Watersleep

by James Axler

  As the wag rumbled past, Ryan took careful aim between the armored flanges protecting the rear right wheel well, and squeezed off a single silenced 9 mm shot. He was rewarded with a loud popping sound, not from the pistol, but from the rubber tire exploding as the bullet hit home.

  "Hope they brought a spare," Shauna murmured.

  "Hell of a good time to bring that up," Ryan whis­pered.

  "Here they come," J.B. said. "Side door's sliding back."

  The blown-out tire had achieved the desired effect. Two sec men, their rifles down, stepped out of the wag onto the packed dirt and gravel of the road. They were dressed in identical mirrored sunglasses, steel blue helmets and what appeared to be old-style bulky exterior bulletproof vests.

  "What's with the uniforms?" J.B. asked.

  "Sec teams that go off the base usually suit up," Carter whispered. "Intimidation and safety."

  "No chest shots," Ryan said tightly. "Aim for the faces."

  So far, the two sec men had no reason to suspect an ambush. In their minds, at least for now, this was only an inconvenience, not the beginning of an as­sault.

  "What do you think?" Carter whispered to Ryan. "Hit them now?"

  "I think we should let them go about their business of changing the tire," the grim man replied.

  "Sure you want to wait that long, Ryan?" Mildred asked. "What if they find the bullet?"

  "They won't. Not unless they're looking and not until they have the wag jacked up. I figure might as well let them do the work for us." Ryan checked his gun. "Once the wag is off the ground, we'll introduce ourselves. No way they can get rolling again before they put on the spare."

  "How many you think are inside?" Mildred asked.

  "Don't know. Those Land Rovers are big bastards. They can hold eight men in the rear," J.B. mused.

  "Not this one," Shauna countered. "That thing could seat twenty and it wouldn't matter. Poseidon keeps them lean. He's got to have ample room for the food he takes back."

  "Like I said last night, my guess is four men. That was typical standard operations back when I ran with his men," Carter agreed. "It's also the same lineup as the last three times Poseidon's sent a transport out here by land. A driver and passenger up front, two others in the back. A pair to stay alert and watch for trouble, and a pair to use their backs to help load up the booty."

  "So let's find out," Ryan said, watching as a third man joined the duo in removing the blown tire. "But whatever you do, don't let them get back inside the wag."

  As planned, Shauna left her weapon behind and made her way down to a far end of the ditch, far enough down to where it would appear she had merely been walking down the road and come upon the wag's unfortunate predicament, just an innocent encounter with a pedestrian.

  Shauna stepped into the open and jauntily walked toward the downed Land Rover. "Need a hand?" she asked, granting them a dazzling smile. Mildred noted the woman had unzipped the front of her jumpsuit even more than usual.

  "She's going to fall right out of that thing if she's not careful," Mildred whispered.

  "So much the better," J.B. replied.

  "Get ready," Ryan said.

  Two of the men whirled toward Shauna with their AK-47s held ready when she spoke. The third man outside of the Land Rover was occupied with the jack.

  The leader, a veteran sec man named Martin, re­laxed when he recognized Shauna. He knew from ex­perience she wasn't there to cause any trouble. Still, it was odd for the commune leader to be showing up so far down the road from the settlement, and why was she alone? Martin decided to let his partner han­dle the questioning. That way, he could let his eyes enjoy the view of Shauna's exposed breasts without having to play the heavy.

  "What are you doing here, little lady?" the other armed man asked, voicing Martin's own concerns.

  "Stealing your wag," Ryan's voice said from be­hind them.

  To their credit, the sec men didn't surrender with­out a fight. However, Ryan and the others had the advantage of surprise. The firefight was succinct and to the point. All remembered Ryan's words about aiming for the heads, more specifically, for the faces.

  Mildred's Czech target pistol fired once, and the large caliber bullet entered Martin's left eye, felling the man with a single shot. A red torrent spewed down his cheek as he fell forward, the bullet continu­ing to move through his skull and brain tissue, exiting the back of his head and finally stopping dead at the interior of the helmet he wore. Martin convulsed for a few seconds, his hands clawing in the dirt and gravel until he died.

