Powerdown (Richard Mariner Series)

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Move!’ spat Killigan and the four of them rushed down the length of the corridor together. Under the vertical chimney they paused again, their path further aft blocked by a pull-down ladder like a white-painted fire escape. Looking upwards, Jolene found herself watching a square of pastel duck-egg sky silhouetting foreshortened figures bustling upwards and outwards onto the deck. Above the last of them, strangely geometric after all the roundness of bodies and equipment, loomed the tail of the Sikorsky.

  ‘Me first,’ said Killigan. ‘Then the women, Inspector first, then you, Billy boy. And remember, ladies, any trouble and I just shoot the pair of you. I can off you both and miss Billy here easily. Think about it. You really don’t want me to blow your pretty little asses away this early in the day!’

  Up he swung, then stopped, half in the chimney, gun pointing, until the women were on the ladder behind him. Jolene followed Killigan closely, her mind racing, and she could feel Vivien close behind her. When she got to the top, she hesitated. Killigan was on the ice-slick deck beside her. Behind him, the helicopter team were trying to get the Sikorsky ready but it was obvious that they had quite a job ahead of them. The Zodiac team were working more quickly. The davits had been swung out already and were hanging over the stern like thin, swan-necked Narcissuses, admiring their reflections in the mirror of the water.

  Jolene’s wide eyes began to take stock of where they were, but Killigan snarled ‘Move!’ and she obeyed. Once on the deck she had little leisure for admiring the epic grandeur of her surroundings. The deck was slippery with ice and she was very worried that if she slipped and sat down suddenly, the Smith and Wesson .38 calibre police special pistol she had jammed deeply down the front of her jeans really would blow her pretty little ass away. Vivien Agran came carefully out of the raised hatchway behind her and stood equally uneasily on the deck. Jolene wondered hysterically whether she was also worried about slipping over suddenly because she had somehow seduced the big Remington rifle out of Washington and secreted it somewhere about her person. Jolene bit down hard on the hilarity that began to bubble up inside her. Maybe she wasn’t quite as calm and in control here as she thought she was.

  Billy Hoyle pulled himself out onto the deck and Killigan tensed himself to move, when events overtook them. It was inevitable that such a stiff, suspicious group should be noticed. They were out of place, out of character, out of time.

  ‘Hey,’ called someone from beside the Sikorsky.

  Killigan had obviously made his decision. It was taking too long to get the Sikorsky ready, so they would go for the Zodiacs. But the Sikorsky might be readied in time to interfere with his plans. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a timer. His thumb was actually resting on it when someone called, ‘Killigan?’ Almost regretfully he put the bomb away. ‘Killigan, what are you …’

  Killigan turned. Even at twenty past midnight it was bright. The pilot was easily recognisable. He was up on the undercarriage, preparing to open the cockpit door. A blood-red dot shone briefly on his thigh, and then it exploded open, as though one of the timers had been detonated in his leg. He fell and skidded across the deck, out of Jolene’s sight, shouting with shock and pain. The others around the chopper dived for cover.

  The stillness amplified the echoes of the shot. Jolene looked up. Half a kilometre ahead stood a cliff almost the equal of the Razor. It was the better part of a kilometre wide. From here it looked more than half a kilometre high: black, absolute, and as unforgiving as a guillotine blade bedded down into the purity of the still, steaming, water at its foot. It called its weirdly amplified version of the dock’s flat voice again, and from across the bay it was answered. Jolene saw that up on top of that sheer black precipice stood a sturdy radio mast and the hint of a collection of huts. Deception Base.

  ‘Move,’ spat Killigan again, herding them over and downwards, across the deck to the outer companionways. Beneath them sat the mezzanine deck, the folded steps. Everything they needed to climb safely down into the Zodiac. How safe they would be after that was anybody’s guess. Jolene hoped fervently that T-Shirt was close behind and Washington was with him. And that whatever Vivien Agran had up her sleeve was not going to get in anybody’s way. And, indeed, that whatever Richard Mariner did when he realised what was going on fitted in with everything else as neatly as the way he had slipped Kalinin into safe haven here.

