SEVENTY-TWO
The Oregon’s op center was deathly quiet. Max could feel Hali and Murph staring at him. He was focused on the main screen showing the feed from the Port Authority camera showing the Centaurus in the distance. He couldn’t help but picture Juan and the others trapped in the depths of the ship awaiting their doom.
This was not the way Max had imagined the ship’s maiden voyage would go. When they’d departed unexpectedly early from the construction yard in Malaysia, it was just supposed to be a quick mission to stop a terrorist attack. Now he feared he was about to kill his best friend.
“Are we really going to sink the ship with everyone still on board?” Hali asked.
“You heard Juan’s order,” Max said. He tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry. He’s not giving up. Neither should we.”
“I know Sylvia is alive,” Murph said. He didn’t have to mention that his own best friend, Eric, would also go down with the Centaurus.
“Juan will do his best to find Sylvia and get Eric and Linc out of there. Are you going to be able to do this?”
“Yes. Sylvia would do the same to save the city.”
“Raise the rail gun,” Max said. “Hali, get me MacD.”
“Rail gun ready in all respects,” Murph said.
The image on the view screen changed. The Centaurus now much larger, with the camera panning slowly from bow to stern.
“Are you getting the picture?” MacD asked.
“We see it,” Max replied. “Murph has the rail gun armed and ready to fire.”
“What is the target?”
“The waterline,” Murph said. “Not the open cargo holds.”
“Remember,” Max said, “we want to sink the ship, not ignite the rockets. We’ll fire five rounds. That should put her under quickly.”
“I’ll target three in the bow and two in the stern,” MacD said.
The image slewed around to the bow. A green dot appeared on the screen. It was centered under the name CENTAURUS stenciled on the bow.
Max waited for Murph to confirm that the ship’s computer had automatically calculated the proper firing solution for the round.
He remained silent. Max could see that his chest was heaving.
“Mark,” he said. “We need to do this.”
Murph finally said, “Target acquired.”
“Fire.”
The Oregon shuddered as the rail gun launched its tungsten shell.
“Round one away,” Murph said. “Loading round two.”
* * *
—
Linda had repositioned the Gator another hundred yards away from the Centaurus. MacD was standing in the hatch with his eyes focused through the laser designator.
With the Oregon seven miles out to sea it would take five seconds for the hypersonic round to reach the target. The shell was unguided, so it was on a ballistic trajectory. MacD didn’t have to activate the laser again until he was selecting the next target.
Unlike in the movies, there was no high-pitched whistle to announce the incoming round. As if out of nowhere, a gaping hole was torn in the bow of the Centaurus. There was no explosive in the shell. It was purely a solid hunk of metal. The kinetic energy of the round did all the damage. Water poured through the black maw.
The sonic boom of the round’s shock wave followed immediately after, rattling the Gator.
“Successful hit,” MacD said with no satisfaction.
“Acquire target two,” Max said.
MacD adjusted the laser sternward under the first crane.
“Ready.”
“Firing.”
MacD waited another five seconds. It was as if he had drawn a bull’s-eye on the ship. The shell ripped through the hull like it was made of crepe paper.
The bow of the Centaurus was already settling into the water.
“Keep going,” Max said.
The next round went under cargo bay two. Three rounds, three targets hit. If it hadn’t been in service of such an awful purpose, MacD would have been overjoyed at the display of the Corporation’s teamwork and engineering skill.
He moved back to the superstructure, placing a round directly below the bridge at the waterline. Finally, he hit the stern right above the propellers.
Normally, MacD would expect Max to say something like, “Nice work.” That seemed inappropriate given the situation.
Instead, Max said, “We’re done.”
For a moment, MacD watched the Centaurus lowering into the water. At this rate, it certainly seemed likely that the ship would hit the bottom of Sydney Harbour by the time the fireworks went off.
There was nothing else they could do for the team on board the ship. He climbed down and closed the hatch above him.
Linda looked back at him from the cockpit.
“The Chairman has a plan,” she said, as though she were trying to convince herself. “He always does.”
“Ah hope so.”
MacD’s watch said four minutes to midnight.
SEVENTY-THREE
Polk vowed to make that mystery woman pay for severing the tendons in his wrist, but he had to get the bleeding under control before he could continue his pursuit. He was almost done tying a tourniquet around his wounded arm when the first impact hit the Centaurus.
It felt and sounded like an explosion, but it wasn’t midnight yet. He wondered if the rockets had launched prematurely. Then the ship was rocked by another blast, then another, each one getting closer until one directly below him knocked him off his feet. A fifth completed the cycle, and the ship went silent again.
Someone had fired on the Centaurus. That was the only conclusion he could draw. It had to be someone involved with these intruders. Thanks to those blasts the ship was now at an incline toward the bow.
The Centaurus was sinking.
He didn’t care. The rockets would launch. Whoever was attacking him would be paralyzed by the Enervum. He would simply get in the free-fall lifeboat and wait for Jin to arrive.
