Demon (27 page)

Yusuf saw the shame of his actions and regretted not having joined them. For what was he now other than a living reminder of the tragedy of the
al-Phirosh
? Could he go on, haunted by the memory of his crew, and live a normal life?

No, he could not.

Yusuf walked over to the body of Mahmoud and knelt. The Marine who had killed him now yelled, but Yusuf paid him no mind. He closed Mahmoud's eyes and said a small prayer over him. Then he grabbed the knife and sprang, sprinting toward the Marine.

He did not feel any pain when the bullet pierced his chest. Instead, it felt like a hand had pressed his sternum and stopped his forward progress. Then his breaths quit, drowning above water, blood filling his lungs. His vision faded and his legs gave out. Yusuf fell to the deck and died.

T
emms had just finished addressing the department heads when the gunfire echoed around them. Then the report came a second later of shots fired in the quarantined berthing. Mike braced himself for crazies to swarm in at any moment. Maybe even the officers in here would succumb. The wardroom was on the same deck and only a few frames aft of the berthing. If it was another outbreak, they would be within the proximity to be affected.

Mike looked at Temms and knew the captain was thinking the same thing because she just stared at the floor as if waiting for the inevitable. After a minute though, nothing happened. The rifle shots had stopped. There were no other sounds of violence.

Then one more solitary shot rang out, and it seemed to wake Temms up. The captain lifted her radio and said, “TAO, Captain; report on shots fired.”

“Captain, TAO. Marine security reports attack in quarantined berthing.”

“I know; we heard it,” Temms said. “What happened?”

“Wait one, sir.”

Temms lowered the radio and walked toward the exit. “Fuck waiting.”

The other department heads didn't budge. Mike, though, pushed off the counter and followed. Within seconds, they were through the watertight door and then the berthing door. Inside, a fellowship of death greeted them.

Temms seemed to freeze, staring down at the bodies. Mike, though, moved past her and over to a Marine sergeant.

“What happened?” Mike said.

“Who the fuck are you?” the sergeant said.

“I'm the man asking questions,” Mike said. “Beyond that you don't need to know anything else. Now what happened?”

The sergeant started to say something else, but Temms finally broke her trance and moved beside Mike. “Yes, Sergeant, what happened?”

The sergeant gritted his teeth. “It got fucked up is what happened. We heard one of the corpsmen scream. We came in and found the whole lot had taken all the corpsmen hostage. I ordered them to stand down repeatedly. Nothing.”

“None of them spoke English,” Mike said.

“Well, I figured that after the first few tries. But that's not the fucked-up part. After a few seconds, this one”—the sergeant pointed at one of the dead—“started talking to this one.” He pointed at the dead body of Captain Yusuf. “Then he yelled ‘Allahu akbar' and the rest did the same. They threw their hostages to the deck and charged us.”

Mike knelt next to Yusuf. He had a scalpel in his hand. “He charged, too?”

The sergeant nodded. “Last one. After everyone else had been neutralized, this cat walks over and picks up the knife and charges. Craziest shit I've ever seen.”

Mike rose. “Suicide by Marine.”

“What?” Temms said.

“Like suicide by cop,” Mike said. “They wanted to die. They knew the Marines would kill them if they charged.”

“Jesus, why?” Temms said.

“Probably heard the security alert and put two and two together. Yusuf thought they had ended it on the
al-Phirosh
. Then they find out it followed them here. I wouldn't want to experience that hell again, would you?”

“No. Who would? But it seems like a hell of a big step. Why not try to escape first?”

“They probably did. They had to know the chances of success were pretty much zero. No, they knew this would be the outcome. It's what they wanted.” Mike's memory flashed to the insurgent at R91, begging Mike to kill him. “An honorable death.”

Temms shook her head. “It doesn't explain the use of force, though.”

The sergeant held up his finger. “Now wait a minute, ma'am. We were within our rights to defend ourselves. Verbal warnings had been given. They held deadly weapons and had already demonstrated a willingness to attack personnel. I wasn't going to let them get within two feet of my Marines.”

