Piranha Assignment (31 page)

Progress was frustratingly slow. The forced air was hot but dry. A gentle whoosh was the only sound in that black void. Easing around a gentle curve, she saw light ahead. Her pulse quickened and she wished she could move faster.

Soon she was turning on her left side, staring out a grating at the blank wall beyond. She worked her hands up and pushed out with everything she had. Her teeth clenched and she grunted with the effort.

Nothing.

Can't anything be the easy way?

The bolts holding the grate on were nearly half an inch too long, but too tight for Felicity to turn with her fingers. Wishing she knew another way, she pressed her face against the hot, dusty metal, locking her left molars around the threaded end of the top left bolt. The stainless steel had a sharp, almost acid taste. One sharp turn of her head got it started. Her neck started cramping as she twisted. Soon she could get a finger between the wall and the screen. She turned the screw until it came loose.

Felicity had no trouble bending the screen. Felicity pushed the loose corner until it met its opposite. Then she
squirmed out of the duct into a vacant passageway.

She was crouching in the shadows in a gray on gray world. Pipes hung from the ceiling, and caged light bulbs hung along the walls. If she put her legs out straight her heels could touch the opposite wall. The one she leaned against pulsed warmly like a living thing.

She relaxed, and felt Morgan's calm not far away. Like a liquid shadow, she slid across the gray wall toward him. On her mental monitor, she called up the schematic of the ship she had seen. Given a couple of landmarks, she could pinpoint her location.

Danger waited around the next corner. The nape of her neck told her so. Felicity glanced around the edge. A long haired Cuban sailor in uniform sat in a folding chair in front of a stateroom door. He appeared to be dozing, his chair tipped back against the wall. An assault rifle leaned against the wall near him. If she moved quickly, Felicity could kick the chair out from under him, grab the gun, and make him open the door. No sweat. She just wished he wasn't ten meters away.

She had taken three steps forward when the sailor lost his balance, recovered, and sat straight up. His eyes met Felicity's and he snatched up his gun.

The most obvious thing for Felicity to do was run, so she continued toward him. She was committed now. To turn was sure suicide. As the rifle's sights settled on her chest, she leaped.

Her strong fingers wrapped around a hanging pipe. She pulled her knees up as a burst of fire cut the air where she had been. Her hands opened and she spun into a back flip. She was upside down in a ball, then her feet came down as her legs straightened. Her heels hit the man's forehead on one side with her full weight. Felicity landed on her upper back and outstretched arms. The Cuban dropped as if all his
bones had been removed.

Felicity was on her feet before the echo of their falling bodies faded. She snatched the keys from the guard's belt and turned to the steel door. Her hands fumbled at the lock for a moment, but she managed to turn it.

“Good girl,” Morgan said as he rushed out past her. He slid on his knees to the guard and picked up his rifle. The guard was immobile so Morgan raised an eyelid and checked for a pulse. He was surprised to find the man was dead. His neck was broken.

“What did you do?” Morgan asked. He turned to Felicity, who was staring at her palms. Pain creased her face.

“Swung on that overhead pipe,” she said, shaking her hands. “Must be a steam pipe or something. Glory, that hurts.”

Morgan swung the rifle sling over his shoulder and grabbed Felicity's hands, turning them up for inspection. Her palms and fingers were red and tender. He thought he saw a couple of blisters forming.

“The great genius engineer didn't wrap the steam pipes,” Morgan said. “Come on.”

“There's no time,” Felicity said as Morgan shoved her down the hall. “It's for sure somebody heard those gunshots.” Morgan snatched a first aid kit from the Cuban sailor's belt and followed Felicity down the hall to a latrine. He hustled her inside, stoppered the sink and turned the cold tap on full. While Felicity stood with her hands under water, he unwrapped the sterile gauze bandage.

“That feels better, but is it really necessary to wrap my hands?”

“Only if you don't want serious pain and infection when those blisters break,” Morgan said. He lifted her hands and with unexpected patience, blew them dry. Then he tore the
dressing in half and gently wrapped each hand. He held her eyes with his while he rendered first aid. She tried to turn away, but he could see in her eyes that the pain was returning to her now dry hands.

