by Chris Howard
Damaris watched the exchange and looked disappointed, as if it were a game he didn’t particularly care to win, but one that still wasn’t going his way.
“I think we’re done, Damaris.” Laeina rose, and Andreden followed her, sensing danger. It was like dealing with aliens or gangsters. It certainly wasn’t like any business conversation he had been in before, and he was willing to give her the lead on when to move, or when to make a run for it.
They reached the door; Laeina shifted close to him, guiding him back the way they had come.
Still seated at the table, Damaris called out, “Mr. Andreden?”
He turned, Laeina’s grip on his arm tightening.
“Yes?”
“I want you to succeed. I really do.” He gestured to Laeina. “What has the maker promised you? Anything? I hope it is worth it.” Then he was nodding at Andreden, his gaze fixed on him with the scrutiny of a gem appraiser. “Perhaps you are the one—or one of the ones--who will make this world livable, open, ready to carve up.” The menacing smile was back in place. Surfboards made of human bones.
Andreden took Laeina’s hand, blinked once, and then he was walking into the sunlight across Rolinga’s lower deck, stepping up from the swim platform. He looked down at his completely dry jeans and shirt, breathing deeply—and deeply troubled by the fact that he had no idea what had just happened. Had it been some sort of competitive match, a business deal, an information exchange session?
He wasn’t even certain they had learned anything from the dialogue.
He whispered, “How much time has passed? Days?”
Laeina just gave him a cranked-up eyebrow and then looked at the sun’s position in the sky. She held up three fingers, which didn’t give him a lot: three hours or three days.
Without another word, Andreden climbed up to the flybridge, started several hundred horsepower worth of engines, and pushed the cat as fast as she could go toward Islamadora in the Keys. An hour later they were tying up at the Atlantic-side docks, checking in with the charter company, and moving across the parking lot under a hot Florida sun.
Rick, smiling up from the sales desk, had asked Andreden how the trip was going, and he had said, “Like a dream.”
Laeina stayed close, steering him toward his rental car. “Let us drive away from here before talking.” She waved at the bright green vehicle as if it was some sort of insect. “Let’s just move.”
With a glance through the shattered back window, he patted his pockets for the keys. The car’s blue proximity light flashed once, letting him know it recognized him, and the big red Start button glowed faintly. Laeina got in, shut the door, and used a roll of paper towels she had grabbed from the Rolinga to wipe the flaking dried blood off the dash and windows.
He pulled onto Route 1, the wide street running along the water. “Where to?”
She was whispering rapidly, “I could read some of his thoughts. I don’t believe he knows this. He did not hide anything, and I think he is careless. I saw images of people, faces I recognize from the old research. I may know where to go from here. Drive north. Do you know a place called Maryland?”
She pronounced it Mary Land.
He nodded and put his foot down on the accelerator. “Do we want to get another car first?”
Chapter Forty
Unfriendly
Now that the Serina dump and hide job was in motion, Wilraven was wondering how it was going to work at the detail level. They were four miles into Cuban water, the Faro de Roncali light at the western edge of the island was visible on the horizon, and someone was going to notice them eventually. Or maybe not that eventually. And they couldn’t do more than ten knots with the Serina hanging under them, pulling hard on the cables.
Levesgue was on the Marcene’s bridge with Wilraven and Angelo, shouting directions in a strained voice. He was slumped over the nav station, propped on his elbows, staring into the screen like an addict at a free-dose clinic window, scanning the depths for a pre-arranged position in a particularly deep part of the basin off southwestern Cuba.
He pinged the floor a few times, liked the depth or what the floor looked like, and stepped back, agitated and satisfied at the same time.
“Here’s where we’re dropping her, gentlemen.”
