Virus (8 page)

Steve watched it appear slowly, a gradual thickening of the heavy fog into a light gray wall that loomed over them. The
Star
inched closer and suddenly they could all see it: the heavy white hull of a mammoth ship, towering and ghostly in the still air.

Jesus, look at that!

The tug veered slightly and they headed along her starboard side, the
Star
dwarfed by the ship—it stretched on seemingly forever, hundreds of feet long, the full length of it lost to the creeping mist. Woods pulled back a little and the perspective widened, giving them all a clearer feel for the sheer immensity of the silent monster.

It was hard to study the ship objectively, the fog separating and re-forming between the two vessels in a way that gave only murky flashes of the top deck. It was easily the size of a passenger liner, but outfitted for a purpose that Steve couldn’t figure; he could make out what looked like a giant reception dish, one, two of them, each as big as the bridge on the
Sea Star.
Bigger. He saw a massive crane, the damaged rigging swaying and creaking in the heavy air. There were support towers for several antennas and other devices of various sizes, pipes and beams hanging awkwardly in disrepair; he recognized a few of them, but the designs were strange, some of the mechanisms completely unfamiliar. In fact, the multileveled deck was covered with equipment he didn’t know. It was military, had to be—but he didn’t see armaments of any kind; it didn’t make sense.

She had obviously been through the storm, the water damage unmistakable—but there was also a dark residue on parts of the deck that looked like ash, wide patches of the uniform white paint blackened by fire or electrical burns.

—but it’s superficial, all of it. Why aren’t they answering? Where are they? Even a typhoon wouldn’t be much of a threat unless they lost their rudder; she’s gotta weigh upwards of forty thousand tons.

The
Sea Star
crept along, the crew silent and uneasy as they studied the lifeless ship. Foster had walked out onto the foredeck and stood with them, as had the captain, sporting binoculars and a bullhorn. There wasn’t a single light blinking, no sound except for the creak of loose riggings, no sign that anyone was aboard. The effect was dramatic and overwhelming, a gigantic vessel alone, deserted and dead.

“The lifeboats are gone,” Richie said quietly, almost whispering. He sounded as freaked out as Steve felt. “All of them.”

The
Star
edged up to the stern of the ship and Steve squinted at the lettering across the white hull, red and illegible. Foreign, it looked . . .

“It looks Russian,” Foster said, and started flipping through the book she carried. Steve saw it was a copy of Jane’s, and was glad that at least one of them had thought to bring the thick manual of listings out.

Foster stopped on a page, looked at the red lettering again and then back down. “The ‘Akademic
Vladislav Volkov,
Missile and Satellite Tracking Ship.’ Forty-five thousand tons full gross. Length, six hundred forty-two feet. Propulsion, two steam turbines, nineteen thousand horsepower. Seventeen knots top speed, fuel capacity not known—ship’s complement, three hundred. Armament, none . . .”

Steve watched as their helmsman deftly maneuvered the
Star
around the ship’s bow, still awestruck by the size and unnerved by the deathly quiet. Foster continued, reading quickly, her voice low.

“She’s fitted for scientific purposes. Their biggest. Forty-two labs, five machine shops outfitted with advanced robotics . . . The three dishes can maintain simultaneous communication with several spacecrafts.”

Everton raised the bullhorn and shouted suddenly, making them all jump. “Ahoy,
Vladislav Volkov!
This is the captain of the
Sea Star!
Anyone aboard? Ahoy!”

They all waited, Steve stifling his anger for Everton; the man reeked of whiskey and hadn’t even bothered to apologize for being an asshole—not that Steve would’ve forgiven him. At least he had acted like an actual captain since he’d emerged from his private party, although Steve was going to watch his every move until they got out of this; Everton was unstable, he couldn’t be trusted.

