“Mr. Cowper,” I said. “Fred?”
The goat locker was empty.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I stood in the room for a few minutes, staring blankly around at the brown Naugahyde couches, the TV and VCR, the cof feemaker.
“I told him he couldn’t trust you,” said Kranuski from the corridor. “You just won me fifty bucks.”
I turned around, not even surprised. The burly Alton Webb was with him, holding a flashlight. “Why not a million?” I asked. “It’s all Monopoly money now. Where’s Cowper?”
Webb roughly grabbed me by the arm, saying, “Come on, we’ll take you to him.” When I broke his grip and tried to use some of the other techniques I’d learned in self-defense class, he caught me much harder, and grunted, “Keep it up, and I’ll break it.”
“Why are you doing this?” I cried in pain. I couldn’t believe they were laying hands on me.
“There’s been enough child’s play on this boat.”
Webb dragged me forward to a small round hatch and held me tight while Kranuski opened it up. I knew from my studies that this was the terminal end of the CCSM deck—beyond was hydraulic machinery, then the great sonar dome at the bow. It was cold and dark in there.
“I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to keep up this charade,” Kranuski said. “This vessel is not fit to be at sea, and never was. We dodged a bullet, but it’s high time we submitted to military authority instead of trying to train a bunch of jack-asses who couldn’t get a learner’s permit, much less master basic seamanship. Air Force, Navy—what the hell difference does it make at this point? We’re here, we made it, it’s over.”
“Good! I agree with you! So let me go!”
He paid no attention, shoving me through the hole. It opened into a crevasse full of mammoth pumps and the forward main ballast tanks. Above I could make out the access tunnel to the enclosed sonar sphere. I was standing on a grate above a twenty-foot drop to the bilge, and down there, hog-tied and handcuffed to a pipe in the shadows, was Cowper.
“Oh my God,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. “Mr. Cowper!” As Kranuski came in behind me, I yelled, “What are you doing to him?”
The old man could see me clearly enough up on my lit perch, but he was gagged and couldn’t speak. There was no way to tell if he was hurt. Kranuski left Webb guarding the door and stood next to me, gazing down at Cowper with a nasty look of disdain. I couldn’t believe I had ever found him handsome.
“This is what happens when order breaks down,” he said. “I’m a Navy officer—this doesn’t come easy to me. But I know that once order breaks down, it’s sometimes necessary to use harsh measures to restore it. Read Clausewitz. I haven’t been able to make the commander understand that, and the result has been this ridiculous stalemate.”
Without warning, he slapped me so hard I collapsed on the grating and would have bounced over the edge if he hadn’t snatched me back. I was a rag doll, my mind spinning with hurt and confusion. The skin of my cheek felt flayed.
“I don’t like this any more than you do,” Kranuski said, breathing hard. Was he talking to me or Cowper? “But I’m not just going to curl up and die. For what? Chivalry? I’m thirty-four. I’m a young man, goddammit! Do you have any idea what it means for me to know this is the last piece of ass I may ever see? Try to look at it from my point of view. All the rules have changed, Cowper—everything’s strictly cash-and-carry from here on out. I’m only human. You want to protect this girl, you have to make it worth my while. A trade. No more bullshit—I know you’ve got it stashed away somewhere. Even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to let something like that be thrown overboard, not when you had to cut through the safe to get it. Just nod, and we’ll call it quits.”
Cowper’s face was turned away. He didn’t nod.
Kranuski tore at my clothes, first yanking down the blue coveralls, then the thermal wet-suit pants I was wearing underneath, and finally my T-shirt. It was so cold in there I could see my breath. As he stripped me to gooseflesh, he said, “You see this? Look at her! Look what she has to go through because of your stupid power trip. You think you’re holding something over our heads? You’re crazy! Look.” He ran his free hand down my white torso. “What is all this leverage buying you? Is it worth it?”
“Stop,” I said.
“She says to stop,” Kranuski yelled down. To me, he said, “It’s his own stubbornness, honeybun. Tell him to stop.” He couldn’t look me in the eye.