  In the same instant, twin pairs of mirrored sun­glasses shattered like dropped china cups as the faces of the other two men dissolved from the auto fire of J.B. and Carter.

  While his friends engaged the trio of sec men, Ryan had made his way around the back to the open side door of the wag and shoved his SIG-Sauer inside, aiming at the driver.

  "Your pals are dead. You're next, unless you want to come out of that seat quietly."

  The driver raised his hands.

  "Good. I hate cleaning up brains off a wind­shield."

  The spare was then placed on the wag without fan­fare by the captured driver, under Ryan's close su­pervision. J.B. and Carter dragged the bodies into the former hiding place in the ditch while Ryan ques­tioned the driver.

  "What's your name?"

  "Edgerton."

  "You enlisted or merc?" Ryan asked, recalling that Carter had said enlisted men were the chosen elite in Poseidon's farcical attempt at a navy. Hired men were always more easily swayed. Bought loyalty was only worth as much as the highest bidder was willing to pay.

  "Edgerton, Ray, sir! Enlisted man."

  "Great," Ryan said.

  A spare helmet and pair of sunglasses had been discovered in a storage drawer inside the wag. Ryan would wear the outfit and ride shotgun with the sur­viving member of the sec squad while J.B., Mildred and Carter hid in the back. Once they were on the base, the second part of the operation would be car­ried out with the grens and any other explosives they could scrounge up on-site.

  Carter, Mildred and J.B. would play delivery boys. Ryan and Shauna were going in search of Poseidon.

  But Ryan had one final stop to take care of first.

  "I'M GOING WITH YOU, Dad."

  "No, Dean, you're not." Ryan said.

  "I'm not a kid anymore! You need me—"

  "I need you right here," Ryan said firmly, cutting the boy off in midprotest, "with Doc. He's still too weak to go off into a firefight. Somebody has to stay with him."

  "Doc can take care of himself."

  "Usually that's true. Not this time. Besides, he needs somebody to watch his back."

  "But, Dad—"

  "Enough, Dean!" Ryan's voice was as unyielding as an iron bar. When Dean heard that tone used, he knew enough to back off.

  "One of Trader's rules was to never split your forces. 'If you've only got half your men, you've only got half your power,' he'd say. Course, the older I'm getting, the less inclined I am to always agree with everything Trader told me. We've already lost two people to this Poseidon. Jak was like a son to me in many ways, and Krysty was my soul mate." Ryan took a hand and mussed Dean's hair. "I'll be damned if I'll risk losing another loved one to that bastard."

  "Jak was my friend, too," Dean said. "And I loved Krysty."

  Ryan softened. "I know, son. Believe me, I un­derstand. But I'm not asking you to stay here as a father. I'm telling you to stay as a leader. You don't want to be treated like a kid? Fine. Then act like a man and do what I tell you."

  "Not fair," Dean said.

  "Life seldom is."

  Ryan stepped away and paused at the doorway of the tent.

  "How long before you're back?" Dean asked.

  "Not sure. No way of knowing. Half day there in the wag, according to Carter. Half day back if the wag's still running after we get inside the base. I'd say we'll be back here in a couple of days, unless something goes bad wrong." Ryan shrugged. "
If the plan goes south on us, then I guess it doesn't matter."

  "Two days, Dad. Two days, then I'm coming after you—even if I have to carry Doc on my shoulders."

  Ryan nodded. "Should be long enough. Two days, then."

  Dean was shocked into silence. He'd never imag­ined his father would agree to letting him come out in search of the advance party, even with a wait of forty-eight hours.

  The one-eyed man held up a hand, gave a little wave to his son and walked out of the tent.

  Before Dean could also exit, Ryan stepped back inside.

  "Dean?"

  "Yeah, Dad?"

  "If you do end up carrying Doc around, remember that he's heavier than he looks." The attempt at hu­mor was strained, but Dean still appreciated the effort.

  "I won't forget."

  What Dean didn't know was Ryan would have done exactly the same thing himself at Dean's age. He also knew the boy wouldn't be able to wait any longer than two days, which was fine.