“Now what?” he asked when he finished. “They'll be searching the sub for us. Want to try to find the control room?”

“No search necessary,” Felicity said, forcing a smile. “I know where it is. We do have the advantage of surprise. I've memorized the schematic of the sub. Let's go.”

Felicity led them down a narrow gray passageway. The control room was just aft of their position in this three story vessel's top level. Morgan held the heavy rifle at port arms. The thought of being trapped in these narrow quarters chilled him. He was not a man prone to fear, he had to admit he did not like their survival chances at that point.

“You actually bothered to escape.” Bastidas' too high voice gained an eerie, ghostly quality coming over a public address system. Morgan jumped, and Felicity stared around for the speaker.

“I'm impressed by your pointless gesture of defiance,” Bastidas' disembodied voice said. “I'd come out and talk, but I'm running this thing, aren't I? I'd be asleep right now if you weren't so blood thirsty, Mister Stark. As it is I can spare only a handful of men to patrol the sub, looking for you.”

“Coming up behind us,” Felicity said.

“I felt it.”

“The control room is heavily guarded,” Bastidas said. On cue, Morgan stepped around a corner and came face to face with four guards. He fired quickly and sprang back. He heard two voices cry out in pain. Felicity led him to a gangway and they dropped a level.

“I also have guards posted at the reactor and the turbo
generator.”

“Yeah, and I'm out of ammo,” Morgan said under his breath.

“The communications center is disabled and the escape towers, fore and aft, are sealed. Not that it matters when you're more than five hundred feet below the surface. Of course, maximum security surrounds the helicopter. You may as well relax and enjoy the cruise.”

After a minute's silence, Felicity said, “Wonder how long until we go boom?”

“Well, he must have pulled out into the Pacific before turning back toward the canal,” Morgan said. “It's real shallow by the coast. If we're five hundred feet down we're outside the Gulf of Panama.”

They paused in an empty passage, crouching on their haunches for a moment. Felicity nodded, as if having a private conversation inside her head. “Doesn't sound like we're in much immediate danger,” she said. “With my mental map of the sub, your sense of direction and our combined awareness of approaching danger, we could avoid his boys for days.”

“Yeah, but he ain't worried about us, either.”

“Couldn't you hear the strain in his voice?” Felicity asked as they began walking again. “He's almost hysterical.”

“Maybe, but he ain't scared. And I hate being ignored.”

“Not bad for a late supper,” Morgan said, dunking half a donut in his cup.

“Yeah, maybe the last supper,” Felicity said, but her smile never wavered.

They were holed up in the galley. It reminded Felicity of a cramped college dining facility, except that the lights weren't as bright. Morgan had heated two trays he called Trations and they had inhaled their contents. Felicity had a cup of coffee. Morgan chugged six. Now they were devouring some donuts they found in a cupboard.

Until Morgan's comment, conversation had been almost absent. Felicity sat on a plastic chair across a table from Morgan, trying to flex her fingers. She was putting off the inevitable. Her mouth dried thinking about the conversation she knew they would have to have, and she knew she had to start it.

“Morgan.” Her voice croaked, as if it had not been used in days.

“Yeah, Red?”

Felicity smiled at the nickname, hating the tears trying to squeeze out her eyes. “We can't get off the sub, can we?”

“No way I know.”

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“First, stay alive to the end. Never know what'll turn up. Maybe Barton will get the Navy here in time. Maybe Bastidas will change his mind and sell the sub to the
Iranians. Hell, the crew could wise up and mutiny.”

“You don't believe that,” Felicity said quietly.

“Nope.”

“You scared?” she asked.

“No. Pissed.”

“I think we're going to die in this big tin fish,” Felicity said, fighting to force the rest out. “But we can't let him blow up the canal.”

“I ain't no hero, Red, but I sure would like to kill Bastidas before I go. I'd blow this bitch up if I could.”

