Watersleep

by James Axler

  The man at the end of the walkway thumbed a comm button and spoke into a walkie-talkie he wore on a belt around his waist.

  "Both of the visitors are now awake," he said into the device. "The sedatives kept them under for the forty-eight hours, as you requested."

  "I had research to do," a resonant bass voice re­sponded. "I'll be right there."

  WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, Krysty's ploy had succeeded in getting her door opened. Two men entered.

  One was the same who had first heard her and used the comm unit. The man was now wearing a vest adorned with an array of small gadgets and ammu­nition. He was carrying an AK-47 in one beefy hand, and Krysty had no doubt the man knew how to use it.

  The second person to enter the room was the one the sec man summoned, obviously a leader from the dress and demeanor. The man was well built, large and handsome in a self-assured way.

  "Ah, our mermaid has come back to us. How do you feel, my dear?'' the lead man asked in a profes­sional tone.

  "Thirsty," Krysty rasped.

  "I imagine so. You've been unconscious for nearly two days."

  "Two days?" Krysty cried.

  "You were given a sedative when you arrived. It was decided complete bed rest was the best cure for your ordeal."

  A third man came into the room carrying a metal tray. On the tray was a plastic pitcher of water and a matching cup.

  "This isn't the finest in wine, but I think water is what you need to get into your system now," the leader said.

  For a fleeting second, Krysty wondered if any drugs might have been added to the water, but then discarded the thought. If that was true, so be it. So far, no one had harmed her. In fact, it looked as though they only wanted to help.

  The orderly poured a cupful of the water and handed it to the seated Krysty, who quickly drank its contents. A second cup was poured and given to the redhead with the admonishment that she should sip or she'd make herself sick drinking so fast. Sound advice. Krysty sipped as the orderly set down the tray and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Leaving Krysty and the two men together.

  She felt suddenly vulnerable without her familiar weapons and clothing, but quashed the feeling. Still, there was a hint of the unknown here that made her feel uneasy.

  No one offered assistance without expecting some sort of payment.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "They call me the Admiral. My chosen name is Poseidon. You may address me as 'Admiral' or 'Sir.' I'm the senior officer here at Kings Point," the man said, smiling and enjoying the sounds of his rich bass voice. "Now, it's my turn. Who are you?"

  "Krysty Wroth." There was no reason not to be honest.

  He smiled when he heard the name. "You're a very lucky woman, Miss Wroth," Poseidon said. "If my submarine hadn't come along when it did, you would most certainly have drowned."

  "Submarine?" Krysty had heard of such devices, but had never seen one.

  "Aye, that's what I am truly, a submarine com­mander."

  It seemed unreal for a man to be inside an under­water wag, and Krysty expressed the opinion verbally to Poseidon.

  "Beneath the ocean at a certain depth, the activities of the surface world become meaningless," he re­plied. "We were passing by and then, the next thing I know, bodies were showing up on sonar."

  "I owe you a life debt of thanks," she said. She still had a suspicious feeling about her self-proclaimed benefactor, but if what he said was true, then she was beholden to him.

  "Not at all. Picking you up safely is part of my responsibilities as watchman of the sea."

  Krysty took another sip of the lukewarm water. There was a question she had been dancing around, but she could no longer resist. She had to ask. She had to know.

  "Where's Ryan?"

  "Your companion? He's across the hall. Would you like to see him?"

  Krysty felt twenty pounds of worry drop away from her body. She was still suspicious of how polite everyone was being, but she had no choice except to play along for now. Perhaps Ryan could help shed some light on what was going on in this place.

  "Yes, I would. Please," she said, nodding.

  Poseidon gestured, and the sec man standing behind him exited. He returned in less than sixty sec­onds with the person the Admiral knew only as her "companion."

  When the pajama-clad Jak was presented to her, she tried hard to contain her disappointment. She was glad to see her friend, but had hoped that Ryan was the one they were talking about. Still, she knew the others—Doc, Mildred, J.B. and Dean, as well as Ryan—had to be around somewhere. Perhaps she and Jak had been the only two injured the night of the storm.

