Watersleep

by James Axler

  "I know, sir. I've read them." Brosnan paused for a second. "All of them."

  "Not all, Commander. I also have two of his first editions, one inscribed in the author's own hand," Poseidon said. "A man has to keep some secrets, Commander. You read second editions, but his words of cursive were for me alone."

  "Aye, sir." Brosnan was starting to become wor­ried. Poseidon was talking of trivial matters at a time when the fate of the Raleigh was at stake.

  "You may restart the engines now. Maintain course, Mr. Brosnan. I have an errand."

  "Where are you headed, Admiral?"

  "To rid ourselves of a barnacle," Poseidon mur­mured. "A particularly insistent one."

  "Cawdor?"

  "Aye."

  "We could go ahead and start a search. He can't hide for long."

  Poseidon glanced around the control room. The two men at various stations weren't expendable. Neither was Brosnan. His knowledge of the operations of the submarine was only second to that of Poseidon him­self, and if the Admiral intended to go gunning per­sonally for Ryan Cawdor, then one of them had to remain behind.

  "I can handle this alone. Don't look so resigned, Brosnan," Poseidon said as he stepped from the room. "I'll be back. Stout fellow!"

  RYAN STEPPED into the sub's reactor room. The com­partment was big—in fact, the room was surprisingly large. This had to be the widest open space in the entire submarine. As Ryan glanced at the mammoth reactor pulsing within, he understood why. Oversize circle-shaped rad detectors were hanging in all of the corners of the room, both fore and aft.

  Ryan wished he had his own small rad counter for reference, the same one that had been attached to his coat's lapel for many a year. Dozens of times he had taken a deep breath and gazed at the tiny device, hop­ing the color indicator wouldn't shift drastically from the cool end of the spectrum into the high end. If the glowing arrow veered erratically across the scale and wavered uncomfortably in the orange sector or near red, Ryan knew the area was "hot."

  Here, all he had to go on was the submarine's own warning devices, and from the looks of the detectors, he had to wonder if they were functioning at any ca­pacity. He stepped closer to the one nearest him when he heard a slight clatter. Ryan had quickly discovered the Raleigh was by no means a quiet ship. The ancient hull and interior had groaned and pinged since they had first left port.

  But this noise was new, and his keen ears believed it to be the sound of a footstep on a loose metal step or plate.

  Ryan crept away from the rad counter and chose a cubby area to slink into. The space was off to one side of the reactor, half-hidden by a bank of dials and other gauges. He crouched and waited to see if his mystery man would make an appearance.

  There had to be submariners on board, even if the sub was running with a skeleton crew. Ryan would think the reactor room would be the first place for engineers and the like. Twice, as he had made his way down deeper into the Raleigh, he'd confronted Poseidon's enlisted men. Apparently, as Alan Carter had said, the hired sec squads weren't allowed on the sub, yet another reason for the apparently small num­ber of fully trained personnel.

  Both times, the men Ryan had faced had turned tail and run. He'd slammed one over the head with the stolen AK-47, but the other had been too far away.

  Now, here was a possible third.

  Again there was a slight clattering noise.

  Then Ryan knew that his foe wasn't on the deck, but was on top of the reactor itself. He risked a glance around the side of his hiding place and spotted what he was looking for: an aluminum ladder leading up to the top of the great machine. He had no desire to climb up and take a closer look.

  He reached out and touched the side of the reactor, feeling it thrum beneath the palm of his hand. What Ryan knew about the actual upkeep and function of nuclear reactors was very little. His own experience— and the one-two punch of an experience the entire planet had endured—was that no matter how good any nuke might initially seem, eventually it chilled your sorry ass.

  The sailor started to come back down the ladder, and he wasn't going slow. The man was dressed in dark blue trousers, light blue buttoned shirt and a white T-shirt. Various hand tools were hanging from a worn and cracked leather tool belt. He was carrying a small box that appeared to be some sort of hand comp. A wire was dangling from the device. At the other end of the line was a minuscule oblong-shaped gadget. Ryan wasn't sure, but he assumed the entire rig was some sort of rad detector. Apparently the sailor didn't fully trust the wall-mounted counters, ei­ther.

