Karel had joined Duncan and Bernita on the bridge. With fewer people to fill the necessary roles, the young Russian had had to give up his cooking duties to take a shift on the bridge, monitoring the controls.
Bernita and Karel both sat at the console desks, watching the various on-screen metrics, making small adjustments to keep the sub within close proximity of Mt McKinley, but not so close that they’d risk running aground.
Duncan felt an odd contrast sitting there in the captain’s position. Above the water it was bright and sunny with a few smatterings of cotton-fluff clouds, but here in the bridge it remained uniformly dark.
The glow from the screen and the coloured lights from the various buttons and switches gave it the kind of atmosphere that reminded Duncan of his school prom. When he was growing up, proms were an alien concept to British schools, but, as always, American culture had traversed the Atlantic and found a way into the stuffy old English traditions.
Those days didn’t just seem long ago now. They were from another existence entirely, another dimension, parallel to the one they were in now. Duncan wondered what his other self in that other life was doing.
Probably on shore leave, out drinking with his sailor buddies.
Duncan realised that for the past few moments Karel had been staring at him. He turned to face the Russian and smiled. Karel, in his almost comically thick accent, said, ‘What is wrong, boss? You look like you’ve lost million dollar and found thousand.’
‘Just thinking of the old days,’ Duncan said. ‘Wondering what my other self before the drowning would be doing now. What would you two be doing, do you think?’ he asked both Karel and Bernita.
Karel wiped his sleeve across his thin lips, clearing away the remains of his fish soup, which sat on the console, the steam swirling up in a miniature, reluctant vortex.
‘Making bootleg vodka,’ Karel said, and then he laughed heartily. ‘Or working on oil field and making bootleg vodka.’
Duncan smiled, finding Karel’s irreverence both entertaining and much needed. His jocular personality never failed to lift the mood. How nice it would be, Duncan thought, to be able to go through life with that same light-hearted outlook. ‘Oil and vodka is Russia, then?’ he asked.
Karel shrugged with a big smile. ‘You want more than oil and vodka?’
Duncan laughed along with him and Bernita, but beneath the humour there was an answer to Karel’s rhetorical question. Yes, Duncan thought, he did want more than oil and vodka. He wanted happiness, answers, stability, love.
He knew, however, he wouldn’t get that from Eva. He didn’t need to be a genius to see that; she had her own motivations and drives that, sadly, didn’t align with his.
He let his smile fade naturally and turned his attention back to the screen, watching the grey peak above the water’s surface, alert for a coloured flare or any other sign of distress.
Bernita stood and stretched her arms up until her hands brushed the hull above her. With a deep, satisfied exhalation, she dropped her arms and gripped the control stick. Duncan couldn’t take his eyes off her hands, suddenly becoming interested in her long, elegant fingers. She looked up at him, made eye contact. An enigmatic smile twitched at the corners of her lips, a micro-expression that hid some larger meaning Duncan was unable to decipher.
In an amused tone, Bernita said, ‘Like what you see, Captain Reynolds?’ Her Argentinean accent made her words larger than life, viscous and sultry.
No wonder Patrice was interested in her, Duncan thought. She had that rare ability to exude, effortlessly, a kind of otherworldliness. ‘I’m sorry,’ Duncan said. ‘I didn’t mean to stare, I’m just . . . tired. Kind of zoning out.’
‘You need rest,’ Karel pointed out. ‘You’ve worked too long on shift. I’ll get Ahmed to take over for you.’
Before Duncan could protest, the Russian man clapped a meaty hand on Duncan’s shoulder and left the bridge, leaving Duncan and Bernita alone at the controls.
Duncan rose from his chair and was about to walk to the sonar console when Bernita stood up from her chair and stepped in his way, blocking him with her body until they touched.
Embarrassment made Duncan’s cheeks prickle with heat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he uttered, like a fool, as though it were his fault she’d stood and moved into his path. ‘I thought it best to cover the sonar while I’m watching the screens . . . At least until Brad and Ahmed . . . relieve us of our duties.’
‘Relief,’ Bernita said, then turned her back to him and moved across the bridge, locking the door before returning her attention to Duncan. ‘I’ve been stressed, Mr Captain, sir. Tension is a bad thing for morale, no?’
‘Um . . . I guess,’ Duncan uttered. ‘I’m not sure this is such a great idea . . .’
Bernita stalked closer until she was leaning back against the sonar console in the middle of the bridge. She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why not? You’re not with Eva, are you?’
‘I’m not, no. There was a time when I thought . . . But no, it seems we’re two very different people after all. What we had was . . . I don’t know. A kind of friendship, I suppose. A reaction to difficult circumstances.’
‘Is this not a difficult circumstance?’ Bernita said, uncrossing her arms and widening them so as to take in the bridge before them. ‘We’ve been left here to ensure the bare minimum, while the others go off and . . . do whatever they’re doing. Eva and Marcus – are they . . . ?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Duncan said, resigning himself to the fact that he actually knew very little about Eva – what made her tick, what she liked and what she didn’t. ‘They’ve been close. I think she understands him more than any of us. I can’t see the appeal, really. He’s nothing but a two-bit criminal with only his own interests in mind.’
