Read Online Sea of Terror by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Political, Government investigators, Undercover operations, Terrorists, Cyberterrorism, National security, Hijacking of ships, Nuclear terrorism
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looking for . .. whatever it is they're looking for. Which is it going to be?"
"You can't talk to me that way, Bernie!"
God. Another temper tantrum coming on. "I'm sorry, Gillian. Rules are rules." Even for you, you strung-out little bitch, he thought. No amount of money was worth this.
Bernstein was disgusted. Gillian Harper's bad-girl image played great at the box office, but her attitude made her increasingly difficult to work with. Damn it, she was just another in a long line of high-visibility, high-maintenance models, movie stars, and MTV pop idols, no different, really, from Spears or Lohan or any of the rest. What was it about a little fame that, made these people think they were immortal?
But Bernstein was her manager... as if anyone could manage the brat. Getting her to do anything that wasn't her i.e. first was damned near impossible. It had been her i.e. to do this latest gig--shoot segments for her new music video, "Livin' Large," on board a luxury cruise ship and at various landmarks in the Mediterranean: on the beach at Majorca, in front of the Parthenon, along the Turkish coast. "Livin' Large" held the promise of being a top-of-the charts blockbuster, bigger than "Material Girl," maybe ... If the bitch could control her temper, stay sober, and keep her mind on the job. Her idiot boyfriend wasn't helping; Carmichael was a minor actor with delusions of grandeur, a pretty boy who'd hit it lucky in a film or two and now seemed bent on destroying himself. And her.
The drug use worried Bernstein.
Arnold Bernstein had already decided that he was through with this insane business. Let him get just one more big hit under his belt and he could say good-bye to Gillian Harper and all of her parasites. He had a fair amount of money tucked away. Maybe he would produce dinner theater somewhere, some place far away from the glitz and the lights and the high-living idiots.
"Gillian," he said sharply, "it's not like half the male population of this planet hasn't already seen you naked. Get your ass through that machine!"
He strode through without looking to see if the rest were following him.
Bridge, Atlantis Queen Southampton, England Thursdaiy, 1444 hours GMT
"Captain?"
Captain Eric Phillips was leaning over the chart table, reviewing the latest met print-out. Several hours ago, a low-pressure cell had begun forming off the West African coast, and by the time the Queen reached the Strait of Gibraltar in another four days, it might make for some rough weather.
"Can it wait? I'm busy--" "Sir, we have a problem. A real problem." "Now what?" Captain Eric Phillips looked up, exasperated. Why did problems always begin multiplying exponentially the closer the ship came to debarkation?
His staff captain, Charles Vandergrift, stood a few feet away, holding the bridge phone against his ear. "It's Ghailiani, sir. Security. One of our officers has been found ... dead." He sounded as though he couldn't quite believe the report.
That got Phillips' full attention. "Dead? My God, who? How?"
"Chester Darrow, sir. Ghailiani says he's been shot!"
"Sweet Christ Jesus! Give me that!" He took the handset from Vandergrift. "Ghailiani? This is the Captain."
"Y-yes, sir." The man's voice sounded weak over the phone, almost dull, as if he was dazed, or in shock.
"What the devil happened?"
"We're not sure, sir. Mr. Darrow was checking provisions into the aft A Deck cargo hold. I came down here to check something, and found him on the pier, dead."
"You said he's been shot?"
"Yes, sir. Several times, sir. In the chest."
This had to be some sort of sick joke. Please let it be a joke! he thought. "Ghailiani, if this is some kind of prank--"
"No, sir! It's not! Darrow's dead! There's blood everywhere--"
"Where are you?"
"On the pier. Just opposite the A Deck cargo gangway. There's a big green Dumpster there? We found him between the Dumpster and the main warehouse wall."
"Okay. Stay there. Don't let anyone touch the body. The police
"You can't talk to me that way, Bernie!"
God. Another temper tantrum coming on. "I'm sorry, Gillian. Rules are rules." Even for you, you strung-out little bitch, he thought. No amount of money was worth this.
Bernstein was disgusted. Gillian Harper's bad-girl image played great at the box office, but her attitude made her increasingly difficult to work with. Damn it, she was just another in a long line of high-visibility, high-maintenance models, movie stars, and MTV pop idols, no different, really, from Spears or Lohan or any of the rest. What was it about a little fame that, made these people think they were immortal?
But Bernstein was her manager... as if anyone could manage the brat. Getting her to do anything that wasn't her i.e. first was damned near impossible. It had been her i.e. to do this latest gig--shoot segments for her new music video, "Livin' Large," on board a luxury cruise ship and at various landmarks in the Mediterranean: on the beach at Majorca, in front of the Parthenon, along the Turkish coast. "Livin' Large" held the promise of being a top-of-the charts blockbuster, bigger than "Material Girl," maybe ... If the bitch could control her temper, stay sober, and keep her mind on the job. Her idiot boyfriend wasn't helping; Carmichael was a minor actor with delusions of grandeur, a pretty boy who'd hit it lucky in a film or two and now seemed bent on destroying himself. And her.
The drug use worried Bernstein.
Arnold Bernstein had already decided that he was through with this insane business. Let him get just one more big hit under his belt and he could say good-bye to Gillian Harper and all of her parasites. He had a fair amount of money tucked away. Maybe he would produce dinner theater somewhere, some place far away from the glitz and the lights and the high-living idiots.
"Gillian," he said sharply, "it's not like half the male population of this planet hasn't already seen you naked. Get your ass through that machine!"
He strode through without looking to see if the rest were following him.
Bridge, Atlantis Queen Southampton, England Thursdaiy, 1444 hours GMT
"Captain?"
Captain Eric Phillips was leaning over the chart table, reviewing the latest met print-out. Several hours ago, a low-pressure cell had begun forming off the West African coast, and by the time the Queen reached the Strait of Gibraltar in another four days, it might make for some rough weather.
"Can it wait? I'm busy--" "Sir, we have a problem. A real problem." "Now what?" Captain Eric Phillips looked up, exasperated. Why did problems always begin multiplying exponentially the closer the ship came to debarkation?
His staff captain, Charles Vandergrift, stood a few feet away, holding the bridge phone against his ear. "It's Ghailiani, sir. Security. One of our officers has been found ... dead." He sounded as though he couldn't quite believe the report.
That got Phillips' full attention. "Dead? My God, who? How?"
"Chester Darrow, sir. Ghailiani says he's been shot!"
"Sweet Christ Jesus! Give me that!" He took the handset from Vandergrift. "Ghailiani? This is the Captain."
"Y-yes, sir." The man's voice sounded weak over the phone, almost dull, as if he was dazed, or in shock.
"What the devil happened?"
"We're not sure, sir. Mr. Darrow was checking provisions into the aft A Deck cargo hold. I came down here to check something, and found him on the pier, dead."
"You said he's been shot?"
"Yes, sir. Several times, sir. In the chest."
This had to be some sort of sick joke. Please let it be a joke! he thought. "Ghailiani, if this is some kind of prank--"
"No, sir! It's not! Darrow's dead! There's blood everywhere--"
"Where are you?"
"On the pier. Just opposite the A Deck cargo gangway. There's a big green Dumpster there? We found him between the Dumpster and the main warehouse wall."
"Okay. Stay there. Don't let anyone touch the body. The police
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