Sabotage (26 page)

His hand struck something, making him pause. Circling back, he held the glow stick closer to the ship.

There it was, finally, as he'd suspected. No wonder he hadn't seen it before: The gray of the ship's plates had camouflaged its color. He defogged his mask again to allow for better scrutiny, then eyeballed his find, assessing the power of the explosive device.

One blast would hardly be enough to take down the cruise liner. Larger cruise ships were divided by watertight bulkheads into six or more flood-proof sections, preventing horizontal flow along lower decks in case of a breached hull. The craft could endure a single mighty explosion without sinking, but multiple discharges, yield and placement calculated correctly, could do her in. Rove noted the depth of the device, then swam on with renewed purpose.

A hundred feet forward, he found another. Sure enough, someone had placed charges around the perimeter. He examined the device up close, wondering if he could disarm it.

He stopped.

A foreign light emanated from the distance, the rays perpendicular to the ship. Judging by the clarity and brilliance, Rove guessed it was coming from a probe.

Swimming nearer, he discovered otherwise. Someone was hard at work, fixing more explosive charges to the hull.

Rove knew his glow stick would give him away. He considered tucking it into his vest but decided against it. There were spares if he needed them. Unstrapping a lead weight from his waist, he hooked it to the rod, then let the stick plummet, watching the glow fade like a firefly in fog. Altering his angle of approach, he took a diagonal route around the back of the light. He had no idea whether the other diver was armed, but there was no reason to risk it. The surprise factor was his, so he moved in.

His body parallel with the seafloor, Rove chose an attack depth level with the other diver's shoulders. He kicked his fins and drifted until he could reach out and touch the man, making sure to hold his breath to remain soundless. As the man worked, Rove studied the fastening method, memorizing how the charges were being fixed to the ship's plating.

After a few moments, he'd seen enough; soon he would need to exhale. The buildup in his lungs left little time to devise an assault. He had options, the best of which did not involve letting the man bleed. He had no idea what predators infested these waters. He considered using the man's regulator as a garrote, or turning his own breathing device into one. Throttling the other man would be easy if Rove could position himself well. Or he could simply slice the cords of the hijacker's regulator and puncture his vest, then hold him submerged, forcing the hijacker to inhale that painful lungful of water …

The scuba light swung around and shone into Rove's eyes, momentarily frying his optic nerve. Suddenly all bets were off. His first impulse was to reach out and grab the light. His arm was met with a yank, and the light flung out of both their hands, hovering a yard away and gradually sinking.

Were his retinas not suffering from the flash, he'd have been able to form a clear visual of the diver, but the effects persisted, and he wasn't quick enough. An elbow dug into his stomach. He recoiled, lurching toward the light, then reached for it again. A fin knocked his arm out of the way.

Rove blinked in his mask, still blinded. He looked left and right, unable to find the scuba-jacker. The man had fled, possibly for a better vantage point. He was still out of sight, and Rove was working without any sense of cardinal direction or up and down.

He had to move fast; the other diver would descend upon him. He fluttered his fins and jetted seven feet outward. A three-sixty degree pan of his surroundings revealed nothing. Somewhere in the third dimension the hijacker waited, planning a move.

The knuckles came fast and hard. A sidelong blow sent pain spearing through Rove's neck, and was followed by a kick that jarred his rib cage and nearly splintered bone. A hand clenched his hair and tugged hard while the other wrenched off his mask and snorkel, leaving him blinder than before.

A skilled fighter would have gone straight for his regulator and probably killed him already. This enemy was no trained professional. Rove focused, reining in his pulse. He had forfeited the element of surprise; the mistake had been his, though his opponent hadn't fully taken advantage of it.

He needed a swift recovery. He squinted, seeing only a blur, then grabbed a spare glow stick and cracked it, allowing him to discern a long, pointed object in the hijacker's hands. The object rotated to face him. He thrust himself out of the way in time to evade the speargun's projectile.

