Dick Skinner had been the head of security for all of five bewildering minutes when Fred Sullivan abandoned the base and fled to the fleet. Compared to Ripley’s command, the ship should have been a breeze.
Judging by Skinner's hopeless attempts to corral the men on the ship, it was proving to be anything but.
Tension was rising inexorably aboard the Conqueror, and the limited radio contact with the other ships in the fleet revealed a similar, and in some cases, even more precarious situation. Most of the troops Sullivan had hired to staff the vessels had known only as much as they needed to, which of course was the square root of fuck all. The majority had no idea what Chrysalis Systems had been planning, and that they were only ever meant to be a contingency plan.
A glorified clean-up crew.
Whatever Nathan or anybody else thought about Fred Sullivan, there was no denying that the old bastard was cunning, and seventy-plus years of money and power had only served to hone that intelligence until it was razor-sharp. The old man knew which way the wind was blowing, which was exactly why he had tasked Dick Skinner with tallying up how many men could be counted on for their loyalty if matters on the fleet should come to a head.
Sullivan loved his euphemisms.
Coming to a head, in this instance, was a vague way of accepting that violent bloodshed was brewing on the Conqueror—and almost certainly on every other ship in the fleet—and that Fred Sullivan wasn't prepared to let anyone else get the jump on him when it came to killing.
Skinner, after a typical period of dithering, had sought out Nathan's help. Together they had drawn up a list of around five hundred names that Sullivan would be able to count on when civil war broke out on the North Sea.
Just five hundred, most of whom had been present at the Northumberland base.
The Conqueror alone held close to four thousand troops. If it came down to a straight fight, those loyal to Sullivan's cause would be heavily outnumbered and outgunned.
The ship that had felt secure, detached from the violent chaos spreading across the UK, suddenly felt very dangerous indeed, and every bit as claustrophobic as the underground base had been.
Nathan's combat experience was limited, but not so much that he didn't recognise a deadly situation when it knocked at his door and waved a weapon in his face.
Like most of the people serving as a private army for Chrysalis, Nathan had been former military, before the world collapsed and everything became ‘former’ in one way or another. He had served a couple of tours in the Middle East, mostly as a peacekeeper in already-secured provinces rather than being involved in any actual front-line combat.
Some of the men and women headhunted by Sullivan were disgraced, discharged from the military under a cloud. By contrast Nathan hadn’t ever put a foot wrong during his time in the desert and his tour ended only when doctors discovered a congenital heart defect during a routine medical checkup.
He felt—still felt—as strong as an ox, but according to various charts and diagrams that Nathan couldn’t decipher, his heart was liable to stop pumping at any given minute. It was, for the army, too much of a risk to take.
He received a medical discharge and a full pension, but at the age of thirty-six, retirement seemed painfully ludicrous, and the thought of finding menial work in an office somewhere, tapping his life away at a keyboard, seemed far worse than the prospect of his heart giving out.
When Sullivan’s people had found him, Nathan had jumped at the chance to see action again.
No one ever told him just what sort of ‘action’ it would be. Not until he was holed up underground while civilization collapsed above him. Even then he only got the full story when a damned monster tore through the base, massacring scores of people.
He hadn’t felt sick at all before. But now, after it was done and there was no way back, Nathan Colston could detect the sickness in his chest; could feel it every time he drew in a breath.
This sickness didn’t feel congenital, though. It felt like Sullivan’s doing: as if the old man’s gnarled fingers had penetrated Nathan’s chest and were curling around his heart and beginning to squeeze…
"We believe we can count on around five hundred, Sir," Skinner said, and had the good sense to look mortified at the number as it spilled from his lips.
Sullivan's eyebrows lowered, almost obscuring eyes that flashed dangerously.
"Five hundred," he repeated flatly.
"Uh, it's difficult for us to ascertain a definite number, Sir. It's not as if we can just ask the men if they will help, and..."
Skinner trailed off, apparently aware that the tone he had employed might lead to him shortly having his forehead decorated with a bullet.
