Waste Not, Want Not td-130

by Warren Murphy

  He assumed they were going to the security room to call the police. Ahead, he saw the closed gate in the chain-link fence that led to the Vaporizer.

  No, not closed. Open now. Which was very strange, since Yakamoto was certain he had locked up everything tight before leaving a few minutes earlier. He must have left them open, since the gates could only be opened by special access codes.

  The security building was a simple concrete salt box at the edge of the main road. The fear returned full-blown when the group bypassed the building and headed for the open gate to the Vaporizer.

  "No," Yakamoto whined in disbelief as they propelled him up along the alley formed by the high hurricane fence.

  "No!" he cried louder when they forced him toward the sprawling black deck of the Vaporizer. "No!" he screamed when they shoved him through.

  The frictionless black deck was slicker than ice. Without the special boots over his shoes, Yakamoto's feet went out from under him. He landed roughly on his back. Forward momentum skimmed him across the surface of the deck. He only realized that the inner fence directly around the pit had been rolled back when he slipped out into open air. The scientist felt a horrible instant of weightlessness.

  Then he fell.

  The pit walls tapered halfway down. Yakamoto hit the wall hard. Something snapped in his right leg. Daggers of pain shot from his shin as he rolled to the floor of the pit.

  He fell onto something soft. In the darkness he couldn't see what it was.

  All around was black. When he looked up he saw stars.

  "Let me out, please!" he screamed.

  His reply was a gentle hum of electricity from the walls. As the sound grew, lights winked on all around him. Tiny dots of yellow arranged in perfect little lines stretching around the four walls of the deep pit.

  The nozzle lights illuminated the floor of the pit. He saw what it was he had landed on.

  Dr. Hiro Taki was cold in death. The scientist's mouth yawned wide from his last moment of shock and pain.

  When Toshimi Yakamoto saw the dead man's belly, his own mouth dropped in shock.

  Dr. Taki's stomach wasn't there. There was a wide hole from sternum to pelvis. A perfect circle had been carved through from front to back. Whatever had hollowed him out had somehow cauterized the wound. No blood or organs spilled into the vacant, ghastly circle.

  The hum grew in intensity. "Stop, please!"

  Yakamoto was begging, crying.

  He hopped on his uninjured leg, scratching at the walls. There was nothing to hold on to. There were no handholds. The nozzles were rounded stubs. In his clawing desperation he tore off a fingernail. He screamed in fresh pain.

  By now the air around him was humming like a furious wasp. In all the tests he had never before heard the sound. Somewhere in his terrified brain he realized that sound could not escape the Vaporizer pit once the machine was switched on. He didn't care. He cried and screamed.

  The sound was sucked to silence from his parted lips.

  And then was a sudden stillness. Yakamoto held his breath.

  And all around nozzle tips flashed to brilliant white.

  Stars in a midnight sky, impossibly close. Burning, flaring. The light exploded from every point, all around-dizzying, blinding. And he was suddenly part of the light, and the light was accepting him into it.

  Toshimi Yakamoto felt a strange whooshing vibration as his molecules rattled apart. As the world compressed and stretched into a single living stream, the black wall suddenly flew up to meet him. A single glowing nozzle tip burst in warm light all around him.

  And then he was in the light and gone.

  The black walls of eternity closed in around Toshimi Yakamoto. There was a weird out-of-body experience as he traveled through an endless black tunnel. It seemed to take forever, but he knew that it was only the wink of an eye.

  The tunnel opened, the whooshing stopped and Toshimi Yakamoto found himself looking at other stars.

  These stars weren't regimented like the false stars of the Vaporizer. These were the real thing, scattered randomly throughout the twinkling night sky.

  The warm breeze touched the swaying tops of tropical trees. Though dry, it felt wet on his skin. When he looked, he saw why.

  What should have been skin was now a damp mass of reddish blue, a human husk stripped and turned inside out. Fused bones of rib and spine curled in horrid shapes from pulsing, exposed organs.

  There was no horror. In fact, Toshimi Yakamoto didn't mind at all.

