lowered his voice. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need to show you something. In the cargo bay.”

The captain’s thick graying brows drew together in a frown. “We have a storm bearing down on us, son. Unless the ship’s in danger, I’m needed here.”

Reaching out, Ivanov grabbed the older man’s arm. “Sir, it’s about the cargo containers. I think … I think there’s something in them that shouldn’t be. I don’t trust anyone else but you.”

Nikolaev stared back at the young sailor, comprehension dawning on him. Seconds passed, broken by the patter of rain and sea spray lashing against the bridge windows.

“Chief, take over here,” Nikolaev said abruptly, addressing the ship’s first officer, before turning back to Ivanov. “All right, son. Show me.”

It took about five minutes for Ivanov and the elderly captain to make their way down from the bridge to one of the Ossora’s two cavernous cargo holds. Nikolaev was as sure footed as a mountain goat and knew the ship from bow to stern, but he was also a big man who wisely moved with caution. He’d lost more than one crewman in his time to a careless slip down a stairwell in high seas.

Much of Number One Hold’s internal space was given over to big steel shipping containers, holding everything from engine parts to computer components and mass-produced clothing, their careful arrangement to balance the ship’s load resembling a stack of giant Lego bricks. Illumination was provided by a few weak overhead floodlights, a couple of which were out of action, leaving the hold bathed in gloom.

“You’re sure of what you heard?” Nikolaev asked as the two men halted before one container in particular. Checking the container number, the captain held up a flashlight and surveyed the cargo manifest he’d brought with him. “According to this, it holds water pumping equipment.”

This was his last chance to back out, Ivanov knew. To force open a container without the owner’s permission would involve a breach of their shipping contract, and likely result in severe financial penalties for them all.

“I’m sure, sir,” he said after a moment.

The captain chewed on it for a few seconds, before finally nodding his assent. “Very well. Open it up.”

Like most the other containers, Number 29 was secured with a steel padlock to prevent tampering or theft of its contents. However, the pair of heavy bolt cutters Ivanov brought with him made easy work of the hardened steel shackle. Removing the defeated lock, Ivanov yanked upward on the container’s securing bolt, held his breath and swung the thick metal door open.

The moment Nikolaev’s flashlight beam played across the interior of the container, illuminating its contents, the old man’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“Oh my God,” Ivanov gasped.

CHAPTER 2

Casco Cove Coast Guard Station, Attu Island

“SHIT,” LIEUTENANT RICK O’Neill growled, watching the slowly expanding patch of red on his chin as it blended with the white of shaving foam.

The light above the mirror in his washroom was defective, flickering on and off seemingly at random. As a result, his daily shave had become a clandestine affair: using the brief moments of visibility he ran the razor over as much skin as possible before the bulb gave out again. But with haste came mistakes, as his father had once said.

One of the few bits of useful advice the man ever gave him.

Sighing, he dabbed at the bleeding cut. He leaned forward, looking at his reflection in the steamed mirror. Even features, a clean jawline, a straight nose, eyes that were the same gray-blue as a stormy sea, dark hair still shiny and wet from the shower. Thirty-eight years old, and going nowhere fast.

The light flickered, struggled vainly to stay lit, then went out again.

Satisfied that he’d done what he could, he walked through to his living quarters, wiping off the last of the soap from his face and pressing the wash towel against his chin to help stop the bleeding. The place smelled of dust and old leather and age. Like his washroom light and everything else on this lonely U.S. Coast Guard station at the end of the world, it was faded and worn out and overdue for retirement.

Casco Cove was scheduled to be decommissioned in six months or so, but for the time being the Coast Guard maintained a tenuous presence here. A skeleton staff kept the island’s only runway up and running, allowing supplies and equipment to be flown in, while a single 47-foot MLB (Motor Life Boat) sat in a covered maintenance shed ready to be launched in the event of an emergency.

And in charge of this graveyard operation was O’Neill himself. Well, for now at least.

Slipping on the dark blue shirt of his operational dress uniform, the standard Coast Guard uniform used for day to day work, O’Neill straightened up, took a deep breath and opened his door.

A short walk brought him to the station’s ops room, nominally the hub of all activity on the base, but today resembling a deserted office. Only two personnel were on duty at such a late hour, neither of whom looked particularly engaged in their work.