Wilraven signaled his first to a full stop, wondering if Dess had ever made it—or how far behind them the freed ROV was. If Inda had programmed her course and operations, his plan really could be pulled off. She was the best in the business, with Aro right up there. Still, there were so many moving pieces, more people than he would have liked in on crucial parts of the plan, and every day the game seemed to change—or the rules. He had no idea what would happen to the hoist beams when he blew Adam DuFour’s experimental quick-release shackles. The beams had built-in levelers, canister floats and slide weights, well-used technology with fail-overs and safety switching. They had only used the special service D-bolts once, as a test, and Adam’s purpose was unsafe cargo handling, the ability to drop a lift at a moment’s notice to avoid volatile or explosive cargo blowing up and damaging the salvage vessel. None of DuFour’s designs or plans took into account an entire ship—even if she was neutral in the water.
Royce walked onto the bridge from the portside door, ignoring the captain. He tapped the little black comm bar jammed into his ear and gave Levesgue a nod. “Everything’s on. Winches are rolling out the ship another hundred feet. Tam is at the bow, Miles is stern.”
Levesgue turned on Wilraven, one hand open with a stiff chopping motion. “How does this work?”
The captain pulled up a button box on the end of a thick, shielded cable. “One push and the bolts blow on the shackles. And away she goes.”
The chopping motion became more vigorous. “What the fuck are you waiting for then?”
Wilraven called into the ship’s comm, which sent his voice echoing on the decks. “Stand clear. We are cutting the lines in three, two, one.” He gave Angelo a glance and pushed his thumb into the red circular button, the protection ring digging into his skin—the ring was a rigid black plastic wall around the button to prevent accidental firing.
And that was it. Everything that had happened over the last week, Clark “hanging” himself, Paulina putting her own jammers in place and hacking together eavesdroppers, and then being killed for being a minute late. The captain taking most of the non-lethal brunt of Levesgue’s wrath. Adam DuFour discovering sabotage in the middle of the night, taking out one of Levesgue’s soldiers, and getting a knife deep in the side for his trouble.
Wilraven exchanged a look with Angelo. If this didn’t go well, the Serina would drop into oblivion, coming to rest in a few thousand meters of ocean basin, lost for a very long time. He would lose the story of a friend, Captain Val Nersesian, and the world would lose the real reason the Serina Beliz went to bottom in the first place.
A second later he felt the thump of the shackles, followed immediately by the grind of the roller winch cables snapping back, the stiff tension in the steel cable running to the bow tip and center stern wheels going suddenly slack. There was a barely perceptible shake in the floor of the bridge, and the Serina was gone. Loose in the sea.
He let out a deep breath.
Levesgue glanced from Angelo to Wilraven. “How long before the ship’s on the bottom?”
The captain appeared to be giving it some thought. “Five to ten minutes. Sure you want to hang around in Cuban water?” He wanted to fire up the Marcene and get the hell out of there.
“I want to see some video, sonar, or sidescan on the wreck. Proof that she’s on the floor where you’re putting her.” With a long, angry stare, he added, “Where Wade Corkran wants her.”
Wilraven’s skin went cold. That was a problem. At that moment, the Serina was drifting free of her lines at her three-hundred-foot depth with a beacon for Dess to find her. All his plans had—in one instant—gone to shit because Levesgue wasn’t going to see a ship on the floor of the sea.
; Angelo stepped into the silence. “Let’s see what we can see on the hi-res.” He was launching the depth and floor vision bot, sliding the controls, and making a face that might set some low expectations for the soldier. “Not the easiest thing to use to get a floor representation, but it might do the job.” The first officer spent nearly ten minutes weaving the scope back and forth on the seafloor, with Levesgue huffing and pacing behind him, fingering the butt of his gun, and glancing out at the night on the other side of the bridge windows.
“Interesting. Not bad.” Angelo waved the soldier over, running his finger along the screen’s center at two bright wedges and long straight lines of something man-made resting on the seabed. “I think she’s down, maybe a sixty-degree list. Looks like soft sediment.”
Levesgue leaned over the scope, face pulled into a snarl, mumbling something that made it clear he was prepared to be let down. Instead the soldier released a breath, tapping a brightly lit sickle shape. “That could be the portside curve toward the bow.” Another tap, and he seemed genuinely focused on the shapes—still shaking his head. “Has to be the edge of the superstructure.”
