Virus (13 page)

Hiko nodded.
“Kura Kaupapa.
You know, for little kids. Teach them to read and write Maori, that sort of thing.”

Everton worked to keep it going. “What about you, Baker?”

Steve was opening the wide medical lockers, checking the contents. “I dunno. I don’t have any attachments; always loved the sea . . .” He paused, then smiled. “I’d buy an island.”

Foster considered that, finishing a third stitch. “Interesting idea. Does it have a beach?”

“Yeah. Nice white sand.”

Foster smiled. “And a house?”

“With a thatched roof, overlooking a lagoon.”

Hiko grinned. “When are you guys getting married? Ow! Foster, take it easy!”

Foster looked over at Steve, saw him watching her thoughtfully as he reached for another locker. Interesting indeed . . .

He pulled the handle up, and quite suddenly, all hell broke loose.

Steve dove for cover as a shadowy figure opened fire from inside the deep locker, the popping sound of an automatic rifle shattering the stillness of the lab.

Steve spun, saw Foster push Hiko off the table and Everton hit the deck as the Russian strafed the lab with the AK-47. Glass doors blew into fragments, the metal table where Hiko had lain pierced by ringing bullets.

He saw Everton’s shotgun propped up against the base of the lockers and scrambled for it, reaching it just as the Russian jumped down, still firing wildly. Steve saw that a gas mask covered his head, saw the rifle pivot towards him—

—and the click of an empty weapon, the clip out of rounds.

Steve launched himself at the attacker, raised the butt of the shotgun and drove it into the Russian’s chest, knocking him back into the locker. The crash of the man’s head against metal was loud in the sudden silence and the Russian slumped, his body limp.

Steve grabbed the boots of the still figure and pulled him out onto the floor. Guy was a lightweight, couldn’t weigh more than 120 or so—short, too.

He looked over his shoulder, saw Hiko and Foster turn stunned faces towards him, Everton looking out from behind the examination table behind them. Amazingly, no one had been hit.

Steve reached for the gas mask, adrenaline still coursing through his body.

Fucker tried to
kill
me!

He yanked at the mask, ready to beat the shit out of the man if he so much as twitched—

—and blinked, surprised. “He” was a woman, and an attractive one at that. Her fragile features were smooth, a few loose strands of long, dirty blond hair framing a pale, heart-shaped face.

Steve dropped the mask, turned to the others, and saw the same dismay he felt. He wasn’t a chauvinist or anything, but a woman acting so violently, Russian or no—

Why? What the hell is going on here?

Maybe she’d be able to tell them when she woke up. Assuming she knew any English, assuming that she was sane—and assuming that she woke up at all.

J. W. Woods, Jr., couldn’t get drunk. His hip flask was over half empty and he seemed to be sweating it out as fast as he put it down; every inch of his body dripped and ran with clammy rivers of sweat, as it had ever since he’d set foot on this forsaken ship.

He wished the
Sea Star
were still afloat, wished it desperately. He wished that he could be with the captain instead of here in the dark, echoing room that Richie had led them to below the weapons locker. He wished a lot of things, but most of all that the whiskey would do its job and give him a little peace.

Everyone thought he was a pussy, fine, whatever—but he didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to be alone on a ship where there was an insane Russian trying to kill them all.

I’m a survivor, that’s all; what’s wrong with wanting to be alive? I coulda gone down with the
Star,
but does anyone even care? Crazy, all of ’em: they call
me
pussy and they’re off trying to get themselves killed, like that makes them “brave” . . .

Everton was the only one who showed him any respect; he should’ve insisted on staying with the captain, he was a
leader,
he was strong. Instead, he was off with a gun-crazy deckhand when Everton had told them to go help Squeaky. They shouldn’t be here.

Richie was still smoking marijuana and poking around with his flashlight, like they had all the time in the world. His beam fell across a rack of some kind, loaded with what looked like—missiles?

Richie aimed his light at the open space beyond, the beam illuminating another missile, lined up at the base of some kind of tube. In fact, there was a whole set of tubes, some small, some much bigger.

Launch tubes?

Richie’s voice was deliriously upbeat as the light flickered back to the first missile. “This thing is armed—tactical short range, surface to air . . . beautiful!”

“I’m thrilled,” said Woods. He raised his flask and took a healthy slug. “Can we go now?”

“In a minute.” Richie started poking around again, playing his light along the floor.

Woods took another swig, watching hopelessly as Richie studied the mess that his flashlight revealed. It looked like someone had been down here taking missiles apart; there were piles of metal shells stacked all around, pieces of the dismantled bombs all over.

“Hey, Woods, what do you make of this?”

“Dunno,” he answered sullenly. He sighed, slipped the flask back into his hip pocket, and raised his flashlight to join Richie’s. Maybe if he helped, they could get out of here sooner. He wanted to get back to the captain, get somewhere that had
light.