  *

  Vasily Varnek caught up with T-Shirt and Washington at the inboard end of the long passageway out of engineering which led to the chimney beneath the Sikorsky. Just as he did so, the flat sound of a shot came echoing back to the three of them. ‘What are they doing?’ demanded the Russian officer, still unaware of the full complexity of the situation facing him.

  ‘I’d say Killigan has decided not to go for the chopper. He’d never get it off the deck without major problems. And blowing it up would lead to unbelievable carnage; maybe even sink the ship,’ said T-Shirt. ‘So he and Hoyle will be pushing Jolene and Mrs Agran down to the Zodiacs right about now. If anyone stands up to them there’ll be more shooting, I expect. If they don’t, there’ll be no more unless he wastes his bullets on trying to disable the second Zodiac. But he won’t want to waste shots, ’cause he’ll know there’s a chance we’ll come after him like gangbusters anyway, even though he’s got the women with him. But he will want to take out the Zodiac if he can.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Varnek. ‘What is this you say? They have Mrs Agran?’

  ‘Mrs Agran, Dr DaCosta, a red-dot dock and a bunch of timers as powerful as grenades. Also a computer disk with NASA’s most treasured secret on it and a burning desire to get to an Internet terminal — no matter what the cost, I’d say.’

  ‘We’ve got to get after them,’ said Washington.

  ‘I’d advise you to wait a little,’ said T-Shirt. ‘You won’t stop them leaving the ship without a good deal of bloodshed. But then they won’t be able to stop us following them. An army of us, if we want. Even if they do manage to disable the second Zodiac, there’s likely to be the Sikorsky if we can fly it. Or failing that we have two launches and two more lifeboats. And once they get up to Deception Base, where are they going to go?’

  ‘But the women,’ said Varnek.

  ‘Precisely,’ said T-Shirt blithely, sounding a little more confident than he felt. ‘The women. We have to give them just a little space to put their plans into action. Jolene has plans, I’m sure. We must at least give them time to make sure of their own safety. Mr Varnek, I presume Mrs Agran is almost as heavily armed as Jolene DaCosta?’

  *

  Vivien Agran allowed herself to be hustled down the slippery companionway towards the little mezzanine deck. She and Billy were just behind Killigan and Jolene, and ahead of them the red dot of the nasty little pistol’s sight moved through the misted air like a tiny searchlight. The mezzanine deck was cramped and crowded, the sense of compression surprisingly forceful — the deck above their heads seemed very near indeed. Vivien looked up, surprised to find it bearded with thick ice. No sooner did the glittering carapace register than she also noticed it was raining freezing drops of meltwater down on them as well. One Zodiac hung from the davits, ready to be lowered to the millpond surface of Port Foster. The other was still in its securing cradle.

  On the mezzanine a few crewmen — easily intimidated by the sight of Killigan’s pistol — were crowding back and clearly wishing there was somewhere to hide from the sinister little dot. Even Borisov stood back, no doubt assured by his relentlessly negative intelligence that any move would be fatal. Vivien’s lip twisted. What a coward he was; how unlike Vasily Varnek, whom she dearly wished was here beside her now.

  As she was hurried ruthlessly across the ice-thick deck of the mezzanine, she slipped, staggered, and was glad enough to be pulled upright by Hoyle’s brutal hand on her upper arm. Still, with all this bending, twisting and dancing about, she was extremely grateful for the foresight which had led her to wrap the blade of Chef’s sharpest 30-centimetre
Sabatier carving knife with a strong linen drying-up cloth before she slid it down the back of her trousers, snugly into the space between her buttocks, its outline hidden beneath the skirt of her parka.

  ‘You!’ spat Killigan, pointing at Borisov with the finger of the laser sight. ‘Get the steps down.’

  Borisov did not hesitate. He hurried over and pulled the lever. Crackling and popping like an old man’s joints, the retracted steps burst out of their icy covering and reached downwards.

  ‘And that,’ ordered Killigan, moving the dot from Borisov’s breast to the dangling Zodiac.