Nathan was mildly impressed.
At least Skinner hadn't bullshitted a number to make the old man happy. Surely now, Nathan thought, Sullivan would see the folly in trying to rid the Conqueror of dissidents through violence. Hell, maybe he would even finally give the order for the fleet to move. No one understood why they were holding position a few miles off shore while the apocalypse tore the UK apart. Some believed Sullivan was going to stage a land invasion and take the country back. Others whispered about a plan to flee to Australia, and according to the rumours, the virus hadn’t reached the land down under.
Most of the increasing hostility on the Conqueror would have been assuaged by the simple knowledge that they were doing something. If that something happened to be fleeing to safety and endless golden beaches under a sizzling sun, so much the better.
What nobody seemed to understand was just why the hell they were sitting there doing nothing.
"Then we'll have to act fast," Fred said through gritted teeth.
"Uh...Sir?" Skinner mumbled.
"Speak to everybody you know to be loyal. Tell them to be armed and ready. By tonight I want every person on this ship to be either loyal to this enterprise, or dead."
Nathan snorted.
Couldn't help himself.
If the old man thought five hundred men could take the Conqueror by force, he really was as insane as the whispered voices in the corridors of the ship suggested.
"You," Fred said, pointing a bony finger like a gun barrel at Nathan.
"Come with me."
Chapter 14
"We’ll be at the McIntosh ship in three minutes."
The pilot’s voice, crackling over the intercom.
The McIntosh ship?
The words meant nothing to Kyle. Once again he was being dragged into the unknown. It was starting to feel like whenever that happened, people ended up dying. It was a noticeable sort of trend; the kind that leapt around at the front of a person’s mind, waving its arms and yelling.
He took a deep breath and stared out of the small window to his right, trying to figure out why one of Fred Sullivan's ships was floating so far away from the rest; ostracised from the party like an aggressive drunk. No theories presented themselves, but it sounded like he only had three minutes to wait before he found out the truth.
He felt a sudden, lurching drop as the chopper began its descent toward the helipad on the deck of the McIntosh ship.
His heart sank at a different, more troubling pace.
*
Kyle ducked instinctively as he disembarked the helicopter, and realised immediately that he needn’t have bothered: the chopper was enormous, a far cry from the police helicopters he had occasionally seen buzzing over the London skyline, and the blades span far above his head.
Like all of the aircraft that ferried people between the ships that comprised the fleet, the chopper was huge and lethal-looking with forward-pointing 50-cal machine guns and rocket arrays that gave the front of the vehicle an aggressive appearance, like a snarling animal.
He watched as the silent security team dropped out of the chopper and moved away, remaining alert and watchful. None of them had uttered a word during the short trip between the ships, and it didn't look like they were about to start talking now. They clutched a
ssault rifles, and the hard emptiness in their eyes made Kyle feel like they were itching to get a chance to use them.
As the security team lined up alongside the chopper, all resolute faces and well-practised don’t-fuck-with-us attitude, Kyle began to understand that they had no intention of leaving the vehicle, and muttered at Sanderson as the scientist climbed down onto the deck.
“What’s the deal with your security, uh, Sir?”
Sanderson blinked and snorted.
“You are my security,” he said with a wry grimace. “Mr Sullivan made it abundantly clear that I am to do this alone. Those men…well, I imagine they are here mainly to ensure that I do not abscond.”
Kyle arched an eyebrow.
“So if you’re meant to do this alone, what—”
“…Are you two doing here,” Sanderson finished. “That is my call. Mr Sullivan has no idea you two are here. None whatsoever.”
No kidding, Kyle thought, but he remained silent. As he moved clear of the chopper, his questions about the security team's motivations evaporated, replaced by something altogether more difficult to understand.
