“Put him down, or they’re both dead.”
At the door, Remus held Atticus’s MP5 aimed down at the unconscious and bloodied bodies of Andrea and O’Shea.
50
Kronos
Jonah.
The name repeated mercilessly in her mind. Not so much because of the similarities between their names, but because of the similarities of their predicaments. Giona was far from a biblical scholar, having read only portions of the scriptures while doing a history report on the religious beliefs that fueled the Crusades. But she knew the basics about some stories from the Bible: Noah, Jonah, Moses, Jesus. Who didn’t?
She wished she could recall more from the story of Jonah. All she could remember was that he was swallowed up by a whale or a fish, or something else entirely, and was spit out onto a beach after three days.
Still, she didn’t buy it. First, she still didn’t believe in God. Second, the Almighty certainly hadn’t asked her to do anything. That kind of thing was hard to miss, right? She punched her leg, growing angry in the consuming darkness of the creature’s gut. It was impossible to think with the constant heavy heartbeat, rank fish odor, and roller-coaster floor, still undulating as though in a sprint.
“So what’s the deal then?” Giona said. “I don’t believe in you! You haven’t told me to do anything at all!”
Kronos’s steadily beating heart was the only reply.
Giona decided to play devil’s advocate with herself. She had no ideas of her own, so considering the unbelievable might be the only way to figure things out. And since she wasn’t going anywhere and had nothing better to do than stay close to the life-giving giant artery, she thought it would at least keep her mind occupied and off the subject of her impending death.
“Let’s suppose you exist,” Giona said, speaking into the darkness. “How would you communicate to people? A burning bush? An angel? That’s how you’ve done it in the past, right? So why not now?”
A thought coursed into Giona’s dialogue. A monster. “Okay, right. A monster. Let’s assume you’ve done this before, like with Jonah. You’ve got my attention. So now do something with it.”
Giona sighed. Even though she was totally isolated from anyone who might see her carrying on a mock conversation with God, she felt embarrassed for even pretending. Still, it helped her rule out the idea that some supreme being had set this nightmare in motion.
“So what’s next? A vision? I could write that off as a hallucination due to extreme conditions. A voice too. Anything odd at this point is subject to consideration by the very fact that I’ve been inside this disgusting fish for almost five days! And what’s the deal with that? I’ve been here longer than Jonah? How does he get off with only three days?”
You’re stubborn. The thought came and went, but Giona’s eyes squinted in defiance. She’d carried on mental conversations like this for the last few months. It’d become a regular practice when debating big decisions. She knew it was strange, but for her it seemed a natural thought process. Of course, she made no mention of her internal arguing to anyone for fear of being labeled schizophrenic—Giona the schizoid activist. That’d go over well next time she petitioned the New Hampshire Senate about drug use. They’d think she was more far gone than the users she wanted to help!
“How can I be stubborn if you haven’t told me to do anything? Send an angel or a burning bush or something, and I might come around.”
Or a monster?
“Whatever. The fact remains that I haven’t been told a damn thing to do by God or anyone else, so being swallowed by a sea monster and sitting it out until I come to some kind of revelation is retarded.”
Maybe you’re just not listening?
Giona grew angry with herself. The portion of her mind playing the devil’s advocate side could get really annoying.
Giona cleared her mind, focusing on the steady rise and fall of the oxygen-providing artery her head leaned against. She began putting together conclusions based on what she’d discussed with herself.
“One, God still doesn’t exist. Two, this is just some rare sea creature that could be the basis of the Jonah myth. Three, God, who doesn’t exist, hasn’t told me to do diddlysquat.”
Yes, I have.
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
She sometimes had trouble quieting her inner voice once it was unleashed into her consciousness, and just like always, it still fought to be heard.
Giona held her breath. She was really losing it, wasn’t she? While she’d had many internal arguments with herself over the past months, the voice had never referred to itself as “I.”
