The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  Jonah grabbed for the nearest of the two spear guns and fired. The rebar spear flew true at first, then spun, lost aerodynamics and dropped into the water.

  Not good, thought Jonah. He would have liked to see a pirate kabob. He wished Klea really had had the opportunity to test the spear guns, work out the kinks. He handed it to Fatima for a reload but the surgical tubing was already shredded from the single shot.

  Fearing ricochets, the pirates stopped firing and massed around the rear of the Horizon, dangerously close. They were about to be overrun.

  Out of the darkness, the Scorpion burst into view, a dark shape charging from behind at flank speed. The massive conning tower slammed into a skiff, tossing it aside like a toy. The other pirate skiffs bounced and knocked into each other trying to get away as the Scorpion smashed into the center of the pack like Moby Dick, scattering their numbers.

  The submarine slid up next to the Horizon, just off the port side of the yacht. If they were two tall ships three hundred years ago, they’d be trading broadsides and musket fire. Dr. Nassiri climbed out of the hatch at the top of the conning tower and signaled to Jonah. Behind them, the pirates attempted to regroup, falling back as they assessed the unexpected threat. Vitaly had put on a masterful performance of navigation.

  Dr. Nassiri threw a sling rope over to Jonah.

  My mother, he mouthed, unheard over the din of engines and waves.

  “Fatima, get over here!” shouted Jonah as bullets cracked and whizzed past him, sling in his hand.

  The professor crawled out of the rear hatchway and froze, not trusting her balance against the rolling waves.

  “Now, goddamn it!” screamed Jonah. “We’re running out of time!”

  “I … I can’t!” shouted Fatima, her knuckles white as she crouched as the edge of the fantail.

  “Get your ass over here!” shouted Jonah, too distracted in his anger to see the stitch of automatic weapons fire dance up the deck towards him. Fatima sprang forward, crossing the deck with incredible speed. She struck Jonah just below his waist, driving him to the ground as three rounds whistled inches above his prone body. Glaring at the professor, Jonah lassoed her with the sling, putting it underneath her backside like a painter’s seat. He instructed her to hold onto the rope as tightly as she could.

  Behind them, the pirates watched the transfer and recognized it for what it was—vulnerability. Their reduced fleet surged forward just as Horizon hit the submarine’s bow wake.

  Fatima lost her balance, almost dropping into the ocean as Dr. Nassiri and Alexis strained at the rope to pull her up. She swung across the gap between the speeding vessels, slamming into the side of the submarine’s conning tower with hands outstretched as the doctor and Alexis braced against the weighted rope.

  Two enterprising skiffs beached themselves at the back end of the Scorpion, disgorging nearly a dozen pirates. They ran forward, trying to reach Fatima and the conning tower. Alexis and Dr. Nassiri made one last pull, yanking Fatima over the lip of the conning tower. The hatch slammed shut just as the pirates scaled the exterior boarding ladder. The Scorpion was a superior potential prize to the recapture of the wounded Horizon.

  Klea ran out to the fantail, just in time to see the Scorpion crash-dive into the water, shaking off the few pirates still clinging to the conning tower and leaving them to tumble into the foamy wake. The Scorpion was gone.

  “Should have seen that coming,” said Jonah. The Scorpion wouldn’t be able to surface again, not now. Jonah and Klea were on their own. There were too many pirates, too close. And Dr. Nassiri had already gotten everything he wanted.

  “I’ve put the Horizon on autopilot,” said Klea. “But we don’t have much of this speed left in us and we won’t be able to maneuver.”

  “We’ll be overrun soon,” said Jonah, his gaze faraway.

  As if his declaration carried with it the weight of providence, the pirates massed again, ready for their final assault. They wouldn’t be after a prize now. They’d be after revenge.

  Enjoy the show, you self-serving fuck, thought Jonah. Dr. Nassiri and everyone else aboard the Scorpion could probably see everything from their periscope. That goddamn, rat-bastard doctor.

