Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  Ryan saw that her side arm wasn't bolstered at her hip. "What happened to your blaster?"

  Krysty shook her head. "I don't know. Posei­don's sec men must have confiscated it when they captured me and Jak."

  "Where are my clothes?"

  Krysty pulled out of his embrace and moved to­ward the cabin. "They should be dry by now. I'll tell everybody you're up."

  Draping the blanket over his shoulders, Ryan sat on the side rail, scanning the roiling, starlit surface of the Lantic Ocean. Somewhere below swam the Dwellers, humans genetically altered to live in the depths of the sea. One of the muties, a fishman named Mike, had rescued him from drowning when he had escaped from Poseidon's sinking submarine, the Raleigh.

  Though Ryan Cawdor had no great love for mu­ties, he wished the Dwellers well.

  Lifting his gaze, he looked in the direction of the Kings Point naval base. Tongues of flame still licked at the night sky. He could only hope that the build­ing containing the mat-trans unit hadn't been con­sumed in the conflagration. He had no inclination to cruise along the coast of North Carolina. The sea held other mutated life-forms besides the Dwellers, and they weren't as benign.

  Other than that, his own blasters, the SIG-Sauer P-226 pistol and the Steyr SSG-70 rifle, were some­where in the old military installation. He would risk another incursion into Admiral Poseidon's sick little kingdom to retrieve them.

  Krysty came out of the cabin, holding his clothes and combat boots. She was followed by the other members of his group, and they clustered around him, patting his back and pumping his hand until they realized he was wincing under the affection. Mildred Wyeth shooed everyone back.

  "Ryan's injuries haven't gotten in much healing time in the past two hours," she said, peeling up the lid of his single eye, his right one. She peered into it, adding, "Good. No broken veins. I was afraid you might be suffering a touch of anoxemia."

  Ryan pulled away from her touch. "What's that?"

  "A lack of oxygen in the blood. You damn near drowned, you know. Good thing I had Dean here to help me with the first aid. At least he learned some­thing in that school." The stocky black woman stepped back, the ocean breeze causing the beads in her long plaited hair to click together.

  Mildred Winona Wyeth was a doctor, a former specialist in cryogenic sciences. Though she was in her midthirties, she was, chronologically, well over a century old. Mildred had entered a hospital in late December of 2000 for minor surgery, but an allergic reaction to the anesthetic had necessitated her body being placed in cryonic stasis until a treatment could be found.

  It never was. The world was blown apart before she was revived, and she slept, like a fly trapped in amber, for a hundred years. Ryan had found her in a shielded underground cell, her life-support system still functioning. He had brought her back to life, the cryo process miraculously healing her, into a world she could never have dreamed existed.

  Other than her skills as a doctor, Mildred had also proved herself invaluable as a tenacious survivalist.

  She had won a silver medal for free pistol shooting in the last-ever Olympic games. A Czech-made ZKR 551 target revolver was holstered at her waist. The weapon was chambered to take Smith & Wesson .38-caliber rounds, and she had only rarely been known to miss with one of the blaster's six shots.

  "What happened to the sub?" J. B. Dix de­manded.

  Turning his back, trying to keep the blanket over his shoulders, Ryan stepped into his pants. "It sank."

  " 'Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea,' " Doc Tanner quoted. " 'Dressed in his best suit of clothes.' "

  "What?" Ryan asked irritably.

  "An old sea chantey. The authorship of which is attributed, I believe, to one Popeye the Sailor Man."

  Ryan wasn't sure if the tall, thin, silver-haired man was joking. Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner was another refugee from a past time period. Unlike Mildred, who had bobbed unknowingly down the temporal stream, Doc was the only surviving subject of a cold-hearted scientific practice known in pre-dark days as time-trawling.

  Since the 1940s, American military scientists, and their counterparts in other countries, had tried to rec­oncile Einsteinian physics with quantum mechanics. By the 1990s, the reconciliation attempts had spawned the ultra-top-secret experiment known as the Totality Concept. There were several subdivi­sions of the experiment, such as Overproject Whis­per, Project Cerebus and Operation Chronos.

  With the use of a complex matter-transfer device, or gateway, the project scientists had tried time and time again to snatch subjects from a past temporal line and trawl them to the present.