  Ryan remained half-crouched at the far end of the reactor. His knees were bent as he squatted, and he suddenly realized just how tired he really was. Still, he couldn't give in to fatigue now. He'd chosen to climb into the sub as a quick retreat. He'd never imag­ined Poseidon would put the craft to sea with him hiding within.

  The AK-47 was slung across his back, just in case he had to use it. He was gambling on staying one step ahead of Poseidon. The noise of the rifle would iden­tify his exact location quicker than shooting off a vol­ley of fireworks.

  The submariner reached the end of the ladder and hopped down the last two feet to the deck, almost slipping in the water that had collected from one of a thousand tiny leaks. Catching his balance, he walked quickly but carefully in Ryan's direction. A few more steps, and there would be no way for the man to miss seeing the hidden addition to the room.

  Still, Ryan remained absolutely motionless until the sailor spotted him.

  "Hey—" came out of the man's mouth as Ryan sprung like a ravenous tiger leaping for its shocked prey. He had snapped the muscles of his legs taut and let his body spring hard and direct. He hit the man just at his knees, driving his feet out from under him, plowing him onto the wet deck.

  The sailor was a fighter. He responded to the attack with a ferocity to match, beating on the one-eyed man's shoulders and back. The two of them locked together for a moment of sheer animal fury before the man broke free, kicking out with one of his feet. Ryan was able to roll to the left and dodge, his body and clothing making wet slapping sounds in the puddles beneath him.

  Ryan scuttled backward, planning to rear up on his feet, when the younger, already erect sailor pulled a long screwdriver from his belt.

  "Come on, you hump," the young man said with a grin. "Come on. I'm ready for you. I can dust your ass and still get out of here before I start glowing green."

  "Is there a problem with your shiny new toy?"

  "Look around you. The reactor's leaking radiation in two spots, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Won't be long before all systems start going off-line."

  The sailor brandished the weapon, making sharp, stabbing motions. The deadly-looking tool was just as good as a knife in close-quarters fighting like this, and while Ryan wasn't frightened of going up against someone with a blade, he wasn't exactly thrilled, ei­ther, since he was knifeless at the moment.

  Ryan decided he wasn't in the mood for this. He damned sure didn't want to get sick from rad poison­ing, and the fighting sailor man was starting to get on his nerves.

  He slid the AK-47 off his back and into his capable hands.

  "Say hello to the fishes," Ryan said, and pulled the trigger.

  There was a soft click, followed by a triple click. Ryan and his screwdriver-wielding foe realized at the exact same time the blaster wasn't loaded.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dean and Doc warily approached the ruin that was once a tidy wood-and-glass guard's shack on the far end of the Kings Point naval base. The boy and man had made good time, following the remarkably well preserved two-lane blacktop down the coastline. Their steed had done well and they left him behind at the gas station inside a long-stripped garage.

  The base was still some distance away, but Doc had found yet another hidden reserve of inner strength, and had kept up with the boy, both of them walking as quickly as possible without any delays.

  Doc had surprised himself. "Amazing what a fe
w day's rest and relaxation will do for a man, even one as brittle as I," he said.

  "Save your breath for walking, not talking, Doc," Dean replied, getting a slight lead on his older com­panion.

  Doc almost gave back his own comment, but then decided the boy was right.

  Ryan would have told Doc the same thing in this sort of situation.

  They had increased their speed the moment the ex­plosions began to occur on the other end of the base. Tendrils of red fire and plumes of smoke reached into the night sky, giving Kings Point a look of a hellpit on earth.

  "Twelve o'clock," Doc said, checking his old pocket watch. "The witching hour is upon us."

  Dean held his Browning Hi-Power ready as he stepped closer to the sec gate next to the shack. The gate, which once could be opened electronically from the wrecked shack, was normally used for allowing wheeled transportation such as the wags to exit and enter. Now the gate was hanging open, a meshing of metal shadows hanging in the dusky air.

  Dean glanced at Doc and mouthed a single word of question. "Dad?" he said, cocking his head toward the bullet-riddled checkpoint.

  "Undoubtedly," Doc replied. "If I had any doubts about our being in the right place, this path of battle has quelled them."