  In two days' time, Admiral Poseidon would be a dead man, and his so-called empire would be a ruin, even if Ryan had to die himself in the process.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "What?" Doc said in his most testy tone of voice. Looking every inch the academic he once had been, he peered down his long nose at the interruption.

  "Been gone for two hours now," Dean replied flatly. The boy was standing at the entrance flap of the tent, his head cocked at an angle, one hand on his hip and the other holding open the flap. For a brief moment, Doc had thought Ryan himself had already returned from his journey to the lair of Poseidon. Dean had the same sharp, narrow face. The same deep-set dark eyes. The same curly black hair.

  The same confidence some would see as insolence.

  "I'm well aware of the passage of time," Doc re­plied, closing the crumbling paperback book he'd been reading.

  "What's the book?" Dean asked.

  "A collection of poetry by T. S. Eliot. The title of the collection is The Waste Land and Other Poems."

  "Sounds like Deathlands," Dean observed.

  "Yes, well, this is apt reading in our surround­ings," Doc agreed.

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "They have a small library here. Mostly tripe. Blood-and-thunder adventure novels about men with action verbs for names and pink-and-lavender tinged bodice rippers of true historical romance," Doc said. "I noticed the bindings of the trashier books were the most worn, while this handsome gray-and-black thin little gem is still somewhat in one piece. Yes, a few worthy tomes were in the strongbox, and I couldn't resist reacquainting myself with Mr. Eliot's wonder­fully written wisdom."

  "Yeah, well, you ready?"

  "For what?" Doc asked innocently.

  "Ready to go. I been watching you, Doc. You're tougher than you look. You can walk."

  "Thank you for the compliment, young man," Doc said. "Still, there's nothing we can do but wait…just as your father told you to do."

  "Walking will do you some good," Dean contin­ued. "We both know Dad's had enough time to get well ahead of us, Doc. He's probably already half there."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Voyages into the lion's den sometimes take longer than planned. Besides, I spoke with your father before his departure, and he said you had agreed to wait two days. A double hold, is how he put it to me."

  "Actually he said a couple of days, Doc. Or mebbe he said a couple of hours. The way I look at it, a couple hours have long passed. Now, are you coming or do you want to stay here with the muties and the peace lovers?"

  "You would do well to speak to your elders with a touch more respect, Dean," Doc said, a hint of flint sparking into his voice. He smiled tightly, showing off his perfect white teeth. "As evidenced yesterday with our hostess and now with me, you shall live much longer. I rather liked your flattery from a few moments ago. I would recommend you go back to the ploy of attempting to attract with sweet honey as op­posed to vocal vinegar."

  "No ploys. You coming or staying?"

  "I'm trying to read." Doc sighed. "Readers are more educated, and as such, tend to be survivors."

  "Yeah, well, we can't live forever, Doc. Even a time-traveling dog like you," Dean said, leaving Doc alone with his book.

  Doc reopened the book and tried very hard to con­centrate on the words of Eliot—one of the few poets from the twentieth century that Doc actually liked— but the poetry kept sliding off the page and out of his mind. Instead, he imagined Ryan's reaction if he found out Dean had been allowed to go off into the unknown alone.

  '"I grow old…I grow old…I shall wear the bot­toms of my trousers rolled,'" the old man read aloud as he stared down at the page. Doc pondered this for a full sixty seconds before he stood.

  "I shall not!" he announced, looking at the cover of the book. "And yes, Mr. Eliot, I, Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner, do indeed dare to eat a peach!"

  When Doc walked outside the tent, the Le Mat se­cure on his leg and the familiar black walking stick in one hand, Dean was waiting.

  "Figured you might come around," Dean said.

  "Have I become that predictable?" Doc lamented.

  "No, but I was counting on you doing the right thing."

  "The right thing is remaining here, safe and snug and fed," Doc replied. "But our friends have left us, and I suppose someone must play the role of cav­alry."

  "That's what I think."

  "Let me return this book, and we shall be on our way," Doc said, stepping past the boy and heading for the storage tent where he had browsed through the small commune library.

