by Brandon Webb
Eagleberg put his mouth up against the mike and began to speak.
“THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL…”
Don’t say anything about the escaped prisoner, thought Arthur. Not to the general population. Don’t create a panic.
“THERE IS AN ESCAPED PRISONER ON BOARD,” the captain continued. “HE MAY BE ARMED AND DANGEROUS…”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“ALL MESS HALLS ARE TEMPORARILY CLOSED. ALL NONESSENTIAL PERSONNEL ARE CONFINED TO QUARTERS UNTIL I GIVE THE ALL CLEAR. REPEAT: ALL NONESSENTIAL PERSONNEL ARE CONFINED TO QUARTERS UNTIL I GIVE THE ALL CLEAR.”
Eagleberg handed the mike to Arthur. “Artie,” he growled, “stay on top of this mess. I’m trusting you.”
He turned abruptly, leaving his XO in charge of the bridge as the ship skirted the edge of the gathering storm, and went to fetch his sidearm and go below himself.
132
Jackson had read that yogi masters could slow their own heartbeats. If he were a yogi master, maybe he’d take longer to bleed out and someone would find him before it was too late.
Jackson was many things. Yogi master was not one of them.
He tried to look around the dark office, but couldn’t move his neck. Lying on his back, head cranked at an angle, all he could see in the gloom of the red safety lights was the series of God’s eyes hanging in a row like lights on a Christmas tree.
Jackson wondered if God Himself was looking at him through those eyes. And if He was, what was He seeing?
A foolish man.
Foolish, dying man.
So wrapped up in logic and sequence and procedure he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his face.
He thought about Lew Stevens, sitting right there in that very office just over a week earlier, giving them all his little discourse on their mystery killer’s possible motivation.
I don’t think he gets off on the killing per se. It’s the thrill of the emotion his kill elicits. He gets off on the building terror.
Nice profiling work, Doctor Stevens.
Uncanny.
Almost as if you knew the guy.
What was it Lew said about sociopaths?
Extremely bright, keenly observant. Our subject could be quite skillful at aping affect.
Nailed that one, too.
Skillful at aping affect.
A practiced shape-shifter. A Rougarou.
The beast could travel anywhere, unseen, long as there’s water to carry him.
He could change into any animal he chose.
A bear, wolf, snake.
A naval officer.
A minute ticked by. Then another.
Jackson’s pulse began to fade.
Black clouds surrounding his field of vision now.
As he lay still, feeling his life flicker like a candle in the wind, one last thought occurred to him.
One way or the other, it looked like his daddy’s blade had finally found its way into Robbie’s liver after all.
As Harlan Jackson Robichaux, Jr. slipped down into the black water he heard a voice drifting over him from miles above.
Listen, it said. Don’t talk.
133
On the bridge the phone rang, and Arthur Gaines picked up.
“Gaines,” he said.
“Listen. Don’t talk,” said the voice on the other end.
Arthur froze.
In that instant, Arthur knew his life was about to change forever. Whatever he did in the next few minutes—in the next few seconds—would determine whether that change would prove propitious, or catastrophic.
His commanding officer, the commanding officer of this entire warship, had just gone full Ahab on him, charging below with a sidearm to hunt the SEAL.
And the SEAL he was hunting was now on the horn with Arthur.
“Chief—”
“Don’t talk.”
He hesitated.
“I need you to get a team of two hospital corpsmen over to Jackson’s office, stat.”
Arthur turned his back to the others on the bridge and spoke as softly as he could. “Is that where you’re calling from?”
“And have security break into Stevens’s office.”
“You should stay—wait, what?”
“Your psychologist. His office. Break in. Full caution. And Jackson’s office—two corpsmen. Now. He’s in danger.”
“Where—are—you?”
The voice paused, then said, “Arthur. Please.”
Gaines was silent for a few seconds.
Propitious? Or catastrophic?
“Hang on—stay on the line. Tommy!” he called out to the nearest officer. “Ring medical. And Mac.” Then he spoke quietly into the phone again. “Chief?”
The line was dead.
134
“Sir!”
The voice came from right behind him. Another master-at-arms.
“You need to be in quarters, sir!”
The moment he’d heard the captain’s announcement, Lewis had leapt over Jackson’s body, hit the door, and sprinted in the direction of the brig, calculating furiously as he went. The SEAL was out and on the move. Which meant what? He couldn’t exactly go break out a prisoner who was already broken out!
Don’t panic, Lewis.
Assess.
Formulate.
Execute.
As he fast-walked down a level and aft to the sector where the brig was located, he ran through his new story, probing for holes.
The SEAL set up Papadakis, but when Jackson’s investigative team got too close he broke out and tried to kill them all. Why he also killed Halsey, we may never know. Maybe Angler had told her something, the two were close. The only reason I survived was I managed to grab at his gun while he was attacking Lieutenant Desai—we struggled, it went off.
