Virus (12 page)

No one had better try to stop him. He’d been through too much already to let anyone stand in his way; the
Volkov
was his, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it.

The door to the engine room was bolted, the shotgun was in easy reach, and Woods and Richie were coming—but Squeaky was still deeply uneasy. It was creepy, being alone in unfamiliar territory when there was some Russian crazy running around. And it didn’t help that every goddamn time he moved, the video camera bolted over the door tracked after him; rigged up to some kind of a motion sensor, which was interesting and all, but it still felt weird. Like someone was watching him.

He had rummaged through his sack and found a half pack of cigarettes, left over from the last time he swore he’d never smoke again. Actually, it had only been a few days and he’d already cheated, but who the fuck cared? Steve was always getting on his case about it, but Steve wasn’t here—and besides, he was tense.

He lit another and propped himself up on a stool, holding the walkie in one hand and looking at the main turbine. That was a lot of horses, no shit; the smooth hum of the impressive machine was soothing, relaxing to his nerves.

He was thinking that he’d buy his own shop with his share of the salvage money, one that was outfitted for cars, boats, maybe even small planes—state of the art all the way. He could hire the best mechanics and supervise everything personally. He’d always liked mechanical stuff, even as a kid; there was a certain satisfaction that came with tooling around engines, making them run the way they were supposed to. He didn’t want to give that up just because he could afford to.

He grinned, reminded of an old joke.
Maybe I’ll run a charity clinic, free service for all the ladies—“Let me look under your hood and get your motor running—and I’ll fix your engine, too,” something like that—

Someone was watching him.

Squeaky’s smile faded and he turned slowly, gaze darting around the room. The video camera was still on him, but it hadn’t felt like that, hadn’t felt like that at all . . .

Nobody. Nothing but machines, and he decided that he was definitely in need of a stiff drink; he’d have to hit Woods up for a belt, that weaselly dork always carried, and where
were
they, anyway? Leaving him down here to get all paranoid when there was a nut on the loose; it was practically inhumane.

Squeaky took another drag off his smoke and wondered what Steve would do with his share; maybe they could go in together, that would be all right—

A scuttling movement behind him. Squeaky wheeled around, searched the row of generators for the source, his heart pounding and eyes wide. Nothing, he couldn’t see anything, but the sound persisted. Like a spider with metal legs, skittering.

“Hey! Somebody there?” His voice cracked.

His gaze was caught by a sudden movement between two of the generators, near a thick bundle of cords and cables that ran through an access hole in the deck. The tail end of an electrical cord disappeared through the hole, as if jerked down by unseen hands.

He stubbed out his smoke and put down the walkie, still scared but not as bad as when he’d first heard that weird noise. It couldn’t be a person, unless they were four feet tall or could breathe fuel oil; there wasn’t room under the deck for anything else.

So what made that noise? And where did the cord go?

Had to be a mechanical problem; one of the cords had gotten caught on something, that was all—maybe hooked onto a rotor or some such. Squeaky picked up the flashlight and clicked it on, walking over to the bundle of cables and feeling fike an idiot.

Terrific, great—leave me alone for ten minutes and I turn into a fuckin’ mouse. Squeaky, that’s me . . .

He stepped up to the access hole and shone the light down, seeing only the thick cables that led off to one side, distributing power to the ship. The hole was just big enough for the bundle, maybe three feet across, and packed to all sides with the heavily insulated cords.

He crouched down and stuck his hand into the mass, spreading the cables as far as they would go. He squeezed himself forward, surprised at how easily they parted; he’d be able to get a pretty good look after all—

—and the cables tightened suddenly, trapping his arms against his body.

“What the fuck—!”

He struggled against them, terrified, unable to get free. The cords pulled tight, tighter—and jerked him down through the hole and into the darkness, before he even had time to scream.

Woods was dogging his heels like a scared woman; every time Richie stopped, the skinny blond tripped all over himself not to run into him. Richie thought it was pretty funny, actually; he’d stopped suddenly a couple of times just to watch the man dance.

They were on C deck, and it was dark. Not pitch black, they had passed a couple of overheads, but the corridors seemed to be randomly lit; for every lamp on, there were three or four off. It made for strange patterns, tricking out Richie’s perspective so the halls seemed to stretch and condense in front of them.

Woods had only protested their little side trip once, but Richie had set him straight. If they were gonna be wandering around in hostile territory, they needed to be ready for anything; he’d just told Junior that he was free to go down to the engine room solo if he didn’t like it. Woods had shut up quick after that, and had been breathing down his neck ever since.

They’d already passed several storerooms with bedding and uniforms and shit like that, not to mention a couple of computer rooms that had been totally trashed. Richie knew they were close; the layout of the
Volkov
was similar to ships he’d heard about back in AIT.

Research vessel, my black ass. Researching on weapons development, more like it, out here, all quiet like . . .

Richie stopped in front of a heavy door, and Woods caught himself about an inch from running into him, his face pale and slick in the cool, shadowy hall. Richie smirked and opened the door, shining his flashlight into the room.

He felt a slow grin spread across his face and took in the sight, deeply satisfied at what he saw. Racks of AK-47s and banana clips; Rocket Propelled Grenade Launchers, 58.3-millimeter thermite grenades, they looked like, and the Russian equivalent of a 16D antitank launcher to go with ’em. No way a spy ship wasn’t gonna be equipped to the teeth, he
knew
it.