“What is it you want?”
“Ask him.”
He bent me forward over a cold steel bar and smacked my behind. “This is your last chance,” he said, voice quaking. “Tell me, and it ends now.” I heard him open his zipper. All I could see, bent double, was my pink knees and the clothes around my ankles.
I grimaced in preparation for what was to come, unable to imagine whatever pain it might bring . . . to both me and the helpless old man below. What in the world did they think Cowper had done? Kranuski was taking a long time, really milking the suspense for all it was worth, and somehow this seemed the ultimate cruelty.
“If you’re going to do it, just do it,” I said.
The XO wavered another few seconds, then let out his breath, and snarled, “God damn it!” He zipped his pants and clambered away through the hatch. It became very quiet. When nothing happened for a moment I hurriedly pulled up my clothes and looked out after them, but Kranuski and Webb were nowhere to be seen.
Like a shot I was down by Cowper, peeling dark green duct tape off his mouth and trying to lift him out of the freezing bilgewater. “Are you okay?” I cried.
His skin was colder than mine, and he looked half-dead, but he was laughing—a dry husk of a laugh. “Sons a bitches couldn’t find their asses with two hands,” he mumbled. “Too afraid a getting their feet wet . . .” His eyes lit with a dull flame of recognition. “Lulu, don’t show ’em. Use it . . . use it to save yourself . . .” His voice trailed off.
They had done an incredible job tying him up—I couldn’t undo a single knot. Well duh, I thought frantically. Sailors. And even if I did get the nylon cords off, there were still the handcuffs to contend with.
“Mr. Cowper,” I said, “I have to go get help. Just hang on a little longer, and I’ll be right back!” I pressed his icy, limp hand and started up. My mind was skittering like a pinball thinking of how to free him. The galley seemed like the best bet: all those heavy-duty kitchen tools and Mr. Monte to lend a hand, plus it was closer than—
The lights went out. A velvet cushion of blackness pressed to my face, and I groped in limbo for something to cling to. Fortunately, I had just cleared the hatch to the goat locker. “Mr. Cowper!” I called down behind me. “The lights just went out up here, but I’m all right. I’m still on my way!” His reply was unintelligible.
Feeling my way forward, I found the wardroom, then the mess. It was strange that there wasn’t a soul around. People should have been in full cry about the blackout, but there wasn’t a peep from anywhere. I couldn’t even smell food cooking, as I should have by this time, and Mr. Monte was not banging around in the galley. “Monte?” I ventured. “Is there anyone in here?”
From back behind the galley, in the vicinity of the cold storage lockers, I heard something moving. It was an animal sound, furtive and fast, loping forward in a stop-and-go pattern as if searching every inch. As the sounds drew near, I could tell there were others behind the leader . . . all hunting.
Not knowing what else to do, I querulously said, “Hello?”
There was no answer. I became very unnerved, feeling a queasy sense of déjà vu. Having needlessly panicked once before, I was holding myself in check, but all my instincts screamed, Xombies! It was the only possible explanation—Exes were loose on the boat. And if that was true, I was a goner.
They came through the galley and into the big enlisted mess, padding silently between tables toward me. I held absolutely still, waiting for them to charge. Several of them skirted right
by me, so close I could feel the breeze, but they didn’t pounce. Instead, they heedlessly continued on into the wardroom as if they had missed me in the dark. I found this hard to believe—they should have tripped over me at the very least. Maybe I was immune! Then the last one stopped in front of me, panting.
An arm’s length away, a man’s voice said, “You’re not a Noxie.” He flicked on a flashlight just long enough for me to see that he was some kind of commando, with infrared goggles, a catcher’s mask over a black ski mask, body armor, and more artillery than Pancho Villa. He also had a dog by his side, a big wolflike animal with its own night-vision rig and little booties.
“Who are you?” I blurted out. “What’s going on? Where is everyone?”
“We’re here to secure the boat. Your friends are being looked after up top, which is where you should be. Where are the Noxies?”
“The what?” I thought he had said Nazis.
