by Ahern, Jerry
Kereninidentified himself and there was a different sound, like a burglar alarm, but of short duration, the watertight door opening, then swinging outward. Kerenin stepped over the flange, three guards, then Rourke following him, Rourke glancing over his left shoulder at the other three guards.
Helooked ahead then, a comparatively narrow walkway at his far left, and directly ahead and extending well away to his right a huge pool.
Theinterior guards waited at their posts, Kerenin leading the way, the six guards surrounding John Rourke staying in formation as Rourke followed them.
Kereninbegan to speak as they took to the walkway at the left. “It is a merciful death which awaits you.”
“Thankyou.”
Kereninwent on, saying, “To guard against the actions of enemy divers, sharks are kept, a great variety of them. Electrodes are implanted in the cortexes of their brains, as I understand it. I am not a science technician. But the
sharksare controlled by a central command console. They serve as guards against unwanted intrusion.”
“Justfascinating,” Rourke told him. He was working to build a scenario and no opportunity could be missed, however meager.
Kereninturned off the walkway and approached the pool. “Of course, there are other sea creatures perhaps equally as vicious, and sharks as well, none of which are under our control. But when work is being performed outside the domes of the complex, or when the implants are being checked or some reprogramming is required, the sharks which we do control are penned inside here. Beyond those gates.” Kerenin extended his hands over the water. Rourke smiled at the Biblical allusion it suggested. There were massive steel or steel-like gates at the far end of the Olympic-length pool.
“Andis this their exercise yard?” Rourke asked.
Kereninsmiled. “You might say that. The sharks are programmed to kill; but, of course, they will kill of their own volition, which is why it is sometimes necessary to bring them in.” The water of the pool was calm, the surface perfectly quiet. Kerenin turned away from the water, facing Rourke, who now stood behind him. “The prescribed means of execution, lest you think me to be deceiving you, is far worse than this. The sharks will make quick work of you. The other means is ejection into the sea through a missile tube, hands and feet bound and an oxygen breather attached to your mouth. You are crushed to death by the pressure, the internal organs destroyed—a horrible death, I understand.”
“Yes—muchnicer to be devoured by hungry sharks. I assume you keep them hungry enough, titilate them with human blood in the water?”
Kereninsmiled. “You are the cool one—or so you would have me believe. But I essentially promised Major Tiemerovna that a pressure tank would not be used to kill you, and the preferred method is very similar.”
“Ratherlike Jehovah promising Noah he would never again end the earth by flood,” Rourke observed.
Kereninevidently didn’t understand the Biblical allusion. “Now, before we end it,” Kerenin continued, “would you care to see the control room?”
“Certainly.I was hoping you would ask.” Rourke smiled at him.
Kereninreturned to the walkway, Rourke following him as the guards fell in almost as an afterthought, Rourke urging them, “Come along, comrades.” Kerenin glanced at him quickly, then looked away. Was it working? Rourke wondered, hoping. He kept walking.
Thewalkway ramped upward toward what was evidently the control booth, at the far end of the pool area, as long as the pool and some eight feet or so high, well-lit, fronted with plexiglas or some similar transparent substance. Men and/or women (the short haircuts and unisex attire making it difficult to tell which was which at a distance) were moving about busily inside. Rourke used a long-strided, slow-paced walk to move up the ramp, stretching muscle groups in his legs.
Atthe height of the ramp, Kerenin signaled one of the guards to admit them to the control booth, the guard opening the door, Kerenin and the other guards passing inside, Rourke in their midst. Rourke nodded at the guard who held the door for him.
Thepersonnel in the control booth continued working at their tasks, as if no one had entered. Television screens were everywhere in banks over each control console, the outside of the domes visible, sharks moving occasionally through the field of view of one of the cameras. “I thought your pets were indoors today.”
Kereninanswered good-naturedly, “Recall that I mentioned some of the sharks are not under our control.”
“Yes,that’s right.” Rourke nodded.
