In the silence, he whispered to Seiler, “Get below deck. See if you can find something from the stash.”
“I kill them myself,” the man said, and then crept out of sight.
Harald wasn't sure how closely the men on the other ship were watching him, but he didn't have much time. They began throwing hooked ropes onto the deck of The Adalgisa. Someone slapped a large board down, making a bridge between the ships. Four of them crossed the plank, all carrying weapons that looked cobbled together from The Great War. One of them—a skinny black man wearing a turban—didn't even have a gun, only a vicious machete that dangled from his fist. The leader seemed to be man with a large machine pistol. He stepped to the center of the deck in front of Heinrich and grinned, showing a rack of metal teeth. He spoke a single sentence in a language both languid and menacing. It was almost French, but not quite.
“Get Burke,” Heinrich said to one of his men.
While Metal Mouth waited, the other three Africans busied themselves by smashing into the ship's new crates, tossing supplies about the deck.
“Where is he?” Heinrich yelled.
“Here!” Burke called, stepping through the cabin door.
The man with the metal teeth spoke a few curt phrases, these more angry and impatient than the last.
“He says you picked up a crate of weapons in Cape Town,” Burke began. “He wants to know where they are.”
Suddenly, Harald understood. Heinrich hadn't brought Burke on board because he needed a cook, he brought him on board because he needed a translator. He knew he would have to deal with pirates. He knew!
“Tell him they're in a marked crate below deck,” the captain said. “I can have my men bring it up.”
Burke translated this to the other man, to which the hijacker spat and said, “No!” Then, he spoke quickly again.
“He says he wants no tricks. He says his two men will go down and one of your men will show them where it is.”
“Would one of you kindly show these gentlemen where the crate is? Cecil, how about you?”
“Aye, Captain!”
Harald looked at Jan, alarmed. “He can't do that!” he whispered.
The sergeant, who looked torn between agreement and denial, only frowned.
With alarming speed, the man named Cecil jumped down onto the deck and signaled to the hijackers. He disappeared into a trapdoor below, and two of the men followed. Only their leader and Mister Machete remained. Harald contemplated the odds and found himself unable to find an angle of attack.
He didn't have long to consider. Within half a minute, all three men reappeared, the two Africans carrying the weapon crate. Their skinny arms strained under its weight.
The captain watched with disinterest. “Mister Burke, if you would help them across the plank so that they can be on their way?”
“Uh... yes, Captain.”
The cook waddled to the edge of the ship and put one foot on the wooden plank. The leader was smiling again, showing his teeth to the crew. His Mauser pistol rested across his shoulders, propped behind his neck.
Seiler reemerged a moment later, stepping out of the cabin door as quiet as an assassin. He was carrying a Model-24 grenade, the long stick of the potato masher tucked against his chest. Harald felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead and drip down his face.
The two men carrying the crate slipped just before they reached their own vessel, and the box clanked down onto the plank. Metal Mouth cursed, then shouted across the gap. It was then Harald saw what he was waiting for. The man on the mounted machine gun looked back and forth, realizing their leader was talking to him. He was the closest to the boarding plank, and the crate of weapons threatened to slip overboard. Reluctantly, the man left his post.
Harald stepped forward, drawing his pistol in one smooth motion. “Now!” he yelled.
2
He watched the Model-24 spin up into blackness. It reappeared a moment later, bouncing onto the hijacker's ship between the plank and the mounted gun.
Heinrich lunged towards the railing. “No!”
The grenade detonated with a concussion of smoke and fire. A human shape spiraled into the night, flapping its arms as it burned. Gunshots erupted, the hijackers firing blindly over the deck.
Burke spun a hundred and eighty degrees on the plank and froze. A rifle bullet tore through his side, taking a spray of his guts with it. He collapsed to the floor, screaming.
