Demon (20 page)

The only other person in the room was a woman. She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, a glass of wine in her hand. Her dark hair reached her shoulders. Her eyes focused on the pages of a book.

Mike didn't notice anything remarkable about her. Athletic frame. Plain face. She looked to be in her late thirties.

“Are you going to stand there and stare or sit down?” she said without looking up from her book.

“Busted,” Mike said. He walked over and sat across from her. “Hi.”

Now she looked up and seemed to take Mike in the same way he had her. “Hi.”

“You're not military,” Mike said.

“What gave it away?”

Mike pointed at her shoes. “Gucci.”

She smiled. “I'm impressed. You're not military, either.”

Mike nodded. “What gave it away?”

She pointed at his windbreaker. Mike looked down and saw the butt of his pistol stuck out from underneath.

“Either you're a contractor,” she said, “or something else.”

Mike grinned. “Something else.”

“A spook.”

Mike shrugged. “I'm guessing you're a contractor.”

“Contractors can't afford Gucci. I'm corporate legal.”

“Oh, you review the contracts.”

“Something like that.” She sipped her wine and offered her hand. “My name's Katherine.”

“Mike.” He accepted her hand. Her skin was soft but her grip firm. She was used to shaking men's hands.

Katherine sipped more wine. “So, what brings you to Djibouti?”

“Orders.”

“Wow, you're good at ducking questions.”

“I'm not lying. I was told to come here and I'm awaiting further orders. What about you? Your company just land a big gig?”

“Yeah. So, would you like a drink?”

Mike held up his hands. “I've had enough already.”

“But you just walked in.”

“I've spent the last few hours at the officers' club. Didn't know this place”—Mike jabbed his finger into the padded arm of the chair—“existed until I got back a few minutes ago. Should have hung out here and saved myself the walk.”

Katherine smiled. “I lucked out. Guy on the plane told me about this place. With the time and weather change, a little wine and a good book is just what the doctor ordered.”

“Those were my thoughts exactly. Only sub whiskey for wine and forget the book.”

“You don't sound like you've been drinking.”

“Why? Because I'm not slurring words?”

Katherine laughed. “And you can form sentences.”

“You haven't seen me walk yet.”

Both laughed. Mike liked her. Liked her laugh. Liked the way she traced the rim of her glass with her finger.

“I've sobered up a little since walking back over here.”

“Not too much I hope.” Katherine finished off her wine. Her legs uncrossed and then crossed in reverse. She smiled at him. “Think I might have another.”

Mike nodded. “I think you should. Wouldn't want you to sober up.”

“No, definitely not. Wouldn't be as fun. Plus, I'd lose the courage then.”

“Courage for what?”

Katherine shrugged. “To relax.”

“It was a long flight.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Relaxing sounds nice.”

“I couldn't think of a better way to recover.”

Mike leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. He really liked her now. “And what relaxes you?”

“Wine.” Katherine laughed again. “But wine in bed is more relaxing than in a lounge.”

Mike smiled. “So why don't you have some wine in bed?”

“Do you think they'd let me buy a bottle here?”

“Can't hurt to ask.”

“So what relaxes you?”

“Wine in bed.”

Katherine nibbled on her bottom lip and gazed at Mike. Mike returned the look with an unblinking stare.

“Would you like to join me for some wine?” Katherine said.

“Yes,” Mike said. “Yes, I would.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Y
usuf lit another cigarette and took a deep drag, looking out into the night. The storm had passed. The wind had died. The ocean had calmed to small ripples reflecting a full moon on its glassy surface.

So beautiful,
he thought. He could not ask for better conditions to abandon ship.

“All departments report preparations are complete,” Feisal said.

Yusuf turned from the sea. “Thank you.”

Feisal nodded and walked away.

Everything was ready. The senior leadership had told their people what to prepare for. No one had protested or resisted. All Yusuf had to do now was give the order.

He looked down at his log, reviewing the entry regarding what they had found after the recent outbreak. The visual report from Mahmoud had not been pleasant. He had not counted the dead, refusing to allow any of his men into the spaces soaked in carnage. His word was good enough for Yusuf. If anyone was alive, they were not in those spaces; and it was not worth the risk of exposing those still lucky to breathe. The time for identifying the dead would come after they abandoned ship. Then they could finally ascertain an accurate picture of who'd made it off the
al-Phirosh
.

For now, he calculated at least fifteen dead based on departmental musters. Added to the earlier fatalities, Yusuf had lost over half his crew.

Yusuf closed the log. Time enough for depression later. Now he had to focus on saving those who remained.

It is time.
He picked up his radio. “Chief Engineer, this is the captain.”

“Chief Engineer,” the voice crackled with static.

“Commence opening sea strainers, port and starboard side.”

“Aye, Captain.”

It had been the chief engineer's idea. All the main spaces housing the engines, generators, and associated auxiliary equipment lay below the waterline. Seawater suction pumps had strainers on the inlet side that prevented marine life and other debris from being sucked in and fouling the pumps' impellers. Normally, to change or clean a strainer, the pump had to be secured and then the strainer isolated by valves to prevent flooding. Now, as Yusuf finished his cigarette, personnel opened the strainers and allowed the seawater to flood the main spaces at five hundred liters a minute.

The watertight hatches to the main spaces would be left open. Once the water flooded the main spaces, it would spread to the lower decks. At first the flood would be slow, but as each space filled, the
al-Phirosh
would sink deeper and deeper. Hours would pass before enough could flood the ship and take it down to the salty deep. If their calculations were correct, though, by sunrise the oiler and whatever was aboard it would be at the bottom of the ocean.

“Captain, Chief Engineer. All sea strainers open.”

