Adrift (Book 1) (9 page)

Steven Vega strode out of the CCTV room like a man reborn. He knew what the other staff thought of him; knew it full well, but he didn't need to be
liked
to do his job. He needed to lead, and so he led, in the only way he knew how.

It was damned difficult, though; so different to what he had experienced before. Leading a security team on the Oceanus felt like leading an army with no enemy, and no war to fight, and it frustrated the hell out of him. The salary was good—no, way better than good; virtually
obscene
—but he was already feeling restless and it was still technically his first day of active duty.

Not his first day on the boat, though. He had been cooped up on the Oceanus for a couple of weeks already, getting used to his role and surroundings while the ship was docked and preparing for the big launch.

The Oceanus was huge, there was no denying that, but somehow it already felt small to Vega, like a too-tight sweater that clung to his throat and made breathing difficult. He had a feeling that anywhere he went might feel the same, after years spent out in the endless desert, but on the ship, the feeling of being trapped had come to feel pervasive almost immediately.

His discomfort was deepened by the fact that there was so little for him to
do
. The rest of the security staff seemed perfectly happy in their lethargy; to them, the time spent on the ship was as much a holiday as it was for the passengers.

That wasn’t Steven Vega’s style: he had joined the forces as soon as he left school, and had fallen deeply in love with the military lifestyle precisely because it was so
ordered.
He didn’t sign up for glory or for the thrill of action, but for
purpose.

He hadn’t ever wanted to leave the military. He foresaw the life of an officer when his time in combat was up.

And then the recession hit, and the government began to make cuts. The British military haemorrhaged numbers even as the politicians’ foreign policy continued to alienate half the planet and create new enemies for them to fight. Wars were ongoing, and Vega doubted they would ever truly end, but increasingly they would be fought by computers and drones.

Boots on the ground were expensive. Dead soldiers  were bad publicity.

Vega had been cast aside at the age of thirty five. Abandoned by the career that he loved; told to piss off and find a job in the private sector.

Most of the men and women in his position would have envied him, he thought. They would probably think he had landed on his feet. A nice, relaxing job that paid better than the military ever could.

Yet it brought Vega no joy, and no satisfaction. He barely slept, and on several days recently he had found himself locked into depressive moods that had never afflicted him once when he went to work with a gun in his hand and a target on his back.

Increasingly, he began to run into conflict with colleagues; men like Ledger, whose blasé attitude would have been stripped out of him in five minutes at Basic Training. Once, the kind of surly, juvenile demeanour that Ledger displayed would not have affected Vega in the slightest. Yet now, with so little else to focus on, the running conflict with the man dominated his thoughts.

That was the trouble with having no enemy, Vega thought. It left too much time to construct some in your head to make up for the lack of real adversaries, and the enemies built in the mind were always far more difficult to fight. Working in security on the ship was a great job, but increasingly, as it became more and more obvious that security guards on the Oceanus were just glorified scarecrows, not required to do anything other than be visible, Steven Vega began to realise that it wasn't a great job
for him
.

But that had all changed.

Because all of a sudden there
was
an enemy, and Steven Vega had something to fucking
do
at last.

He strode back to his small, sparse office and tapped a four-digit code into a keypad on the wall behind his desk, which popped open a discreet cupboard.

Reaching inside, Vega pulled out a pistol and holster. He shrugged the holster over his shoulders, and almost sighed in relief. Carrying a weapon again felt so damned
right
. So natural. He hadn't realised just how much he had missed it.

He snatched up the walkie-talkie he had left on his desk, and flipped it to the open channel, barking into the small microphone.

"Saunders, Phillips, Ferguson," he said. "I want you in my office, right now. Over."

The radio fizzed for a moment.

"Yes, Mr Vega. Over."

With a satisfied nod, Vega moved to tuck the radio into his belt, and sighed before lifting it back to his lips, flipping it to another channel.

"Ledger, get the fuck away from that deck and do it quietly. We have hostiles on board, and they are somewhere in your vicinity. Vega out."

Vega flicked the walkie off and strode out of his office to wait for his team to arrive. Saunders, Phillips and Ferguson were a far cry from the well-trained men and women he had fought with over the previous twelve years in active service, but Steven Vega generally had a good nose for people, and how useful they might be if the shit hit the fan. The three he'd chosen were the best he was going to get; the few who hadn't worked cruise security so long that they became complacent.

Vega doubted that Phillips, Saunders or Ferguson had ever seen any meaningful action during their careers, and if things went sour down on deck three, they would probably be little help. He would have to direct them every step of the way.

Still, they would have to suffice. Even if this turned out to be nothing, Vega would need backup. The ship logged every opening of the weapons locker, and there would be paperwork, and questions asked.

The weapons locker in his office held three more pistols identical to the one he now wore like a glove at his ribs. The pistols represented the sum total of the firearms aboard the Oceanus.

Vega felt a trill of excitement coursing through him. As soon as the team arrived, all four weapons would be making their way down to deck three.

To enemy territory.

Just like old times.

*

"Uh, it's Katie, right? Do you know what's going on? Can I leave?"

Katie glanced at Dan and shook her head slightly, before returning her attention to Steven Vega’s office, and Dan flushed.

Just go, for fuck's sake
, he thought.
Stop asking for permission like a child
.