  Klea looked at Jonah, angry tears streaming down her cheeks. She wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. Jonah watched as she grabbed mine after mine, flicking each switch in turn and throwing them overboard. Only one hit, splintering the entire side of a pirate skiff and throwing the crew into the water. But the rest kept coming.

  The young woman pulled out the last mine, a large bottle of propane with a volatile primer charge. She prepared to throw it over, but Jonah caught her arm and took it from her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jonah. “There’s just too many of them.”

  Without warning, Jonah threw the mine into the main cabin of the Horizon. The interior of the experimental yacht exploded, sending fragments of carbon fiber, metal shrapnel and burning fuel arcing through the air. Jonah held Klea in his arms, protecting her with his body against the searing wave of heat as she fought him, kicking, elbowing, punching, and screaming.

  The blast transformed the Horizon into a flaming torch, a single tall pillar of fire licking upwards with blistering temperature. It was all the distraction Jonah needed. He kicked a plastic self-inflating raft overboard, held Klea in his arms, and dropped into the narrow space between the external pontoon and the main body of the yacht.

  The two tumbled in a whirlwind of ocean foam, black, moonlight sky, motion and intense cold. Jonah didn’t let go of Klea, didn’t relax his grip for a moment. A propeller slashed against his arm, leaving a deep, clean cut as it churned past. Klea tried to swim up, tried to reach the surface, but Jonah pushed her deeper as multiple pirate skiffs cut through the water above their heads, still chasing the burning yacht.

  Klea bucked and twitched, her body forcing her to suck seawater into her lungs as the last skiff flew by overhead. Jonah finally dragged her to the surface just before the last flicker of life left her body.

  She popped her head out of the ocean, choking and spitting. Jonah wordlessly pointed to the inflated life raft. She followed and they both swam towards it. In front of them, the tailing pirate skiff slowed and broke formation, returning to inspect the raft.

  Jonah willed the pirates to investigate the raft rather than just shooting it up. With luck, it’d look like one more piece of debris thrown free by the explosion. Jonah and Klea hid behind the raft as the pirate skiff slowly circled. Both ducked under the water as it slowly passed by. Moments later, the engine roared up to full pitch and the skiff sped away, satisfied the raft was empty.

  Klea clambered in first, assisted by Jonah’s steady hand. Now alone in an unforgiving sea, Jonah and Klea watched wordlessly as the flaming hulk of the Horizon disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dr. Nassiri watched from the periscope as the burning Horizon vanished into the distance like a Viking funeral pyre, remaining pirate skiffs chasing closely behind. It was fitting, in a way. The doctor tried to rationalize the probable outcome of events as an honorable death, but suspected Jonah would have preferred not to die at all.

  His mother stood behind him, silently clutching her wrist. The doctor felt cheated; there was no laughter, no tears of joy, no grateful embrace. Just a lonely ship vanished into the night, chased by murderous outlaws.

  Dr. Nassiri shook his head and stepped away from the periscope. The Scorpion couldn’t catch up, not while running submerged on battery power. The hit-from-behind trick was a card they could only play once.

  The doctor looked at the assembled refugees standing in the cramped command compartment. His mother to his left, leaning up against the interior boarding ladder to the conning tower. Vitaly at the pilot’s console, his drugged eyes sunken with pain. Alexis, standing at the hatchway between the engine room and the command compartment.

  He realized with immense discomfort that they were looking to him for orders. The idea bothered him.
Jonah was a natural, albeit reluctant leader. Dr. Nassiri didn’t want the role or the weight of command.

  “They’re gone,” said Dr. Nassiri. Vitaly nodded gravely and Alexis buried her face in her hands. Fatima looked down and away, her face heavy with shame.

  It wasn’t your fault, thought the doctor. There would be time to comfort her later.

  “What happened?” asked Alexis.

  “I don’t know,” said Dr. Nassiri. “There was a massive explosion aboard the Horizon. I doubt it was survivable. Complicating matters, the pirates are still in pursuit and we can’t match their speed without exposing ourselves.”

  “The pirates told us they’d kill us if we tried to escape,” said Fatima.

  “They could have been just threatening, bluffing—” began Alexis.