Maybe she really was schizophrenic? She decided to test the inner voice—find out if she was just freaking out or if she really had some kind of multiple personality disorder. “Who are you?” she asked.
Light.
“That makes no sense.” But then it did. Giona had read, just a week ago, that beyond the microscopic, beyond cells and atoms and electrons, there was light. Everything in the end was light. Energy. Power.
Giona knew she was going insane. Her inner voice now believed it was a cosmic being—believed it was God. She was certifiable. Her only hope was that the delusion would fade if she ever escaped.
But Giona’s stomach turned over as she realized the truth. With a violent heave, she leaned over and vomited, filling her mouth with the acrid flavor of fish guts and bile. She sobbed between heaves. The memories of each and every argument she’d held with herself, with her inner voice, over the past few months returned with a fury. It had asked her to do something. Over and over, but she’d resisted, fought it, denied it every time. It was just her inner monologue, her devil’s advocate, right?
No.
Giona’s thoughts came clear and quick. She’d either gone totally insane or had been receiving direction from God for the past few months and doing her best to ignore it. Though it seemed likely, Giona didn’t want to think she was insane. So she decided to believe, at least for the moment, that the voice inside her head was God.
“So, I’m supposed to trust you— that you know the future. You know the outcome, and for some reason you want me, or my father, to do what you’ve been telling me. Is that it?”
There was no reply. She already knew the answer. The voice had been fighting with her about one single subject since she’d first heard it.
“Fine. Okay? Are you happy? I’ll tell my dad I don’t want to move, but that’s not going to change anything. Especially when I’m stuck in here! The house was sold, remember? We have to move anyway. So all this,” she waved her hands around at the large body in which she was trapped, “is a little too much, a little too late.”
She huffed. “But I’ll tell him.”
Giona closed her eyes to the darkness and let out a long deep breath. She was done. She had nothing more to say to a God-voice and never wanted to hear it again. Instead, she focused on the heavy beat of the creature’s heart, allowing it to lull her toward sleep like a hypnotist’s watch. Thump-thump, thump-thump, BOOM!
Giona sat up straight, her body rigid, her mind spinning. They were under attack again. A quiver of flesh rolled past her. The beast rippled with pain, she could feel it. With a sudden twist of opinion she’d never forget, a new and unexpected emotion swept through her—compassion. She lay down flat and slapped the moist flesh beneath her with her hands. “Go, go, go!” She urged the beast as though it were a horse, and whether by coincidence or in response, the beast reacted.
The walls of the chamber closed in as unseen muscles contracted and the rapid undulations became large pulses of energy. Giona didn’t resist as her body became unable to move and the rising and falling of her chest was restricted. As before, breathing became difficult, and colored spots danced in her vision. She knew she’d pass out soon, but she also knew that this monster, her protector, would keep her safe.
Go, she willed it. Fight!
51
The Titan
Atticus saw everything a
t once; the helicopter cutting through the blue sky, the big gun, waiting to fire out at the ocean, the sonar screen revealing the oceanic world beneath the Titan, Remus standing above the still forms of Andrea and O’Shea, and Trevor’s blue face, shaking with fear.
But there was nothing he could do. Trevor dropped to the floor, released from Atticus’s grip. He writhed, gasping for air. As his lungs filled, his body slowed, until at last he was lying on his back, breathing steadily. Then he stood, straightened his shirt, and smiled.
“Dear God, that was the closest I’ve been to death,” Trevor said as he bent over and picked up the UMP. He then retrieved the spare magazines from Atticus’s pockets and reloaded the weapon. “Wouldn’t want to run out of bullets, now would I?”
As Trevor chuckled, Atticus stared at him with rage, contempt, and total disbelief. He’d seen men come close to dying, some not as close as Trevor just then, and even the most battle-hardened of them had been shaken-up by the event. Trevor actually seemed to have enjoyed his brush with the Grim Reaper.
“You’re insane,” Atticus said.