With the tourniquet tight, Polk gritted through the pain and adjusted his grip on the submachine gun. The woman’s blood droplets on the white linoleum were as easy to follow as a neon sign.
He tracked them through several turns, where they ended at the door leading into the mess. She had to be hiding inside.
Polk wasn’t going to fall for another swinging ax. He had one more gas grenade, and he’d ripped the mask off her face. She was vulnerable.
It wouldn’t be as satisfying to kill her while she was unconscious. Then he realized he’d have all the time in the world with her. He could wait until she was revived and paralyzed. Then he could do whatever he wanted with her.
Polk made sure his mask had a tight seal and nudged the door ajar with his foot. He grabbed the grenade from his vest and pulled the pin out with his teeth. He spat it out, released the handle, and counted.
When he got to three, he tossed it through the gap in the door and let it close. It popped and then hissed as it began spewing gas.
He waited a reasonable amount of time, hoping to hear a thump as the woman fell. But she could have been cowering in a corner or hiding in the fridge. If the door to the refrigerator was closed, he would simply open it and let the gas in to disable her.
He heard nothing. She had to be unconscious by this time. Nonetheless, he’d be careful. For such a small woman, she was feisty, and she’d already tricked him once.
He pushed the door open, crouching as he entered with the gun leading the way.
White mist filled the room. He swept the mess, but the tables were empty, and the floor was clear. She had to be in the galley.
The door was open, which meant the gas had filled both rooms. He cautiously approached the opening.
Nobody jumped out or swung an ax. He went in and noticed the refrigerator do
or was open wide. He didn’t have a view of the interior, but if she was in there, she should be out cold already.
He edged in farther and saw a sight that made him smile. A pair of boots stuck out from behind the cook’s island.
Polk eagerly went over to appreciate his handiwork, temporarily forgetting the pain in his arm.
But when he rounded the island, he was shocked to see a mercenary, the smallest in the crew. His feet were smaller than Jin’s.
Then with horror, Polk realized something else. The gas mask that should have been hanging from the man’s belt was gone.
* * *
—
Polk had fallen for Sylvia’s trap perfectly. She figured he’d be so excited to see her prone body that he wouldn’t notice the difference in the boots she wore and the ones on the dead mercenary she’d dragged behind the cook’s island.
With the borrowed mask firmly on her head, she sprinted out of the galley refrigerator and leaped onto Polk’s back, wrapping her arm around his neck and her legs around his waist.
He was thrown off balance by the sudden weight shift and staggered backward, firing the submachine gun at the ceiling. Some of the bullets ricocheted off the hanging iron pots, but none of them hit her or Polk.
First, he tried to turn the weapon to shoot her, but he couldn’t get the right angle. He dropped the gun and crushed at her fingers in an attempt to get her off.
Sylvia cried out as he increased the pressure, but she didn’t let go. With her other hand, she pried at the edge of his mask and peeled it away from his face. The ambient air was now seeping into the mask, unfiltered.
She didn’t need to get it all the way off his head. Sylvia just needed to outlast him. The second he drew in a breath, he was done.
He must have realized what she was doing because he slammed her back against the refrigerator door. A jolt of pain lanced through her spine in the same place where she’d fallen down the stairs. Still, she held on, keeping a gap in the mask.
Sylvia wanted to enrage Polk, to get him so blinding mad that he’d forget what danger he was in. She knew exactly what to say.
“You haven’t heard from your wife, have you?” she yelled. “That’s because she’s dead. At the bottom of the ocean with the Marauder.”
Polk didn’t cry out, but Sylvia could feel him tremble with anger. He rammed her even harder against the door and at the same time yanked her leg to the side. The combination was enough to make her lose her grip. She fell to the floor.
Polk turned around and glared down at her, his furious eyes wide behind the mask, which was now sealed against his face again.
“I’ll kill you for that,” he growled, his chest heaving as he could finally draw a breath.
“You forgot to clear your mask,” Sylvia said.
All of the air that had contaminated the inside of the mask when she unsealed it was still in there. She hoped it was enough of a dose.
Polk looked horrified as he realized that she was right. He reached down for her, but his eyes rolled back in his head. He keeled over right on top of her.
Sylvia struggled to push him off, rolling him onto his back.
She rapidly searched his pockets for the key to the rocket control system, but the only thing she found was his phone. Maybe he had an app to deactivate the rockets and abort the launch.
She pulled his mask off and put the phone in front of his face. The phone unlocked, and she quickly set it so it wouldn’t relock.
Even unconscious, Polk continued to scowl.
“That’s what you get for messing with my family,” she said.
She hopped to her feet and sprinted for the bridge.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Juan’s plan to get out of the citadel depended on the ship sinking because there was only one way to get up to the ventilation hatch thirty feet above them in the ceiling. The room would have to flood as the ship sank, buoying them up until they could open the hatch. The fireproof door on the main level of the citadel wasn’t designed to be waterproof as well, so that’s where the water would enter the room first.