  “And what exactly would you know about that?” interrupted Fatima. “It wasn’t just a threat. They only kept us alive because they believed Islam forbade the murder of Muslim women.”

  “Klea deserved a better end to her sufferings.”

  “So did Jonah Blackwell,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Your erstwhile rescuer.”

  “If nobody ask,” said Vitaly. “I ask. Now what?”

  Dr. Nassiri set his hand on Vitaly’s shoulder and glanced down. A large, angry splotch of red seeped from the Russian’s chest. He’d broken his stiches.

  “Back to your bunk,” ordered Dr. Nassiri. “Now.”

  “Chto za huy!” swore Vitaly, looking down at the spreading stain. “New shirt ruined.”

  “Let’s find another one,” said Dr. Nassiri, helping him to his feet.

  The doctor walked the Russian to the bunk beds in the compartment just forward of command and helped him lie down. Taking a pair of scissors from a side table, the doctor cut off the shirt, exposing the two wounds. Several of the stiches had indeed separated, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Vitaly was healing quite well, all things considered. The mere fact that he was no longer in danger of slipping into shock at any moment represented significant progress.

  “We still do bracelets?” asked Vitaly, motioning towards the handcuffs on the side of the bunk.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dr. Nassiri. “But you must wear the manacles when you’re in your bunk.”

  Vitaly was getting stronger every day; the cuffs were no longer an unnoticed nuisance in the dreamlike twilight of medicated sleep.

  They must be maddening to wear, thought Dr. Nassiri.

  Time to give Vitaly his shot of painkillers. The doctor hoped they didn’t need a skilled navigator, at least not for the next four or five hours. Alexis was passable, but of course didn’t know the complicated array of systems to the same degree as Vitaly. It was just like medical school. Some used a scalpel like an artist’s brush, others like a child’s crayon. During her first few tries, Alexis “porpoised” the Scorpion, diving, pulling up, diving again, up, down, up, down until Jonah had finally relieved her of duty.

  Dr. Nassiri filled his syringe from a tiny bottle of refrigerated painkiller. He tapped it and squeezed a little, freeing two tiny air pocket from the body of the instrument. He went to administer the shot but Vitaly caught his wrist to stop him.

  “You must know,” he said. “I am in your debt. This very important for Russians.”

  “And I’m in your debt,” said Dr. Nassiri in the same soft voice he reserved for all his patients. “You single-handedly saved this vessel.”

  “Not same,” said Vitaly. “My comrades of the Scorpion. And myself. We came to kill you. I could lie, I could say Vitaly protest, Vitaly never know real mission. But none of this true. I must tell truth. We came to give you no chance to fight, no chance for life. You and your crew, you fight, you win. And you still save me.”

  Dr. Nassiri didn’t know what to say. He let the silence hang over both men.

  “I treated you because I needed you,” began Dr. Nassiri. “I needed you to pilot this vessel. Many men died that day. You almost died that day.”

  “No!” Vitaly’s eyes were bright. “You save me because you save people. You save your mother. You save me. And I think you will save Jonah.”

  “From prison?” asked Dr. Nassiri. “Because I helped him escape from prison?”

  “No,” said Vitaly. “I think you save Jonah now.”

  “He’s gone, Vitaly,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And I don’t understand why you’d say that. He nearly killed you.”

  Vitaly scowled, growing frustrated with the doctor, trying to communicate a point that was simply not received.

  “Shot now please,” Vitaly finally said. “Very much pain.”

  Dr. Nassiri nodded and stuck him with the syringe, delivering the powerful painkillers deep into the Russian’s arm. Vitaly’s eyes fluttered and closed. The doctor sighed and placed his palm on the young man’s chest, willing healing energy into the Russian’s broken body.

  Hearing a noise from behind, Dr. Nassiri turned away from the bunk to see his mother standing behind him, still holding her wrist. He vaguely remembered her reaching out with the same hand to brace herself as she slammed into the conning tower.

  “I … I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

  “Nonsense, let me take a look,” said Dr. Nassiri. He took his mother’s hand in his, and gently probed with his fingers. “Does this hurt?”