Rourkeslowly moved about the control room, Kerenin making no attempt to have his progress arrested. Everything was in diode readouts. It seemed dials were a thing of the past here. One group of technicians was apparently responsible for what fell within one bank of cameras, the outer regions of the underwater complex zoned for better
management.There were cameras covering the interior of the shark pens as well, Rourke seeing several dorsal fins cutting almost lazily along the surface of the pool beyond the shark gates, beneath a transparent geodesic dome, a departure from the standard architectural style.
Therewas no control console, other than a smallish unit which evidently controlled the opening and closing of the gates in and out of the pens. “How do you get your pets to come in for the night, Kerenin?”
Kereninshrugged his shoulders. “Remember the electrode implants I spoke of? They are capable of being used to stimulate a wide range of responses. I was told once to consider them an electronic brain implanted within the brain of the shark, a brain within a brain. But just think! You will very soon have the opportunity of firsthand research—at considerable depth.” Kerenin’s own sense of humor apparently amused him, so Rourke forced a smile of his own. “Shall we go?”
Rourkeshrugged his shoulders, then started back across the control room, joining Kerenin and the guards, calling to the technicians, “I had a lovely time. Thank you.”
Theyleft the control room through the same door, the same man holding it, Rourke walking beside Kerenin now, biding his time for the right moment. “What happens if your sharks do attack one of your own men? What would he do to defend himself?”
“Ialmost do admire you,” Kerenin said, laughing. “Very well. Our men carry something not terribly dissimilar to the Sty-20. It has a longer barrel and is a larger caliber. It is called the PV-26. It will kill or disable a conventional shark. But not ours. The same poison is fed these creatures we control in very small doses; and they gradually build up an immunity to it. Otherwise, an enemy diver would simply need to duplicate the poison used in the darts fired by the PV-26 and he or she could easily enough disable our sharks. Their usefulness would be at an end. There are always scout ships on patrol and should any of our own personnel stumble into a potentially hazardous situation with our own sharks, I imagine
somethingcould be done.”
“Youonly imagine?”
“Idoubt it has ever happened.”
Theywere back to the walkway now, Rourke slowing his pace slightly, Kerenin evidently enjoying the wait.
Atlast they reached the pool, Kerenin turning toward it, John Rourke beside him. Sharks such as these, Rourke knew, could well have been implanted and controlled in his own original time, made the killing machines of men, but it was hard to imagine anyone so inhumane as to do it—perhaps.
Kereninstopped at the water’s edge.
Rourkeeyed the gates. Then his eyes drifted to Kerenin’s belt and the one unusual item there. His own knife, the one made for him by Jack Crain five centuries before.
“Whatsorts of sharks are they? I understand there were several species.”
“ThatI can answer for you easily. Part of our training for the Marine Spetznas includes such things—fortunately only a small part. The name is Carcharodon carcharias.”
JohnRourke knew the common name. Great White. “How about making it a little more interesting, for us both?”
“Whatdo you mean?”
“Untiemy hands. I will at least be able to
die fighting. You would want that if you were in my position.”
“ButI am not.” Kerenin grinned.
“Itwould be a better show.” And John Rourke looked away. He couldn’t push it.
“Yourhands? Hmm … You honestly feel you have some chance of escape and survival, do you not?”
“Allowa dying man his delusions.”
“Youare going to reverse the situation, and somehow miraculously escape and then wreak vengeance on us? Amusing.”
Rourkemade his nastiest smile. “Are you afraid that I might, major?”
“Keepyour weapons trained on him. At the slightest
provocation,fire.” Then he looked at John Rourke. He drew the Crain LS System X. “Turn around.”
Rourkethought to ask if it were to cut his bonds or stab him in the back, but held off, not wanting to push. “All right.” He turned his back to Kerenin, an instant later feeling Kerenin’s hand at his wrists, then the coldness of steel; and then his wrists were freed. Slowly, Rourke brought his hands forward, slowly again massaging his wrists. He turned—slowly—to face Kerenin, Kerenin sheathing the knife, but not binding it into the leather with what some called a “peace knot,” merely closing the safety strap. “Thank you,” Rourke told him quite sincerely. “Thank you, very much, major.” Rourke slipped the cord from his neck over his head, holding it idly in his left hand. It was about three feet long.
