by S. D. Perry
“What’d you think I meant? Like, do I find her—attractive?”
Steve was suddenly glad that it was so dark. “Do you?”
He could hear the grin in his partner’s voice. “Sure, I’d go for it. Can’t say I’d mind slipping into those waters, she’s one hot piece . . . How ’bout you?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.”
Squeaky chuckled. “Yeah, right, hadn’t really thought about it . . .”
Steve’s light hit on a deck chart at the bottom of the flight, mounted to the wall. They were low enough for the chart to be relevant. He hurried down the last few steps, eager to get off the topic of Foster.
A quick study of the cryptic chart and Steve pointed to a blocked area in the mass of lines and squares. “The engine room should be here. One deck down.”
He saw Squeaky nod in the reflected light and then they were moving again, down the empty stairwell to the engine level.
They picked up the pace as they reached the E deck, on more familiar ground now as they passed a small maintenance room filled with various machine parts and tools. Steve paused to look over their spare sets, and Squeaky checked the next room, a few feet ahead.
“Over here!”
Steve caught up and their beams joined at the main turbine that dominated the engine room. There were at least two other smaller generators, but there was no doubt which was the biggie; she was a beauty, an immense cylindrical machine that put every boat they’d ever worked to shame. The Volkov engineers must have been proud, and it appeared undamaged.
Steve hurried over, found the fuel boost pump, and primed it for action. He pressed the starter button and then scowled; nothing.
He turned his light towards his partner, talking fast. “Okay, let’s hustle, Squeak. We gotta be facing into the wind when the storm hits. If we’re in a typhoon without power to the rudder, we’re dead.”
Squeaky nodded and then smiled suddenly. He reached for the wiring harness, holding up the cut cords under Steve’s flashlight.
Jesus, could that be all?
It was almost too good to be true, but it also seemed to be the only thing out of order. Squeaky started reconnecting the sliced cords with practiced ease as Steve moved around the massive turbine, checking switches and opening panels.
Everything was fine, no apparent damage to anything he could see. The saboteur obviously didn’t know much about engines, had only severed a few connecting wires that could be fixed in minutes. It was better than they could have hoped.
“Almost done,” said Squeaky, and Steve moved back to the starter as his partner connected the last wire, twisting the fibers together and pulling down the rubber sheath.
“Try it now.”
Steve pressed the button and the rotor spun into action, filled the room with the rising hum of a well-maintained, powerful engine. Lights flickered on and he and Squeaky grinned at each other, squinting at the sudden brightness.
The Volkov had power.
The bridge suddenly surged to activity, undamaged monitors and instruments blinking on, consoles clicking and fans revving, overhead lights snapping away the gloom.
Everton smiled, feeling the Volkov come to life all around them. There was movement by the door and a video surveillance camera rose on its mount and swiveled in his direction.
“That’s more like it,” he said, glad that he’d had the foresight to hire such competent engineers. The bridge felt different suddenly, had gone from a dead room on a dead ship to the center of power for a sophisticated vessel; he could actually hear the decks beneath his feet switch on, the hum of hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment reactivating—
—and there was a sound rising above the surging hum, like nothing he’d ever heard before—a strange, high-pitched squeal that seemed to grow in strength, swelling up from somewhere deep in the ship. Like a bird, screaming, like the howl of a machine in pain. Or rage . . .
What the devil—
Everton looked at Foster as the sound surged into the bridge, watched her cover her ears as the bizarre squeal became deafening, overwhelming—and then stopped, cut off abruptly as if it had never been.
“What the hell was that?” Foster asked, but Everton ignored her; obviously some damaged circuitry somewhere. The return of power had overloaded it and it had burnt out. An unusual sound, but no great mystery.
And apparently that’s too vast a concept for our navigator to comprehend; what a surprise.
Everton picked up his walkie-talkie and clicked it on. “Good job, Baker. We’re lit up like a pinball machine.”