Ducking, Rove realized he had literally brought a knife to a gunfight—but, for all he knew, his aggressor might have just wasted his only shot. Maneuvering to the hijacker's back side, Rove rammed a fist into the man's spine and seized his regulator. He wrenched out the mouthpiece and used the tube as a noose, cutting off the air supply. The hijacker thrashed, flailing the waters in search of his spare. Rove snatched it away and held the tube out of reach. His face changing from bright red to blue, the hijacker wrestled with Rove for control of the regulator. Edging his fingers between his neck and the tubes for leverage, he finally wriggled free of the stranglehold and buried his nose in the bubbles of a purging mouthpiece. Not about to lose his advantage, Rove thrust a knee against the man's tailbone, buying time to unclasp his knife and drive his blade through the man's vest.

His BC torn, the hijacker scissor-kicked, shooting toward the surface. Rove grabbed hold of an ankle and yanked him down, while reducing his own buoyancy. The hijacker threw a cascade of punches, whipping the water like a blender yet striking nothing. Still recuperating from the blinding flash and the loss of his mask, Rove retained his rear position and sealed off the man's air valve.

The hijacker's bubbles stopped streaming. The man resorted to poking Rove with the empty speargun. Rove jabbed back with his knife, slashing into the man's dry suit over his arm. Torn neoprene pulled away, and Rove caught a flash of the horned helmet insignia.

A cloud of blood was oozing from the wound. So much for the clean attack, he realized.

Apparently recognizing he had thirty seconds or less until he had to breathe, the hijacker turned around and began wrestling with Rove for the knife. It was oxygen against sight; Rove had the air supply, his opponent a mask. The hijacker's hands clenched around Rove's wrist as the man cast his worthless regulator aside and made for another assault.

He pulled Rove's palm toward his open jaw and tried to sink his molars into a finger. Rove bashed him in the nose before he could break flesh. Still gnashing his teeth, the hijacker managed to loosen the knife from Rove's grip.

The blade glimmered, its edge reflecting the sinking light. Now armed and poised to lacerate, the hijacker drew near and swung the knife wildly. In an effort to stop the blade, Rove reached forward and clasped the man's forearm, at the same time letting go of his spare regulator. The man took hold of it and stole a breath. In that moment of confidence, the man had relieved his lungs but forfeited position, giving Rove the angle he needed.

The hijacker had moved dangerously close to his opponent and suddenly lost sight of him. Rove clamped his arms around the man's neck, constricting in an irreversible headlock. The hijacker grappled, but Rove was too powerful and too carefully placed. His thumb, bent into a small hook, reached under the man's mask and gouged a path through an eye socket.

His face contorting, the hijacker writhed, letting out a muffled scream as his eye began to hemorrhage. Rove released his lock, retrieved his knife and suspended mask, and swam slowly away, leaving his foe sightless, airless, disoriented, and floundering in a pall of crimson water.

Rove's victory had not gone as planned. The scent of open flesh had long since drifted, and he knew it. The waters had the illusion of chilling and congealing around him. He wasn't sure why; perhaps the scuffle had drained him of strength and fatigue had turned the water into molasses—or perhaps it had been the sight of death where he'd always imagined it, in the deep. Whatever the cause, he felt a violent desire to flee and kicked out of there as fast as he could. He glanced back in time to witness the materialization of a razor-like dorsal fin and a pair of sunken eyes, eyes without comprehension or malice. A whiplash snapped through the porbeagle's body, and the hijacker's screams were subdued.

*   *   *

Rove's tank had run out, and he'd swapped it for his spare mini-cylinder. The spare had given him a few extra breaths, and he'd made the best of them. It was time to leave these waters. He looked up, shivering. A shadow loomed over him. He skirted the iceberg and surfaced where he'd begun his dive, stories below his suite.

His head came up in a tangle. He peeled off his mask and understood the folly. The fire hose had been untied and tossed over the balcony's edge. In all likelihood, a guard delivering food had missed his answer at the door, broken into his room, and discovered the rope. He'd lost his only way of reboarding the
Pearl Enchantress.

