Shadow of War, page 34
“Who cares?” the one replied. “Didn’t you hear that? The hatch just opened! They’re in the module. Come on.”
Cliff and I turned and stared at three figures as they appeared from the shadows. They were walking blindly.
Then they saw us.
“Stop right there,” one of them said.
I raised my weapon. “I don’t want to hurt you. We’re just passing through.”
They continued toward us. They weren’t stopping.
“Cliff,” I muttered. “Don’t kill them. Just knock them out.”
Cliff was watching them approach. All three were large men, but security had not trained them. They were base workers, likely repair or maintenance crew.
I stepped toward them, Cliff at my side. I holstered the gun.
The first one jumped forward and took a swing.
I bobbed and blocked his punch. The other two had targeted Cliff, but he stepped back, leading the two away, as he traded blocks and punches.
Focusing on the one in front of me, I swung an elbow, followed by a series of strikes. He managed to block most of them, but one cracked against his temple and he stepped back, dazed, and went down to one knee. Then he rose again, staring at me. “Where are you from?”
I clenched my teeth and didn’t respond. Instead, I swung a foot and it cracked across his head. His eyes rolled up, showing only white in the dim module. The multicolored alerts bathed his face as he fell backward, crashing onto the deck.
Cliff was working on one of the others. They’d been no match for the man. He’d been training hard since the USSF had taken him prisoner. He’d recovered from those events six months earlier, had only a slight limp remaining, but he’d increased his musculature and his speed, and his moves were lightning fast. He was blocking each strike easily, and between each block, throwing three punches or knife edge strikes. It wore his opponent down quickly, and within seconds, he’d landed four strong hits to the other man’s jaw. Eventually the man fell to the deck, motionless except for his heaving chest.
Cliff straightened and looked at me. “No problem.”
—••—
Soon we were in the security module and at the lift heading down.
Something occurred to me and I marched slowly toward the desk where we’d fought Rivers and the other guard. I peered over it and to the deck on the other side.
Cliff watched, his eyes hard. “What is it?”
I swallowed past a lump in my throat. The two were dead.
—••—
“Clarke’s totally mad,” I snapped.
“He’s driven. He’s on a mission. He’s going to do everything he can to disable or dismantle the BSFIF.”
We were in the lift heading down to the docking pool.
“To kill someone who’s already in submission. I—” I shook my head. “I could never do that. It’s cold. It’s heartless.”
“He’s full of anger, and in the military you don’t question orders. The BSF is clearly concerned about this splinter group. They’re highly motivated to eliminate them.”
“I can tell.”
Cliff turned to me. “He’s going to do whatever it takes to kill as many of them as he can. Then he’ll expect to come to Trieste and get the neutral weapon from us.”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure what else he can do to the BSFIF. He doesn’t really have many other options here.”
But it got worse.
The repair crew we’d temporarily restrained in the airlock at the base of the lift.
They were also gone.
Tied up still, limp, in pools of their own blood.
I clenched my fists at my sides and screamed.
There were a few seacars in the docking pool, all transports. None had armaments; they were likely just for carrying replacement crews to and from DG. We boarded one, descended to the underwater airlock, and passed through the inner hatch. It pressurized to the exterior depth of 500 meters, and we piloted out, through the tunnel and into the dark water of the deep Indian Ocean.
Chapter Thirty-Five
We powered outside and moved southward a few hundred meters. The vessel was small. It had two airlocks—one on each side—and a powerful single engine and screw. The sonar and other systems were basic, but I did note that the deck vibrated with power when I pushed the throttle. It likely had a high top speed, but all amenities ended there.
It would have been nice to have a few torpedoes, but no matter. We only needed to find our people and get them on board.
The vessel descended to the sandy bottom at my touch. Our headlights illuminated the area and I signaled Sahar and Renée.
There was no answer.
“Shit. Security may have caught them.” I peered out the viewport. It was just too dark. The only thing we could do is wait to see if they could find us and board our airlock. They’d then have to decompress . . .
But we had to locate them first.
“Shit,” I said again.
“Can we track their PCD signal?” Cliff asked.
“Give it a try.”
“No luck,” he said after a minute. “I’m not getting anything.”
I felt helpless. There was nothing we could do for them. And if security had found them, they were not going to be considerate. Not after what Clarke had done, anyway.
We had disabled the towers to make sure they did not detect SC-1 when it returned. In the end, however, Clarke had totally derailed our plans.
And killed a lot of people.
It would devastate Sahar.
Our comm crackled to life. “Attention all personnel.” It was an all-call broadcast, from the same person who’d been on the PA earlier. “This is a base emergency. The intruders have killed numerous sailors in the facility. There are some outside still. The quake compromised the lower lab levels. There was pressure loss but hatches sealed the areas quickly. Stay in your safety zones. Don’t come out. We’ve called Diego Garcia for help and we’re waiting, but the displacement wave might hit us any minute. Be prepared for more base damage.”