Baker didn’t answer him directly, but he heard the engineer speak to his partner with the transmit button held. “Let’s get the main engines running—” He cut off.
Everton walked to the port windows and looked down on the Sea Star as it moved into position to push the Volkov’s bow. Everything was going smoothly, perfectly—even the fog had thinned a bit. Richie had thrown down a line to Hiko and was directing Woods over the walkie while the Maori tied the hawser to the towing bit, just as they’d been ordered; Baker and his man had performed admirably, quickly. Foster, who had done nothing but poke at a few circuit boards and then declare the radio transmitter broken, was at least keeping her rather large mouth shut; he supposed it was the best he could hope for from her . . .
There was a rhythmic clicking hum from one of the consoles and Everton turned, wondering if the girl had actually managed to do something useful after all—but she was still digging through the charts, nowhere near the three screens that had booted themselves up in the center of the room.
She glanced at him, frowning, and walked across to the console. He joined her, not sure why he suddenly felt a bit—uncomfortable. The computers hadn’t been on when the power had come back, he was sure of it. Now they were flipping through lines of data like slot machines, running through their programs at lightning speed.
“What the hell is going on?” Everton mumbled. The Cyrillic letters flashed past rapidly, almost as if the computers were searching for something.
Foster pressed a few buttons on the computer’s keyboard, but nothing happened, at least that Everton could tell. He looked around the bridge absently and then back at the screens.
“Someone else is running this,” said Foster nervously.
Everton frowned. “Looks like it’s running itself.”
“Computers don’t run themselves,” she said, and started tapping keys again.
Letters and numbers raced across the monitors, and Everton felt a cold fist tighten in his gut as they stopped suddenly, fixing on an icon of an anchor. The symbol blinked red, and Foster punched at more keys in desperation, accomplishing absolutely nothing.
Damn it, what now? Everton turned back to the windows, angry and suddenly quite nervous. Everything had been going so well—
—and he held his breath at the sound of heavy chain rattling outside, a sound he shouldn’t, couldn’t be hearing. Because the Volkov’s anchor was directly above the Sea Star’s position.
Richie held the walkie-talkie loosely and looked down on Hiko, standing on the deck of the Star and watching solemnly as the tug pushed the massive ship’s bow into the direction of the coming wind. He was thinking idly about what a Maori would do with three million dollars; more tatts? Maybe there was a panel of tribal elders who decided shit like that, took money and passed it out to the peasants or something . . .
Whatever. Richie had already started making plans; he was gonna set himself up good. He was gonna buy a new car, a Lamborghini, the kind you couldn’t get in the States. He was gonna get a big ol’ house in the Caribbean with a private beach and find one of those smiling island beauties to spend some time with, a nice girl with a tight body and big tits. They were gonna spend all day on the beach drinking and getting high and watching the waves, all night screwing their brains out on silk sheets—
There was a heavy rattling and Richie felt his brain freeze suddenly, even as he jerked his
gaze down to the anchor well. He knew that sound.
No—
Time stretched and slowed, the next few seconds horribly clear, Richie helpless to stop it. He could only watch in dumb surprise as Hiko looked up, directly beneath the rattle of chain, his cool expression melting into one of shock and fear—
—as the Volkov’s anchor, seven to eight tons of iron and chain, let go of its mount and plummeted down.
• 10 •
Foster looked away from the obstinate machine, frustrated and upset—and heard a tremendous, booming crash, her fears confirmed as Richie yelled from out on deck in panic.
“Fuck! Fuck—!”
His voice suddenly blared into the room over their walkies, high and breathless. “Emergency on main deck! The anchor hit the tug! Ripped a hole right through her!”
Everton pushed past her and they both ran for the door, hurrying out onto the deck and racing across to the port side. The captain shouted into his walkie as he ran.
“Baker! Baker, did you copy? Get up here!”
“Copy, I’m on my way—”
Foster rushed to the side and looked down, saw in a split second that the damage was irreparable. The Sea Star was going down fast, stern first, water spurting up through the gaping hole in the deck.