  “Very badly,” said Fatima through gritted teeth.

  “You have a fractured wrist,” he said. “Normally I would order an x-ray to make certain there are no misalignments. I’m afraid we do not have that luxury.”

  Dr. Nassiri directed his mother to sit in a nearby chair as he dug through the medical kit to find an adjustable splint and bandages. It wouldn’t be a proper cast, but it’d have to serve as one for the foreseeable future.

  “What have you uncovered?” asked Fatima. “What do you know about the red tide?”

  “Too little,” admitted Dr. Nassiri. “We’ve been forced to react to circumstances as they arise. I thought you dead—we were attacked by this very submarine and forced to capture it to survive. It was only then I discovered your incarceration in the pirate encampment.”

  “Charles Bettencourt is the key to everything,” said Fatima. “Who else could deploy an anti-aircraft missile in the middle of the ocean such as that? Too sophisticated for pirates, that much was certain. I believe I know why he wanted to silence me, wanted to kill us all.”

  “You speak of your research?”

  “I do,” said Fatima. “I have a theory on the Horn of Africa red tide, the de-oxygenated waters that have decimated sea life in this ocean. The spectrometer readings left little doubt. It’s such a shame that all that beautiful data is now rotting on the bottom of the ocean. I saw … something … before we were hit.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know for certain. But I think it was the first concrete evidence of the Dead Hand.”

  “The what?”

  The professor sighed. “A thing too terrible to exist,” she finally said.

  Dr. Nassiri formed the metal and foam splint and carefully arranged it around his mother’s wrist, wrapping it with bandages. He finished his work by gently pinching the tips of her fingers, ensuring that he hadn’t inadvertently cut off any capillary blood flow.

  “This is unfortunate,” said Dr. Nassiri. “But I believe your research is irretrievable at this time, perhaps forever. The transponder has stopped communicating and we have reason to believe the submerged crash site is guarded. To attempt to reach it would invite ambush. We are in no position to defend ourselves with Jonah gone.”

  Crestfallen, Dr. Nassiri realized he’d almost said with Jonah dead. He cleared his throat.

  “Tell me what you found,” he continued. “Tell me what you know definitively, and what you surmise.”

  “I believe my research represented the final piece of the puzzle,” said Fatima. “I’d suspected dumping of biological and radiological waste from medical facilities throughout Europe. It’s known that elements
of organized crime control this practice, and have so for nearly thirty years. Even if legitimate institutions are paid to deal with the waste, it’s cheaper to subcontract the task to criminals and take the difference in straight profit. After all, Somalia is the last coastal region on earth without some type of navy.”

  “So this is it? The dumping of medical waste? All of this death, all of this destruction—over that?”

  Fatima shook her head. “Hardly,” she answered. “That would only explain a fraction of what I saw.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Ten years ago, a rumor began circulating throughout the halls of oceanographers and marine biologists. It still chills me to think about, a nightmare one hoped some small pang of conscious would have prevented its conception or smothered it at birth.” Fatima sighed and stretched out her fingers, touching her simple cast. “In the mid-1980s, the Soviet Union had a dilemma,” she continued. “American president Ronald Reagan introduced his plan for a missile shield, terrestrial and space-based technologies that would render Soviet missiles useless. It would give the Americans the ability strike first then swat any Soviet retaliation from the sky. Unable to compete with the sudden advancement in American nuclear and missile technology, Soviet strategists discussed other means of ensuring the survival of the communist experiment.”

  “What did they do?” asked Dr. Nassiri in a hushed tone.

  “They created the Dead Hand,” said Fatima with a wry, sad smile. “The Kremlin called it Mertvaya Ruka, the hand from the grave. It ensured that even upon total destruction of the Soviet state, the military would retain the fully automated ability to strike back with the most virulent plagues and poisons, borne not by missiles, but by sleeper agents and unmanned drones. This was the game, to find some way to rebalance the powers, perhaps even give the Soviets some distinctive edge.”

  “Were there not treaties? Something to prevent such horrors?”