Rickety, but doable. He could sell it. As long as he could locate the SEAL before Mac’s MAs did and force him back up to his own office.
Tall order.
But Lewis had superpowers.
Obviously, he was no match for the SEAL physically. The man could snap him in half like a matchstick. But if he could maneuver him into the right situation, he knew exactly how to subdue him, make him malleable as putty. Given the chance to talk to him, Lewis could snap him in half—
These were the thoughts swirling through his mind when the voice from behind surprised him.
“Sir! You need to be in quarters, sir!”
Lewis was about to turn when he remembered: that gouge the witch left in his face! Impossible to hide, but difficult to explain away—how could he bear scratches from a struggle he hadn’t had yet?
Assess.
Formulate.
In a flash of inspiration a new tactical element dropped into his mind, the winning silver dollar in a slot machine.
Cha-ching!
He whipped around and faced the MA, a look of startled terror on his face.
“Oh, thank God!” he said, clutching his hand to his cheek.
“Sir, you all right?”
Lewis tottered for a moment and leaned against a bulkhead for support, catching for a solid breath.
“The SEAL,” he gasped. “Saw him—attacked me—just…”
“Easy, sir.” The guard helped Lewis to a sitting position. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Just—a minute—maybe two. Oh, God…” He put his head between his knees.
“Did you see which way he was headed?”
Lewis gestured vaguely down the passageway. “Ladder—heading below—the nukes, I think—something about—blowing up the ship.” He looked up at the young guard, his face suddenly full of alarm. “Can he do that?”
“Jesus,” the young man muttered. “You sit tig
ht, sir, all right?” He grabbed his radio, pushed a button. “Callan here, just fore of the brig, got a wit here says subject headed for reactor compartments. May have sabotage in mind.”
Callan’s radio squawked back.
In moments the ship’s entire security force had been rerouted below to make a meter-by-meter search of decks 5 and 6.
Leaving Lewis free to work the upper decks.
The perfect diversion.
Recalibrate.
Halsey first. Easier to find—and she might even lead him to the SEAL. There was some kind of connection there. He’d observed them talking.
Think.
She wouldn’t be in her squadron’s ready room—with the ship’s flight ops shut down, the captain’s order would have evacked her to quarters as “nonessential personnel.” But she wouldn’t be in her stateroom; she was too stubborn and too personally involved to retreat to quarters, orders or no orders. She’d be someplace where she could stay mobile, waiting to hear from either Scott or Jackson.
She’d be in her office.
Lewis waited a few seconds until his little passageway was empty. Then he stood. With a quiet chuckle, he headed above to the hangar deck.
People were so easy to read.
135
Monica was on her way below, searching for Scott, when she rounded a corner and stopped short. Down at the other end of the passageway, Lew Stevens, the ship psychologist, was wigging out, babbling to a master-at-arms about being attacked by the SEAL. Something about…blowing up the ship?
That was crazy.
But that announcement, just a few minutes earlier. Escaped prisoner, armed and dangerous? That had to be the SEAL. She’d watched them arrest him barely ten hours earlier.
Oh.
Oh!
The SEAL. Jesus. He’d been in the passageway that night, too, outside Kris’s ready room, watching. She remembered thinking how creepy it was, the way he was skulking the passageways. Could he have…?
And then she remembered what she’d told Jackson about Kris’s state of mind. “Almost like she was being stalked.”
Stalked.
She turned and ran.
Back through the passageway, back above toward the hangar deck, slipping once on a ladder and nearly falling. Get to her phone. Find Scott, find the chief of security, find someone.
She reached her office, yanked open the door, and stepped inside. Closed the door, put her back to it—and stifled a scream.
In the shadows, a figure sat splayed out on the floor, his back to the bulkhead.
“I need your help,” said the SEAL.
136
“Christ!” she cried out.
The SEAL looked terrible. Crumpled on the deck, like a heap of old clothes.
He shifted slightly—and she saw the speargun.
Armed and dangerous.
Monica raced through a mental inventory of her office, searching for anything she might use as a weapon. Should she risk turning and grabbing at the door to make a run for it?
“Did you kill Kristine?” She blurted out the question without even knowing she was going to do it.
The SEAL gazed up at her.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t reply.
She took two steps forward. “Goddamn you—DID YOU KILL MY BEST FRIEND?”
BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!
A loud fist pounding on her door.
“Lieutenant!”
She froze.
“Lieutenant! Are you all right in there?” A second voice. A pair of masters-at-arms.
“I’m—I’m here,” she called out, still staring in horror at Finn.
The man she’d seen in the video footage, with the goggles. Thin, lithe, tightly controlled movements.
Chief Finn was thin and lithe.
“Stay there, Lieutenant,” called the first voice. “Do not come out. Chief Finn, the SEAL—he’s on the loose somewhere. Armed and dangerous.”