Hiko!
The Maori staggered across the tilting deck, blood pouring from a wound in his leg. Foster realized that he must have been almost right under the anchor; a thick, jagged chunk of wood decking had been driven deep into his right leg.
Hiko stopped, gripped the wood with a shaking hand, and pulled it out, face contorted in pain. He dropped the bloody, eight-inch shard to the deck and struggled on, trying to reach the railing.
Richie had grabbed a life preserver and marker, tossing them overboard even as Hiko collapsed to the deck, clutching his leg weakly. Foster looked around desperately, but there was only the one, the other preservers gone to the storm or the Russian crew.
Woods suddenly appeared from the Sea Star’s bridge, his face pale with terror. The helmsman saw the floating preserver and seemed to fix on it. He ran, stumbling across the slanting deck—and racing right past Hiko.
Hiko raised himself up, calling after him. “Woods, I can’t make it! Where you goin’? Come back here, goddamn it—”
Woods didn’t seem to hear him, didn’t even pause, eyes wild and desperate. He dove off the sinking tug and struck out for the preserver, leaving Hiko behind.
Foster paced, searched for a place to dive in, but the angle was wrong, too close, she’d land on the sinking boat and break her neck. The anchor chain snapped from its eye suddenly, the heavy chain plunging to the deck and pushing the Sea Star down even faster.
She turned, started to run towards the fore—
—and saw Steve sprint out from the entry to below deck and run across to the Volkov’s railing.
“Woods!” Steve shouted, and Foster looked back, saw that the helmsman had reached the preserver and was watching the Sea Star go down, doing nothing to help the fallen crewman. Hiko had reached the railing; he kicked weakly, trailing blood as he tried to get higher, away from the rapidly rising water, his gaze bright with fear. The tug shifted suddenly, was upended—and then the railing was gone, too, Hiko’s clutching hands disappearing beneath the churning sea.
Steve had just started to think about catching a short nap when Richie screamed emergency and Everton called for him to come up.
“Copy, I’m on my way!”
He handed the radio unit to Squeaky and started for the door of the humming room, pausing just long enough to give instructions.
“Stay tight! Any sign of trouble, don’t play hero, get your ass outta here.”
Squeaky gave him a thumbs-up and then Steve was running, down the dimly lit corridor and towards the stairs.
He took the steps in giant leaps, his thoughts racing. The anchor? The whole goddamn ship was electronic, everything hooked up to computers. It couldn’t have happened, had to be a freak accident or—
—or someone else is on the ship, his mind whispered coolly, and Steve picked up speed, suddenly worried about more than a sinking tug. The Sea Star would have sunk anyway and it could have been an accident, sure—but wasn’t it strange that the anchor had given way when the smaller ship was directly underneath?
He hit the A deck, all of the lights on and machinery humming as he raced through the corridors towards the exit to top deck. He noticed fleetingly that the Volkov felt like a different ship, now that it had power—different but somehow just as ominous as when it had been dark and silent . . .
No time to think. He burst through the hatch onto the open deck and ran for the railing. Foster was running towards him, but his gaze was fixed on the scene below.
“Woods!” he shouted, but the helmsman only floated there, his pale face turned towards the tug, watching blankly as. the Sea Star slipped beneath the the waves, Hiko still holding on to the railing.
Steve was dumbstruck, unable to believe what he was seeing; a tense second passed, two, three—and Hiko broke through to the surface, paddling wildly, thrashing helplessly amidst pieces of shattered deck and bobbing debris. And Woods remained exactly where he was.
Chickenshit bastard!
Steve saw that Hiko wasn’t going to make it and that Woods wasn’t going to help. Without another thought, he jumped the railing and dove in.
The fall seemed to take forever, the deck easily three stories above the water. Steve had time to take a deep breath before he hit, plunged deep into the chilled ocean, and came up stroking smoothly towards Hiko.
The salt stung his eyes and it was cold, but he was close. He reached the struggling Maori in a few seconds.