There was no answer from the
Volkov,
nothing but the hollow creak of shifting equipment. As the
Star
came along her port side, they could all see a lifeboat hanging from the davit, half submerged. There was a hole in the bottom. Steve saw the third satellite dish; the giant unit had crashed to the empty deck.

Everton turned to him, grim and authoritative. “Baker, break out flashlights and walkies . . . and bring a shotgun.”

Steve hesitated, then nodded. At least the captain was thinking; they were about to board an apparently unmanned Russian vessel, and there could only be a couple of reasons for her abandonment.

Insanity. Mutiny. Mass murder . . .

He didn’t like it, but there was no other choice. He took a last look at the forsaken
Volkov
and then went to get what they’d need, hoping that the ship was truly as deserted as she looked. And he was going to break out every weapon they had, just in case.

Foster stared up at the Russian ship as the
Sea Star
slowly approached, trying not to think about the
Mary Celeste.
It had been her favorite story as a child, endlessly fascinating; she must have heard it a hundred times, lingering over each mysterious detail. Now, though, she wished she could forget it; she was anxious enough, watching the port hull of the deserted
Volkov
slide closer in the softly lapping water. She should be happy, elated; they’d found a way out of the mess Everton had gotten them into . . .

. . . but what happened to the crew? What could have induced three hundred people to abandon a ship that wasn’t sinking?

In November of 1872, the brigantine
Mary Celeste
had set sail from New York to Genoa, carrying nearly two thousand barrels of alcohol and manned by a crew of eight. In addition were Captain Briggs, his wife, and their young daughter. Five weeks later, the ship was found about six hundred miles west of Gibraltar, the cargo intact, the hull undamaged—and no one aboard. Story had it that the tables were set for dinner, a child’s toys were found on the captain’s bed, and all of Briggs’s personal effects were still in place. There was no evidence of violence, no apparent reason for abandonment; they were just—gone.

And this ship, is that what happened here? Or are we going to find bodies stacked in the hold, the mad killer still aboard, hiding somewhere in the dark . . . ?

Foster folded her arms tightly, feeling chilled and apprehensive. She and the rest of the crew had assembled on the starboard deck of the now distinctly sinking tug, all except for Woods; he and Hiko would stay behind while the rest of them boarded the
Volkov
and investigated.

Looking up at the lifeless vessel, Foster wished she could pass on the opportunity herself, but they’d need her to check out the navigational equipment. The ominous enigma of the
Celeste
had been exciting to her as a child, but she was an adult now; things like this just didn’t happen,
shouldn’t
happen.

Steve had been passing out weapons and small bags of equipment and had stopped in front of her. She took a pack, nodding, and then he held out a somewhat battered-looking .32 caliber Colt semi-automatic, meeting her gaze with an expression she couldn’t quite read. He looked nervous but steady, and she relaxed a little. She wasn’t alone in her unease, at least. And it wasn’t like there were any other options open to them; the
Star
wouldn’t last much longer.

Foster reluctantly took the offered weapon, checked it, and put it in her coat pocket. She knew how to handle guns but had never liked them much—particularly not when she might have to use one.

Richie stood behind her, a shotgun gripped loosely in one gesturing hand. “I don’t care what Jane says, I
studied
ships like this. This is a fuckin’ spy ship, man. They’re not gonna like us comin’ aboard.”

Foster reached out and grasped the barrel of his firearm lightly, pushing it away from herself and the others. For someone who was supposed to know weapons, the man acted like an idiot.

Or someone on drugs . . .

“Do you mind?” Foster asked pointedly.

Richie glared at her but slung the weapon over his shoulder.

“Ahoy,
Volkov!
Anyone aboard?” Everton bellowed again, but didn’t bother waiting for a response. He turned to Steve as the
Sea Star
came to a stop only a few feet from the huge wall of the ship’s port side.

“Throw up a line,” Everton said, and Steve picked up a grappling hook from the deck, the heavy rope uncoiling.