Kereninsmiled again. There was a post a foot or so from Kerenin, and rising from its top a conically shaped speaker. It was also a microphone, Rourke learned in the next instant. “This is Major Kerenin. Open the gates to the shark pens. Slowly.”
Rourkewatched the shark-pen gates, but at the far left edge of his peripheral vision he watched Major Kerenin more.
“Imet your challenge,” Kerenin said, moving a pace closer. Already, Rourke could see dorsal fins moving through the opening made when the shark gates had drawn back on each side. “Will you meet your own?”
“Ido not understand.”
“Iask, do you intend to jump into the pool, or must you be pushed?”
Thegates were completely open now, the number of fins at the far edge of the pool increased.
JohnRourke turned to the Marine Spetznas major. “I hate to think of you missing out on anything. And I have become quite fond of your company.”
Kerenin’seyes hardened.
“Sharks,the various rays and some others—they are called elasmobranchs. With the smaller ones, of course— say, something the size of what in English we call a ‘lemon
shark’—theycan be instantly disabled merely by inverting them. They become flaccid. Rather like a penis at the wrong moment.” And John Rourke smiled. “I would imagine what are called the ‘ampullae of Lorenzini’— pores on the head—are the receptor organs for the signals used to control them. Obvious, but ingenious certainly.”
Rourke’sleft hand moved, flipping the three-foot length of cord toward the arc of Sty-20-armed guards, as his hand came back, his fist knotted over Kerenin’s right ear, Rourke’s left thumb gouging into Kerenin’s right eye as Rourke’s right hand grabbed for the haft of the Life Support System X. Rourke threw his body weight toward the pool, dragging Kerenin after him by the Russian’s ear and Rourke’s grip on the knife still sheathed at Kerenin’s belt.
Theyhit the water, Rourke a split second ahead of Kerenin, Rourke’s right little finger already having the safety strap popped off on the knife sheath, his right fist drawing out the knife as he and Kerenin dipped below the surface of the pool, Rourke’s mouth gulping air, then closing tight. The water was clear. And John Rourke could see the leading edge of the shark pack coming for them, excited by the sudden violent movement in the water. He and the Russian were near the pool’s edge and Rourke, still holding Kerenin’s right ear, slammed Kerenin’s head against the side of the pool, blood clouding the water around them almost instantly.
Time—therewas no time. Rourke’s left hand moved and his right hand came down, the knife tight in his fist. It was either kill Kerenin or get the sheath for the knife and let the sharks take care of Kerenin’s fate. Rourke slicked Kerenin’s belt, grabbing the sheath as the belt started to float away, ramming the sheath into his left Levi pocket. Rourke pushed Kerenin’s limb body away, diving, impacts from Sty-20s on the surface above him, the darts floating harmlessly down toward him, smudges of their poison clouding around them.
Hisonly chance was the shark gates.
Thecreatures were all around him now, but above him,
drawnto the blood. Something impacted his left shoulder, almost knocking the air from his lungs, driving him to the bottom. The sleeve over his left arm was ripped partially away, but there was no blood, at least not yet. He kept swimming, propelling himself over the bottom, the water over him alive with their movement, the sleek gray-whiteness of them everywhere. Ahead he could see the shark gates. He kept going, his lungs burning with the exertion. He had been a powerful swimmer ever since his youth, and scuba diving had at times been a sport and at times an occupational necessity during his career with the Central Intelligence Agency prior to his leaving CIA to write and teach on special-weapons training and survival. And neither were sharks a new experience, survival in shark-infested waters a skill he had studied from the best marine biologists and fisherman in the field, before teaching it himself.
Butthe Great Whites were something else again.
Hewas at the shark gates, his lungs, his accelerated heartbeat, the wooziness in his head telling him he had been too long below the surface. But he had to get through the gates. And they were starting to close. That meant Kerenin had survived or someone in the control booth had presence of mind enough to attempt to trap him—Rourke—inside the pool. None of the six guards had struck him as being conditioned toward individual initiative.