  Dean stepped onto the slab of concrete used as flooring for the checkpoint and peeked inside the re­mains. Inside, the primary color on the standing walls was the rusty red of dried blood. A sec man with a silly-looking hat was crumpled inside, his body twisted in the distinctive and peculiar posture of the dead.

  "One guy in here chilled," he told Doc.

  "So it would appear the Trojan-horse ploy got them this far," Doc said, scanning the area in the fading evening light. "The gate is open, not forced. I can only surmise that their cover was pulled back before they were able to get inside the compound without bloodshed. I was told they took one of the men who initially came in the wag alive so they would have a reluctant ally to ride back with them. That way, their prisoner could assist with passwords or any hidden signals or procedures."

  Dean figured it out. "Guy tried to play hero, didn't he, Doc?"

  "Correct!" Doc said. "The prisoner attempted to alert his comrade in the guard house, and there was no choice but to take matters up a notch.''

  "Looks like a wag over there," Dean said, pointing at the abandoned Land Rover. "Think it's the same one Dad came in with?"

  The pair approached the vehicle carefully. Doc no­ticed the bullet-riddled tires and pointed them out with his swordstick. Dean nodded. No wonder the wag had been dumped.

  "Dean! Doc!" Mildred cried out, spotting the two familiar figures running toward the damaged wag. "Over here!"

  "Tell me, young Cawdor, am I once again a cap­tive to the ghosts of my withered mind, or is that really our good Krysty Wroth and Jak Lauren there before us?"

  "We've both gone loco if they ain't, Doc," Dean responded, his face breaking out in a wide grin.

  "Aren't," Krysty corrected automatically.

  "Oh, yeah, it's really them!" the boy said, reach­ing out and hugging Krysty tight.

  "Ryan told you to wait," J.B. accused.

  "I did. For about an hour," Dean retorted. "Didn't want to miss watching this shit heap blow sky high."

  Everyone laughed as they clasped hands in firm handshakes and delivered slaps on the back. They were together again, and it felt good.

  "Bless my soul, but I am delighted to see the lot of you," Doc said. "But I am perplexed at Krysty and Jak's appearance."

  After Jak and Krysty quickly explained what had happened to them, Carter impatiently brought up the next order of business: "So what's left besides getting the hell out of here?"

  "Ryan's left," Krysty replied.

  "Shit, woman, Cawdor's long dead by now. You heard the sirens. That enlisted man we questioned told us Poseidon's taken out the submarine and left his base to rot. Shauna's dead. You told me you saw the body yourself. Nothing's going to bring her or your man back."

  "Ryan's not dead," Krysty stated in a tone of chill­ing finality. "Not yet."

  "We'll find him," Dean said. "He's got to be here somewhere."

  "That's it. I've had enough," Carter told them. "Loyalty is one thing, but you people go beyond even family. Your leader is chilled, or soon will be, and the Admiral has swam away leaving us holding an empty net. I'm going back home. You do what you want."

  "You can't walk out on us now!" J.B. protested.

  "This entire operation was about revenge, Dix!" Carter replied, spittle flying from his lips as he talked. "Cawdor's revenge for a woman not even dead.

  Shauna's revenge for a husband who never gave a damn about her in the first place. Hell, I didn't like Poseidon, either, but I never would've taken it this far if not for her."

  "You loved her, didn't you, Carter?" Mildred said bluntly.

  "Does it matter now, Dr. Wyeth?"

  "I guess not."

  "She couldn't let it go," Carter said again. "Damn, but I wish I'd never heard of any of you."

  With those parting words, the tattooed man walked away into the night.

  "Hold up," Dean said, running after him. The boy talked to Carter for a second, then returned to the others.

  "You think Ryan's somewhere hiding out, watch­ing the explosions? Or is he a captive on the sub­marine?" Mildred ventured.

  "Don't know," Jak said, pulling his recovered Colt Python out of its holster. "Why don't we find navy boys and ask?"

  THE DYING MAN LYING on his back on the metal floor­ing of the submarine pen offered no resistance. His name was Coleman. He'd never been a proper merc anyway; he was a techie at heart, and had only been watching over the Raleigh when Ryan attacked him because of a debt he owed and he hadn't been able to come up with the proper payment in jack.