  The brain had gone the way of the body, twisted in shapes that no longer comprehended pain. When the end came, it came without understanding. The final breath wheezed out, and the quivering mass simply died.

  And on the growing mountain of garbage, the rats came tentatively out of hiding. To feast on the inhuman jumble of flesh and organs that in life had been one of the brightest minds of Japan's Nishitsu Corporation.

  Chapter 13

  The Caribbean sun rose yellow and beautiful in a cloudless dawn. Petrovina Bulganin watched it sneak over the horizon as if it were a skulking enemy.

  This mission was proving more of a nuisance than she had thought it would be. It wasn't just the side trip to the Vaporizer where she was doing the work of the SVR. It was the company she was being forced to keep.

  The men on the Russian fishing trawler were blockish, simple-minded things. They lumbered around the deck doing their best to ignore the woman in their midst. As she watched them, she wondered if KGB idiocy was contagious.

  Suspicions that extended to the center of the solar system were not typical for Petrovina Bulganin of the Institute, Petrovina Bulganin, formerly of the SVR. That sort of mindless distrust for everyone and everything was an old KGB trait. It was definitely her companions who were making Petrovina suspicious of the sunrise.

  They looked ridiculous. Though at sea, they each wore the badly tailored black business suits of the former KGB. And not one of the fools realized how silly he looked.

  Although it could have been worse, she decided. For a moment she pictured them in matching black swimming trunks, black socks and dress shoes, their shoulder holsters and guns leaving sunburn lines in their pale flesh.

  This was the fault of Russia's current president. The man was former KGB and so trusted almost no one but former KGB. His entourage for the coming Globe Summit consisted almost entirely of Soviet-era KGB dinosaurs drafted from the ranks of the modern SVR. And so Petrovina was forced to work with them or no one.

  Petrovina stood on the deck of the trawler. In the distance was floating Garbage City. The foreign scows and other sea traffic had been ordered from the area where the two boats had gone down. There wasn't strict enforcement. Petrovina's trawler had sailed in unmolested.

  The men around her were fastening metal clips and checking for holes in her old canvas-and-rubber diving suit.

  There was one metal barrel at the edge of the deck. One chance for defense if they were discovered. Not that they would be. This mission was a simple matter of confirming Director Chutesov's suspicions. If the Institute head was right, others would be called in to clean up the mess.

  The man in charge of dressing Petrovina picked up a large steel helmet from the dry deck of the ship. He was a thick-necked ex-Party member named Vlad Korkusku. His eyes were dull, his knuckles were hairy and he had developed an instant dislike for Petrovina the moment he had been told she would be his superior while they were in Mayana. But the command had come directly from SVR head Pavel Zatsyrko.

  "Still nothing?" Petrovina asked Korkusku. Korkusku turned to the bridge where a man in a suit identical to his own was checking the sonar. "Nothing," the man called down.

  "Nyet," Vlad told Petrovina.

  "I wish to be told the instant anything is detected. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, of course," Vlad snarled.

  Petrovina allowed Vlad to place the helmet over her head. Others fastened it securely to her suit. A spear gun was hooked to her back.

 
Her oxygen was fine, but there was a problem with the radio. She smacked the helmet a few times to clear it.

  "If radio goes, I will tug line when I am coming up. You tug line if you wish me to return. Understand?"

  Korkusku nodded dully. "Of course," he grunted. The men guided Petrovina to a gap in the rail. Her weighted feet clomped loudly on the buckled wooden deck.

  At the deck's edge, Petrovina stepped off into oblivion, dropping like a stone. With a mighty splash, the sea swallowed her up. She sank quickly to the bottom.

  The heavy boots touched the sandy soil gently.

  Puffs of silt swirled in her wake as she walked along. Shafts of morning sunlight knifed down from the surface, blotted out in spots by floating trash. Nervous schools of fish twitched tails in unison as she walked, flitting off, away from the strange intruder.

  She was already sweating in her suit.

  Trash was scattered all across the seafloor. A discarded grocery bag floated like a plastic jellyfish before her face. With a slow-motion swipe, she pushed it behind her. It joined other scraps and bits of junk-civilization's castoffs-that danced in lazy sea currents.