Two of the hijackers were trying to pull the crate of munitions the rest of the way on board. They gave up when one of them took a bullet. Harald's men were firing full bore. He raised his own Luger and fired eight shots in the general direction of the ship, unaware if he had hit anything or not. It took him a few seconds to realize his magazine was empty. Shaking, he crouched below the crate and ejected it, reaching into his jacket to load another. When he stood up, the last hijacker, Mister Machete, dropped his weapon and decided to run. He clambered onto the wood plank, stumbling in the chaos. Harald raised his gun to the man and fired, and fired, and fired. The third shot hit the hijacker in the heel of the right boot, casting him forward onto the weapon crate. Both tipped over the edge and fell into the water with a splash. Seiler ran to the plank and then kicked it in, removing whatever chance the man had of saving himself.
The other ship roared and began to move. Heinrich, who had been planted belly-first on the deck, jumped to his feet. “The ropes!” he yelled. “Throw the hooks out!”
He made to run but slipped on the blood next to Burke. The cook howled, still clutching at his guts.
“The gun!” Seiler yelled. “They are aiming it!”
Harald squinted through the smoke and saw a man climbing towards the Schwarzlose. He fired his pistol but heard only an empty click. He was out.
The ship lay in the grip of pandemonium. Men rushed in front of him, grabbing the wounded and putting out a fire by the mast. Heinrich regained his footing and busied himself tossing the hooks over the sides. Harald swiveled his head to search for a weapon, his eyes settling on the giant harpoon cannon at the bow.
Across the water, the man on the Schwarzlose pulled back the firing rod, and even through the chaos, Harald heard the clacking sound as it slid into place. Without thinking, he sprinted to the bow of The Adalgisa and dove behind the harpoon gun. Could it be loaded? Of course not; what kind of madman kept his harpoon loaded when he was not hunting? But it was loaded, the end of the giant hook poking straight out of the barrel. Harald aimed the weapon, pointing it straight to the white of his enemy's eyes.
When he pulled the trigger, the harpoon exploded from the barrel, finding its mark like a lightning bolt from the heavens. Harald blinked, and suddenly, the man behind the machine gun was no longer there. The man was pinned to the side of his own ship, the huge rod impaling him through the ribs. For a moment, Harald could do nothing but stare, his mouth agape. Then, he found himself grinning; the pirates were fleeing, their gunner dead. He looked back to the others to ask if they needed help, but he couldn't. He couldn't get the goddamned grin off his face.
“The rope!”
The captain was running towards him, his hand outstretched.
“Cut the rope! Hurry!”
His victory interrupted, Harald looked down. Something moved by his feet, and then, it dawned on him: the rope was still attached to the harpoon.
“It's sinking!” Heinrich yelled. “It'll drag us down!”
The pirate vessel was dropping like a great beast, taking water from an unseen wound. Seiler's grenade had missed the machine gun, but it had done terrible work just the same.
“Heinrich, I—”
And suddenly, the captain was screaming. The rope spun halfway around the mast and pinned his left arm between it and the wood. Until he had heard it, Harald would have never imagined a man like Heinrich would be capable of screaming. But here it was, like an animal crushed beneath a street car.
The lieutenant grabbed at the rope and felt the immense strength under it. He l
ooked towards the crew, but they were struck dumb.
“What do I do?” he shouted.
“Cut... the... rope!” Heinrich cried, grunting each syllable through clenched teeth. “Cut it!”
Harald remembered the ax. The large red ax tucked under the rail, mounted to the spot for this exact purpose. He grinned madly. The night was his, and nothing could stop him. It was his.
As he turned and found the mounting hooks, however, the smile disappeared quite naturally from his face. The ax was gone.
Chapter 9: Carrion
The Aeschylus:
Present Day
1
Gideon awoke in darkness, the reports of gunfire fading from the edge of his senses. Gunshots. Gunshots meant people.
It took him a moment to remember where he was. The kitchen. He was still trapped in the kitchen. His hands traced along the side of his head and felt the lump, the spot where he had been hit with the rifle butt the day before. It still hurt like hell. Frantically, he got up and brushed himself off. He could hear voices now, people somewhere in the barracks. Or at least, what sounded like people.
