Virus (9 page)

He saw chipped paint and punctured metal amidst coils of rope and hanging chain; he didn’t recognize a lot of the support structures, little towers of pipe and sheet steel that littered the deck, but he knew the aftermath of a fire-fight when he saw it. The outer walls of the bridge were riddled with bullet holes, several of the windows shattered. Dim sunlight sparkled against the jagged glass, pieces of it lying on the deck outside the bridge—

—which means that some of the shots were fired from inside; which means . . . What
does
that mean?

That this was some really scary shit, that’s what it meant. He and Steve exchanged a look, then waited silently in the mute shadows of the bridge for the others to catch up.

Everton led the others around the outside of the bridge, feeling his excitement grow with each step across the deck of the abandoned
Volkov.
This was better than he could possibly have imagined; whatever had happened here was over, he knew the feel of a deserted ship—and that meant there was nothing to stand in his way.

He crouched down beneath the starboard windows of the wing, and the others did the same behind him as they neared the door to the bridge. He was captain, it was right that he should put himself in front—and it would make his nervous crew respect him all the more.

Besides, this beauty is dead, nothing here but shadows and dust—and a little bravado will go a long way towards smoothing things over when we get to negotiations . . .

The heavy door to the bridge was slightly ajar and Everton scooted closer, gripping the shotgun tightly. In spite of his certainty that no one was aboard, he didn’t want to seem careless in front of his men.

Everton rested the barrel low against the steel door and pushed it back slowly, a soft scrape of metal against metal in the silent air. The door opened easily—

—and a half dozen pale shapes burst out of the darkness, frantic, inhuman, fluttering wildly. Everton reeled back, terrified, heard the others gasp and shout—

—and they all watched as the attackers took to the air, a few white feathers gliding down to rest on the deck. Terns. Fucking
birds.

He forced himself to smile, cursing himself for a fool as his heart eased back into some semblance of normality; he stood up and peered inside before cautiously proceeding into the shadowy room, ready to blow away anything else that moved.

Dull light filtered in through the windows, barely illuminating the panels of equipment and outlining the blocky shapes of consoles and chairs; Everton felt himself relax. It was empty of life, human or otherwise.

Baker stepped in behind him and squinted at the panel of light switches next to the entry. He clicked several of them back and forth, but nothing happened.

“Power’s out,” he said softly, and dropped his bag to the floor. He pulled out a flashlight and aimed the mote-filled beam around the spacious bridge as the others filed in behind him.

The light showed damage wherever it fell, exposing the dark corners of the silent room in terrible detail. There were bullet holes in the walls, and Everton saw that whole panels of instrumentation equipment had been smashed. There were spatters and smears of dried blood across the devastated consoles, bits of circuitry and glass strewn everywhere.

“What the fuck happened here?” Steve whispered, and Everton shook his head, studying the wrecked machinery and wondering how much could be repaired.

What a waste, so much gone . . .

There was a crackle of static in the stillness and Woods’s jerky, nervous voice entered the silent room.

“Captain? You see anything, Captain?”

Everton sighed and unclipped the radio unit from his belt. “You’ll be the first to know, Woods,” he said, and paused—it sounded like the Maori was talking from farther, away, the deep voice of the deckhand mumbling something . . .

“. . . e aku tipuna—”
The rest of the chant was lost as Woods stopped transmitting, but Everton had to stifle a grin as he tucked the walkie-talkie back into place. He’d spent some time in New Zealand, knew a few words. Hiko was
praying.

Better pray that the Russians want this hulk back as much as I think they will,
he thought mildly, and reached into his pocket for a handful of nuts.

Even damaged, the
Volkov
was worth millions. The cargo barge was nothing compared to what he was going to make off this.

Foster walked carefully around the bridge, deeply uneasy as she studied the ruined equipment. The depth of violence implied was unnerving, and she wondered what could have gone down to inspire such brutality. It was obvious from the dried brown stains that people had been hurt or killed here . . .

She looked up from a shattered computer screen and saw Squeaky looking at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Pirates?” she asked.

“Mutiny—” he said, and then Everton cut them both off.

“Pipe down. Foster, check the radio.”

She already had. “It’s smashed.”

Steve held up a logbook, frowning. “The logs are useless unless anyone here reads Russian.”

Foster glanced out the starboard windows and saw that the light was still fading, blocked by storm clouds on the horizon. “Captain, we’ve got less than an hour . . . Captain?”

She turned, saw Everton pacing the back wall, deep in thought.

“He’s thinking, Foster,” said Richie, sneering. “Something
you
were hired for.”

Foster sneered back, but Richie had already turned to Everton. “Are you thinking what I
think
you’re thinking, Captain?”

Squeaky frowned. “Thinkin’ what?”

“Salvage,” answered Steve, and Everton stopped suddenly and addressed them as a group, his eyes glittering in the murky light.

“You all signed on for a percentage, but you never figured I’d bring you this, did you? A ship abandoned in international waters. Maritime law says she’s a derelict; all
we
have to do is tow her to safety, slap a salvage lien on her, and the Russian government’s gotta pay us ten percent of her value to get her back. Richie, put a number on this.”

