Sedulity 2: Aftershock (Sedulity Saga) (21 page)

Lydia heard them before she saw them. Loud voices and
pounding footsteps echoed down the linoleum floored hallway. She and Rachel
were startled to see a large group of men, clearly members of the crew, run
into the corridor.
 
They ran towards the
two women, sending furtive glances over their shoulders. A moment later Lydia
spotted a ship’s officer and Mr. Cohen, the security chief, round a corner in
pursuit. She pressed Rachel up against the wall and tried to make room for the
men to run past them.

At the last moment the leader of the pack focused on Lydia
and came up short. He reached out and grabbed her. Lydia screamed, but his hand
reached around from behind to cover her mouth while he spun around to hold her
like a shield.

“I have the captain’s wife!” he yelled hysterically. “Stay
back! I have a knife!” Lydia stopped struggling when she saw the big butcher
knife waving in front of her face.

“That’s enough, Baluk!” barked the officer. Lydia recognized
him now as Mr. Reiner. “Let her go,” the lieutenant continued in a calmer tone,
halting his advance. “This has gone far enough.”

“It won’t be far enough until this ship reaches Indonesia!”
yelled the man with the knife. “Grab her too,” he told his companions,
gesturing at Rachel. “Tell the captain to turn the ship west, toward Jakarta! I
have a compass. We will know if you don’t meet our demands!” Baluk shouted down
the hall at Reiner and Cohen. “I don’t want to hurt these women, but we’ll do
whatever it takes to get home to our families.”

Lydia could see Mr. Cohen pointing his pistol down the hall,
but the man with the knife was standing behind her, and his cohorts clogged the
hallway too. As much as she wanted to be rescued immediately, even if it meant
having her captor’s brains splattered on the wall, she could see that wasn’t
going to happen. Lydia quickly realized that these were some of the crew who
had abandoned their posts and, obviously, had now gone past the point of no
return to open mutiny. It was horrifying to realize that after surviving an
asteroid strike and near drowning last night, she might well be killed by a
deranged cook, or shot in a botched hostage rescue.

Rachel was whimpering in shock and pain as the mutineers
manhandled her to use as another human shield. Mr. Cohen raised his pistol
toward the ceiling to pose less of a threat, but never blinked, staring hard
and cold as stone at his targets. Mr. Reiner took a step back and raised his
radio to report these latest developments to the bridge. He was not looking
forward to explaining this to the captain.
 

*****

Hank couldn’t sleep. He tried to nap, but couldn’t stop
thinking about the destruction still sweeping across the globe. He considered
turning on the television, but didn’t want to disturb the young couple sleeping
fitfully in the sitting room. He got up, put on his cowboy hat, and decided it
was about time for him to check on the
Armadillo
down
in the ship’s cargo hold. The drone submersible was well packaged inside a
standard twenty foot container and he had witnessed it being secured to the
deck mounts, but the ship had really been thrown around by the tsunamis and
recent rough seas. He had a nagging suspicion that something might have
happened to the sub.

Since it was his only real means of livelihood, besides
gambling, Hank needed to confirm that his
Armadillo
was
still safe and sound. As long as the sub was okay and made it off the
Sedulity
in one piece, Hank felt
confident that it would make him a rich man. Forget about working on deep sea
oil projects. Hank would become one of the world’s richest salvage operators.
There must be billions of dollars’ worth of valuable stuff washed out to sea by
the tsunamis, now sitting on the ocean floor, just waiting for someone like
Hank to show up with a tool like the
Armadillo
to retrieve
it. He could hire on to retrieve specific items for clients, or set himself up
as a freelance treasure hunter.
 
Lord
knows there would be a lot of it down there now. Hank’s
Armadillo
was one of the few drone submersibles
capable of retrieving things from thousands of feet underwater.