I stared at Cliff. “They haven’t found them yet.” I pushed the throttle up and began to move. “We have to show Renée where we are, before security catches them.”
Cliff was peering out the viewports, squinting, trying to make something out, but it was still impossible. We were hovering just feet over the seafloor, moving slowly.
He was holding two PCDs on his lap, and I frowned. “What’s that?”
“It’s Richard’s. I took it from him.”
I stopped the seacar and thought furiously. When he’d cuffed Kat’s killer, he’d taken the communication device. A prickle worked its way down my scalp . . .
It might actually give us a chance.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Richard had hacked into Renée’s PCD. He’d somehow turned her comms off, then back on, and caused a loud sound to attract attention. To give their position away.”
It only took him a second to realize what I was suggesting. He started pushing keys on the device. “You want me to contact her?”
“If possible. Or, just send the same signal.”
He looked horrified. “It’ll give them away again.”
“Or, it’ll help us find them first.”
—••—
It was the only thing we could do.
The sonar was situated between the two pilot’s chairs, as was customary. I stared at the screen intently. There were a few blips in front of us, indicating some noise, but there was no way to tell who it was. I powered forward, edging toward the location.
I kept the power low. Renée and Sahar had disabled the sonar towers, so personnel in the facility’s control cabin didn’t know what we were doing.
“Careful,” Cliff muttered. “It might not be our people.”
Within minutes, a figure appeared from the darkness.
Then another.
They held needle guns in their hands, and they turned to stare at us.
“Sahar,” I hissed into the comm. “I don’t know if you can see or hear me, but the security team is right in front of the seacar. They’re armed.”
No response.
“I can go out and try to neutralize them,” Cliff rumbled.
There was scuba gear on board the small vessel. It was an option.
The floodlight swung across the area; I was searching for more divers. Sure enough, there were three more nearby. All held needle guns.
“There are five of them,” I said into the comm.
Cliff was still working at Richard’s PCD. He was trying to decipher how the man had hacked into Renée’s communication device.
There were no signs of them on the sonar. They were being absolutely quiet. The security team was still staring at us, trying to figure out who we were exactly. Then over the PA: “Security, that seacar is not BSFIF. Repeat, that’s not us, guys! Watch out!”
The response was instant. They turned toward us and began swimming.
I knew there wasn’t much they could do. They couldn’t board us, because they’d have to decompress. But they could damage us. Get on our hull, sabotage the thrusters perhaps. Or if they had an explosive, they could implode the seacar. I increased thrust and backed off a bit, but kept the divers in view.
“Got it,” Cliff said. “What should I—”
“Send the same signal as before.” I kept my eyes on the sonar, waiting . . .
And a white star flared on the sonar screen. It was to the starboard, about twenty meters away. They were close.
I hauled the ship around and pointed the stern toward the divers. “Hold on!” I snapped as I slammed the thrust to full. The screws turned instantly, cavitating and throwing bubbles upward. The water behind us grew instantly turbulent and a river churned away from the seacar. It picked the divers up and hurled them backward, away from us. There were a few angry snaps of noise as needles ricocheted off our hull, then the figures disappeared into the darkness behind us, twirling and spinning like rag dolls as our thrusters pushed them.
I’d kept my eyes on the white star flashing on the screen.
Renée’s PCD.
Soon we were over it, and I hissed, “It’s us, Renée. Get on board, now!”
Within minutes the airlock outer hatch opened.
I stared at the speaker, willing it alive. Within moments, pumps had purged water from the lock. A voice said from the comm, “Mac! It’s us, we’re in the airlock. We’re decompressing.”
I sat back in the chair and deflated, spent and exhausted. Renée and Sahar were alive.
—••—
They had a lengthy period of decompression ahead of them. Cliff and I brought the seacar to the outer airlock hatch at the labs—where inside, Johnny and Alyssna waited with the neutral beam.
I stared at the clock.
Time was ticking slowly.
So slowly.
Where the hell was SC-1?
Then my PCD came to life. “Mac?”
“Meg! Finally.”
“We’re a few minutes away. What’s happening there?”
“It’s gone to hell, unfortunately, but we got Components Three and Four.”
I told her where we were and directed her into the waters around The Vault. I wasn’t worried about security intercepting our transmission, because I was using my own PCD and not a common channel. She said, “We’re about ten minutes from you. Everything worked fine. Chalam and Max came through. The quake worked beautifully.”
“No displacement wave?”
“Just a tiny one. It was a large quake—Chalam thinks about 8.3—but the crust moved laterally, not vertically, which is what you wanted.”
“Any warsub movement out there?”
“Diego Garcia went into lockdown. We heard the alarms. They’ll figure out there’s no displacement wave very soon, if they haven’t already.”
Which meant they’d be coming, and likely very soon.
Then she said something that absolutely froze the blood in my veins.
“We transferred the last bomb to the Commodore. He’s got it now.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Meg.” I paused for a long series of heartbeats before I continued. “What are you talking about?”