Hestarted for the gates, a Great White of average size, as the rest of them seemed to be, coming through, directly in his path. It measured roughly fifteen feet from the pointed snout over its triangularly shaped teeth—its jaws were spread wide toward him—to its crescent-shaped tail. Rourke tucked down, the creature’s head passing over him, the grey-white of its overall body surface fading into the starker white of its underbelly. As long as he could keep beneath the creature he had a chance, because they habitually attacked upward. He kept moving, the opening between the gates narrowing drastically now. There was a sudden pressure against him and he realized the Great
Whitehad flick-turned and was charging after him. To pass through the gates, it was necessary to come upward, a solid barrier beneath the shark gates separating this pool from the one beyond. And now the shark was beneath him.
Rourkechanged direction, angling away from the creature, the Great White blocking him from the gates now. Rourke’s head broke surface for an instant and he gulped air, the water swelling beneath him and to his left, and he dove under the surface, the Great White slamming against him, Rourke rolling away from it, his right fist still balled on the half of the LS System X. The shark changed course, arcing downward, John Rourke rolling in the water, kicking, forcing himself down, the shark’s snout impacting him in the chest, Rourke reeling from the blow, but his reaction saving his life, the great jaws snapping shut inches from his head. He rolled left, the shark’s momentum carrying it over him. Rourke bunched both fists over the haft of his knife, only seconds of air left to his lungs after the impact of the fifteen hundred pounds of living eating machine against him. He stabbed the knife upward, into the great creature’s white underbelly, and suddenly a cloud of deep red the color of berry juice washed around Rourke, the creature thrashing now, Rourke barely able to hold to his knife. But he couldn’t let himself lose it.
TheWhite twisted, Rourke’s arms nearly wrenched from their sockets, the creature’s head breaking the surface, Rourke drawn up after it, his mouth gulping air as he twisted away, the creature dragging him downward again, its jaws snapping. Rourke wrenched his knife free, the creature twisting round, the jaws coming
for him, Rourke slashing the big Crain knife across the dorsal fin, half severing it as Rourke dodged its head, more blood clouding the water.
Rourkelooked toward the far end of the pool, the water churning violently, the violence nearing him with an almost incomprehensible rapidity, his mind so concentrated on outmaneuvering the shark that he hadn’t real
izedthe basic import of what he had done. Cutting the shark—twice—had signaled the other sharks in the pool, and he was about to be at the center of a feeding frenzy. Rourke propelled himself away, clawing water, a body slamming against him, knocking him against the base wall beneath the gates, another hammering against him and thrusting him forward, Rourke nearly losing his knife.
Withall the strength and all the air remaining to him, Rourke pushed himself over the barricade, sideways because of the still-narrowing gap between the gates, sliding through, the shark gates snapping shut like the jaws of one of the creatures themselves behind him.
Rourkemade for the surface. Air was his greatest concern now and, as his head broke the surface, his right fist broke the surface as well, the blade of his knife upthrusting. He gulped air, his head twisting from side to side. This was the pool he had seen from the control room, the shark pens. Something brushed against his leg. Rourke didn’t take time to see what, hurtling his body across the surface toward the edge of the pool, his left hand reaching it, his right hand then, letting go of the knife on the edge of the pool, his palms downward, his body pumping upward as he rolled out of the pool, his right combat boot soleless. John Rourke sank back and made the Sign of the Cross.
Rourkerolled onto his stomach, his right fist finding his knife. He looked around him. A watertight door on the far side of the pool. A shark cage, empty, beside the pool, a winch over it and a chain secured between the winch and the cage. Rourke drew his right knee up as he got to a sitting position, ripping the laces of his boot free, tugging the soleless combat boot from his foot. His foot, his toes— “Thank You”—and he looked upward. One boot on, one boot off, he climbed to his feet, lurching forward, his breathing still labored, the left sleeve of his shirt gone, the rest of the shirt in tatters. He took the sheath from his left Levi pocket, the leather sodden. He shoved the empty sheath between his flesh and the interior of the waistband of his blue jeans.