Wilraven shot a glance at Angelo who stood, arms at his sides, stone-faced. “There’s your ship.”
Levesgue straightened. “It’s not my ship. Just a job. I simply need to watch you fuckups every second to make sure you’re doing your job.” He didn’t appear to be satisfied, but a bigger problem came shouting in from his team; the Cowboy’s voice was harsh and loud over the comm.
“Sir, we have incoming. Two fastboats.”
“Cuban military?”
“Not confirmed, sir.”
The surface scope showed two fast-moving vessels darting in from each side.
Levesgue had his gun out of its holster, waving it around like a madman. “Get this ship around and out of here.”
A loud crack, and a fist-sized opaque disc opened on the Marcene’s bridge windows, the round going right through the glass and into the paneled back wall a foot from Royce’s head in a burst of splintered wood. The traitor stood there stunned for a moment, then dived for the deck. Already crouched down, Angelo had the Marcene in a tight spin with the bow and stern thrusters.
Wilraven called down to the chief to get under way.
The Faro de Roncali light was sliding right, across the horizon, as the Marcene fired up the engines and came about. Levesgue kicked open the starboard door as a few more shots came through the front and side windows of the bridge. Wilraven kept low, waving Angelo down even more. These guys were getting off precision shots at head-height into the control center of the ship, not spraying randomly in the Marcene’s direction like the last gunboat attack.
“These fuckers are aiming.”
Royce was crawling around on the floor like a frightened animal; his breathing was a rapid in and out: rabbit breaths. Wilraven gave him a sickened glance and came to Angelo’s side. “You got our heading?”
“Plot the course?”
Wilraven nodded. “Then let her run it full ahead. How far from international water are we?”
The first officer straightened to give the nav a quick look. Ducking down, he said, “Little over three miles.”
Royce jumped at some command in his earpiece, apparently in communication with Levesgue. Without looking at the captain and first officer, he crawled sullenly toward the starboard door and made his way down the outside stairs.
Wilraven looked up, alarmed at a dull thud that trembled through the ship. Staying low, he made his way through the pass-through to the stern-facing observation deck. More bullet holes through the broad windows. He saw one of the fastboats coming around from the right, almost blending into the dark sea, the only lights coming from the navigation systems and other onboard equipment.
Below, not much clearer on the Marcene’s long deck, Broken Nose had a launcher over one shoulder. Another hammer-thud and a missile fired from the Marcene’s stern, a blast of white light that lit up the whole ship, and then a coil of rocket exhaust curving around to skim right along the water, hitting one of the gunboats low on the portside. A soft thump across the waves, another burst of light, and the silhouette of the boat was floating in a roiling bloom of fire, shapes of men with arms and legs splayed, shapes of weapons, and then jagged wedges of the hull lifting away as the boat came apart.
Cowboy stood up with the launch unit, surveying the damage, when the second boat came in from the left, a strafing run that caught the soldier in the back; his body danced a few steps and slammed against the port rail. He dropped the control unit, staggered one way, and then overcorrected, tripping over the unit and falling face first across the deck.
The bigger soldier, Broken Nose, dropped the launcher, picked up the heavy machine gun he had come aboard with, and laid down a blindingly bright fan of tracer fire, following the fastboat’s circling path.
Sparks of light shot up from the boat, something bursting into flame, but it stayed on course, return fire coming from an enclosed section of the stern. Broken Nose stumbled back, lowering his gun, taking a few shots to his body armor. He straightened, hefted the machine gun higher, and leaned forward, bracing one leg back to take the recoil. Then his head came apart, a sloppy burst of thick wet chunks scattered across the Marcene’s long deck. He swayed forward, dropping the gun. A rolling loss of muscle control started at the stump of his neck, arms swinging limp at his sides, and then his body folded into a dark, bleeding tumble of limbs on the deck.