“You can,” Felicity said after a short pause. “What would happen if you put a bullet into one of the torpedo warheads?”

“This thing's got torpedoes?”

“Four,” she answered, watching Morgan lift his coffee cup slowly to his mouth.

“I don't have a bullet.”

“What would happen?” she asked again.

Morgan considered while he swallowed. “Hell of a big bang. Maybe rupture the superstructure. For sure blow out the torpedo shutters and flood the boat.”

“Bastidas told us where he put the security,” Felicity said, some of the old sparkle returning to her eyes. “He never mentioned the arms room.”

“You're right, but how do we get in. It's got to be locked up, and you sure can't pick a lock like that.” He pointed to her bandaged hands.

“No, but you can,” she said. “I'll talk you through it.”

“Right.”

Morgan sat quiet for a full minute, staring into his cup. Finally, Felicity said “Well, what do you think?”

“Do you know what General George Patton said at times like this?”

The idea struck Felicity as comical, or maybe it was the
tension. She looked around at where they were, chuckled and played along.

“No, Morgan, I don't. What did General George Patton say,” stopped by a giggle, “at times like this?”

“He said: ‘A good plan executed now is better than a perfect plan executed next week.'”

In front of the arms room it did not seem like such a good plan. Morgan sat on his heels jiggling a lock pick in the keyhole. Felicity stood behind him, cursing her aching fingers while battering her partner with a steady stream of instructions.

“Come on, feel it. Easy. Easy! You can't bully it.” Morgan's fingers, long and thin for a man, pushed and pulled at the little pick, yanking it left and right. Once he twisted it almost to the breaking point, but lost his grip on the tumbler he was trying to push. In frustration Felicity dropped to her knees, resting her forehead on his shoulder. Her tears finally rolled out.

“Oh, God, you can't do it. You'll never do it. Jesus, Morgan, why aren't you scared?”

Morgan smirked, still working at the lock. “I've chosen death as a companion, Red. From the first day I landed in Vietnam, a sixteen year old boy, I been looking the grim reaper in the face. I ain't in no hurry, but eventually, I guess I'll have to regroup with all those guys I sent ahead of me.”

Felicity was still surprised at those moments when Morgan Stark, mercenary soldier, suddenly became Morgan Stark, philosopher. The fear in her faded, leaving in its place something akin to despair. She turned to sit on the floor with her back to him and crossed her legs. She laid her useless hands in her lap and leaned her head back on his shoulder.

“It's hopeless,” she said. Her voice was barely a murmur. He ignored her and kept trying. She knew he would. He accepted and just would not quit because that was his nature. But he had to know he would never open that lock. If only she could hold that pick. But the work was too delicate for her stiff, burned fingers. As if to reinforce that, a wave of pain rolled up her arms.

Then her breath caught in her throat. Somehow, she
was
holding the lock pick. Her hands were big, as if she was wearing gloves. Her nails were short. The edges of her palms were callused. And the strength she felt in her hands astounded her.

Felicity remembered that day, so long ago, in New York. She had known Morgan only a few days. Passion had driven them together in bed. In the heat of that moment they had become so close, she felt what he felt loving her and he experienced sex from the woman's side.

That was a terrifying experience. This was a little less so. She was in control this time. In control of a foreign pair of hands.

Behind her, Morgan's breath caught in his throat. His eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped open. He could feel his hands but not control them. His fingers moved by themselves, as if some spirit had possessed them. Every story he had ever heard about ghosts and zombies flitted through his mind, backed by jump cuts from a dozen movies of demonic possession. Then a different idea struck him and he knew it for the truth immediately.

His closeness to Felicity, his caring, the tension, her heightened emotional state, all had combined to let her experience the tactile sensations flowing in his hands. In some way he would never understand, nerve impulses leaving his fingers were switchboarded into her brain.

Morgan tried desperately to relax and let it happen. He
had done plenty of delicate work before, he reminded himself. Fixed radios. Built bombs. This was no different. Yet he watched, fascinated, as s/he moved the spring steel with a light, gentle touch in the small keyhole.