  When she looked up through the floating garbage, she could just glimpse the underside of her boat. "Korkusku, come in," she said.

  No reply.

  "Korkusku, can you hear me?" Still nothing.

  The radio didn't sound as if it were out. There was still an audio hum. A new malfunction. Cursing under her breath, she forged ahead.

  At her feet, crabs skittered around broken bottles. A pitted cluster of coral lost from some other world rose up ahead. Bits of trash had snagged the surface. They waved like ghostly fingers as Petrovina passed by.

  Beyond loomed the twisted shape of the American scow.

  Above the sea the boat would have been big. Below, it seemed impossibly huge-a building toppled into water.

  Petrovina walked around the coral and into the long shadow cast by the scow.

  As she walked, she felt a tug from behind.

  In her suit and helmet, it was awkward to turn around. The metal helmet was the shape of an inverted fishbowl. Three tiny windows, one at the front and one on either side, allowed a limited view of the area around her.

  She found that her oxygen line had snagged on coral. Petrovina took the line in her gloved hand and gave it a flick. The line rolled in slow-motion, snaking off the coral and settling to the seafloor.

  Loose once more, she headed slowly for the ship. Some garbage had washed away, but most remained around the wreckage. She was soon wading through ankle-deep trash and climbing on her knees up to the scow. Fish flitted around her, swimming in and out the side of the sunken ship.

  The scow had split in two big sections. The rear had broken from the bridge, jamming into the soft sand at the seafloor. The bridge section had nosed down. She saw what she was after at the rear of the angled bridge.

  Taking her oxygen line in hand, Petrovina climbed slowly up to the side of the scow. She ran a glove over the metal.

  It was twisted back from something that could only have been an impact explosion.

  "Sukin syn," she swore beneath her helmet.

  As she spoke, Petrovina lost her footing. Some of the garbage on which she was awkwardly kneeling gave way. As her boots slipped, she grabbed around, hugging the broken metal for support. Her glove touched something soft.

  The object fell loose, swinging down from the interior of the ship and slapping soundlessly against the hull.

  She found herself face-to-upside-down-face with a bloated white corpse.

  Petrovina gasped, falling back.

  The body of Captain Frederick Lenn swung gently in the fissure that had split his beloved ship. Crabs and fish had chewed his face. His bloated tongue mocked Petrovina.

  She held one hand to her belly. Her heart raced. Her breath steamed the glass of her helmet. Averting her eyes from the body, she quickly climbed back down the hill of garbage.

  She had seen all she needed to see. Petrovina could head back to her boat, report to Director Chutesov, leave this place and let the Russian navy clean up the mess. Her work in Mayana was finished. She should have felt relief.

  So why could she not catch her breath?

  She tried to will herself calm. It did no good.

  At first she couldn't understand it. She had seen many dead bodies as part of her Institute training. None in the line of duty. They had all been in a Moscow morgue. Still, most had been in far worse shape than Captain Lenn.

  She paused, taking in a deep, calming breath. She could not. And then it hit her. The problem came not from her, but from above.

  Her oxygen line emitted a feeble hiss. Then nothing.

  Korkusku! The SVR idiot had cut off her oxygen supply.

  It was too far back to her boat. She would never make it. Petrovina started walking. Every step brought the fire of futility to her straining lungs. She could feel the panic swelling inside her. Nothing she could do to stop it.

  Every step was agony. Her feet were deadweights. As she waded through trash, she looked up for a sign of her boat. She could see nothing through the floating debris and the thickening fog within her helmet.

  No. That wasn't true. Through the fear and fog she thought she saw something.

  No, not something. Someone.

  He appeared from the haze before her. Swimming as confidently as a shark through the depths of the Caribbean.

  Petrovina thought the man might be her savior. If he could share oxygen with her, she could get back to the surface. But with growing despair she saw that he had no diving gear. The man wore only a T-shirt and slacks.