“The Anoxics? Furies? Crazy blue fuckers? Sheesh, kid. I was told we’d be plastering a couple of them down here, but the dogs aren’t picking up a thing.”
“There’s only me and an old man forward who needs help.”
The man paused, listening to something from his earpiece. He nodded, visibly relaxing. “Roger that.” To me he said, “Okay, don’t worry. False alarm. Here, take my arm.”
I felt for his sleeve, and he gently led me up to the next level, where a group of men were standing around a table in red half-light. I didn’t recognize most of them, but Webb was there, quietly going over diagrams of the ship with them. They all had the same ninja getup as the one who brought me. When Webb spotted me emerging from the companionway, he said, “She’s the one.” He looked disgusted to see me alive.
“Put her with the others,” ordered one of the strangers.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
The man with me said, “Just a security sweep. It’s for your protection.”
“There’s a man tied up down there who needs medical attention,” I shouted accusingly. “They’ve been torturing him!”
“We’ll take care of it,” said my escort. None of them were perturbed in the slightest or even paid attention to me. As I was led upstairs, all I could think was, For our protection, huh? That must be why I feel so safe.
Everyone from the sub was gathered on the first level, either in crisp Navy dress or looking festive in fashions plun dered from the cruise ship. They had bags and suitcases, and filed up the sail with the eagerness of disembarking tourists, as if being rousted by armed men with dogs was the most natural thing in the world—a welcome taste of civilization. It was not a melancholy leave-taking by any means. I suppose I would have felt the same way if not for what had just happened. My jaw ached.
Hector waved me over. He was wearing a full-length fur coat and looked like a hepcat from the Roaring Twenties. “Lulu!” he called. “Where have you been?” Then, studying my swelling cheek, “Holy crap, what happened?”
“Nothing.” It wasn’t the time; there was too much else going on, and too much I didn’t understand . . . yet. “I bumped it. I’m fine. What’s everybody doing?”
Unable to take his eyes off my cheek, he said, “We’re going ashore! I guess it’s over. I can’t even believe it.”
“Since when? Did Captain Coombs authorize this?”
“Well yeah, I guess. Be pretty funny if Kranuski was doing all this on his own initiative.”
“Hilarious.”
He looked at my poopie suit. “Why aren’t you dressed? You can’t go out in that.”
“I haven’t had a chance.”
“Here—take this.” He opened his duffel bag and pulled out a hooded fur cape. I never liked fur, but this was a dazzling thing: glossy reddish gold, absurdly luxuriant. I had to shake my head. “Where’d you get this?”
“Where do you think? Put it on.”
“Don’t you know fur is murder?” But I slipped it on, wrapping myself in its plush folds and hugging it against me. It soothed my aching jaw. “Oh my gosh,” I said. “Hector, this is ridiculous.”
“Keep it,” he said, grinning.
As we emerged from the sail, we were helped down onto the ice by briskly smiling greeters, men who handed us blankets and hot coffee off a truck, then loaded us aboard several old blue Air Force buses. A tanklike vehicle with a massive roller had made a smooth white highway to shore. The three hovercraft had also returned, but these were apparently reserved for our officers and the Thule people themselves, who were clearly shocked to see so many civilians and minors—the more of us that poured forth, the more their smiles assumed a drawn-on falsity. “Where’s the crew?” I heard one ask.
Taking our seats, we could see them bringing out Cowper on a stretcher and hustling him to a hovercraft. Everyone on the bus was very interested, trying to figure out who it might be.
“It’s Fred Cowper,” I said. They all looked at me.
Mr. Albemarle broke the hush, patting me on the shoulder, and saying, “He’s in good hands now, I’m sure.” It was the first kind thing he had ever said to me.
A few rows back, I heard Noteiro squawk, “Say, look.” He was directing our attention to an approaching truck that was laying electric cable off a huge spool. “They sure ain’t wastin’ no time tapping the boat’s power.”
Someone said, “So?”