He followed Richie across the dark room towards the launch tubes, not sure what the man was even looking for and not really caring. The flashlight was slick in his grasp. He switched hands, wiped his palms against his shirt, and waited for Richie to explain what they were seeing.

Richie’s light passed over some kind of platform at the bottom of one of the really big launch tubes. There was a cable that ran from the inside rail of the tube to the platform itself. There was a metal chair welded and braced to it, looped with what looked like seat belts.

“Looks like an ejection seat, some kinda escape vehicle,” said Richie. He picked up a small box next to the chair that had connecting cords running to a panel in the wall. He studied it, nodding slowly.

“Launch buttons. Cool.”

Woods had to stifle an urge to tell Richie to hurry up; he didn’t want to piss the guy off, he might—leave him there, alone. Woods swallowed, turned away from the tubes to see what else he could find.

He ran his flashlight along the opposite wall and froze, a fresh layer of sweat suddenly oozing out of his pores. One of the
Volkov’s
watertight hatches was illuminated by the shaking beam; it had been smashed in from the outside, buckled into its frame. There were multiple welts in the thick steel, each the size of a man’s fist.

Strong, whoever did that was—had to have had a battering ram, no
way
a man’s that strong.

His beam dropped to the base of the door where there was a puddle of thick, brownish red liquid. At least three or four feet across, and still very wet.

“Hey, Richie—” Woods’s voice shook and he swallowed again, as Richie turned his light to the tiny lake and stopped there.

“That’s a lot of blood,” he finished weakly, and reached again for his flask, suddenly quite desperate not to feel the terror that had taken over his entire body. He closed his eyes and drank long, not stopping until he started to choke on the sweet, fiery relief.

• 13 •

E
verton helped Foster lift the unconscious woman into a chair, feeling deeply relieved. They’d caught their Russian, it was all over. She had tried to kill them, she had dropped an anchor on their tug—she was obviously insane, and that meant that she wasn’t competent to claim the
Volkov.
No court would dispute it, and he had witnesses.

The woman slumped into the chair, and Everton looked over to see Hiko digging through the waist satchel that Baker had taken off the Russian. He pulled out empty food packets, half a pack of Russian cigarettes, matches—

Everton smiled to himself. An entire ship to herself and she was running around like some kind of commando, gas mask and all, lugging her little bag of necessities and an automatic rifle. He wondered if she’d murdered her shipmates before or after trashing all the radios . . .

Hiko pulled out a dark hand-sized object, two, three of them. There was a flat digital panel hooked up to a small circuit board . . .

Everton suddenly realized what it meant, but Foster beat him to the warning.

Hiko, picking up a canister, “What’s that? Hairspray?”

“Careful, Hiko,” he said sharply. “Thermite grenades.”

Hiko frowned. “What?”

Baker nodded at the explosives. “One of those goes off, it’ll burn a hole right through the deck.”

Hiko shook his head and very carefully started putting the grenades back into the satchel. “What was she gonna do? Blow up the ship?”

Everton wanted to laugh.
Proof, as if we needed any more! Crazy, mad as a Russian hatter!

Baker picked up a walkie and called to his partner. “Squeaky. Come in, Squeaky, do you copy?”

Silence, and Everton saw Baker frown, saw Hiko and Foster exchange a worried look.

“Squeaky, c’mon, don’t play games.”

Still nothing. Baker’s man had apparently wandered off without his radio; Everton scowled. As if they didn’t have enough to contend with.

Baker depressed the transmit again. “Richie, Woods, come back.”

Richie answered, his voice crackling brightly. “Steve, this ship’s got a missile room—”

Baker’s temper flashed. “I don’t give a shit about missiles, Richie! My best friend’s in the engine room and he’s not answering—now, get your ass down there!”

The deckhand sounded put out that Baker wasn’t impressed. “We hear ya, we hear ya.”

Baker continued, glancing over at the unconscious Russian nervously. “And just so you know, we’ve got a crewman up here who emptied an assault rifle on us, so keep your eyes open; meet me in the engine room in five minutes.”

Everton frowned, but decided to let it slide. Baker wanted to play captain, fine; the mystery had already been solved, it was highly unlikely that there could be
two
Russian mental cases running around, and the
Volkov
was still his. If the other engineer had gotten himself lost, well, that was
his
problem. With any luck, Baker would do the same; unlikely, but one could always hope . . .

The Russian woman moaned softly and rolled her head back, starting to come to. Baker picked up the shotgun and they all focused on the groaning woman, tensing for action in case she went off again.

Everton reached into his pocket for his bag of peanuts and settled in for the show.

Richie moved through the dark corridor of C deck, Woods close behind, both of them sporting AK-47s and edging cautiously forward. The stairs should be around here somewhere; Richie had kind of lost his sense of direction, and the way Woods was staggering along, he’d kind of lost his, too.

Place is a fuckin’ maze,
he thought bitterly.
Goddamn Russians with their goddamn spy ships. Probably set up like this on purpose, to confuse people . . .