“We mated SC-1 with the Commodore’s seacar a few minutes ago. The fifth bomb. We moved it over—”
“Why did you do that?”
She sensed the intensity in my tone. “What’s wrong? Richard told us that we were only to use four bombs for the quake. He told me in SC-1 just before you left. You saw us speaking . . . I thought you told him. You nodded at me. Chalam confirmed it . . . said we didn’t need five.”
“What did Max say about that?” I asked.
“He let Chalam decide. He’s the geologist, after all. We moved the bomb over to Clarke’s seacar and he left, just a few minutes ago.”
I clutched the PCD in my hand.
Holy.
Shit.
My knuckles were white.
Beside me, Cliff’s usually stoic face was one of shock.
“Meg,” I rasped. “Listen to me. Those weren’t my orders. Watch out for Chalam. He’s working with Clarke and Richard.” Chalam was on board SC-1 with her.
There was a long, terrible break. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I explained what Richard and Clarke had done. She swore repeatedly as I spoke. I had tied in the airlock with my broadcast, so Renée and Sahar could hear what I was saying.
Meg said, “Richard told me that you wanted one of the bombs after we were done. He told me on the seacar. You saw us speaking . . . I assumed you’d sent him over to tell me!”
Part of me was shocked that she’d trusted Clarke, but we had been through so much already, and I belatedly realized the irony of what I’d done.
I’d implored her to trust the man.
And then he’d betrayed us, after all.
I recalled what he’d said on board SC-1, before we infiltrated The Vault: My orders are to go to their HQ in the Indian Ocean. Find them . . . find their leaders, and then blow them all to hell.
Blow them all to hell.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “He’s got an Isomer Bomb, and he’s going to use it. He’s going to achieve what the BSF ordered, and Chalam’s going to get his revenge.”
“He was headed east,” she said. “He’s not on my sonar anymore, but I can send an active pulse—”
“No! Don’t.” That would give away her position to every BSFIF warsub in the region. “Come get us first. Then we’ll deal with it.”
“But Mac,” Sahar cried from our airlock. Her voice echoed in the small enclosure. “What’s Clarke doing?”
It seemed obvious, after his previous actions. “He killed many at The Vault, Sahar. Now he’s going to use the Isomer Bomb at Diego Garcia. He’s going to destroy the entire base, and kill everyone there.”
—••—
Sahar had gone quiet. Renée was full of questions about Richard and what exactly was going on. I tried my best to answer everything while SC-1 maneuvered in and the umbilical connected with the base airlock. Inside, Johnny and Alyssna opened the hatch and began to load the weapon into SC-1.
I’d warned Johnny about Richard and Chalam, and he was prepared for it. He secured Richard inside our seacar, and Chalam was sitting quietly, on the couch, not speaking.
Within a few minutes, Cliff and I had mated with SC-1 and also transferred over, along with Renée and Sahar, although they had to remain in the airlock to decompress.
Within thirty minutes, we were ready to depart.
We had the Aiming Module and The Accelerator. The neutral beam was large, and we secured it to the deck over the moonpool hatch.
Then, in the Pilot’s Cabin, I pushed the throttle to full and set course for the joint USSF/BSF base, to the east. We had no time to waste; we needed to catch up to Clarke.
The fusion reactor was rumbling and vaporizing seawater. Eventually the bubble began to grow from our bow back to stern. I called to Max, and he appeared at my side. “What happened?”
He looked contrite. “Mac, I’m sorry! Right before we dropped you here at The Vault, Richard told me that you’d changed your mind. He said to only use four bombs. I didn’t think anything of it, because Chalam told me earlier that only four were needed to cause the quake we needed! The two comments matched, and since you trust Richard so much . . . ” He trailed off and watched my eyes.
“They tricked you,” I muttered. “They’re working together. And with Clarke.” It had been totally unexpected. I’d known Clarke was a question mark. I’d known that Chalam wanted revenge, but he had seemed better earlier. It had been a ruse though. But the real surprise had been Richard.
“What are they planning?”
It seemed clear that Commodore Clarke had sensed an opportunity and had taken it. We’d had five nuclear-sized bombs on board SC-1 and he’d realized that Chalam’s anger at the BSF had been an opportunity. He’d manipulated the situation, used Richard to back him up, and had taken a bomb and was on his way to DG. It was a hundred kilometers to the east, only two hours travel time, but he’d left almost an hour earlier. He’d be arriving there in about fifty minutes, assuming a speed of 60 kph, and only our SCAV drive could get us close in time.
I slammed the throttle all the way forward, and the acceleration pushed me back into the seat. Within seconds, our velocity was 450 kph.
We couldn’t let him do it.
Sahar and Renée were still in the airlock, decompressing. It was a miserable environment for divers. To just sit and wait to exhale excess nitrogen from your body. If you didn’t, however, then when the pressure dropped back to normal, the gases would bubble from your tissues and stay lodged within bloodstreams. They’d clog joints, organs, veins, and arteries.
