by Tony Bulmer
the walls of his office—smiling, suntanned faces, all leaning in together for picture frame posterity; cute, well-‐fed kids in college clothes and a wife who looked like a part time schoolteacher and full-‐time heroine in the home front trenches. This was the kind of mom who baked cookies and made matching Halloween costumes for all the family. The kind of woman who liked family BBQs and Thanksgiving roasts and made personal sacrifices of every kind just to keep life in the Mālama household running happy and smooth.
Karyn knew she would never have those things.
Her life at the Agency had taken care of that.
The knowledge made her feel dead inside.
Even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t, Karyn picked up her iPhone once again and flipped through screens, searching for Carly to see what she was up to.
52
The Pacific As Kellerman climbed the stairs to the bridge, she knew that with each step she took she was heading closer to certain death. As soon as Kim and his band of surly faced fanatics had achieved their goals, they would have no further use for the Nautilus or her crew. A voice in her head began a tireless mantra—Do you want to die now, or later? With every footstep she made, the voice grew louder. If she lunged backwards, she might just be able to time the move right and crash into Kim with all her weight, knock him off balance, maybe even knock him down the stairs if she got lucky—then, perhaps she could grab hold of him and wrestle away his pistol, or push him over the precipitous gangway leading down to the forward deck? Sure, the guard behind would unleash his AK-‐47, but the gangway was tight, not the kind of narrow little space you would want to fire a machine gun, especially if your Captain was directly in front of you. Do you want to die now or later? The mantra grew ever louder, until Kellerman could bare it no more.
She gave a groan, raising a hand to her head, as though an overwhelming pressure prevented her from moving even one more step forwards. Kim cursed, moving closer, to shove her forwards, but in the very moment Kellerman felt his hand make contact with her shoulder, she turned quickly, spinning her elbow hard. It was a wild moment but she got lucky, making contact just below Kim’s collarbone. She had been aiming for
his head, but the move was so tightly timed, she was pleased that she made contact at all. The shock and surprise of the attack caught Kim completely off guard. Kellerman barged into him, with all her weight. As she connected, she smelled his halitosis breath wafting over her face. He staggered backwards, his arms wind-‐milling as he struggled to regain his balance. But it was no use he tumbled backwards, bouncing down the stairs, before landing heavily on the second level landing. Kim’s slight little frame was no match for the impact, his head bounced on the floor, like it was going to pop clear of his shoulders. Kellerman landed next, sprawling heavily on top of his skinny little body in a way that made her want to heave.
She looked up. Mr. Screechy stood over her, his eyes wide, his thin jaw hanging open like he was lost for words. His AK-‐47 was pointed low, a random trajectory, but deadly none-‐the-‐less. If he unloaded now in the confined space, the ricochets would scythe though the air like bomb shrapnel and he would likely kill them all. Kellerman sprawled on the floor trying to raise her self. She knew she was covered in grime and oil and gun smoke, but she batted her eyelashes at the guard just the same. Mr. Screechy was beginning to come around now, his mind finally processing the unfolding events. With wide eyes, he swung the rifle up and squawked out to his comrades so they might run to his assistance. Kellerman’s fingers scrabbled desperately on the floor. She threw the guard a bashful smile and said, “Ooops, I am terribly sorry. It was an accident, you know that don’t you?” Again the guard squawked with alarm.
Kellerman’s fingers connected. She found what she was looking for, and she didn’t waste another second. She raised Kim’s pistol and started firing. It was only a little pistol, a nine millimeter at the most. She held the gun high and kept pumping the trigger, until the magazine ran empty. Mr. Screechy went down on his knees, his horrible devilish eyes popping wider and wider, until it seemed as though his wretched soul was been drawn out of his body through his contorted face. The AK went off, riding upwards, as a wide, arcing muzzle flash consuming everything in its path. Bullets cut the air. Kellerman dived low, trying to put Kim’s slight body between her and the scything bullets. As she pressed her face against the hard metal floor, the rearing machine gun pulled free of the guard’s dead fingers and clattered to the floor.
Her ears still ringing from the gunfire, Kellerman didn’t pause, even for a short moment. Soon the other guards would arrive. There would be too many for her to handle alone. She had to go back below and release the crew. Maybe that way she would be able to even up the odds a little—a fighting chance was better than no chance at all. She snatched up the AK-‐47 and rummaged through the fallen guards pockets, until she found three magazines. That amount of ammo would last no time at all, but it was better than nothing. She snapped a fresh magazine into the weapon, and headed back down the stairs. She didn’t get far. A commotion was gathering below, the sound of angry shouts and feet pounding towards her. Kellerman took a quick glance over the edge of the gangway to the deck below—more running figures than she could count and one man staring back up
at her, along the barrel of a rifle. As soon as he caught sight of her, he opened up on full-‐auto. She fell back behind the metal gangway but it offered little protection against the heavy penetrating rounds. Bullets cut into the superstructure, whistling and clattering and tearing through anything that blocked their path.