  Their only success was a man trawled from 1896. Theophilus Algernon Tanner, Ph.D., scientist and scholar, was plucked from the bosom of his beloved family and deposited in a sterile subterranean cham­ber a century hence.

  Though he learned all he could about the twen­tieth century, Doc never forsook the hope of return­ing to his wife and two children. His constant at­tempts to return to his own era so angered the whitecoats that they eventually used him as a trawl­ing subject again. Rather than send him back, they opted to transfer him to a year nearly a century in the future. Like Mildred, he missed the nukecaust by less than a month.

  The experiences of being trawled had unbalanced his brain to a degree. Though most of the time Doc's wit was sharp, and intelligence burned behind his blue eyes like a white-hot bar, his mind would oc­casionally drift back and forth across the centuries, usually to his home and family, lost in the shadows of time.

  However, even with his mind befogged, he was still a deadly shot with his gold-plated commemo­rative J. E. B. Stuart 9-shot Le Mat blaster, which could be adjusted to fire 18-gauge shotgun shells and .44-caliber rounds. The ebony, lion's-head swordstick he had tucked under an arm concealed a razor-keen blade of the finest Toledo steel.

  Everyone else in the group were the products of late-twenty-first century America, and of the hell-grounds known as Deathlands.

  Sixteen-year-old Jak Lauren had all the hard, bitter experience of a man twice his age. An albino, with fearsome ruby eyes and a shock of bone white hair, he favored bladed weapons over blasters, though he normally carried a .357 Magnum Colt Py­thon. He bore scars from dozens of near fatal en­counters, the least of which curved up from the cor­ner of his mouth and across his high-planed face.

  Jak had buried two sets of families during his young life—his folks back in Louisiana and his wife and infant daughter in New Mexico. He hid the trag­edies behind a taciturn mask and an eerily calm, almost detached manner.

  Ryan Cawdor and John Barrymore Dix had been companions for nearly two decades, since they trav­eled with the legendary Trader in a pair of huge war wags. The weapons dealer had been their undisputed leader and mentor, even something of a father figure to Ryan.

  J.B. had served as the Trader's armorer and gun­smith because of his knowledge and skill with weap­onry. A broad-brimmed, bullet-holed fedora sat at a jaunty angle on his head, and wire-rimmed specta­cles were perched on the bridge of his bony nose. His multipocketed, voluminous coat almost swal­lowed his short, slight frame, but it also concealed a 9 mm mini-Uzi machine pistol and a Smith & Wesson M-4000 shotgun, which fired eight rounds of razor-edged, needle-pointed flechettes. His quiet, taciturn manner was in direct counterpoint to his ability to kill efficiently, an ability learned at the knee of the unrefuted master of the art, the Trader.

  The Trader had earned a considerable fortune by uncovering hidden stockpiles of weapons and fuel and using them to barter his way through Deathlands. He had been a fearsome figure in his day, a reputation he fully lived up to and enjoyed. Not too long before, after beating a case of rad cancer, he was reunited with his former lieutenants. His long illness had changed him; he was sometimes con­fused, sometimes irrational, but always a dangerous man to cross. Everyone had tended to tread lightly around him, but the Trader's weathered skin had be­come so thin, it was anybody's guess as to what he might choose to take offense.

&n
bsp; He had resented that Ryan was the group's leader, and that the younger man no longer showed him the deference he believed he was due. Though there was no denying that the grizzled veteran of Deathlands had gotten the group out of many a tight spot, he'd also gotten them into just as many, due to his temper and ego.

  The last tight spot had been several months ago on the Western Islands. The Trader and Abe, the former main gunner of War Wag One, had appar­ently sacrificed themselves to save Ryan and the rest of the group from an enemy attack.

  A few years before, Ryan would have searched high and low for the Trader and Abe, either to res­cue them or avenge their deaths. J.B., though he rarely spoke of it, felt guilty about not doing so. But Ryan had new responsibilities, goals other than just drifting from one firefight to the next.