Richie grinned. “Let’s see . . . three parabolic satellite dishes, one’s kind of fucked up—forty labs, all primed with state-o’-the-art stuff—we’re talkin’ . . . two, three hundred million.”

Everton didn’t even bother trying to contain his excitement. “Three hundred million dollars. Ten percent of that’s thirty million, and that’s what’s coming our way. The opportunity of a lifetime—if we play our cards right.”

Squeaky was frowning. “One percent of thirty million is . . . uh, what, thirty grand?”

“Three
hundred
grand, Squeak,” said Steve.

“I’m willing to change that,” Everton said easily, “cut all of you in for ten percent. A cool three million each. What do you think?”

In spite of her disgust for the man, her amazement at the calculated greed in his voice, just the sound of “three million” gave Foster pause; that was nothing to laugh at. She looked around, watched as the others digested the information.

Squeaky looked at Steve. “Is it legal?”

Steve nodded. “Totally.”

“Then I’m in,” Squeaky said, and then looked at his partner uncertainly. “Steve?”

The engineer paused for a beat and then turned to Everton, his expression blank. “Yeah. Sure, we’re in.”

Richie’s answer was obvious, and Foster suddenly realized that they were all looking at her. She didn’t say anything, not sure how she felt about the sudden turn of events; the crew was probably dead, but no one seemed to care. Whatever had happened had obviously been over for a while, but it was a big ship, lots of places to hide—they could be in danger. And Everton had glossed right over all of it, acting like he was somehow responsible for this great fortune . . .

Richie rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, come
on—”

Squeaky’s bright gaze was encouraging. “Go for it, easy money.”

“There is no such thing as easy money,” she said carefully, but she already knew that she wasn’t going to turn it down. It wasn’t like they were going anywhere on the
Sea Star;
and three
million—

Everton nodded briskly at her. “I’ll take that as a yes. Baker, find the ship generators, we’ll need power to the bridge. See if you can get the main engines running. Squeaky, go with him.”

Steve was already rummaging through his bag, producing flashlights and additional walkie-talkies to hand out. He strapped an ammo belt around his shoulder as Everton continued.

“Richie, throw a line to the tug, have her turn the ship in to the wind. Foster, see if you can get some of this navigational equipment working.”

Steve and Squeaky started out the door, Richie right behind them, and Foster hesitated, watching Everton. He fairly bristled with excitement; she could almost see the dollar signs in his pale blue eyes.

“Captain, my father was an admiral and I know something about salvage law—if there’s anyone alive on this ship, we can’t take custody of her.”

Everton barely glanced at her, fumbling for his walkie-talkie. “Then let’s not find anyone alive.”

She stared at him, not sure what she’d just heard. “What does
that
mean?”

Everton turned and met her gaze evenly. “Just that I hope we don’t find anyone alive.”

He clicked the unit and turned away, dismissing her. “Woods, come back . . .”

Foster watched him for another moment, then walked through the debris of the shattered bridge to the radar console, wondering what they had gotten themselves into—and whether their captain realized the implications of what he’d just said.

• 9 •

S
teve and Squeaky moved through the still darkness of the
Volkov’s
A deck with only their flashlights to guide the way; the twin beams darted ahead of them down the long corridor, showing them an empty, sterile white hall and the occasional sign lettered in Russian. Nothing moved and there was no sound except for their own footsteps, echoing hollowly in the cool, still air.

Steve was worried; whoever had trashed the bridge had been almost methodically thorough in their attack; he didn’t much like the idea of running into such a person, down here in the dark. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that he was scared shitless at the prospect; the ship
seemed
empty, but what if they were wrong?

The corridor ahead turned sharply to the left, and they edged up to it cautiously, Steve’s finger under the trigger guard of the twelve-gauge. There was still no sound, no sense that anything was moving, and they went ahead.

Their lights quickly strafed the short hall and both of them stopped, staring at the door at the end. The thick metal hatch had been bent off its hinges.

“Jesus!” Squeaky whispered.

They moved through the entry, Steve trying not to think about what it would take to bend steel like that.

“Stay close, Squeak.”

Doesn’t matter, it already happened, whatever it was—heat, maybe somebody was welding—maybe the typhoon . . .

He shook his head, putting the ridiculous thoughts out of his mind. He wasn’t thinking straight; it had been too long since he’d gotten more than a few hours’ sleep. Besides, knowing what had happened wouldn’t change anything; they had to get to the engine and get the power back on, first things first.

There was an open door ahead on their right and they edged up to it, shone their lights across some kind of lab room, long tables and machines lining the walls. It was as messed up as the bridge had been. Thick cables had been sliced through, equipment had been smashed, and there were pieces of paneling and wires all over the floor. Steve noticed a faint, acrid tinge to the air, like burned circuitry.

Squeaky played the beam across the heavy cables. “These were cut with an ax,” he said quietly. “This is creepy, man. I’m not likin’ this at all.”

They moved on, and the next yawning darkness they came to was the one they’d been looking for; above the Russian scribble was a stick figure walking down stairs, the hatch open.

The beams of light danced across red smears and spatters on the slanted walls that led down into the dark.