Hank had everything he needed in that container to make a
fortune. The
Armadillo
was packed in
its launch and recovery cradle, along with three miles of fiber optic control
cable encased in monofilament wire mesh strong enough to winch the drone up in
case of a systems failure. The drone’s grappling arms were designed to lift,
manipulate, and assemble heavy oil drilling apparatus, such as pipes, drill
bits, massive valves and fittings. Inflatable floatation bladders allowed it to
lift more than 10,000 pounds to the surface on each dive, or it could attach
stronger winch cables to lift anything larger. The
Armadillo’s
capabilities made it the perfect vehicle to collect and recover objects from
the sea floor. The more Hank thought about it, the better he felt about his
personal prospects in a post-apocalyptic world. Hell, he might even be able to
buy an island nation that had been swept clean of inhabitants today. Those were
the type of thoughts that drove Hank Donner during the end of the world as he
knew it.

In order to reach the ship’s cargo hold Hank had to pass
through Crew Country. He’d only been down there once before, on the day the
Sedulity
departed the Port of Los
Angeles, and that was with an officer escorting him. He probably should have
asked for an escort this time too, but Hank knew the crew were shorthanded and
he didn’t want to take no for an answer. Considering that many of the
passengers were being reassigned to beds down in the crew quarters, and most of
the crew themselves were busy elsewhere, Hank decided he could bluff his way
through to the cargo hold. If not, he’d have to try getting permission or
attempt to sneak down again later. The need to know if his precious
Armadillo
was intact was compulsive.

His plan nearly failed when a crewman stationed at the
entrance to Crew Country asked him what cabin he was assigned to. Fortunately for
him, Hank had always been able think fast and spin a good tale.

“I’m Hank Donner from Houston, Texas. Dang it, son, I forgot
the cabin number and left that slip of paper upstairs. They said they were
putting me in a cabin with my little buddy, Armando. He’s a Filipino barkeep.”

The crewman smiled and nodded. Then he told Hank that Armando
Ramos was berthed in cabin C-214, gave him directions, and let him pass. Since
the directions took Hank towards where he thought the cargo hold should be, he
followed them.

Hank thought everything was going splendidly as he strolled
through Crew Country, so much so that he would have been whistling a tune if
not for the somber mood aboard and the fact that he needed to keep a low
profile. So he was moving quietly when he heard a woman scream and several men
shout somewhere around a jog in the corridor. He couldn’t make out any words,
but the sounds caused Hank to pause before proceeding with caution. He’d been
in a bunch of sketchy situations over the years and this one sounded like
trouble. All Hank wanted now was to reach the cargo hold and check on his
precious drone. Fate may have thrown a curve ball into his path.

*****

Armando had climbed painfully back into his bunk, hoping that
the combination of whisky, rum, and pain killers would clear the demons from
his mind long enough to fall asleep. He hoped that his slumber would be free of
dreams, or populated only by fond memories. It was terrifying to think that he
would never again have a moment that wasn’t overshadowed by the trauma of the
past twenty-four hours. He was convinced that he was already suffering from
PTSD, and now he felt something else that a psychologist probably would have
identified as survivors’ guilt. Knowing that his family was gone, his home swept
away, and having witnessed so much death and destruction aboard the ship and on
television was simply overwhelming for a man like Armando.

Curled up in his bunk, the sadness and despair he felt
morphed into anger and helpless rage. He understood the torment that men like
Baluk must feel. Armando would never act on such impulses, but they tormented
him nonetheless. He was battling his emotions and praying for release in
dreamless sleep when a woman’s scream and men shouting outside his door brought
him upright. Pain assailed him as he got out of his bunk, causing him to gasp.
More shouting and something slamming into the door of his cabin confirmed his
fear that something was sorely amiss.