Running at full, they were still a mile from international water with the second fastboat sweeping in, matching speed. There was smoke pouring out of something amidships, but it apparently didn’t affect its engines or steering. Wilraven had the binoculars up, trying to recognize crew numbers, guns, hull shape, or any kind of marker or insignia. Nothing came through clearly in the dark, and the few winking lights from the equipment he had spotted earlier had been shut down or were part of the burning section.
“Point seven five miles, Cap.” shouted Angelo from the bridge.
Wilraven crouched and made his way back to the observer windows showing a clear view—except for the bullet holes—of Marcene’s stern. Wilraven stood up against the glass, binoculars to his eyes, tracking the fastboat’s approach. The boat was dark, had some dazzle stripes, but there was enough contrast against the black sea and the long threads of white foam the Marcene was throwing off.
The boat slid across the waves, right up on Marcene’s portside. “Fuck, they’re going to try to get close. Don’t know if they can board at this speed. Not without sliding back along the side at the stern and running in our wake.”
As if following his suggestions the fastboat cut speed slightly, dropping through the angles of white coming off Marcene, just visible in the night and against the dark sea. That was exactly what they were going to try.
Motion along the top of the orange shipping container on the portside caught Wilraven’s eye, but there was no way someone could have jumped the gap between the vessels.
Bringing the binocs closer, in toward the structure, he spotted Levesgue. The soldier had climbed on top of the container with what looked like Broken Nose’s machine gun. He was standing, feet braced apart, swinging the gun on its shoulder strap toward the attacking craft.
Levesgue cut loose with the big machine gun, flashes of pale light carving up the night. The fastboat swung into the Marcene’s side and skipped away, hopping over the crests of the wake. He followed it with another burst, cutting across the boat a third of the way up from the stern, splatters of light where rounds struck home; a chaotic gush of flame leapt from blown-open windows, glowing through a canvas covering the pilot controls.
Wilraven followed the boat’s course, someone amid the flames fighting the heat for the wheel—and losing. The fastboat pivoted starboard, caught the high edge of Marcene’s wake and flipped end over end, spilling loose gear, weaponry, and crew into the pitch-dark water.
“We’re in international water,” shouted Angelo
from the bridge. “No sign of these guys up here. What are you seeing, Cap?”
Wilraven lowered the binoculars to the orange shipping container just as Levesgue slid wearily down the side, tossing the gun down. Through the scope, the captain followed him toward the stern, where he found the bodies of Cowboy and Broken Nose. Without ceremony, he dragged each to the rails and shoved them over the side. Royce came up then and got a finger-jabbing barrage of shouting from Levesgue. Then Royce sullenly picked up the pieces of Broken Nose’s skull and other parts and tossed them into the sea. Levesgue strode back to where he had dumped the machine gun, dropping into a seated position. He leaned his head back against the steel.
The captain set the binoculars down and made his way to the bridge. “First, let’s head to the Irabarren.” He had assumed Angelo had not plotted a course directly back the way they had come, not wanting to lure the enemy to the crane platform as well—and he was right.
Angelo frowned, adjusted the course after a glance at the nav. “What happened, Cap?”
Wilraven fell heavily into his chair, slouched down a little, his body suddenly drained of energy. “Levesgue got them. They killed both the new soldiers, the big guy with the broken nose and the other cowboyish one.” Figuring his first wanted more details, he drew a deep breath and went on. “Levesgue finished the job, took out the second boat—it was close for a bit. Looked like they wanted to board. Royce is down there, too, taking orders from him. No surprise there.”
Angelo just nodded, keeping his eyes on the windows, with an occasional scan of the screens. The Marcene pushed on, the even hum of her engines reaching into Wilraven’s thoughts and sorting them out. The running engines calmed him. It made everything appear normal for each new moment that went by, and he could let it all run without thinking about the death and pain of the last week. Minutes passed, and no sign of Levesgue.
The Irabarren’s lights in the distance caught his focus and brought it all crashing down.