  Again, Borisov sprang to obey, so that when the little step-off point reached the stillness of the water, the Zodiac was sitting in place beside it. Down went the women, with Hoyle immediately after them and Killigan’s red dot covering them relentlessly.

  ‘You too,’ grated the American, flicking the light back to Borisov. ‘Start her up and sail us in.’

  Borisov started down, then turned, his mouth opening, as though to protest, refuse, argue. The red dot was exactly in his eye. He closed his mouth and turned back.

  Before he followed him down, Killigan reached into his pocket and pulled out the timer he had considered using on the Sikorsky. He flicked the LED display switch and chucked it across the deck so that it slid under the cradled Zodiac. He had few shots but a good number of timers — and he urgently needed rid of the Zodiac. That would slow pursuit perfectly after his crippling of the chopper pilot. He turned and ran down the steps. The others on the mezzanine ran wildly up the steps on their side and for the tiniest of instants the little deck was empty and still. The first Zodiac pulled away across the water, drawing a wide arrowhead of wake behind it.

  Then Varnek exploded out of the bottom of the portside companionway, sliding like an ice-hockey player across the deck to kick the timer out over the side and slam with bruising force into the uprights of the railings above it. Through a galaxy of stars he saw the way the timer curved out through the perfect stillness of the midnight and settled deep into the placid water before it exploded. And then he was on his feet and tearing at the bindings of the second Zodiac, yelling at Borisov’s little team to get back down here and help him.

  T-Shirt was up by the Sikorsky, side-tracked into helping the wounded pilot. The wound to his thigh was severe: he would not be flying for a good long time. But it was not fatal. T-Shirt’s mind was racing. This must be Killigan’s equivalent of winning friends here. The renegade sergeant was trying to make sure that they would hesitate to follow him in the face of his gun and his detonator grenades, but doing so in such a way as to make sure they did not get hyped up on blood lust and the need for revenge. It looked very much as though he planned to come back aboard to get passage out of here. There was probably no other way to get off Deception — not for weeks anyway. Holding Jolene and Vivien Agran was clearly more effective than taking the popular wives of Richard and Colin and the equally popular children. There would have been no lack of a posse to head out after Robin and the kids; but the NASA inspector and the ship’s madam? T-Shirt looked up into the silvery-rose perfection of the midnight sky. Who was going to risk life and limb for them? As though in answer to his rhetorical question, he heard Varnek bellowing at the crewmen, and grinned tightly to himself. That’s one, he thought. Washington and me makes three. Richard and probably Colin will be along in a minute, he would lay his life on it. A couple more and they’d have seven, magnificent or not.

  The pilot’s VHF lay on the icy deck. T-Shirt picked it up. ‘Send the doc down with a stretcher for the pilot,’ he said to whoever was listening on the bridge. ‘And send down another pilot if you’ve got one. They’ve taken the women and Borisov in the first Zodiac. Varnek will be going after them in the second one any minute now but we need to get up to the top of the mountain if we’re really going to head them off.’

  *

  Richard swung into the stateroom on Palmer-Hall. ‘Robin,’ he said, ‘We need you.’

  ‘What?’ She looked up from the tousled heads of her sleeping children, caught between the urgency in his voice and her bone-deep need to stay and continue guarding William and Mary.

  ‘Killigan and Hoyle have taken Jolene and Mrs Agran ashore. Shot the chopper pilot in cold blood. Varnek’s going after them in the spare Zodiac but we need to get the Sikorsky over to Mount Pond if we’re going to finish this.’

  ‘But what do they think they’re doing?’ asked Robin, rising. ‘What is the point of it all?’

  ‘To send out the Power Strip’s design specifications on the Internet and make a mint of money.’

  ‘Of course. But then what? Where are they going to go after that? Where can they go, Richard? This place is beyond the end of nowhere and that storm’s going to close down again in an hour or so. Are they expecting to sit up there forever?’

  ‘They’ve probably not thought that far ahead. It’s all been make do and mend since the major asked for his suit that one last time on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I’m not convinced. There must be a way out of this for them. They couldn’t be so stupid as to run up a blind alley with all of us coming after them and nowhere else to go. They must be planning to come back aboard.’