Trevor guffawed. “No, just very, very bored. I must admit you’ve done a wonderful job of alleviating my boredom. I do believe these memories will entertain me for the remainder of my life, but I’m afraid I can’t risk keeping you around any longer, lest you succeed in ending my life early.”
Trevor picked up the CB and spoke to the crew. “Press the attack. No matter what happens. Kill the beast.”
Trevor dropped the CB and motioned Atticus to the door. “Remus, be a dear and carry them to the main deck.” Trevor pointed at Andrea and O’Shea. “I don’t want to make more of a mess of my ship than has already been made.”
Remus picked up O’Shea and Andrea, throwing them over his shoulders. He turned and headed down the stairs to the main deck. Trevor shoved Atticus from behind with the UMP. He fought the urge to twist around and break Trevor’s neck, but he knew Andrea’s and O’Shea’s fates would be sealed by the act. The time to act would arrive soon enough. A quick glance at the sonar screen before leaving the bridge confirmed that much.
Once on deck, Remus slapped Andrea and O’Shea until they woke up. He stood them next to each other along the starboard rail. They were meant to be shot so their bodies would fall overboard, where Laurel would tear them to pieces. Atticus helped Andrea stay on her feet. He leaned into her, and over the sound of the roiling bubbles pushed to the surface by the exploding depth charges below, whispered, “It’ll be okay.”
She looked at him through blood-encrusted eyes. One was swelling. A purple bruise glowed on her cheek. Her expression showed defeat. Without saying a word, she looked into Atticus’s eye and said good-bye.
He wasn’t listening.
“Can you move,” he asked, her blowing hair masking the movement of his lips.
She nodded slightly. “Brace yourself.”
They both clung to the rail.
“I should have known your conscience would betray me eventually,” Trevor said to O’Shea.
“May God forgive you,” O’Shea replied. He stood clutching his side. His pain was obvious, but he handled it well. And he was continuing his priest routine, perhaps hoping the superstitious Trevor would spare his life.
“Ah, the good priest until the end,” Trevor said. “I suppose I’ll have to replace you after today, eh?”
Trevor took aim with the UMP and Remus followed suit with the MP5—an old-fashioned firing squad. Not wanting to miss out on a vintage-movie cliché, Trevor added. “Any last words?”
Atticus raised his hand.
Trevor laughed. “I wasn’t serious.”
“Your neck is bruising.”
Trevor looked at Atticus with a queer gaze. He reached up and touched his neck, where Atticus had strangled him. He winced at the touch.
“I’m going to finish it,” Atticus said with a smile.
“Right then,” Trevor said, taking aim again. “And I’m the one who’s insane.”
As Trevor pulled the trigger, the entire deck of the Titan lurched upward. A thunderous crack sounded from below. Bullets sliced through the open sky as Remus’s and Trevor’s weapons jerked up. The ship settled back down in the water as a warning Klaxon sounded.
Atticus and Andrea charged forward—Atticus to Remus, Andrea to Trevor. O’Shea had disappeared.
Atticus drove his shoulder into Remus’s gut, and the two of them sprawled to the deck, sending the MP5 skittering away. Remus, being the larger, stronger, and far less injured of the two, recovered quickly and tossed Atticus aside. The Hawaiian giant gained his feet and reached for Atticus, who regained his footing just as the first in a series of punches and kicks flew at him from every direction. He managed to block or evade the majority of them, but was driven back with each blow, shuffling his bleeding bare feet slick on the wooden deck.
As he grew weary, his foot slipped, and he fell to his back. Remus pounced, slamming down on Atticus and wrapping his legs around one of Atticus’s arms and both his legs. Pinned, with only one arm free, Atticus took a swing and connected with Remus’s stone jaw. But the massive man was in a frenzy and hardly felt the blow. Remus grabbed Atticus’s free arm and pinned it to the deck. He slammed his other fist into Atticus’s head. After a volley of punches, a massive explosion above them sent a stab of pain through their ears.
The main cannon had fired, no more than fifteen feet above their heads.