“Relax, go limp,” he breathed, and Hiko looked at him gratefully and stopped flailing, let his body relax as Steve wrapped an arm around his neck.
They started back for the Volkov, for the rope ladder that Steve had secured less than an hour before. Steve kicked strongly and swept with his right arm, concentrating on the ladder—but unable not to shoot a nasty glance at Woods, floating safely fifty feet away.
He looked back at the Volkov, saw that Richie had descended the ladder partway and was waiting to help, saw Foster’s concerned face and Everton’s scowling one looking down—and wondered again how the anchor had managed to release itself over the Sea Star.
We’re not alone here—and whoever else is aboard doesn’t want us to leave.
Hiko lay on the deck while the Pakeha gathered around nervously, casting tall shadows in the rapidly fading light. Foster leaned over him and studied his leg, Hiko trying not to wince when she gently touched the bleeding gash. The pain had been bad enough without the salt water, and blood still pulsed from the wound. He felt dizzy, though from blood loss or pain or just elation at being alive, he didn’t know. He still had his wahaika, and he had survived; things could be worse.
Richie snapped his shotgun closed and paced anxiously in front of him. “That anchor didn’t drop by itself. Someone else is on this ship.”
Hiko had figured as much already. The Volkov felt bad to him, had felt bad the second he’d seen her. He could tell that the others felt the same way, and wondered why they continued to deny their fear; it didn’t take Maori blood to know when something was fucked up. The Russian ship was haunted, it was kino. Someone hiding in it had tried to kill him and had almost succeeded.
He looked up at Foster and smiled a little at her worried expression.
“I’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t going to hear it.
“Not without stitches. We gotta find a sick bay.”
Steve handed her a knife and she cut open Hiko’s pant leg, revealing the oozing wound amidst the deep designs of his moko. He frowned; there would be a scar. The wood from the deck had messed up a beautiful design, hours of detailed work lost.
Foster reached up and tugged at his belt, releasing the buckle and sliding it from underneath him. Hiko glanced around uncertainly.
<
br /> “What are you doing? Hey . . .”
Foster shot him a glance and then looped the leather above his knee, tightening it. A tourniquet. Hiko looked away, embarrassed. Maybe he did need stitches; he was still dizzy and had thought for a moment that she was reaching for something else entirely.
“That coulda been me, ya know,” said Woods to no one in particular.
Hiko focused on Woods, felt a slow anger kindle in his belly as the helmsman pulled off his wet tee and dropped it to the deck. Richie reached into his bag and produced a dry shirt, tossing it to Woods but not looking to see if he caught it.
Hiko glanced over at Steve, saw the same contempt on the engineer’s wet face as he stared at Woods. The man was a spider, all right; Hiko hated spiders.
Steve picked up a walkie-talkie and clicked it on; before he could speak, his partner’s voice crackled out.
“Steve, Squeaky. What the hell happened?”
“The tug’s gone, Squeak. Sunk.”
“Well, that sucks.”
Hiko nodded to himself; well put.
“How you doin’?” Steve asked.
“I’m okay. This ship is automated, everything runs itself—”
“Wrong. Somebody is still on board, they sank the tug. Bolt the door and don’t let anybody in there. We’ll be right down.”
“Copy that,” said Squeaky, and Hiko could hear a sudden wariness in his voice. Wariness, but no surprise.
Steve clicked off the unit and turned, addressing all of them. “Let’s divide up into two groups and root ’em out.”
Foster nodded. “I agree with Steve.”
Captain Everton frowned, raised his voice. “Wait a minute, I’m still captain here.”
Steve met his gaze evenly. “You were captain of the Sea Star. Which just sank.”
Hiko propped up on his elbows, watched as the two men glared at each other. He didn’t like Everton particularly, and decided that he would back Steve, if it came to that. Everton hadn’t saved him from the moana.
“Listen to me, Baker—I’m still ranking officer, and I’m willing to overlook what happened between us. Do we have a problem with that?”