‘You’re sounding bitter.’
He shrugged it off. So what if he was? He had every damned right to, considering how that bastard had manipulated Jim to take control of the Bravo. And now he’d wormed his way on to the crew of the Utah and connected with Eva in a way Duncan could never quite do. What made him so damned special that he could get away with all this?
Bernita eased her body away from the console and came close to Duncan. She looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the ambient light of the command centre. Her long hair cascaded down beside chiselled cheekbones to nestle on elegant shoulders.
She reached up a hand to his face, placing her soft palm against his cheek. Like a cat wanting affection, he leaned into it, enjoying the warmth against his skin. His body reacted. He moved closer to her until his chest touched hers and he wrapped his arm around her waist.
‘We shouldn’t do this,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his words; it was just something he felt he ought to say in the situation for politeness’ sake. ‘It’s not right. We have duties to—’
Her lips pressed against his, stealing his words in an exchange of hot breath. Her fingers scratched into his back. She arched her body, pressing herself against him. He responded, pulling her closer still to him, deepening his kiss, their tongues probing, gently at first, then faster, frantic with hungry need.
Duncan broke away for a moment to catch his breath. His heart was pounding against his chest.
‘What about Patrice?’ he said between breaths. ‘You and he . . . I don’t want to break that up, make things difficult.’
She ran her hands through his thick mane of hair and pulled his head down to hers, whispering in his ear, ‘It’s a casual thing. Just enjoy the moment. We all need this from time to time. I feel your need. Give in.’
And so he did.
But before they had managed to remove their clothes, Duncan heard whispering voices on the radio. At first he thought it was just his imagination, some effect of his heightened pulse, the excitement of the moment.
‘Did you hear that?’ he said, even as Bernita nipped at his bottom lip.
‘No talk,’ she said. ‘Just kiss me.’
‘What now?’ she said huffily, placing her hands on her hips. Even like that she looked ravishing, her nostrils flaring and her lips pressed together.
‘One moment, please,’ Duncan said, reaching over to the radio controls. He turned up the volume and concentrated. Bernita opened her mouth to say something, but then she must have heard it too, for it was clear as a bell to Duncan.
A voice said, ‘Little fish, little fish, we know you’re out there.’
A woman’s voice spoke the words.
He waited for more, but none came. He looked up at Bernita. ‘You heard that, right?’
She nodded, wide-eyed.
A minute later, the voice broke the tense silence again with its whispering tones. ‘Stay close, little fish; we can see you. We can see you!’
Duncan grabbed the radio mic. ‘Who is that? Where are you? Talk to me.’
Silence.
Half a minute passed. Duncan’s foot tapped nervously.
‘I said, who’s there? Identify yourself.’
A reply: ‘Shhhh! Be silent, little fish.’
And that was it. The signal cut off; there were no more words, just unbroken, white noise.
‘What the hell was that?’ Bernita said. Her lusty expression had changed to one of worry, reflecting Duncan’s own anxiety. And then it dawned on him what he had just done.
He had confirmed the existence of the sub. They were probably bluffing, and he had confirmed.
Someone knocked on the bridge door. Duncan got up and opened it. Ahmed, holding a cup of coffee, wandered in towards his station. ‘Morning, fellow submarine operatives. What’s the news?’ The older man wasn’t paying any attention, his eyes remaining focused on his cup.
Duncan and Bernita straightened their clothes.
Ahmed then finally looked up at them both. Tension appeared in the collection of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. He smiled nervously. ‘What? Something happened?’
Bernita wouldn’t look at Ahmed; her attention was firmly fixed on the radio controls on the console desk. Duncan watched Ahmed’s focus go from Bernita to the object of her gaze. He regarded Duncan with a silent question, an eyebrow rising on his forehead.
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Is it Jim and the others . . . Has someone been hurt?’
‘No,’ Duncan said, though he couldn’t know that. He considered that his actions a moment ago, confirming their existence, might now result in someone being hurt. Were his dad and the others in trouble over there? Were they being held? ‘I don’t know. We . . . I made contact with someone. I don’t know what it means, but I think I’ve screwed up.’
The older man said nothing. He dropped his head, regarded his cup of coffee. ‘What do you want us to do?’ he asked.
‘Gather everyone here. We need to make plans. Or at least preparations for . . .’ Duncan didn’t know what. But he felt they had to do something. If the very least they could do was be ready for whatever was about to happen, then that was better than doing nothing.
‘For what?’ Ahmed said.
Duncan didn’t answer the question. He turned away and stared at the screen, wondering just who the hell it was who had contacted him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There’s a body in there,’ Marcus said.
‘I know. I can see it from here. It’s not moving,’ Eva replied.
‘I guess that’s a good thing, right?’
‘Depends on whose body it is . . . or should that be was?’
Marcus grinned. ‘You’re awfully cheerful about the dead.’
‘It’s not like they care,’ Eva said, stealing another glance through the glass door. Beyond, it looked like a boardroom: a large mahogany, or perhaps walnut, conference table dominated the space. There was beige carpet, and portraits of various famous people hung on grey walls.