  "What changed your mind?" Dean asked, jogging to keep up with Doc's long strides.

  "The mermaids, lad. The mermaids started singing to me."

  Dean shook his head. There were times Doc didn't make a bit of sense.

  "Why don't you keep the book, Doc? I doubt they'd ever miss it."

  "Perhaps not. But who knows how many copies of this wonderful work survived the end of the civilized world?" Doc replied. "No, Mr. Eliot is much safer here with these good people than with me."

  After Doc returned the copy of the book, he headed back toward the main road.

  "Wrong way," Dean said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Come on, I'll show you." The boy headed for the northern side of the commune, where the small farm and gardens were maintained.

  "Excuse me, young Dean, but I believe the road to our destination is that way," Doc said, pointing southward.

  "Got something to pick up first. Found out about it last night from Chico."

  "And who is Chico?"

  The pair now approached a small fenced area. A young Mexican boy about Dean's age was standing at the gate.

  "He's Chico," Dean said. "He lives here on the commune. I met him last night while you all were meeting. I had a feeling Dad was going to stick me here while he went after that bastard who killed Krysty and Jak, so I talked to Chico about my prob­lem."

  "What did he say?" Doc asked.

  "He didn't. He brought me here and introduced me to Santos."

  The two boys stepped through the gate. Doc fol­lowed.

  Inside the ring was a massive gray Appaloosa with a thick neck and stocky body.

  "Meet Santos. Chico's going to let me borrow him," Dean told Doc. "Santos belonged to Chico's dad, who was one of the people chilled here a few years back by Poseidon."

  Doc eyed the horse. "A most magnificent—not to mention, massive—creature."

  "He can hold us both with no problem, right, Chi­co?" Dean reached up and stroked the creature's neck.

  "Right," the boy replied. "He's a good horse."

  "If you intended to travel by horseback, why did you lead me to think we were going to be walking?" Doc asked peevishly.

  "Wanted to know how serious you were. If you were going to walk, I knew you weren't going to try and talk me out of going."

  "It is not my role to talk you out of anything," Doc said. "I am not your parent."

  "Aces on the
line, Doc. That's what I thought!"

  Doc took Dean to one side away from the boy and the animal. "And how do you propose to return this animal, in case, well, you know…?"

  "There's an old burned-out gas station on the way to the base," Dean said. "Chico's rode that far with­out his mom knowing. We're going to leave Santos there. If we haven't returned in a day or so, Chico will come out and get the horse back."

  Doc scratched his head.

  "You are a master schemer, Dean. I am not so sure expanding your education at the Brody school was such a good idea after all."

  "WHAT CAN YOU TELL ME about this nuke sub Po­seidon's got?" Ryan turned and asked the man who had identified himself as Edgerton.

  Edgerton stayed silent, his body bouncing in the seat as the wag made its way back down the old two-lane blacktop toward Kings Point.

  "Name, rank and serial number is all you're going to get, Cawdor," Carter said. "That was the drill when I ran with Poseidon."

  "You were a merc for him?" J.B. asked from the driver's seat.

  "For about a year. Got tired of the pecking order. Besides, I hate taking orders. I'd heard about the com­mune upstate and decided that way of life sounded a lot more appealing."

  "Did you ever get near the sub?" Ryan asked the tattooed man.

  "No, I wasn't classified." Carter replied. "It's a big bastard, between five and six hundred yards long. Supposed to run off a pressurized water reactor. That's what's powered by the nuke generator."

  Carter continued. "As I understand it, and he did give us a briefing one time in case things went to hell in a hurry, inside the reactor are fuel rods that produce the needed energy by nuclear fission. The water from the pressurizer is superheated in the reactor core and passed to a heat exchanger where it creates the steam to power the turbines."

  "What happens if the nuke engine goes off-line?"

  "Sub should have backup diesel engines in case the reactor fails. Trick there is fuel, but I know Po­seidon must have an ample supply since he's been running these wags back and forth."

  "You want us to try and take out the sub first or the buildings?" Mildred asked.