“Weapons locker,” he said, and stepped inside, Woods close behind.

He snapped on the lights, still grinning, and reached for one of the AK-47s, checking the bore and nodding happily. Chromed and smooth, hadn’t been fired with any of that corrosive shit that the Ruskies had been so fond of for so long . . .

“Is that . . . is that an AK-47?” Woods asked anxiously.

“Yeah. Kicks all ass over an M-16, Woodsy—we’re talking rapid-fire capability, high muzzle velocity . . . Got a short sighting radius, but you don’t even need to aim one a’ these babies, just point and squeeze.”

He tossed the rifle to the helmsman and watched him fumble with it, then turned and picked up a munitions pack, handing it to the other man. “Let’s load up.”

Richie fell to the work with a vengeance, stuffing Woods’s pack with every clip on the rack; each curved black mag held thirty. The RPGs went in too, since the grenade launchers only held two missiles—he could see that they were finned, meant a nice, flat trajectory and slow rotation; excellent fuckin’ accuracy. He found a couple of sets of night vision goggles, not as good as a starlight scope but better than nothing; they went in on top.

He stood up and looked around, nodding. They’d cleared the locker out, but there was another hatch at the end of the room that probably led to more. Woods had six AK-47s slung across his back and the grenade launcher sagging off one shoulder.

“C’mon, Richie, that’s enough.”

Richie shook his head, picked up the last AK-47, and slammed a clip home. “You can never be too rich, too thin, or too well armed,” he said, and opened the hatch. A stairwell, dark and empty.

Richie pulled a joint out of his breast pocket and lit up, held the first toke in until his brain started to scream for air. He exhaled slowly, feeling at ease for the first time since the whole anchor incident. There was a watcher on this boat, maybe more than one; those goddamn video cameras all over, the back of his neck going cold every time one found him, fuckin’ with him—

—but now we’re cookin’ with gas; ain’t no commie bastard gonna get the drop on me, no way no how . . .

“Where ya goin’? Let’s get outta here, Richie.”

Woods sounded like a cartoon. Richie took another hit and started down the dark stairs. Squeaky could wait, at least until Richie had scoped out the available firepower.

He was a man with a mission. And God help the Russians, ’cause he was through bein’ fucked with.

• 12 •

T
he sick bay wasn’t where Everton had proposed, but it was close. Foster threw open the door and found the lights, the bright fluorescents chasing away the shadows and showing them a gleaming white medical lab. There were wide lockers, gurneys, stainless tables—it seemed to be one of the only places on the ship so far that hadn’t been wrecked.

Foster walked in cautiously, Everton, Steve, and Hiko right behind. She heard the mounted camera in one upper corner swivel towards them and glanced up, felt a chill run through her; there were surveillance cams everywhere on the
Volkov,
probably standard equipment on a vessel like this—but she couldn’t help feeling like they were being tracked, their every move studied. Whoever had dropped the anchor on the
Sea Star
obviously had the skills to do it, too; they’d blocked the bridge console from them easily enough . . .

They all stood for a moment, listening, but the lab seemed empty of life, as empty as the rest of the ship.

But not empty, either—it’s like a ship of ghosts, invisible but always watching. We can’t see them, but they’re here with us now, sliding between us, examining us, touching us . . .

She shook off the feeling and walked to a counter of drawers and cabinets that lined one side of the room, opposite the locker bank. Steve and Everton helped Hiko to one of the examining tables while she pulled open drawers, found gauze and boxes of rubber gloves. She crouched down in front of a cabinet and got lucky on the first—swabs, bottles of disinfectant, and suture kits. She grabbed up an armful and walked across to where Hiko lay, Everton leaning on the table. Steve was rummaging around for dry clothes in one of the lockers.

The Maori deckhand watched stoically as she undid the makeshift tourniquet and wiped the nasty wound with an iodine solution. She threaded the surgical needle and took a deep breath.

“This is gonna hurt, Hiko.”

He shrugged. “Just get on with it.”

Steve had found a set of scrubs and stepped behind a medical curtain to change. Foster hesitated with the needle, unable to help a quick look as he slipped out of his wet pants. From where she sat, she could see one well-muscled thigh, the heavy, wet material pushing down . . .

Jesus, am I in high school again?
Foster turned back to the work at hand, embarrassed at herself. She pierced the ragged edge of flesh and pushed through as gently as she could. Hiko didn’t even flinch.

“You’ve got a high pain threshold,” she said quietly.

“I usually do it myself,” he answered. She couldn’t quite tell if he was kidding, but looking at the depth of the tattoo work he’d had done, she thought probably not.

Everton had produced another handful of peanuts from somewhere and looked over at her, speaking conversationally as he munched.

“Foster—what are you gonna do with your three million?”

She concentrated on making another stitch across the deep gash, fully aware that the captain was trying to make nice and not particularly interested. “I don’t have it yet.”

Everton continued. “Say you do. Seriously, what would you do?”

She shrugged; she had nothing to say to the man, and in truth, she hadn’t thought about it yet.

Hiko obviously had. “I’d open a school.”

Steve walked out from behind the curtain in a loose set of surgical scrubs. He tossed another set to Hiko, smiling. “A school?”