  "Hey, Krysty," Jak said easily. Too easily. Krysty knew from past experience that he was sizing up ev­erything and everybody in his field of vision.

  "Hello, Jak."

  "You okay?"

  "Never better. Got a lump on the back of my head, that's all."

  "Hair so big, helped protect you," Jak said, mak­ing a joke while continuing to take in the situation.

  Krysty was waiting to see when the others would be presented. Apparently that wasn't going to happen.

  "This is Jack? Jack Ryan?"

  "No, no, just Jak. Jak Lauren."

  "So his name isn't Ryan?" Poseidon said, gestur­ing at Jak.

  "No. I'm sorry. I was thinking of one of my… other companions.''

  "Too bad. One of my favorite fictional characters is named Jack Ryan," Poseidon said. "Course, he's not the striking picture you are, son. No offense."

  "Sure," Jak said, taking it very personally but not pressing the issue. There were no hidden throwing knives up the sleeves of the loose-fitting burgundy pajamas.

  "Where are my other friends?" Krysty demanded.

  "Other friends?" the Admiral pulled a perplexed expression onto his bearded face.

  "In the boat, where I fell from." Again Krysty remembered the explosion, the sensation of falling and nothingness. The boat had either run into some­thing in the storm, or a bomb or some kind of grenade had gone off in the hull.

  Or they had been hit by something on purpose.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Wroth. There were no other sur­vivors," the Admiral said

  .

  KRYSTY WASN'T BUYING the story Poseidon was sell­ing. If Ryan was truly dead, she would know it. The bond they shared went way beyond physical—it was mental and spiritual and even had a bit of mysticism mixed in. Thanks to her mutant abilities and height­ened awareness, both of which were returning to her faster and faster now that she was up and around, she just knew.

  Other than the blow to the head she'd suffered, Krysty had experienced no other wounds, to either the body or the soul. That's how she knew Ryan wasn't dead. If he had died, the result of his passing would be like having a baseball-sized chunk of her own insides ripped out.

  Still, the Admiral was in control of the situation.

  For now, Krysty and Jak were going to have to play along. Both were feeling better now that their clothing had been returned to them. "Freshly laundered," Po­seidon had announced. Krysty's long black fur coat was missing, but she really didn't mind for the time being. The weather outside was quite warm.

  She was told her coat, along with her Smith & Wesson and other personal effects, was in storage, to be returned when she was ready to leave. Jak was in the same predicament. His prized .357 Magnum Colt Python and assorted blades, including the hidden leaf-bladed knives, were also being held.

  "For safekeeping," Poseidon told them. "I wouldn't want you to be distracted from the tour."

  A second sec man with an AK-47 had joined the first one as Poseidon led Jak and Krysty out of the base hospital. Krysty was surprised at how well ev­erything was maintained—the walkways connecting the various buildings were clear, the grass—and there was plenty of it—was cut short. There were no broken windows or debris.

  At least, in this part of the base. Within her line of vision, buildings could be seen in much worse repair.
Poseidon pointed those out first.

  "In time, those will be restored. It's a miracle this installation survived at all. There was an error some­where that kept Kings Point from being pummeled with nuclear fire during the last dark days of the United States."

  He stopped and saluted a brightly colored red, white and blue American flag that was snapping above them. The flag was tethered to a white metal flagpole. The two sec men also saluted, but not as crisply or as intently as Poseidon. Both men kept watchful eyes on their "tour group."

  "We've got electric power for all of these sec­tions," Poseidon bragged as he walked them over to a long, high-domed building on the edge of the coast­line. "Armory, dormitory, briefing and tactical, hos­pital and, of course, the overlook arch for the sub­marine pens."

  As the group passed other men, Krysty noticed only a few in proper naval attire similar to what Po­seidon was wearing. Most were dressed in an amal­gam of various styles of salvaged clothing similar to her own. She spotted leather, denim, cotton and flan­nel. The men in the civilian garb were also a striking mix of faces and nationalities, whereas the ones in uniforms were all clean-cut, square-jawed white men.