He found a piece of dry cloth and ripped it in half, then tied the remainder around his head. It didn't look pretty, but he was well beyond the point of looking pretty. He could smell himself in the enclosed space, his clothes now... what? A week old? He counted the days off on his fingers and thought that was about right. He wondered what would happen when the Argentinian rescue unit was reported missing. Someone else would come. Eventually, the crazy Argentinians would be put down. And what then? They'd leave. They'd all leave, even him. The Carrion would make its way back to civilization, and it would spread. It would find that the world beyond the sea was vast indeed.
The sad thing was, he couldn't remember what life had been like outside these walls. He didn't have a wife, didn't have any pets, didn't have a three-story mansion in the suburbs. What he had was a string of experiences, the between, as he thought of it. The vacations, the club life, the girls, and the money... the privileges of being a well-paid specialist with no ties. But his real life was here. Now, his friends were dead. His coworkers were dead. His work—weeks worth of crude analysis and data planning—so much dust in the wind.
He clapped his hands to his head and rocked back forth, waiting for the door to burst open, waiting for gunfire to come blasting into the room and make the decision for him. That, at least, would be quick. It would be quicker than letting his wound fester, letting the stuff seep into it until he was driven mad like the rest. But he found he couldn't sit still. He went to the door and tried it. Still jammed. Looking sideways, he caught sight of himself in a mirror over one of the freezer units. His cheeks were sunken, but maybe the bandage on his head didn't look so bad after all.
“You're still you,” he said to his reflection. “You're still you, and you're still gorgeous, baby.” He smiled his winning smile, the one that had charmed so many young Rio girls out of their panties. All his teeth were still in his head, perfect and white.
No... he was getting distracted. A way out, that's what he needed.
Moving to the cabinets, he began to rummage for matches. He was about to give up when he spied something small and red in one corner. He grabbed it, slapping it like an ape until he found the power switch. The beam flickered to life, the batteries still good. “Yay and verily, the gods do smile upon this mortal.” Stop it, he thought. You're losing it. You're going nuts. He spied himself in the mirror again. “Bonkers!” he declared. “Off your rocker. Completely bat-shit. Totally Section Eight, Leonard!” He tittered, the sound coming from somewhere deep he couldn't control.
Dropping to his stomach, he shined the flashlight underneath the door, spying what looked like four thin columns. At first, he couldn't figure out what it meant, but then, he made the connection: it was a chair. Someone had placed a chair on the other side to block the door. If he had been asked a week ago, he would have thought that trick only worked in the movies, but he guessed now, that would have made him look like a horse's ass. It was blocking him in here as tight as a lock and key.
But maybe not that tight.
He went to the huge row of sinks, thankful he had ended up in a kitchen and not in a bedroom or bathroom. The kitchen was quite large, as it was on most of the newer rigs. It had a walk-in pantry, dishwashers, rows of sinks, shelves of plates... and utensils. Yes, utensils. He spied several massive cutting boards, and above them, a line of butcher's knives. He grabbed the largest handle and unsheathed an instrument fit to remove the head of a pig. Holding it made him wonder if he could bring himself to stick into one of the men who had put him here. He thought so, but he didn't know. Gideon had been in exactly one fight in his entire life, when he was ten, and he had lost. Little Jimmy Taggert had beaten the crap out of him in front of God and everyone, and he'd never had occasion to tangle since. Even so, he was smart, and he had managed to stay alive. Smart guys always won in the long run, didn't they? Shit, his take-home was twice what the drillers made, three times what the roughnecks pulled, and he wasn't afraid to tell anyone who would listen.
On his stomach, he thrust the blade under the door, aiming for the closest chair leg. The problem was, he couldn't see and stab at the same time. He'd have to keep poking until he got it right. But what did he have to lose? He stabbed four times. Five. And then, on the sixth time, the tip hit something solid.
He felt the chair move. “Jackpot!”