“You could have subdued them without deadly force,” Temms said.

“They outnumbered us. One of my men tries to handcuff one while another slits his throat? No thank you, ma'am.”

“Mind your bearing, Sergeant.”

The sergeant glared back.

“You will file a report, Sergeant. And seeing that your chain of command isn't on board right now, you'll submit it to me within the hour. But in the meantime, you and your men will move these bodies to the flight deck and the two still breathing in their racks to medical. Now go.”

The sergeant turned. “Marines, bag the bodies and move them to the flight deck. Move the lame to medical. Now.”

Then he walked off. No one said anything for a few moments.

“Fucking Marines,” Temms said.

“They did the right thing,” Mike said.

“You're just saying that because they did your job for you.”

Mike shook his head. “These men wanted to die. They would have assaulted the Marines if given a chance. Then you would have had hand-to-hand combat in here. Sure, the Marines might have subdued three or four of them, but I'm sure you'd have at least one dead Marine for the effort, maybe two. Instead, your corpsmen are still alive. The Marine guard you posted is still alive. And eleven men who wanted to die are dead. Don't forget, you've still got two crewmen from the
al-Phirosh
too banged up to move. So, it's not like all survivors were killed.”

“I'm not going to look at this as some kind of success.”

“No, it's a shit sandwich. But it could have been worse. You've got to admit that. Hell, I'm thankful it was something like this rather than another outbreak, or me.”

Temms sighed. “What else can I do now? I'm sure as hell not going to put them in a reefer.”

Mike nodded. “Do you really think tossing all these bodies over the side is going to do any good?”

Temms shrugged. “Not many other choices to consider, are there?”

Mike stood there, looking at the bodies, thankful he hadn't had to kill them. Even so, it didn't change the fear building in his gut that a far bigger massacre lay just around the corner. He wanted off the boat, but he had no way to leave. And if his dreams were to be believed, he had a date with a demon he still needed to fulfill.

“Well, I hope it works,” Mike said.

“So do I,” Temms said. “I really don't want to end up like Yusuf over there.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

L
ieutenant Schiffer descended the ladder from the O-2 level to the O-1 in full chemical suit. His bag of 2-PAM chloride and atropine was strapped to his right thigh. He stopped by the DC shop and picked up his gas mask. Strapping it on, he checked to ensure he had a good seal before lifting his suit's hood up over his head and pulling the strings taut. None of his face or hair was visible now.

Leaving the DC shop, he headed aft down the port passageway. At the end, he passed through a door into the truck tunnel. He proceeded down the tunnel to the turntable, where he was greeted by a Security Alert Team member holding a Beretta, barrel pointed down, safety off.

“Sorry, Ops, only security and working party personnel,” the petty officer said.

Schiffer walked up to him and looked down on the shorter man. “I'm on the working party.” His voice came out muffled due to the mask.

The petty officer shook his head. “We appreciate your help, but the cheng was pretty specific in his orders.”

“I'll talk to the chief engineer.”

“Cheng said—”

“This isn't open for debate, Bosun Mate.” Schiffer took a deep breath and eased his tone. “Look, I know you're doing your job. But Doc Morris was my friend and I want to help move him. Then I'll get out of the way.”

The petty officer looked Schiffer over a moment longer, then nodded his head and stepped to the side. “Okay, Ops.”

He opened a watertight door and stood to the side. Schiffer stepped through it and found himself surrounded by plastic sheeting. He heard the door shut behind him. He turned in time to see the latch seal the door against the rubber gasket. No turning back now.

His hands parted the sheeting. A few feet of passageway lay on the other side with another curtain of plastic. Schiffer walked forward and parted the second layer of sheeting.

This time, rather than another contamination barrier, he saw a few members of the working party carrying a body. Its head had been smashed in. An eyeball dangled by the optic nerve, bouncing against its cheek, as they hefted it over a knee knocker on their way out of the space.

One of the cleaners looked up from the puddle of blood. “Yes, sir?” he said, his voice muffled through his gas mask.