The ship was one of the smaller in the fleet, and of all seventeen vessels, it looked to Kyle to be the least military in appearance; and the least threatening. Yet as Kyle began to cross the deck toward the superstructure, he felt a strange dread growing in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was something to do with being so close to whatever Phil Sanderson had claimed was vital to the success of Project Wildfire, and wondering if Tom was going to hold it together. Or maybe something else.
Something Kyle could not identify.
Far ahead, he saw a small group of people emerging from the ship. They were as military in appearance as the security team that Kyle had just travelled with, yet even at a distance he noticed that something about them seemed…different somehow. Something in the way they carried themselves.
A welcome committee, he thought. But they don’t look very welcoming.
He scanned the faces of the new group as they approached the chopper, and realised what was different about them. The churning he felt in his own gut was replicated on the faces of the handful of men and women that moved to greet the chopper. All of them looked…scared?
What the hell has Sullivan got on this boat?
"Looks like we have a welcome committee," Kyle said, nodding at the group moving toward them.
Sanderson nodded, cold sunlight reflecting off his expansive brow.
"The ship has a skeleton staff. That’s probably most of them right there."
Kyle glanced at his brother in surprise and saw his own confusion mirrored on Tom's furrowed brow.
"On a ship this size?" Tom asked hesitantly. "Why?"
Sanderson shrugged, and paused on the deck, as though the emphasis his words required was impossible to manufacture while walking.
"There’s only one thing on this ship," he replied. "Not much work for more than a handful of people. And besides, who the hell would volunteer for this job?"
Kyle felt the dread knotting his stomach tighten.
"What job? What’s on this ship…uh, Sir?"
Sanderson blinked.
"You don’t know?"
Kyle and Tom shook their heads in unison and Sanderson chuckled. To Kyle’s ears it was a nasty, sneering sort of noise, brimming with mockery and disdain. It sounded like Sanderson didn’t get a chance to lord his superiority over people that often, and he was relishing every second of their bewilderment.
"Then you’re in for a treat," Sanderson said with a smirk, and turned to meet the welcome committee.
Four men, two women. Kyle thought they all looked hard-bitten, like they had seen more than their fair share of combat in a previous life. None of them wore the masks of fear well.
What would scare these sort of people so much?
"If you’re here to relieve us, I hope there’s another chopper-full of you on the way."
The man leading the welcome committee didn’t sound like he respected Sanderson’s position in the slightest. He sounded tired, and pissed off.
And frightened.
"You haven’t had contact from Mr Sullivan?"
Kyle watched Sanderson closely as he spoke, and thought he saw a flash of genuine surprise pass across the man’s jowly face.
He’s almost as clueless as we are, Kyle thought abruptly. Dropped into something he wasn’t expecting.
Kyle’s jaw clenched involuntarily. With every passing moment on the ship, things were beginning to feel more and more wrong somehow. He felt an almost overpowering urge to leap back onto the chopper, and to refuse to disembark until it left.
"We’ve had no contact from Mr Sullivan since we were sent here," the man replied, and his thick eyebrows lowered. "You’re not here to relieve us," he said flatly. It wasn’t a question.
"I’m afraid not, Mr..?"
"Sykes," the man said with a weary sigh. "Just Sykes will do. I haven’t been a Mr for a long time, and it sure as shit doesn’t feel like I’m a corporal anymore."
Sanderson nodded absent-mindedly. "Phil Sanderson," he said, extending his hand for a moment before dropping it when it became clear Sykes wasn’t in a hand-shaking sort of mood. "Head of research," Sanderson continued, "and this is my private security detail."
He waved a hand in the general direction of Kyle and Tom. Sykes looked them over with cold mirth in his eyes that made Kyle feel uneasy.
"You ever see that episode of Road Runner, where Wile E Coyote has about two hundred boulders falling on his head, and he lifts up a little umbrella to protect himself before he gets squashed?" Sykes asked with a watery grin.
Sanderson stared at him, his mouth half-open, and said nothing.
"If there comes a time you need security on this boat," Sykes said. "Then these two greenhorns are gonna be your umbrella, Mr Sanderson." Sykes chuckled. "If you wanted security, you’d have been best off staying over there."