Monica felt herself swaying on her feet.
She took a breath.
Shouted, “He’s right—”
She stopped.
The man in the goggles…
“Lieutenant?”
“He’s right below us,” she shouted back over her shoulder, “deck 3, maybe deck 4 by now. Heading for the nukes, I think.”
She heard the two break into a run, the sound receding into silence.
She was alone with the SEAL.
137
He hadn’t moved. Just sat watching her.
For a moment, neither one spoke.
Then she said, “The guy who killed Kristine posed as a handler.”
The SEAL nodded weakly. “Goggles.”
“Yeah,” said Monica. “Goggles. Green jersey.” She took a shaky breath. “Same guy who took out that Knighthawk that crashed in the Gulf. He sabotaged their craft, just before it lifted off. Injected some type of contaminant into the fuel hose.”
It would have taken a few hours to work its way through their fuel supply. When the engine stalled out the fuel gauges would’ve read normal, which would have created a few moments of confusion for Diego and Micaela. Maybe they worked it out in those last seconds. Maybe they had time to wonder who did it, and why, as they cracked the surface of their watery grave.
Not pilot error.
Not Diego’s fault, and not Monica’s fault, either. It wouldn’t have mattered if Chuck goddamn Yaeger had been in that pilot seat. The helo was doomed before it lifted off the deck.
She picked up an object from her desk and held it out toward the SEAL.
Fifty-four onyx eyes stared at him.
“Took me a moment to work it out.” She placed the cube back on the desktop and stared at it. “That crash happened weeks before you showed up,” she added. Now she looked over at him. “Which means it wasn’t you. None of it was you.”
The SEAL exhaled and sank back against the bulkhead, eyes closed. “Yeah,” he said.
Was that a look of…relief?
138
So it was true.
Whatever neural footage Finn had lost into the maw of those gaping holes, he’d probably never know. But it didn’t matter. He hadn’t killed Schofield. Hadn’t killed Biker. Hadn’t killed any of them. It wasn’t him.
None of it was you.
Although…what about Mukalla?
But he’d have to worry about that later. He had a predator to stalk. A smart one.
Where would he be right now?
He looked up at Monica, sharply. “Have you told anyone?”
“So far? Only Scott Angler.”
Finn paused, sifting through the implications. Supercop knew. But did the killer know that Supercop knew?
“They think you’ve gone below to sabotage the reactors,” she added.
He looked up again. “Why would they think that?”
“Lew Stevens told them. The ship psychologist. I just heard him a few minutes ago, down on deck three, saying he was attacked—by you.” When Finn didn’t say anything to that, she pressed. “Did you attack Lew Stevens?”
Finn slowly pulled himself up onto his feet. “Lew Stevens is your rattlesnake.”
“Stevens? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“You just saw him?”
She looked thunderstruck. “Briefly. Just a glimpse. Are you sure…Lieutenant Stev—”
“Did he see you?”
“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
Finn pushed between her and her desk on his way out. “Lock this door after I leave.”
“It doesn’t lock.”
He stopped, looked around the office. “You have a weapon in here?”
“No. Why?”
He handed her the speargun.
“He
’ll be coming for you next.”
139
Finn stood just outside the little maintenance office, leaning against the doorframe and taking stock.
Stevens would have a sidearm. Finn didn’t believe he’d use it in here—too much noise and risk of ricochet—but he couldn’t be sure of that. And he’d just left his primary with West Texas.
He needed a weapon.
Finn pressed both palms to his head. Here came that faint high hum again, the sound he’d started hearing the day he toured the bomb assembly room and magazine.
The magazine.
Where they stored flares.
It would take no more than sixty seconds to scoot down the ladder, find and secure a small flare, get back up and out. With any luck he’d be armed, hidden, and waiting by the time Psycho Doc arrived.
Pushing off from the wall, he threaded his way through the maze of chocked and chained aircraft and forward through the hangar deck until he found the hatch to the little magazine. Punched in the code he’d memorized the day of his tour. Opened the hatch silently and slipped down inside, leaving the hatch open for quick exfil.
Rule 1: always keep an open exit.
Lowered himself in.
Hand over hand, feet finding each rung.
As he descended the dizziness worsened.
The nausea rose up.
That distant demented police siren returned, circling closer and closer.
Rung by rung.
Lower.
Lower.
Finally one foot touched the deck.
He removed his hands from the ladder and flexed his fingers gingerly. His hands ached. He took a breath, then began looking around to locate the right-sized flare—when he heard the snick of a valve relay being thrown, followed by the gurgle of rapidly flowing water. He felt water around his feet.
The magazine was filling.
A man’s voice filtered down from above, quietly echoing.
“Hello, F/X.”
140
Emergency sprinkler system.
Psycho Doc was flooding the magazine.
To drown him? Flush him out?