  "Why some in fancy duds and others not?" Jak queried, echoing Krysty's thoughts.

  "Only enlisted men can attain rank and position," the Admiral replied. "They are the elite who have the sanctioned right to wear the colors and insignia of the naval corps. The others you see are hired security."

  "Grunts," Jak said. "Muscle."

  "Precisely. They are well paid to do exactly as I tell them, with the promise of going higher if they exhibit the type of mind and character I am seeking for my navy. My followers grow in number each day as word spreads about the opportunity I offer here. I'm constantly amazed at how many men and women are just looking for the chance to improve themselves. There's not much in the field of career opportunities in this day and age."

  The group entered the long building. Poseidon led the way down a flight of metal steps to the wide, half-enclosed areas open for docking ships or submarines.

  "This base was originally constructed in the old calendar year of 1979, during the declining years of the James Earl Carter administration. He worked up the base in grand style as a gift to his home state," Poseidon said. "Small and attractive, and as you can see, durable."

  "Carter must've been one double-powerful baron," Krysty said.

  "Not as strong as you think. He ruled for four years, then he was replaced with a new baron," Po­seidon replied. "His own people voted him out."

  "Voted?" Jak asked.

  "Um, threw him out. Fired him," Poseidon said.

  "Sounds more like a leader of a ville to me," Krysty said. Jak nodded agreement.

  "Don't use ignorance. This took place in the past, yet I still know it. History, you buffoons! Learn from the mistakes of others!" Poseidon rumbled. "I read this in a book in the base library. Most of the old texts were ruined, but one entire wall survived in readable condition, including a set of encyclopedias. Most illuminating."

  The Admiral gestured to a small, pale white sub­marine that had surfaced.

  "We have a single working minisub, the Moth, that comfortably holds a crew of eight but can accom­modate twelve if needed. This is the same craft that rescued you and Jack Ryan, Miss Wroth."

  "Lauren," Jak protested.

  "Whatever." Poseidon was playing the role of genial host to the best of his considerable ability, and Krysty had to credit the man's gift for gab. He was proud but not arrogant as he showed off his base, his men and his aquatic toys. Normally such a display would scream ego to her, since she'd been given the grand tour more than once by barons who quickly turned on her and her friends. Even the sec men were a familiar part of the routine.

  But at the same time, Poseidon seemed genuinely interested in her opinions and comments. What did she think? Did she like this or that?

  Jak wasn't as impressed. As he took in the white exterior tiles of the submarine, peering down over the rail at the tiny craft, he commented aloud, "Don't look like much."

  Krysty was curious as to how Poseidon would re­spond to the insult.

  The last thing she expected was laughter.

  "You're right, Lauren!" Poseidon said in a tone of fellowship that made Krysty feel he'd used Jak's proper name as a reward for amusing him. "Looks like an oblong cake of lye soap floating in a cast-iron tub! No, the Moth is only for short-range use, a sci­entific-exploration craft. Not military issue at all. The real-deal submarine is in another berth, and trust me when I say I think you will find it to be more im­pressive."

  As they stepped over to the sub he was discussing, both realized Poseidon had told the truth.

  "This is the USS Raleigh," Poseidon announced. "One of the elite of the nuclear warships of the world before skydark. She is a Los Angeles-class boat, thirty-three feet in diameter for the highest speed ca­pabilities—capable of passing thirty five knots when the reactor core is operating at full potential. She comes equipped with the BSY-1 combat system and the Mk 32 VLS system for vertical missile launch. Her hull is approximately three inches thick and com­posed of a vanadium and HY-80 high-tensile steel mix. She displaces an estimated 6,900 tons."

  The group of five stepped out on the gangplank on top of the massive submarine for a closer look at the lookout station.

  "Now are you impressed, Mr. Lauren?" Poseidon asked.

  Jak didn't answer as he peered down the front of the deadly steel cigar.

  "I'll take your silence as a yes," Poseidon said. "That ends the tour. I can't top the Raleigh."

  "Don't we get to go inside?" Krysty asked.