Foster and the others stepped back as Steve swung the hook and threw, the clawed metal flying up and clanking loudly against the lowest railing above. He gave it a jerk and the line tightened, the hook catching against steel pipe. First try, and Foster found herself wishing that he’d missed—that they could stay on the
Star
a bit longer, watch the Russian vessel from a safe distance . . .

Foster looked away into the fog, noticing the gradual change in the light; they had maybe another hour before Leiah hit. An hour to find out what had happened aboard their only refuge, what had occurred to leave it deserted and powerless.

Foster swallowed dryly as the two engineers shouldered their equipment and prepared to board the lifeless ship.

• 8 •

S
queaky Molleno didn’t like this shit at
all,
but there was no way he was gonna let his partner go up alone; if there was some Ruskie wacko with an ax waiting on the deck of the
Volkov,
Steve would need some coverage. Still and all, he hadn’t been so nervous since he’d lost his virginity to Maria Vasquez in the back of Pop’s Ford sedan in high school—and that had been a good kind of nervous; this was just fuckin’ creepy. Fog all around and a sinking tug and now
this
floating horror show looming over them . . .

. . . desgracia sobre desgracia,
one goddamn thing after another.

“You know, this is foreign soil,” said Richie casually. “We’re trespassing, we need the captain’s permission to board her; they can legally shoot us. Just wanted everyone to know that . . .”

Terrific. Ganja boy had all the facts; a little encouragement was
just
what they needed.

Steve started up, hand over hand, dwarfed by the giant hull of the Russian ship. Squeaky let him get a few feet and then followed, gritting his teeth in exertion as he stepped off the tug and pulled himself into the air.

The blank white of the hull seemed to go on forever, extended at least thirty feet up from the lapping water, and that was just to the lowest of the multiple railings. Squeaky concentrated on keeping balanced, on not looking anywhere except at his hands and occasionally getting a nice, clear view of Steve’s butt and legs directly overhead as they scaled the sloping wall.

He heard Steve hit the deck and then his partner’s strong, sweaty hand was extended down to help him aboard. Squeaky took it gratefully; he wasn’t the athlete he’d been a few years ago and he felt the strain in his arms and back as he climbed through the railing, panting.

Steve took the bundled rope ladder out of the utility bag and looped it to the railing, breathing easily in spite of their climb. Squeaky scowled to himself; he’d have to get back into his daily push-ups, no shit . . . Now wasn’t the time to think about it, though. His heart was thumping from more than just the trek up; this sucked.

“Boarding a ship without permission? Stupid, very stupid,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna get
shot.”

Steve didn’t answer, but Squeaky could see that he agreed on the “stupid” part. Steve was easy to read, at least for him; they’d worked together a long time, and Squeaky could tell when his buddy wasn’t happy. It wasn’t like there was any alternative, but still, Squeaky didn’t particularly care for the idea of their deaths being legal, and he didn’t like this ship. He’d boarded derelicts before and he’d never felt so totally freaked; it felt . . .
haunted.

The rope ladder secured and dropped, Steve unshouldered the shotgun and walked to the forward ladder well. They couldn’t see much from where they’d boarded, the top deck well above eye level. Squeaky followed close, searching for movement and still trying to catch his breath.

They came out next to the bridge, a raised structure as big as the
Sea Star
in its entirety. Squeaky wasn’t too good on distances, but the deck that stretched out in front of them looked the length of a couple of football fields. Underneath one of the huge dishes was a glass-encased control room, twenty feet above the silent deck; he saw stairwells and closed hatches, torn canvas, ladders—but no sign of life anywhere.

“Ahoy the bridge—anyone aboard!” Steve shouted, and then fell silent as they both took in the scene. From the
Sea Star,
Squeaky had only been able to make out that there was some damage through the heavy mist. The fog was just on the water, though, it hadn’t reached this far up; as he stood here now, taking in the huge deck that lay exposed before them and the bridge itself, his nervousness turned to cold fear.