“Very well. Secure all engines.”

“Aye.”

Yusuf decided to let the ship go dead in the water. They had been in a busy shipping lane, but he had changed course out of it, heading south. Once the ship lost power, it would lose all of its navigational and operational lighting. Yusuf did not want to present an obstacle to any possible traffic in the middle of the night. He also did not want to venture too far away from the lane, knowing his crew would still need to be rescued.

The generators would run until the saltwater breached the sets, which would require only a few feet of water in the space, and then they would have to operate with portable lanterns and flashlights in the dark. Yusuf figured they had an hour.

“Captain, main engines secured.”

“Very well. Evacuate your spaces.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Yusuf walked over to the ship's communication circuit and picked up the microphone and ensured he was broadcasting both internally and externally. “On board the
al-Phirosh
, this is the captain. All hands, abandon ship. I repeat: all hands, abandon ship.”

He set down the microphone and looked out the window. On the main weather deck, crewmen were already scrambling to break out the lifeboats. Mahmoud stomped around, barking orders and maintaining discipline.

Yusuf nodded and walked back to the table next to his chair. He opened his log and made what would be his last entry. Once the crew was safely off, he would debark with Feisal, now his first officer, and Mahmoud and a few others. Before that, he would make one last transmission, a distress call, and hope someone close by would be able to save his people from the sea.

S
emyaza heard the announcement to abandon ship, ripping his concentration away from healing. He opened his eyes and saw all of the skin and tissue had fallen off his hands.

No,
he thought. He had been unsuccessful in both recuperating and stemming the decomposition. And now the personnel on board were abandoning their ship.

Why would they abandon ship?
They could pull into a port, save their people without losing their merchandise.

And then it dawned on Semyaza. They were leaving because of him. The chaos had scared them into fleeing. And if they were fleeing, he would soon be alone without another body to leap into.

“They are not just fleeing,” Uriel said. He did not appear in any form. Just his voice echoed around Semyaza. “Did you think they would stand by and let you slaughter them?”

Sinking. They are sinking the ship.

“Soon, you will be back in your true prison.”

Semyaza stood. He had to find a body and get off the ship. He opened the door and stepped into the passageway filled with carcasses and gore. He moved forward, not caring if he stepped in blood or guts, searching for another vessel before it was too late.

All he found, though, were the victims of his presence. He tried to open a door into another passageway, but it would not budge. He moved on to another door only to meet the same results. And this time, unlike before, there was no human standing on the other side.

They have trapped me. They have locked me in and are sinking me to the bottom of the sea. And when I lose grip on this body, I will be yanked back to my prison.

“Yes,” Uriel said. “Your fun playing with the dead has cost you dearly.”

Semyaza ignored Uriel and tried to think of a way out. No humans were close, so he could not leap. He had little enough strength left to maintain his current vessel. Knocking down a door would be impossible. The body would break before the steel of the door would give.

Still determined to find an escape route, Semyaza moved farther down the passageway. Every door he came across was steel, watertight, latched down, and locked. Some doors had one quick-acting latch. Others had six latches: one at the top two corners, one halfway down on each side, and one at the bottom two corners. The hatches he found above and below him were also locked.

Then he found a door much like the one that led to the gear locker he'd hidden in. This one, though, had a small round window at eye level he could see through. Instead of a locker on the other side, he saw another passageway.

The door did not have latches but a knob. Semyaza grabbed it and turned only to find it, too, was locked. He felt the metal. Not thick and dense like the other doors. He wrapped it with his knuckle. Hollow and thin sounding.

Semyaza considered trying to knock it down with his feet or hands but doubted his vessel could even dent this flimsier door. The skin and tissue all the way up to his elbows had fallen away. He could only imagine what his face now looked like.

Then he focused on the bodies around him. He did not have much strength but perhaps enough . . .

Semyaza extended his hand and spread his skeletal fingers and reached into one of the bodies on the deck. It was a large man, and he had trouble lifting him but eventually got him to his feet. Then he backed him up across from the door. In one fluid movement, Semyaza swung his arm and the body ran and crashed into the door.

The collision did not knock the door open, but it did dent it severely. Semyaza backed the man up again and swung, harder this time, putting more of his strength into him. And more of his skin and tissue fell off as a result.

The dead body slammed into the door, busting the top hinge.

Semyaza moved the body back across the passageway once more. His grip was slipping on his vessel, increasing its rate of failure the longer he controlled the dead man. He could attempt this only once more before releasing the corpse and focusing his will on preserving what remained of this vessel.

The body slammed into the door one last time; the girth of its torso hit the center of the door square and broke the middle hinge.

Semyaza released the body and it fell to the deck. He approached the door and grabbed it and pushed it, widening the opening as much as he could muster. Then he wedged through. The fit was tight and his chest scraped across jagged pieces of metal, tearing through his shirt and what flesh remained on his breast. He paid no attention, forcing himself through to the other side.

Once there, he wasted no time, hurrying down the passageway, looking and listening for anyone.

He heard nothing. He found no one.

Semyaza raced up a ladder and down another passageway.

Again, nothing.

He ran up another ladder. Listened. Then another. Then another. Every level he found the same as before and accepted the fact he was probably the last thing still on board.

Then the lights went out and he plunged into darkness.

Semyaza dropped to his knees and leaned against the bulkhead. There was no one left on board and his hold on his vessel was almost finished. He prepared himself to lose control and be ripped back into the cold embrace of his prison.

“Is there someone down there?”

Semyaza twisted his head to see a man standing in the doorway, a lantern silhouetting his frame. Semyaza did not hesitate, jumping to his feet and racing toward the man, closing the distance as fast as he could.

“Who's there?” the man said.