Atticus found his arm free as Remus clutched his ears. And while every instinct in Atticus’s body told him to cover his own ears, he swung up at Remus’s throat instead. The blow glanced off. Remus, having recovered from the shock, laughed at Atticus’s failed attempt to fight back. As a glint of sunlight sparkled off Atticus’s forearm, which still hovered in front of Remus’s throat, Remus’s eyes grew wide.
“You guys never learn,” Atticus said as blood dripped into his eye. “I fight dirty.” With that, Atticus drew his arm back across Remus’s throat. Pain ripped through his arm as the shards of glass sticking out of his skin and muscle met the flesh of Remus’s neck. Some shards came free, now clinging to Remus’s neck, but it was the ones that remained stubbornly embedded in Atticus’s arms that did the real damage. Rather than simply impaling, they sliced.
Deep gouges stretched across Remus’s throat. Some weren’t deep, but others, through which streams of blood pulsed, revealed a fatal wound. Remus’s breathing became a gurgle as fluid and air filled his lungs, not through his nose or mouth, but through his exposed windpipe. He slumped and fell to the side, clutching his mangled throat.
Atticus shoved the hulk away and climbed to his feet, his head spinning. He realized that if the main gun had fired, it meant Kronos had reached the surface. He had, in fact, known Kronos wasn’t running when he saw the sonar screen on the bridge. Rather than running, Kronos had headed straight for them. The beast had had enough.
But now the crew of the Titan was countering. He looked up and found the helicopter hovering one hundred yards off the bow. Two of its four torpedoes dropped free and splashed into the ocean. He picked up the fallen MP5, raced to the bow of the ship, took aim and fired. Bullets tore through the air as though fired from the Viking woman figurehead. The weapon wasn’t accurate at the range, but a few lucky shots might distract the chopper.
As the magazine ran dry, he failed to see a single spark to indicate he’d hit it. He threw the MP5 to the deck and cursed. Then his eyes landed on the MP5 again; but he wasn’t interested in the gun. A faint outline in the deck floor held his gaze.
The harpoon.
Atticus fell to his hands and knees, looking for some sign of a panel. A slight ridge against his fingers found something to the side of the larger outline. He took the MP5 and slammed the deck with the butt of it until a panel broke free. Beneath it was a single switch labeled “raise” on one side and “lower” on the other. He flipped the switch to “raise” and the large outline in the deck became a hole as the panel lowered and slid away.
As soon as the harpoon finished rising, Atticus looked down the sight board, swiveled the harpoon into position, and pulled the trigger. The harpoon launched in the air, trailing its tether behind it like a lightning bolt from Zeus.
The pilot saw the incoming projectile and veered to the side, but it was too late. The titanium harpoon penetrated one side of the chopper and punched out the other. The black helicopter became as snared by the harpoon as the whales it was intended for. The helicopter continued its sideways motion, still attempting to flee, but the harpoon, with its flukes extended, held on tight. The line snapped taut as the helicopter pulled it to its full length. The helicopter pitched to the side and plowed into the ocean, its blades shearing off and flying away wildly. Its two remaining torpedoes went down, unfired.
Two explosions off the port bow tore Atticus’s attention away from the helicopter, now in tow alongside the Titan. Two hundred yards away, Kronos’s body rose and fell through the waves. A fresh splash of red revealed he’d been hit again. While Atticus wasn’t sure the torpedoes could cause a fresh wound on Kronos’s thick skin, he was positive they could exploit the old wound.
“Hang on, Giona!” Atticus yelled at Kronos as he barreled back toward the bridge. As he limped across the deck with all possible speed, Atticus became aware of two things, the main gun taking aim at Kronos and Andrea’s voice, shrieking in pain.
52
The Titan
Though her body ached with every motion, Andrea had vented all her frustration and rage in attacking Trevor. In the corner of her eye, she could see Atticus doing the same to Remus, but she dared not look. Trevor might not be the most physically impressive man, but he still held an UMP, the removal of which was her first goal.
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