  One of those responsibilities was embodied by his eleven-year-old son, Dean. The issue of a brief encounter between Ryan and a woman named Sharona, Dean was almost a miniature version of his father, with thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. The fierce warrior named Ryan Cawdor grew used to being called "Dad" and was totally devoted to the boy. A few months before, he had enrolled Dean in the Brody School in Colorado. He had only recently been reunited with him. While his son had received an education, Ryan had been more determined than ever to find a place in Deathlands where the boy could be raised in relative safety.

  He had never truly believed he would find that safe place, but now a twinge of regret came to him, along with the memories of the beautiful valley of Ti-Ra'-Wa and his banishment from it, and he could see her own memories of the place reflected in Krysty's eyes. And yet he knew they were not of that place and didn't belong there.

  The manner in which he and his companions fre­quently traveled was to use the gateway chambers to make mat-trans jumps. The gateways were hidden in subterranean military complexes called redoubts, which were positioned all over the continent, even in other countries.

  One of the mat-trans units lay in a subterranean complex beneath the Kings Point base. Poseidon had been unable to access it, since the entrance codes to the security door had been consumed in the nuclear megacull of a century before. The self-proclaimed admiral was certain Ryan knew the correct codes, and he had been right—not that it had done him any good. His plan to destroy Shauna Watson's com­mune with the refitted Raleigh had been scuttled.

  As he dressed, he told his friends about Posei­don's fate and that of his submarine's crew. Lacing up his boots, he said, "Our best chance to get out of here is to reach the gateway under the main build­ing."

  "Is it functional?" Krysty asked.

  "There's no reason why it shouldn't be. I do know I don't want to spend any more time floating around out here."

  "I concur," Doc said. "Though I have a bit of sailing experience, none of us are 'borned to the I sea,' so to speak."

  J.B. frowned, tugging at the brim of his fedora. "There may be some of Poseidon's sec men prowling around, and we're under armed."

  "Poseidon chilled," Jak announced. "Second-in-command, Brosnan, chilled. Nobody alive to give sec men orders, give them pay. Won't want to fuck with us for free."

  Ryan probed his twinging rib cage and grimaced. "Mebbe so. It's worth the risk. Let's move while we've still got the night."

  Doc returned to the cabin and keyed the cruiser's engine to life while Dean and Jak hoisted the anchor. The motor made liquid, burbling sounds as Doc steered the craft in the direction of Kings Point. The sea itself was silent, but it was the dreadful silence that bore in it the threat of a storm.

  J.B. joined Ryan in the bow, handing him the Smith & Wesson scattergun while he unlimbered the mini-Uzi. Both of them scanned the dark water ahead.

  The boat cut through the sea slowly but steadily. As they drew closer to the arrangement of concrete quays and jetties extending over the water, Ryan was able to discern more details of the devastation J.B. and Mildred had visited on the installation. Smoke boiled from many of the low-roofed buildings in the compound and the fires cast a hellish illumination over the entire base.

  "You didn't take half measures," Ryan com­mented.

  J.B. grinned wolfishly. "Do I ever?"

  Ryan would have grinned, too, but his face hurt too much.

  Under Doc's guidance, the craft approached a concrete jetty. Suddenly, an eighteen-foot launch swung around the headland. It was painted a drab military gray. The steady thud of its diesel engines had been swallowed by the purring murmur of their own craft.

  The boat was about a hundred yards away, and three men stood behind the steel-framed windshield. The man handling the wheel was dark-complex­ioned, and his companions were crew-cut, beefy men in one-piece coveralls—the duty uniform of Po­seidon's mercenaries.

  Bolted to the deck behind them, Ryan spotted an M-60 tripod-mounted machine gun. "Fireblast."

  Chapter Two

  The launch's engines bellowed throatily, and the craft's props chopped the water to froth. The boat lunged toward them, its prow like the snout of a gray killer whale arrowing in on helpless prey.

  Even over the roar of the engines, Ryan heard short, barking sentences hurled back and forth be­tween the three men. One of the crew-cut mercs scrambled aft, hands clawing for the machine gun, swinging around its long perforated barrel.

  J.B. shouted to Doc in the pilot cowling. "Eva­sive! Feed her more gas!"