The problem was the cable securing the citadel’s ceiling hatch to the wall. It was an inch thick, with a huge nut and bolt holding it tight. The eyebolt attaching it to the wall was halfway to the ceiling, far out of reach. The only thing tall enough to stand on were the food shelves, but they were on the other side of the room and bolted to the floor.
Juan wasn’t going to attempt to loosen the nut and bolt. That would take far too long while they were floating on the surface of water flooding into the chamber. Instead, he was going to blow it in half.
He, Eddie, and Raven had taken off their heavy body armor and dropped their weapons, even MacD’s crossbow.
“He’s never going to forgive me for this,” Raven said.
“I’ll buy him a better one,” Juan said.
The only thing he refused to give up was the duffel with the antidote vials inside. He had it slung over his shoulder.
Juan could tell the ship was already going down at the bow. All of them were standing at an angle, and the guns on the floor slid to the front of the room.
He bent down and pulled up his pant leg to expose his combat leg prosthesis. He opened the secret compartment holding his ceramic knife and .45 ACP Colt Defender. He left those in place and took out a packet smaller than a deck of cards and closed up the leg.
The packet contained a plug of C-4 plastic explosive and a remote detonator. The gray putty was moldable and could be formed into any shape. Juan hadn’t wasted the charge on the fireproof door because the detonation would have only put a hole in it, not opened it.
The panels of the door creaked and deformed until water began to gush through the seals, forced into the citadel by the outside pressure until it became a torrent.
The water level rose at what would be an alarming rate in any other circumstance, but in this case, Juan was frustrated at how slowly it was filling the room.
At last they were buoyant, impatiently treading water as the water covered the shelving units. Food packets, soda cans, and water bottles drifted around the room.
Then the lights went out and the room went silent. The water had shorted out the auxiliary generator.
The battery-powered emergency lighting kicked on, giving the room a ghostly feel.
The water level height was accelerating now. Juan wouldn’t have long to attach the C-4. As soon as he could reach the eyebolt, he slapped the plastique onto the cable fitting and mashed it in until it completely surrounded the metal. The final step was inserting the tiny detonator.
“Get ready,” he said to Eddie and Raven, who were treading water on the opposite side of the room.
Juan swam over to them and counted down.
“. . . three . . . two . . . one.”
They all took a breath and submerged, with Juan holding the remote detonator above the surface. He pressed the button, and a loud crack echoed through the chamber.
He surfaced to see the severed end of the cable dangling in the water.
“That’s our cue,” Juan said.
They swam over and grasped the cable, letting it guide them up as the water continued to flood in. The surface was now tilted at a crazy slant as the Centaurus settled by the bow.
When the water was three feet away from the ceiling, Juan kicked himself up and grabbed hold of the latch. He gave it a twist. It didn’t move.
The hatch was locked.
* * *
—
When Sylvia got up to the bridge, the first thing she saw in the dimly lit room was Eric looking at her with alert eyes. She went over to him and gently ran her fingers through his hair. He gave her a crooked smile.
He made a clicking sound, and Sylvia instantly recognized it as Morse code.
NICE TO C U.
She grinned at h
im, although all he could see was her eyes through the mask. “You, too.”
HEADSET.
Sylvia had completely forgotten about the headset she’d thrown off when she’d put on the gas mask. She went and retrieved it, stopping to bend over and assure Linc that she’d get them both off the sinking ship somehow. However, given that Linc weighed twice as much as she did, she had no idea how she was going to do it.
She fitted the headset over the gas mask and spoke loudly so that her muffled voice could be heard.
“Hello, this is Sylvia. Is anyone out there?”
A few seconds’ pause made her wonder if it still worked.
“This is Max. Your brother looks very relieved to hear you. Where are you?”
“The bridge of the Centaurus.” She went back to Eric and glanced out at the deck. Water had covered the front half of the ship and was now starting to pour into the first open hold like Niagara Falls.
“You need to get out of there. We’re less than two minutes to midnight. Can you stop the launch?”
“No,” Sylvia said.
“Where’s Polk?”
“Paralyzed. He didn’t have the key, and there’s no app on his phone to control the rockets. I checked on my way here.”
“Then just get off the ship,” Max said.
“I can’t move them both out of the bridge.”
“I’ll see if help is on the way.”
“Tell them not to come into the bridge. There still might be residual gas in the air.”
She got Eric under his shoulders and lifted. For a slim man, he was heavier than she expected. Linc would be impossible for her to budge.
As she lowered Eric to the floor so she could get a better grip to drag him, she heard Max calling for help.
“Come in, Juan. Come in. Juan, are you there?”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Juan heard Max say that Sylvia was up on the bridge with Eric and Linc. He just couldn’t respond. The water had reached the hatch, so he was fully submerged. No matter how hard he tried to turn the latch, it wouldn’t open.
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