After a few moments of wiggling, it didn't topple. It jostled and lay still, jammed with its back beneath the handle.
“Oh, come on. Come on, don't do this to me!” Without an ounce of forethought, Gideon jumped up and kicked the door. “Goddammit, open! Open! I told you to fucking open!”
He heard a bang and stopped. There was something out there. Two seconds later, he grabbed the knife and held it to his chest, waiting. Then he realized what it had been. It was the chair. It must have fallen. It must have!
It was another minute before he could bring himself to try the handle again, but when he did, it turned effortlessly under his grip. The door swung open. On the other side, he could see the corpse of the chair, now fallen on its side. He laughed, and this time, it didn't sound crazy at all.
All at once, a floodlight blasted into his eyes. A form stepped in front of him, a huge, hulking form.
“Stay back!” he yelled, swinging the knife. “Stay back or I'll cut you!”
Something grabbed his wrist and then punched him in the nose. The blade clanked to the floor and he dropped to one knee, bleeding. As the form stepped into the light, he realized it was not one of the Argentinians. The idea that he might live seized him, and he threw both arms into the air. Gideon saw no irony in the fact that this was almost the exact behavior he had exhibited when little Jimmy had beaten him senseless all those years ago.
“Don't,” he cried. “I give up. I give up!”
2
When they arrived back at the center of the platform, Mason looked at the newcomer curiously. A faded gray suit and soggy black hair slapped onto a man too tall for his weight. Mason put him at six feet and a buck fifty—a good size for a boxer maybe, but not for a corporate suit. He was too lanky, all knees and elbows with no substance between. He might have been good-looking in a scrawny kind of way once, but it was hard to tell.
“What's your name, son?”
“Uh, Grey,” he stammered. “Gideon Grey.” And then, “Doctor Gideon Grey.”
“Are you all right?”
The man looked around at the squad of mercenaries surrounding him on the deck. “Yes. Yes, thank you. I think so. But we have to get out of here.”
Mason offered his canteen. “In a bit. Take this.”
“We have to get out of here, now! Now!”
Mason put his hands on the man's shoulders and forced him down onto a crate. He could feel the bones under his fingers and thought how easily he could snap them. Gideon must have felt it too, because he shut his mouth.
&nb
sp; “Calle, if you would, please?”
Melvin jabbed a syringe into the man's shoulder. Gideon's demeanor didn't change, but his breathing slowed, and when Mason was sure he wasn't going to get up and run, he took his hands away. When Mason offered the canteen a second time, the man took it.
“Thank you.”
The others were supposed to be maintaining a perimeter around the top deck, but they circled close now, listening. Even Nicholas had gotten up on one leg to have a look.
Answers, Mason thought again, biting his lip. “All right, listen up. Me and the good doctor are going to have a conversation here. But I want the rest of you on mission. We came here to do a job, and we're only half done.”
“What the hell is going on here?” St. Croix asked.
“Yeah, we're in some weird shit, boss,” Calle added, patching up the doctor's arm.
“You have a right to know what the hell is going on, and I'm going to find out. But we need to stay on guard.”
“On guard?” Calle said. “Shit, boss. We don't even know what the hell we're guarding against.”
Hal spat on the deck. “He's right, sir. We don't know what we got here. What we do got is about twenty bodies out of two fifty. I don't know what the hell happened to the rest, but I ain't ever seen anything like it.”
Mason looked at Jin and Christian. They only stared back, a little more disciplined than the rest, but their eyes told the same story.
“So what are we gonna do, Mason?” Melvin asked. “I say we curb stomp this motherfucker until we start getting some goddamn—”
Mason lunged forward, his hand closing around Calle's throat. “That's 'Team Leader Bruhbaker' to you, boy. And the next words out of that stinking rot-gut hole of yours better be 'what are my orders, sir?' Do you get me?”
Melvin struggled for a moment, and Mason squeezed. He could see the man's eyes bulging, his glasses skewing off of one ear.
The Aeschylus Page 13