  ‘OK. You have a point. The worry is that they might not all be coming back aboard. Can we talk about it while we go? In Mrs Agran’s absence, the captain herself has detailed Gretchen to babysit.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kate Ross quietly. ‘I’ll look after them. They’ll be safe with me.’

  ‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘Colin. T-Shirt. Washington will go with whichever transport they can get most serviceable most quickly.’

  Robin stopped dead in the doorway. ‘There’s something wrong with the chopper?’ she asked, her voice slightly cooler than the storm wind they had just escaped.

  ‘No. It’s iced up, that’s all. After the storm.’

  ‘We go on my say-so,’ she said decisively, moving once again.

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  ‘I’m not taking that chopper up unless it’s one hundred per cent, no matter what the emergency. Is that clear, Richard?’

  ‘Of course, darling …’ Richard’s calm assurance was undermined a little by the fact that the wounded pilot was carried past the pair of them just then.

  Robin’s concerns were well-founded, as Richard soon discovered. Her first external pilot’s check revealed clogged intakes and blocked exhausts, compounded by iced-up control surfaces and frozen landing gear. When they climbed into the cockpit, joined by Colin, and she began to run some pre-flights, things got worse. She soon discovered frozen fuel lines and a range of problems with levers, pedals, pitches and props that went far beyond anything Richard could understand.

  She had just announced herself grudgingly satisfied that the exterior of the fuselage was free of ice when T-Shirt swung back into the picture like Tarzan with a hump, announcing that Varnek had gone, taking, among others, Corporal Washington and, unexpectedly, one of the scientists, Mendel.

  Richard recalled Robin’s suspicions that there was something more than they suspected actually going on here and he frowned.

  *

  Jolene had brought her big Cat Colorado walking machines with her and she’d never been so glad of anything in the whole of her life. She had put them on after her shower with T-Shirt because they were lined and warm but, as she stumbled up the slippery, cindery path towards the distant Camp Deception, the state-of-the-art footwear seemed to be all that could possibly make this walk feasible. Every now and then she glanced back, wondering what on earth Vivien Agran had on her feet which allowed her to keep up. All she had ever seen her wearing during their admittedly brief acquaintance was executive slingbacks with a medium heel. But for this little jaunt, the entertainment officer seemed to have supplemented her black jeans and Parka with some hefty-looking Timberlanders. Now that, thought Jolene, really was thinking ahead.

  No one had thought to bring a t
orch, however, so the going got tougher the higher they climbed. The pathway they were following up from the black beach, where they had left Borisov with a couple of hundred sleepy seals, was swinging in partway under an overhang — though it was still possible to see it, like a pale ribbon, slipping over the shoulder of the hillside further up. The light from the sky was as clear and rose-tinted as it had been half an hour ago, but the angle of the cliff seemed to put them in shadow all along this section. On their left was a steep slope where about ten thousand gentoo penguins had made their nests. Jolene gasped. Choked. The fumes from the gentoo rookery down below burned at her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She wavered; slowed. ‘Move!’ snarled Killigan. That was about all he had said since taking her, she thought bitterly. Still, it wouldn’t be long now until they reached the camp. The radio mast towered up on her right. The cliff fell away threateningly at her feet — though the truly vertical drop did not begin until after the pathway snaked over the rise just ahead.

  Once they were at the camp, Jolene planned to wait for Killigan to take out the disk. She hoped she would have the chance to see him starting up the computer and keying in the e-mail destination. She had a photographic memory. Once she saw where he was planning to send the information, the gun would come out and the transmission would be terminated. Agent Jones would have the murderers of Major Schwartz and Leading Seaman Thompson. NASA would retrieve the Power Strip and the disk containing its most important design specifications. She would have the address of the main players in the market willing to pay for such information regardless of how it came to them. Everything wrapped up, neat as a Christmas gift.

  Except that, like Robin, and now Richard; Jolene had her doubts. The plot seemed too simple. There had to be something else going on here — Killigan’s escape route at the very least. Without it he would simply be the richest occupant of some army stockade for the rest of his life.