  So, he took a double shift to watch over the de­crepit old tub, and had been on the scene at the wrong time after Ryan's escape from the redoubt. Coleman's partner for the evening had been the one who pulled the hardware and fired at the one-eyed man, so the warrior had been faced with no choice but to chill him in his boots. Coleman, however, had been frozen with surprise, so Ryan merely punched him in the face and relieved him of his rifle.

  The very same rifle that Ryan had later found to be unloaded.

  Coleman didn't like blasters. They made him ner­vous. He kept his weapon empty.

  So Ryan hadn't chilled him—that had fallen to Po­seidon's rage when he discovered that his prey had slipped on board the Raleigh. All it took to send Cole­man sliding toward death was one shot from a Glock pistol in the stomach.

  "Gut shot," Jak said. "Die soon. Die in pain."

  Mildred's examination didn't take long. She shook her head as she looked at the gaping wound. "I'm getting damned sick and tired of being the one to sign the death certificates around here," she said.

  One thing she'd learned in a hurry about being a physician in Deathlands—you had a low rate of pa­tient survival.

  "Looking for Ryan Cawdor," J.B. said. "You see him get on the sub?"

  "Don't know who that is," Coleman wheezed.

  "Big guy with an eye patch. Curly hair. Has a long scar going down his eheek into his chin," J.B. de­scribed, running a finger down the right side of his own face to illustrate. "He was probably a prisoner in cuffs or ropes."

  Coleman managed a weak snicker. "He didn't look like no prisoner when he kicked my ass," he said. "The Admiral was royally pissed. Shot me on sight, and took the sub and your man out for a swim."

  "Come on," J.B. said, "let's go. We're going after them."

  "Where?" Krysty asked. "How?"

  "There's got to be a boat around here somewhere. Mebbe this time we won't hit any more mines."

  DOWN IN THE NUKE ROOM of the USS Raleigh, Ryan pulled the trigger one more time, and the AK-47 still refused to fire.

  "Aw, shit," Ryan said.

  "Looks like you're empty," the sailor said, lunging with the screwdriver. Ryan swung back with the body of the rifle,
using it to parry the man's thrust. The metal tip of the tool hit the softer wood of the stock and plunged down, leaving a long scratch.

  "Should've been you."

  Ryan dropped the rifle, as he needed both hands free. He was starting to tire physically. All of the punishment his body had taken in the past few hours was coming home to roost.

  Still, the day he couldn't dust a stupe swinging a screwdriver was the day he'd put a bullet into his own head.

  Ryan feinted back, and his foe again lunged for his midriff, trying to bury the weapon up to the handle in the one-eyed man's stomach. Seizing the opening, Ryan caught the sailor's arm and thrust it down over one of his uplifted knees, breaking the arm with a loud crack.

  The screwdriver fell to the deck.

  Ryan kept his hold on his adversary's arm, twisting as hard as he could while rotating it in the shoulder socket. The sailor fell to his knees, screaming, then slumped limply, his body shutting down from the pain. Ryan felt about the same as the enlisted man looked. He sat down against the wall himself, breathing heavily.

  A bosun's whistle shrieked at the end of the cor­ridor. Ryan stepped over and looked at the comm-system panel that was recessed in the wall near the lozenge-shaped doorway.

  "Ryan Cawdor, this is Admiral Poseidon."

  The way things were going, he wasn't surprised.

  "Talk to me, Cawdor, before you do anything fool­ish."

  Ryan reached out and slapped down the Transmit button.

  "Like what?" he snarled at the comm grid. "Blow this nuke engine sky-high?"

  "Sub's out to sea, Cawdor. We've submerged, and we're all continuing to go down," Poseidon said, his voice crisp from the tiny speaker. "Harm the Raleigh, and you harm yourself."

  "We're all going down anyway, you stupe bastard! The decks are wet with seawater. This piece of rusty shit is leaking like a fucking sieve. You've got men dead and dying down here because the sub's nuke is leaking radiation right through the protective plating. We've got to get off before we're all chilled with rad sickness."