Armando turned the door handle. The door swung inward
forcefully, driven by the weight of two people leaning against it, and almost
knocked Armando off his feet. He was shocked to realize the two people in the
doorway were a man holding a knife up to the neck of a woman. He was even more
shocked to see that the woman was Rachel Brewer! The rage that had consumed him
in his bunk now fueled Armando’s response. He grabbed the blade of the knife in
one of his bandaged hands, while pulling Rachel from her startled assailant’s
grasp and into his cabin with the other. Moving past Rachel, Armando pushed the
man back into the hall and followed with the intention of beating him to a
pulp. It took him a moment to realize that the hall was full of angry men who
all turned their unwanted attention on him. He was totally occupied with the
man whose knife was now cutting into his palm, but had the presence of mind to
yell, “Close the door, Rachel! Lock it!”

The next few seconds were confusing. Fists slammed into
Armando’s face and sides, but he kept a death grip on the knife, squeezing it
so hard that it cut further into his hand. The pain simply added fuel to the
fire that burned in his soul. His passion increased as he recognized his
attackers as some the same men who had followed Baluk out of the lounge. They
were mutineers! That realization only caused Armando to fight harder. He
attacked the man whose knife he was holding, smashing a knee upward into his
groin. The look of shock and pain on the man’s face was priceless, but his grip
on the knife never faltered.

More blows landed, stunning Armando. Though the pain from his
burns and bruises, old and new, made his head swim and his vision dim, he fought
back tenaciously while gripping the knife blade. More voices were shouting now,
one of them standing out from the rest. It was louder, harsher, and tinged with
a Texas drawl that Armando had thought he never wanted to hear again, but was
suddenly music to his ears.

“Hang on there, barkeep! I’m coming!” Hank Donner bellowed, tossing
crewmen aside like bowling pins.
 
Armando
smiled through his pain and struggled to hang on for moment longer.

Suddenly a woman’s scream filled the hallway. “Armando, look
out!” she yelled.

He recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. Krystos a moment
before a piercing pain erupted in his back and he felt something slice through
his body and grate against his rib cage. Armando released his grip on the first
knife and looked down to see the tip of a larger blade poking out of his chest
between the folds of his open bathrobe. His eyes opened wide, even as his vision
dimmed, and he saw the first knifeman spin around to stab at the charging
Texan.

Armando’s vision failed as the butcher knife was yanked out
of his back and he collapsed to the deck. His last mental images before falling
into darkness were of his family in the old Panga pump boat, climbing an
endless wave towards heaven. The last sounds that Armando registered were a
rebel yell and several sharp gunshots that spoke of finality.

*****

HMAS Bounder
was approaching rendezvous with the
Sedulity
and Captain Krystos was in
constant radio contact with Commander Anders. They compared notes on the
weather, exchanged sympathies for everyone and everything lost that day, and
confirmed their intentions to sail towards Darwin. Captain Krystos agreed that
it was the best possible destination. Port Darwin was a large bay where the
Sedulity
would be sheltered from the
storms that were certain to sweep the oceans in the wake of the asteroid
strike. If he could beg, borrow, or buy a full load of diesel fuel there, the
Sedulity
could conceivably sail anywhere
after the weather settled down – if it ever did.

The onboard radio call from Lt. Reiner took him by surprise.
A mutiny in progress? His wife held hostage? Seconds later he heard gunshots
over the open frequency. That was followed by a termination of the radio call
and Reiner failed to respond to the several urgent calls from the captain. All
thoughts of reaching Australia and eventually returning home were banished in
those few seconds. Life itself would be meaningless without Lydia. Perhaps it
was facing the same loss twice in less than twenty-four hours that did it, but
for whatever reason Captain Krystos was about to freak out. His hands were
literally shaking, his left eye was twitching, and his stance was rigid and
awkward. He now understood how the president of the United States had felt right
before he collapsed on live television.

“Is everything alright, Captain?” Mr. Crawford asked.

The captain blinked and barked back, “No, you idiot!
Everything is definitely not alright. My ship is beat up. There’s a mutiny in
progress. My wife has been taken hostage and possibly stabbed or shot.
 
Half the world has been washed away and the
rest is facing an ice age. How could everything
possibly
be alright? In fact, I’ll be damned if I can think of
another thing that could possibly go wrong.”