O’Neill couldn’t blame them. This far from the major shipping lanes, the most excitement they had around these parts was the monthly supply flight from Anchorage.

“You’ve been in the wars,” Ensign Wyatt Richards remarked from behind his satellite communications terminal.

Short, stocky, and with his receding hairline shaved almost to the scalp, he was a couple of months away from leaving the Coast Guard. He was intelligent and competent enough, but had no real ambition to get anywhere in the service, which was probably why he’d ended up here. He’d joined because the Coast Guard offered an easy way to get his ship pilot qualifications.

“Cut myself shaving,” O’Neill said.

“What do you shave with? A bread knife?” O’Neill flashed him a warning look, which prompted a blush to rise to his otherwise pale face. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

“Already done,” O’Neill assured him. “Now, what’s our status?”

Richards shrugged. “All clear across the board. No contacts, no active incidents to report.”

O’Neill sighed and looked around, taking in the largely inactive ops room. This was as good a place as any to make the announcement. “Where are Watkins and Rodriguez?”

The other two members of his station detail, Bryce Watkins and Sebastian “Seb” Rodriguez were as thick as thieves and rarely to be found apart. Not that there were many places to go in such an isolated posting.

At this, the second officer on duty piped up from the other side of the ops room. “Saw them in the rec room about half an hour ago, sir.”

Kate Starke was, in contrast to Richards, a bright and promising young Petty Officer who just happened to have drawn a bad hand with her posting here. Still, she appeared to have accepted the unenviable assignment without complaint, which put her well up in O’Neill’s estimation. Successfully completing a tour in a place like Attu Island without going mad would bode well for her chances of promotion later.

O’Neill nodded, his mind now made up. “Would you have them come to the ops room in fifteen minutes?”

“Of course.”

Richards frowned, sensing something out of sorts in O’Neill’s demeanor. “Everything okay, sir?”

“Just make sure they’re here. I’ll be in my office until then,” he said, turning away and striding from the room.

CHAPTER 3

Therefore, I hereby resign my commission as an officer in the United States Coast Guard, effective immediately. Please make arrangements for my transportation back to Anchorage, and for a replacement CO to take over this station as soon as convenient.

Yours sincerely,

Lieutenant Richard O’Neill, U.S.C.G.

O’NEILL STARED AT the words on the computer screen—not much to say for a ten-year career in the service, but there it was. The message was written, and a single mouse click would send it off to Coast Guard Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

He was done with the job. Even after this station was decommissioned, he knew the rest of his career would be assignments just like this one. He’d never again serve where it mattered, and would certainly never get to command his own ship. He’d rather have nothing, make a clean break and start a new life. Maybe he’d follow Richards’ example and get into commercial shipping.

As soon as the message was sent off, he’d make the announcement to the small team under his command. He doubted any of them would shed tears over his departure. He’d hardly been a barrel of fun since his move here three months ago, and had done little to endear himself to the personnel on base. At best they dutifully obeyed his commands without enthusiasm, and at worst they were openly defiant.

He took another drink of whiskey, grimacing as it lit a fire inside him. It was good stuff – strong, rich, and fairly expensive. But it brought him no comfort tonight.

He was about to send the message when there came a knock at his door. Frowning, he quickly minimized the email window.

“Come!” he called, not bothering to put his jacket back on.

The door opened, and to his surprise, Starke was standing there.

O’Neill rose from his chair. “What can I do for you, Starke?”

“I was wondering if I could … have a word, sir. In private.”

O’Neill frowned, but beckoned for her to come forward. “All right. Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her, then just stood there, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of sadness, as if she could see O’Neill’s predecessors mourning what had become of their quarters.

“You said you wanted to talk,” he prompted.

“Permission to speak freely.”

He almost wanted to laugh. “We’re not in the Navy. Say what’s on your mind.”

The young woman took a deep breath and raised her chin a little. “What’s going on, sir? If we’ve done something …”

“You haven’t.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

O’Neill sighed. Unlike most of the others, she actually seemed to give a shit about his mental state. “Take a seat.”

The young woman walked over to the worn leather seating area and lowered herself down, as if testing whether it would hold her weight. O’Neill refilled his glass and held the bottle up. “Drink?”

“Aren’t you still on duty?”