  The sound of the cruiser's engines rose in pitch, and the craft churned forward. Synchronized with the sudden increase in speed, the tripod-mounted M-60 spit flickering spear points of flame. The blaster trembled on its fastenings. Steel-jacketed bullets sped across the rolling waves as the cartridge belt writhed like the coiling of a gleaming serpent.

  Miniature waterspouts sprayed up just behind the cruiser's stern. Cursing, the man behind the heavy-caliber blaster tried to realign the barrel with the people aboard the suddenly surging cruiser. The range was too great for the scattergun, which Ryan had, to be very effective, so J.B. opened fire with his Uzi. The bone-rattling chatter of the autoblaster joined the staccato hammering of the M-60.

  Sparks jumped from the metal-braced hull of the launch, and the windshield acquired a starred pattern of cracks. The pilot twisted the wheel, and the boat heeled over. The streamlined craft made a lunging portside rush while the gunner kept up the wither­ing machine-gun fire.

  Ryan and J.B. dropped flat to the deck. Glass smashed in the pilot housing, sheet metal crumpled and fiberglass was shot away. Mildred and Krysty cried out in anger and fear as they lay beneath the stream of slugs.

  Not daring to raise his head, Ryan shouted, "Dean! Krysty! Jak! Everybody all right?"

  The companions answered in nervous, profanity-seasoned affirmatives.

  "What about you, Doc? Are you still with us?"

  "Indeed!" came the older man's angry response.

  "Stay low!"

  The cruiser's speed increased again, cutting a liq­uid trough through the dark water. Ryan and J.B. raised their heads above the rail. The launch was roaring toward them again, this time approaching fast from starboard aft.

  "I'm getting sick of this," J.B. grated.

  "Not much we can do about it," Ryan replied grimly. "They're faster, more maneuverable and they outgun us."

  "Yeah." J.B.'s reply was a sarcastic drawl. He dipped his hand inside one of his capacious pockets and came up gripping a small, apple-sized metal sphere. "One of the little goodies I picked up in the commune's armory."

  Ryan recognized it immediately as a V-40 mini-gren, the smallest hand grenade manufactured before the nukecaust. "Thing is so small, you'll have to make a direct hit to do any damage."

  "That's the idea."

  The launch roared up parallel with the cruiser's port side, the engines roaring as though by the dis­play of sheer speed and power, the people on board the smaller craft would be cowed into surrendering. Only a dozen or so feet separated the two boats.

  J.B. rolled himself to port, took a deep breath, then rose to his knees. He unpinn
ed the gren with his left hand, and his right arm swung up and out in a looping overhand throw. Ryan lifted himself from the deck so he could watch the arc and descent of the small object. He figured it would splash into the water just in front of the launch's bow. Instead, with unerring and uncanny accuracy, J.B. bounced the gren off the curving windshield to drop on the boat's deck.

  A blast of orange flame erupted with an eardrum-slamming roar. Pieces of wood and chunks of metal rose into the air. The man behind the machine gun catapulted over the side, wreathed in a cocoon of fire.

  The cruiser pulled away from the launch, leaving it to wallow in the surf. Ryan heard the screams of agony and terror from the mercs. Tongues of flame made a dazzling glow over the face of the sea.

  J.B. stood and said with satisfaction, "And that is that."

  Krysty and Mildred came to the bow. Krysty's high-boned face was pale, and she took Ryan's hand in hers. "Close, lover," she breathed.

  Mildred hugged J.B. tightly. "Another trick out of those Captain Kangaroo pockets of yours," she said with a grin. "One day I'll have to take an in­ventory."

  "Who's Captain Kangaroo?" Dean asked. "An­other sailor, like that Popeye guy Doc mentioned?"

  At the sound of his name, Doc peered out through the broken glass in the pilot housing. He reduced the speed of the cruiser, saying stiffly, "I believe my expert seamanship contributed a little something to our narrow escape."

  "Congrats, Doc," Jak said dryly. "You drive good. Now drive to dry land."

  Doc held the cruiser's stern straight for the con­crete jetty. Turning the wheel, he ran alongside it, so close that the hull scraped the pilings. Then he reversed the engines, backed water into a smother of foaming spray. "How's that for driving?" he asked with a prideful smile.