Kellerman scooched back on her ass, moving against the far edge of the stairwell, she couldn’t stay here, she was out numbered by a wide margin and her enemies knew exactly where she was. She had to make a move, or she would be dead in minutes. There was no going back the way she had come, so her plan to release the prisoners would have to wait, at least for the moment. But where else could she go? If she moved upstairs into the bridge, she might buy herself a few precious minutes at the most. But then she would be trapped, surrounded on all sides by hostiles hungering for her blood. Hell, if only she had thought this through, maybe then she would have gotten herself the chance of an out. Kellerman took a deep breath. She felt anger rushing through her, pumping faster with every second. There was no way she was going to die like this. These bastards had taken over her ship. Not only that, they had shot Captain Álvares, murdered Jennings and Scotty Gehringer, and blown away that cranky assed boozehound Buchanan as well. Man she missed that guy. Kellerman almost couldn’t believe she was admitting such a thing, but that big ugly looking dope had been kind of fun to be around— even if he was an insufferable prick at times. The anger surged, filling her head with an adrenaline rush so powerful she could barely stand it. If she
was going to die, she
wouldn’t go out cowering in a stinking bullet-‐riddled stair well, she would go out like Buchanan, with the roar of gunfire ringing through every part of her being. Kellerman stood up then, angled her AK-‐47 over the edge of the gantry and let rip. She held tight to the stock of the weapon as it roared and blazed and bucked wildly, like some demon possessed. She kept the barrel moving, hosing the deck below with a hail of bullets. As the magazine ran dry and the last smoking cartridge cases fell down around her feet, Kellerman made a break for it, hobbling up the staircase just as fast as her bruised and battered body would allow. She nearly tripped over the corpse of the guard she had shot only minutes before. He wasn’t going anywhere, but Captain Kim it seemed was—he was dazed for sure—but struggling to regain his composure. He stared at her, his thin, coal-‐black eyes struggling to draw focus, as his pale fish-‐belly skin glistened with perspiration. He grabbed for her, but Kellerman spun the rifle fast and cracked him hard in the middle of the forehead. The heavy wooden stock of the AK-‐47 carved an ugly red weal across Kim’s face and the impact sent him down like a ten-‐pin skittle. But Kellerman didn’t stop, she struggled onwards, climbing higher and higher.
A steady rattle of gunfire was crackling up the stairwell behind her now. The guards below were moving up one flight of stairs at a time, pausing at every corner to unleash a murderous hail of bullets. They weren’t taking any chances. Kellerman kept climbing, moving upwards more slowly now, as her lungs burned and her muscles screamed out for rest. There would be no rest, just
a jagged and brutal climax into total exhaustion— but she had to keep fighting—just had to, there was no way she could let these bastards win. She sagged against the handrail and gave a savage little laugh—if she was really going to die, she would take as many of these bastards with her as possible. She turned and sent two short bursts rattling down the stair well. That would give them something to think about—let them know she was still in the game.
Kellerman caught her breath, and popped the last magazine into her weapon. Maybe, if she made it to the bridge, she could get an emergency SOS out over the radio? Help if it came would be too late to save her, but there was a chance that the rest of the crew might get lucky. If they barricaded themselves into the mess hall, they might just be able to hold out long enough—a slim hope, but it was all she had. As her head swirled under a barrage of thoughts, she heard the renewed clatter of footsteps on the stairs, approaching fast and with more confidence now. Soon they would be upon her. Kellerman cocked her weapon, and headed up the final flight, to the bridge. As she turned the corner, there was a man waiting for her, he was poised at a half crouch, his weapon ready to fire. When he saw her, he opened up immediately and didn’t stop until he had cycled through the full 30 round box. At a hundred rounds a minute on full auto an AK-‐47 cycles through a full magazine of ammo in seconds. Kellerman danced back behind the steel bulkhead and closed her eyes. She didn’t mean to close her eyes, it just happened that way, like she was following some kind of God given impulse, a preordained directive guaranteeing her
survival. The firing stopped momentarily. Kellerman moved out of her hiding place, with her gun leveled. The thug at the wheelhouse door was fumbling with a fresh magazine, trying
unsuccessfully to snap it into his weapon. When he saw Kellerman standing there, his eyes opened wide with panic. He threw the heavy rifle towards her and turned heel, disappearing through the door that led to the bridge.