  Still, he was an amazingly fast swimmer. At the speed he was traveling, he could help. Maybe he could swim back to her boat. Get help. Uncrimp her line. Do something.

  As the last gulps of breath struggled from her sweat-drenched lips, Petrovina Bulganin feebly signaled the stranger who had become her last hope to live.

  REMO BARELY NOTED the woman in the diving suit. His legs did the work as he swam, propelling him forward with the speed and grace of a porpoise. He knifed toward the twisted hulk that had been the American scow.

  He had already seen the Mexican ship. The hull of that scow had been blasted open by an impact explosion.

  When he swam past the woman, she grabbed for him.

  Remo dodged her gloved hands. She waved her arms desperately. He waved hello back.

  The woman had stirred up trash and silt. It swirled in the stirring currents beside the American scow. No matter. He could clearly see the hole.

  The metal had buckled at the point of impact, curling back in twisted shards. On the second half he could see a mirror image of the torpedo hole that had cracked the scow in two before it settled at an angle on the seafloor.

  Face stern, Remo kicked away from the scow. The woman in the diving suit was now walking away through an undersea blizzard of trash. She seemed to be having a rough go of it. Every step was a great labor.

  Remo swam up to her.

  When she saw Remo appear before her, she waved again, this time with far less energy than before. Assuming she was just being friendly, he waved back once more.

  Scowling, she swatted his hand and pointed to her oxygen hose. Her panting was steaming up the inside of her helmet.

  Remo trained his ears on the hose. He heard nothing but a few pained squeaks. The light of understanding dawned.

  O. He formed the letter with thumb and forefinger. I. He pointed to himself. See. He pointed to his eyes. You. He pointed to the woman. Can't. He shook his head. Breathe. He clutched his hands to his throat. Remo smiled, triumphant at his successful pantomime.

  The woman tried to shoot him with her spear gun. Remo dodged the spear. Frowning, he began to work out in his head how to say "That wasn't very nice" in undersea charades when the woman's eyes suddenly grew wide.

  Remo had felt the pressure of something striking the surface of the water far above their heads. Whatever it was, it w
as sinking slowly. He followed the woman's line of sight up toward the sun.

  It was some sort of steel drum. The barrel was heading for the bottom.

  Remo assumed it was more trash. The area around the scows was full of it. But if it was just an ordinary metal barrel, why was the asphyxiating woman in the diving suit now running in panicked slow-motion back in the direction of the submerged American scow? He decided to ask her.

  Grabbing her breathing hose, he reeled her in like a fleeing fish.

  She was running forward. Then she was running in place. Before she even realized she was going backward, she was face-to-face with Remo once more.

  The air in her suit was nearly gone. She panted pitiful gulps. Her eyes bulged wide behind her fogging mask.

  With a questioning expression, Remo pointed behind them and up. The barrel was fifty yards back and much nearer the bottom.

  She yanked on the hose in his hand, desperate for him to let go. In a hysterical voice she yelled something in a language Remo recognized but didn't understand.

  When she saw the look of dark confusion pass across his face, she seemed to realize suddenly that this man who could stay underwater without seemingly needing oxygen might actually be able to hear her.

  She screamed again, louder this time and in English.

  The echo of words in the helmet was like a ringing bell against Remo's hypersensitive eardrums. "Depth charge!" Petrovina Bulganin gasped. And as she yelled, the explosion came. Fiery hot, it rocked the seafloor and hurled metal missiles straight toward them.

  Too late, Petrovina Bulganin thought. We are dead.

  I wonder if the hotel restaurant serves that brown rice I like? Remo Williams mused.

  Chapter 14

  The explosion threw them backward toward the ruptured hull of the American scow.

  Remo surfed the bubble of water, riding it back as it expanded from the heart of the blast. The jagged metal peaks in the side of the sunken boat caused by the torpedo rupture flew toward them.

  Kicking hard once, Remo rode up over the metal ridge. With a gentle nudge, he kept Petrovina from being impaled on a spear of metal. Her limp body was carried up and over with him. Grabbing her by the diving suit, he tugged her to safety behind the exposed inner hull of the scow.