He pointed in the direction of the fleet, but when Kyle followed the gesture he saw nothing but the flat horizon.
Somewhere at the back of Kyle’s mind a faint alarm began to sound, and a question repeated itself, as if his mind was trying to underline it so he would pay it the proper amount of attention.
Why is this ship on its own, all the way out here?
Sanderson nodded at Sykes.
"Agreed. And believe me, I would have stayed over there if I could, but Sullivan has pressing business on this ship."
Sykes arched an inquisitive eyebrow, and Sanderson cleared his throat, seeming more than a little nervous.
"I’m here to wake McIntosh up," Sanderson said, and this time, it was Sykes’ mouth that Kyle saw drop open in mute astonishment.
Chapter 15
"Walk with me, Mr Colston."
Nathan opened his mouth to answer, and shut it again when he realised no response was required. Fred Sullivan had already turned on his heel and marched away at a brisk pace, with all the arrogance that stemmed from a lifetime of having his orders followed without question.
"I detest these metal boxes we are forced to live in, don’t you?" Fred said as Nathan scurried to catch up to the old man’s leggy stride.
"It’s not the luxuries I miss," Fred continued. "And God knows I had plenty of those before all this. No, it’s the space. All of us living on top of each other, breathing in each other’s stink, bumping into each other in the corridors. Sort of makes a mockery of depopulating the planet, wouldn’t you say?"
Fred shot a glance at Nathan and seemed amused at the confused look he received in return.
"That was a joke. Lighten up, Mr Colston. As yet, you haven’t given me any reason to become irritated with you. I’m not a monster or some deranged psychopath, despite what you might have heard to the contrary. What I am is a businessman who doesn’t like his time being wasted."
Those last few syllables seemed dangerous to Nathan, like Sullivan had spent decades sparring with barbed words and knew exactly when to employ
a jab for maximum effect.
Here comes the point, Nathan thought.
Fred stooped to pass through a small doorway that led out onto the huge flight deck, and breathed in a deep lungful of fresh air.
In the distance, Nathan saw a team of mechanics tinkering with a harrier. The rest of the deck was largely empty. Not for the first time Nathan marvelled at the fact that the ship was so large that he felt no sensation of rocking as the harsh waves of the North Sea battered the hull.
After a few paces, Sullivan stopped and arched his back with a satisfied sigh, like a cat that had just been released after many hours trapped in a basket.
"You don’t agree with what we’re doing—or should I say: what we’ve done," Fred said finally.
"No, Sir, it’s not that-"
Fred snorted.
"It’s fine, Mr Colston. I understand perfectly. I’ve killed a lot of people. I certainly expect nothing other than vilification. I don’t expect you to agree, nor even to understand, really. Somebody had to initiate Project Wildfire, or something very like it. There were several arms manufacturers close to producing a weapon as powerful as mine. It was only a matter of time."
He shrugged.
Nathan frowned dubiously.
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"
Fred's eyes twinkled with amusement.
"I’m not a military officer, Mr Colston, but…permission granted," he said.
"What about the people?" Nathan said, surprising himself a little with the bitterness in his tone. "Even if I buy the idea that the planet was overcrowded, that the people needed...pruning somehow, it doesn’t change the fact that you—we, I guess—acted outside the law. No government would allow—"
"Oh, please," Fred interrupted with weary sarcasm. "Governments? Is that where you think power resided before all this? I thought of our government as a mildly diverting puppet show. I suppose perception really is everything."
Fred began to stroll forward.
"Chrysalis had been retained by the governments of the world for decades to develop better and better weapons, and not one of them had the foresight to understand that letting others create weapons for you is a route to certain disaster. The governments of the world were more than happy for me to hold enormous power because I promised them that my work would be cheap, and would not be paraded in front of the media. What sort of businessman would I be if I didn’t leverage that power to secure the best outcome for my company? For myself?"
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