“Do you know where Doc Morris was found?”

The guy's eyes narrowed. “No, sir.” He turned to a guy sealing a body bag. “Hey, Jimmy. Where'd they find the doc?”

Jimmy looked up from the plastic bag. Schiffer noticed his eyes were red through the lenses of his mask. “Don't know. Maybe the second deck.”

Schiffer nodded and moved to a ladder and took it two steps at a time down to the second deck. There, the first person he ran into was the overweight and frustrated chief engineer.

“What are you doing down here?” Cheng said. “Some SAT member called me and said you browbeat him into letting you down here.”

Schiffer held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry to be interfering. I just want to help move Doc up to the flight deck.”

Cheng started to say something and then stopped. “Forgot how close you two were.”

Schiffer looked at the starboard bulkhead. “Yeah.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Doc's not here.”

Schiffer nodded. “Already took him up. Okay, I'll go pay my respects—”

“No,” Cheng said. “He's not here, as in I don't know where he is. We haven't found him yet.”

Schiffer opened and closed his mouth a few times without saying anything. Then he managed to say, “But I thought—”

“I know, but he ain't around here. Look for yourself. You'd figure if he was caught up in the shitfest, he'd be lying on the deck with the rest of these poor bastards.”

Schiffer took in the scene around him. Talking to Cheng, he'd managed to avoid focusing on it too much. Now that Cheng pointed it out, Schiffer looked down and saw they were surrounded by death. Bodies piled to the side, probably ten to fifteen in all. Blood everywhere.

Then he realized he was standing in blood. Cheng was too, but he wore rubber firefighting boots. Schiffer shifted his gaze back to Cheng and swallowed hard and tried not to look again.

“Why doesn't it bother you?” Schiffer said.

“Oh, it bothers me,” Cheng said. “A lot of these boys and gals worked for me. But it ain't the first time I've lost people or seen dead bodies. I was the MPA on
Boxer
when it had its main space fire. Saw thirteen people burned to death. It wasn't any prettier than this.”

“But this is different. The fire at least gave an excuse for the deaths. This, though—”

“Ain't no difference. Good people died today. And now we're trying to keep more good people from meeting the same fate. The reason don't matter. It just is. Another damn tragic sea tale.”

Schiffer nodded, wishing he could wipe his eyes. “I guess so.”

Cheng slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let's find Doc, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I
t is over, Semyaza,” Uriel said.

Semyaza did not open his eyes and did not care if the seraph appeared only in voice or in the form of white mist or in his human visage. He reached down deep to withstand the searing pain of Uriel's presence.

“You have come to distract me, to weaken my grip.”

“No. I come to tell you it is over. There is no point in this any longer. There never was.”

“You said man would be my downfall. I have yet to confront a man who has not tried to flee from me in terror. Maybe that is why I hold on. To see this clay person you said would best me.”

“Look at your vessel, Semyaza. Do you not see man has already bested you?”

Semyaza said nothing.

“You will never avoid man, Semyaza. How can you? You see, as long as you exist in this form, your fate and man's are intertwined. You hate them, yet you cannot remain free without them.”

“I am not defeated yet. And I will not surrender. I want to see the man who will best me.”

“You will,” Uriel said. “And when it happens, learn something from it. Perhaps you should take a moment and look in a mirror.”

Semyaza felt the scorching heat of the seraph disappear and a slight relief passed through him as a result. Focus. He had to regain his focus. Before he could, though, the doorknob moved.

“H
ey, Cheng! We found Doc.”

Schiffer spun around and almost slipped and fell in blood. He shuffled toward the excited call, pushing past a couple of people, and saw Cheng walking toward a fan room.

“Mind if I go in first?” Schiffer said.

“Be my guest,” Cheng said. “But I'm sending a corpsman right behind you.”

Schiffer walked through the door into the dark of the fan room. He pulled out his flashlight and swept the room and found Morris sitting on the deck, leaning against the bulkhead in the back under some exhaust ducting. His eyes were closed and his head faced away.