Moving forwards with quick steps, Kellerman hurried after him, moving through the door to the bridge. The place was a real mess, the floor covered with blood and a thick carpet of cartridge cases. And standing amongst the detritus, at the point where Captain Álvares usually kept watch, the gunman turned to face her, his dark eyes bulging crazily. “You are going to die American.” He gave a reckless laugh like that newsflash statement gave him a great deal of satisfaction.
Kellerman said nothing, just kept coming with her rifle held high and ready.
“You kill me it doesn’t matter. You lost already.” He gave a smug little smile his sticky little hands half raised, in a sign of capitulation. The dude looked kind of jumpy, like a guilty conscience gang member caught red-‐handed.
Kellerman paused, keeping the rifle high.
“You let me go now, or hold me prisoner? What’s it going to be, bitch? When my friends get here, we will carve you up good.” He laughed again, a sick perverted laugh, that gave Kellerman the chills. He stopped laughing quick and reached behind his back.
The AK went off loud and explosive. A short burst at close range that rolled the gunman off his
feet and sent him spinning across the floor. Kellerman looked down at the corpse. Buchanan had been right, automatic weapons can make a real mess of a person. A feeling of revulsion swept through her. Then, she saw his snub nosed automatic on the floor identical to the one Captain Kim had been carrying. He would have shot her for sure. She turned away. Not pausing for a moment longer, Kellerman set to work. She slammed the door leading to the stairwell and shot the bolt. Next, she made a fast assessment of the ships electrical systems. Everything was down,
navigation, satcoms, the works. She reached into the junction box and flipped the breakers. Sparks arced out of the navigation consul and a handful of breakers snapped back into the off position—but the satcom rig was still live. Kellerman popped the SOS beacon switch, and picked up the radio hand set, dialing into the international emergency channel. She flipped transmit and spoke in a cracked tone that sounded so unlike her own voice she surprised herself.
Then the banging started.
The pirates were outside the door. Dead static on the radio.
An angry fusillade of gunshots bouncing
against the door.
More dead static.
Kellerman repeated her message, speaking
into the radio handset with more urgency now, detailing position coordinates, and course, “This is NOAA research vessel Nautilus, we have been taken over by armed men, SOS I repeat SOS.” She pressed the receive button.
There was a long pause, as the static played back across the dead air. Then a hard serious voice cut through the distortion, “This is NESDIS Data center in Silver Spring Maryland, We are receiving you Nautilus over.”
“You’ve got to send help, send it now, our situation is desperate, repeat desperate, the ship has been taken over by hostiles, all hands dead or captured, I am the last hold out against the attack, but I don’t know how much longer I will be able to fight them off…”
Again, the dead static hiss engulfed the room.
Kellerman threw the handset down and stepped back against the wheel consul. They had either heard her message or they hadn’t and either way it was too late. Soon they would be through the door. By the time help arrived, her future would be certain. Kellerman raised the AK-‐47 and stood read
y. She flipped the selector to fully automatic. When those bastards finally broke through the door, they would be in for one hell of a shock.
The banging continued—multiple metallic objects bouncing against the outside rim of the door, like they were trying to smash it off its hinges with sledgehammers.
Kellerman felt the cold chill of perspiration running out of every pore in her body. She adjusted the grip on the AK. Her fingers were hot and clammy. She caressed the edge of the trigger guard with her index finger and took a deep breath to keep the jitters at bay. It was no use—the suspense was so excruciating, every part of her being screamed out in protest.
Then, an explosion outside, a blast so loud and unexpected she staggered backwards, as the pressure wave buckled the door and sent broken cracks arcing across the heavy reinforced windows on the side of the bridge.
There was a long reverberating pause. The banging had stopped.
Finally, as Kellerman stood ready with her
finger balancing on the trigger of her weapon, the giant door swung open. Smoke shrouded daylight filtered slowly into the room.
A head emerged around the corner of the doorframe.
“So what in the wild-‐tarnation are you waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Buchanan!”
“Who in the hell do you think it would be, the Dali Lama?” A short burst of gunfire erupted from the deck below, then another. Bullets bounced off the side of the bridge and went whining off into the distance. “Would you stop gaping? We have got to get out of here and now.” Buchanan dropped the rocket propelled grenade launcher on to the floor of the bridge and unslung his M16.”