Dan stood rooted to the spot. His feet, apparently, were having ideas of their own, and refused to respond to his increasingly frantic pleas that they should transport him away from the security suite as fast as possible.

He followed Katie's gaze, and saw Mr Vega striding to the doorway of his office. Dan's eyes immediately fell on the gun.

Oh.

Shit.

"You stay here, Mr Bellamy. We're not done."

Vega's words felt like a clenched fist driven into Dan's stomach.

"Katie, make sure Mr Bellamy does not leave before I return. We'll need a statement from him."

Dan turned to stare at Katie, wide-eyed. He saw his own surprise and confusion mirrored in her gaze.

"Uh, Mr Vega? What's going on?" Katie asked hesitantly.

"You saw the tape," Vega said flatly. "We've got hostiles on board."

Hostiles?
Dan thought. Vega had a way of choosing words that set off all sorts of alarms in his head.

Katie opened her mouth to say something—which Dan hoped was going to be
can't we all just calm down for a moment?
—but before she could utter a word, the door to their left opened and three men wearing security uniforms walked in. Vega immediately told the men to arm themselves, and Dan and Katie watched in mute astonishment as the group stepped into Vega's office and pulled on holsters identical to the one Vega wore so proudly.

"We've got a situation on deck three," Vega said brusquely. "Potential murder, and at least two hostiles. Could be armed, so stay behind me, and follow my lead, got it?"

The three men looked like they wanted to ask questions, but the expression on Steven Vega's face said he wouldn't be answering. He turned on his heel and strode to the door that exited to the passenger areas, and the three armed men followed him silently, exchanging glances that Dan thought clearly said
what the fuck?

The door swung closed behind them, leaving Dan standing in a dull office space that suddenly felt vacuum-packed and airless.

"Okay," he said finally, concerned to hear the trembling in his tone. "I think I'm going to go back to my cabin now. You know where to find me, and—"

Katie placed a hand on Dan's chest, and he flinched visibly. He felt his cheeks redden.

"Just stay here, Mr Bellamy," Katie said. "I don't know what's happening, but I can tell you one thing: right here is the safest place on the ship right now. I'm sure this will all be sorted out before you know it."

Dan blinked at her.

"
Right here
hasn't felt safe since the minute I first walked through the doors," he said.

Katie smiled politely, and said nothing.

She must have thought he was joking.

*

The security suite was at the base of the superstructure toward the Oceanus' expansive fore, several decks directly below the bridge, and a couple of levels above the park that was the natural landmark by which to navigate around the ship.

Twelve elevator shafts ran down through the ship like pillars, each glass-fronted and offering a spectacular view of the park as they descended down past the decks that held the cabins. The two decks that rose immediately above the park consisted mainly of dining areas: the Oceanus catered to virtually every taste, and no less than twenty restaurants offered everything from hot dogs and pizza to Michelin-starred
haute cuisine
.

Below the decks, below the park, the elevator would drop past the ice rink, the casino and nightclub; the health spa, the video arcade and aquatheatre. On those decks the glass walls of the elevator were a little less impressive, mainly offering a view of corridors and distant entertainment areas. To counter that, the lift moved very slowly, giving the occupants ample time to see what was available on each deck.

The decks around the park teemed with life, despite the fact that the ship was only at half-capacity. As the last of the sun's light filtered through the gathering clouds overhead, the Oceanus became a neon playground, a floating city of warm lights and heady excitement. The entertainment would be starting soon: a range of live comedy and music, theatre productions and the latest movies on show at the cinema on the lowest of the passenger decks.

Steven Vega ignored the view beyond the glass as the elevator dropped agonisingly slowly. All his senses were focused inward, on the frantic thrumming of his nerves.

Alongside him, Saunders, Phillips and Ferguson stood in uncomfortable silence. He had briefed them on what they were walking into, and had once more repeated that they should follow his lead before turning his mind to concentrating on the task ahead.

There were at least two killers on board. Quite possibly armed.

Vega felt a distant pang of guilt when he realised that he sort of hoped they
would
be armed.

He was oblivious to the discomfort of the three men travelling with him. Oblivious to the way they registered the eager excitement that radiated from every pore in Vega's body, and did their best to focus impassively on the windows, and the slowly descending view.

Outside, the park was still just about visible. The elevator—plush and accommodating—was not built for responding to an emergency.

There were a couple of service elevators toward the middle of the ship, and Vega cursed himself for not walking to them. Those elevators were all about function rather than style: wide boxes of metal that ferried staff from deck to deck with far greater speed than their glass counterparts.

He hadn't wanted to walk through the throngs of passengers while armed, and so had commandeered the closest of the public elevators. In his haste to see some action, he hadn't thought through the options.

As he watched the view scrolling past the glass inch by inch, he found himself cursing the decision.

A sign, Vega supposed, that he was getting rusty; that the boredom of civilian life was grinding something away from him. Less than a year since he'd been in active service, and already some of his sharpness felt like it had been worn smooth. He
would
have considered all the options out in the desert, because failure to do so would very likely get him and his team killed.

At least, he thought, choosing the wrong elevator simply meant moving more slowly, not people ending up dead. After all, there was virtually no chance of that happening on a cruise ship.