One option remained.

Someone had to be waiting for the scuba-jacker to finish planting explosives. Rove would find a welcoming committee on one of the corsairs.

 

TWENTY-FOUR

“Shh, shh, shh.”

An infant's wails filled the darkness of a cabin. A mother sat on the edge of the bed and formed a burrow of blankets for her child. She rocked him, her lips resting on the baby's cheek, the warmth of her breath soothing the baby between her hushes.

“Is he all right, my love?” asked the father in Dutch. As long as he remained motionless, he remained invisible. Though their pupils had adapted to nightfall, it wasn't until he sat beside his wife that he could see her move. He closed a hand around hers. The hand was as cold as the room, but she welcomed the assurance.

“He's hungry,” said the mother. She tried not to let her tears fall upon the cheeks of her infant.

The father stroked the mother's neck.

“The rations they give us are too small,” he said. “We're out of food.”

The mother wept on her husband's shoulder.

*   *   *

“Don't kill Daphne, kill me!” exclaimed Detective Sylvester Rogers, stretching open the arms of his trench coat.

“Why should I do that,” cackled Dr. Headstrong, his finger almost at the blinking button, “when I can end you both?”

A loud crack of thunder replied before the detective could.

“Because I love her more than life itself.”

“Oh, Sylvester!” cried the lovely Daphne, writhing over the pit of hungry, greedy crocodiles. “I love you, too, but do something!”

Dr. Headstrong laughed maniacally. “You'll both be fodder for my crocs!”

Just as the evil scientist's finger pushed the button, the brave detective's lightning-fast hands—

The cabin went dark, filling it with an odor of smoky sulfur dioxide as the match went out.

“What's the matter, Grandpa?” came the eager voice of a ten-year-old. “Don't you want to finish the story?”

“Of course I do, champ,” said the graying man at his bedside, setting the book on his nightstand. “But the detective has almost solved the case. If we finish it now, there won't be any left for tomorrow.”

“Does that mean it's bedtime?” asked the boy.

“You bet, champ.”

“Can I go get some cereal at the twenty-four-hour restaurant?”

“Not tonight.”

“But I'm hungry.”

“Sleep is more important right now.”

“Why?”

“The restaurant had to close tonight.”

“You seem scared.”

“Not at all. Now you just lay your head down and try to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Rest your head. I'm watching you, young man.” He smiled.

“Good night, Grandma and Grandpa.”

The boy pulled the covers over his ears and fell asleep dreaming about how he would have rescued Daphne from Headstrong's crocodiles.

“He loves those Detective Rogers books, doesn't he?” said the grandmother.

“He certainly does,” her husband answered.

“Why'd you stop reading?”

“That was my last match.”

The grandmother looked troubled.

“Les, what's happened to this ship? What's happened to us?”

“I wonder if we'll ever find out.”

“We can't let him know how much we worry. You'll have to read to him during the day. I don't want our grandson to fear anything. I don't want him to feel like we're prisoners in our own room.”

*   *   *

“I'm sorry, Grace—but I won't be a hostage.”

“Derek, don't! They'll kill you. They said to stay in our cabins.”

A man stood at the door of his stateroom with a firm hold on his girlfriend. She was half bawling, half yelling for him to stay, her words no longer comprehensible beneath the sobs. He tried to wipe the wetness from her face; he only smeared it around.

“I can't stay in a room like this—I
won't
stay in a room like this—and have them tell us what to do. I'm going to find out what the hijackers want and give it to them.”

“Derek … no … you don't have what they …
stop!
”

He shoved her back into the cabin as he opened the door. He stepped into the hall, his body soaked in a flood of light.

She screamed for him to retreat, then watched as he sat down on the floor, grasping his thigh and convulsing. His surrender was a painful roll back into the stateroom. She shut the door and felt his skin with her hands, searching his body in the dark, trembling because he trembled.

“Oh, God, oh, God…”

“Grab a bath towel,” he gasped. “I'm shot.”

*   *   *