  "No, you do not. The interior of the boat is clas­sified." Poseidon nodded to one of the accompanying sec men. "Take our guests back to the ward."

  "I'd rather have something to eat," Krysty said. "I'm starved."

  "And you shall. But in your rooms."

  "Not in the cafeteria?" Krysty asked, trying to be as flirtatious as possible.

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Sounds like we're your prisoners," Jak said bluntly.

  "No, but you are my guests, and I always take care of my guests."

  Neither Jak nor Krysty particularly liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After the two muties disappeared, Ryan feared the worse.

  Perhaps he and the others were nothing more than a curiosity, five incredibly stupid outlanders baking and dying in the heat. How long could they last out there in the Lantic without food or drink? How long before they used their own weapons to ease the pain of the weaker ones?

  Ryan knew land was close by. J.B. had used his minisextant and confirmed that the coast of Georgia was within their grasp…with the boost of an outboard engine or a sail or even paddles for the bastard raft they were currently calling home. The storm couldn't have taken them that far off course.

  Suddenly the raft shifted and began to lurch for­ward.

  "I take back every bad thought I've been thinking about the fish man and his wife," Mildred announced, sliding to the right, then to the left as the raft shifted again. "I think we're getting a lift."

  "Those muties must be strong as horses if they're going to try and push us all the way in to shore," J.B. noted. "If that's what they're attempting to do."

  "What else could it be?" Mildred retorted. "This isn't the easiest way to go about trying to sink us."

  "We heading in the right direction, J.B.?" Ryan asked, shielding his eye and trying to scan the hori­zon.

  "I believe so. I'd have to do another reading to be sure, but land should be straight ahead."

  "What if they tear a hole in the raft?" Dean asked, shifting again as the raft surged forward a few more feet.

  "He's got a point," J.B. said. "Be easier to pull us with a rope."

  The Armorer took the coil he'd used back during the sinking of the Patch to secure Ryan in his frantic and futile search for Krysty and Jak. The lean man lashed one end of the l
ine to a hard plastic ring at the nose of the raft and dangled the other end down into the ocean.

  "Think they'll find it?" Dean asked.

  The answer came quickly as the rope went taut in J.B.'s callused hands.

  The jerking stopped, and they began to make smoother progress.

  Time passed. About every half hour or so, the rope would slacken and the raft would slow and come to a stop. Then, in less than ten minutes, after the muties had gotten their wind back, the trip would resume once more.

  All told, the journey took approximately three hours.

  The first thing Ryan and the others saw as they approached dry land was a windmill, rotating slowly from a perch high atop a meshlike latticing of scav­enged wood and metal. The fan blades of the wind­mill were painted a serene deep blue, much darker than the azure of the afternoon sky.

  As they came closer to the shore, more windmills were revealed to their line of sight, smaller ones join­ing the first, all shapes and sizes. There were dozens of the rickety-looking support structures, each one with a bladed wheel on top, each wheel turning easily in the stiff breeze coming in from the sea. Some of the contraptions shared the same color of blue as the tallest one they had seen first; others were painted in warmer colors, such as red and yellow. Amusingly enough, a few were adorned with a shocking coat of pink.

  A shambling maze of wooden steps led down into the mass of windmills from a dock located at the wa­ter's edge. Ryan saw no other boats or seaworthy crafts. In fact, there was no transportation to be seen at all.

  They were now close enough to hear the creaking of the windmills as their blades turned in the breeze.

  "Bless my befuddled soul, but we are in Holland," Doc muttered as he got his first real look at the com­munity of windmills. The old man was still in a semi-state of delirium. "Wooden shoes for everybody, I insist! Tulips of all hues for the taking. Once, tulips were as valuable as precious metals and fine gemstones. An entire economy built on the bulb of a flower, now lost, now common."

  "That isn't Holland, Doc," Mildred said. "You're off by a few miles."

  "Woman, I am off more than a mere few miles," Doc retorted huffily. "I am a full-blown mental mess. My mental state is off by distances that can only be measured between the stars."