“So why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”
We didn’t see the whole operation. When we pulled out, most of the Navy crew were out on the ice trying to supervise the swelling ranks of unidentified shore personnel tramping into their vessel. Executive Officer Kranuski was there, the creep, vainly struggling to keep order, but as we pulled away it became impossible to tell our people from theirs. All were hooded silhouettes puffing phosphor—ice-age hunters quar reling over a carcass.
“Hey,” shouted Jake from up front. “One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer—”
Groaning at first, we all sang along. It was sort of nice.
There was a twenty-minute uphill drive to our new quarters. I don’t know what kind of reception we were expecting, but it was a bit strange how we were ushered off the buses and simply left standing before a cluster of empty buildings in the middle of nowhere. We couldn’t even ask the drivers anything, because they didn’t speak English—all were stony-faced Inuit, intent mainly on leaving.
The buildings themselves were unremarkable in the worst sense of the word: three-story cinder-block structures resembling bad public housing, as deserted and forlorn on that midnight tundra as sacrificial structures erected for A-bomb testing.
“Welcome to Siberia,” someone said.
“All right, this way!” shouted Albemarle, taking charge. “This way, people!” He led us up a freshly plowed walk to the front door of the nearest unit. The door was ajar and looked like it had been kicked in.
Beside me, Shawn Dickey said sourly, “Slammin’, dude. It’s a crack house.”
“Long as it’s warm,” said Cole. “I ain’t handlin’ this cold.”
“How can it be warm when the door’s wide open?”
“They probably just left it open while they’re getting it ready for us,” ventured Julian. “There’s probably guys working in there.”
“Yeah, they’re restocking the minibar,” said Jake.
Albemarle found the light switch, and we all piled in. Julian was wrong; there was no one here, and hadn’t been in a long time. In the unwholesome light of buzzing fluorescents, we trooped down a corridor between rows of seedy, decrepit hotel rooms, ugly as a skid-row flophouse, saturated with the stink of ancient cigarettes and mildew. The communal bathrooms, kitchen, and TV room were all badly in need of painting and repairs, not to mention a good cleaning. The pipes were frozen, so there was no water.
“This sucks, man,” said Shawn.
Jake replied, “Oh, you never like anything.”
“Shut up, all of you,” said Albemarle. “Now here’s the thing: Obviou
sly there’s a lot that needs to be done to make this place livable, but at least it’s shelter. I’m sure our hosts will be arriving shortly to address all our concerns. In the meantime, there’s plenty we can do to make ourselves more comfortable, starting with finding the heat, but we can’t do it if you’re blocking the hall like this. I want you to go to the upper floors and set up quarters for yourselves while the men and I establish a base of operations here. Don’t fool with anything mechanical until we know it won’t cause a fire or a flood. Other than that, get cracking.”
Since we were under the impression that all would soon be sorted out, we gave ourselves over to exploring the building and staking out beds. Combing the place for useful items, we found a lot of moldy bedding and aluminum cookware but nothing in the way of food. A few people braved the vicious cold, going from building to building in deep snow, but every door was padlocked and appeared condemned; there was nothing to be found. After all our work loading the submarine with months of supplies, it was disheartening to find ourselves in such a state.
“They better let us loose in the commissary,” said Julian.
“Hey, survival of the fittest,” I told him.
One thing that helped keep our spirits up was the casual competence and cheer of the four Blackpudlians. The routines they had developed on the ocean liner seemed particularly well suited to our present predicament, and it wasn’t long before they had ice melting in a pot for tea, which they had brought in quantity. When we praised their foresight, they shrugged, and the one named Phil said, “Knowin’ you blokes, we couldn’t be sure of a good cuppa, could we?”
“Just isn’t the same, coffee,” said Wally.
“Oh, coffee wouldn’t do,” said Reggie. “Wouldn’t do at all.”
“Unless it was Irish coffee,” Dick said, and they all laughed.
Thus we were kept busy for several hours, doing our best to create decent quarters as rusty electric heaters slowly took the sting from the air. Eventually, there was nothing more to do and we settled in to wait.
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Page 20