A woman’s body was slumped over the table’s surface, her wrists exposed beyond the cuffs of her suit jacket. The skin was grey and mottled. The head looked caved in. Dark brown-black stains encircled long, curly brown hair.
‘Why would they go to the effort of carpeting a room in an underground base?’ she asked.
‘Fuck knows. Power does weird things to people.’
‘Speaking from experience, Marcus?’
He glared at her, then turned his attention back to the glass door.
Eva knew she shouldn’t have jabbed him like that, but old habits are difficult to change, especially in times of tension like this. There was no reason why she should be so hard on him. Despite his actions on the flotilla, he had shown nothing but kindness and loyalty towards her – which in itself was a little disconcerting.
However, she thought, that didn’t excuse some of the things he and his family had done: bullying others, taking territory on the flotilla, hoarding supplies to use for bartering favours and gaining privileges most others wouldn’t have access to.
‘There’s a load of papers in there,’ Marcus said. ‘Might be some information worth having. And there definitely doesn’t seem to be anything moving inside. Fuck it, I’m going in.’
Marcus pushed the door open with the palm of his hand and stepped inside.
The motion of the door stirred up the stale air. It was damp and cloying, carrying the earthy scent of mould. ‘Keep your mask on,’ Eva warned, ensuring hers was tight around her mouth. Marcus did the same. The two of them walked slowly, side by side, farther into the room.
Eva kept the pistol in her right hand, the weapon angled halfway between her thigh and stomach. Low enough not to cause alarm, but high enough that she would be able to raise it and fire within a split second if need be.
‘It’s cooler in here,’ Eva said.
Marcus had walked a few steps ahead of her and was slowly moving around the curved end of the conference table. He bent lower to inspect the items on the table’s surface. He picked up a piece of paper and held it up to the now-familiar office-like strip lights. Along with the grey walls, they created an odd clash of styles with the lush carpet, fancy wooden furniture, and painted portraits in ornate gilded frames decorated with carvings of interwoven roses.
Eva couldn’t understand the need for this opulence. She assumed the government representatives, or whoever had made up this group, would have had more pressing concerns than having someone lay carpet and install paintings and furniture.
‘How did they get the table down here?’ she asked, more to herself than to Marcus.
‘In sections probably,’ Marcus said, letting the piece of paper he was holding drift down to the table, where it slid across the dusty surface, coming to a stop at the head of the body that was slumped over the middle. Marcus made his way farther around, crowbar in hand.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Eva said. She stayed on the opposite side of the table and leaned over to look at the body. From her position, all she could make out was dark matted hair, concealing the features. She pulled it back and saw one side of the woman’s face. It was frozen into a rictus of agony. Sores and pustules covered the skin around the edges of the mouth and eyes.
Eva stepped back from it. ‘Don’t get too close to it. We don’t know if this infection is easily contractible in this form.’
With a quick nod to indicate that he understood, Marcus went on to completely ignore her pleas for caution, and used the crowbar to turn the body over so the face was revealed. Eva, and apparently Marcus too, recognised her.
‘Vice President Gianfiligo,’ Eva said. ‘That’s her, right?’
‘Yeah, looks like her. Well, from what I’ve seen of her on the news,’ Marcus added. ‘Fuck, she ain’t looking so hot these days. Guess all that beauty don’t really mean shit at the end of the day.’
‘Charming, as ever,’ Eva said. She quickly moved around the table to join Marcus, wa
nting to get a better look at the woman, hoping to see an obvious cause of death beyond the infection.
‘No HAZMAT suit,’ Marcus said, gesturing with the crowbar. ‘My guess is one of the other group members killed her. Seems we have separate factions.’
‘We’ve only seen one person in a suit, though. That’s not enough to assume they’re part of a group. But if that is the case, then why all this? Why didn't they help each other like we did on the flotilla?’
‘That’s for you to figure out, Sherlock. But it seems obvious to me that whatever the political dynamic down here, there was a split. There looks to be at least three factions at play: the scientists and high-up politicians like Gianfiligo here, the infected, and possibly other non-infected in HAZMATS.’
Eva considered his words; he did have a point. It made sense that the wearing of the HAZMAT suits was in response to an infection rather than something worn before an outbreak.
Marcus moved off, already bored of the scene.
‘Check the other papers,’ Eva said to him. ‘See if there’s anything of use here. Anything that could give us some context as to what happened.’
‘You my boss now?’ Marcus asked, humour in his voice.
‘I have the gun,’ Eva said.
‘Fair enough, love.’
While Marcus got on with the search, Eva made her way around the room, searching for anything interesting. The papers had nothing much of use on them; they were just governmental letters about food provisions and other inventory problems. There was no mention of names or other indications of how many people there were down here.
‘They must have got their water from outside,’ Marcus said, ‘for the infection to get into the base. It would have got into their recycling.’
‘Thanks for that, Stephen Hawking,’ Eva said, keeping the mood light. ‘I suppose you’ll be giving me lectures on quantum theory next.’
Soil (The Last Flotilla Book 2) Page 13