and blew off the back of the man’s head in a violent burst. Behind him, another man screamed. A bullet had pierced the first man’s skull and had exited and then entered the second man’s chest. He slumped in agony.
“It’s all in your hands, Chief,” Esco said with a sickeningly serene smile. He turned to the gunman. “Put him out of his misery,” nodding to the man who’d been hit in the chest and continued to scream.
The gunman stepped forward and dispatched him with a single shot. More than one crew member began to sob.
“I’ll help you,” said Dewey. “Let me say something to them.”
“Go ahead.”
Dewey stepped forward. “There are hundreds of you!” he shouted. He glanced at Esco. “You want to live, storm the gunmen and kill them!”
He got the words out before Esco hammered him on the side of his head with the butt of his rifle. The room full of roughnecks erupted in yelling and screams as the terrorists hauled Dewey away, but volleys of gunfire silenced the outcry and the doors quickly closed.
They pulled Dewey across the deck, the tip of a rifle pressed hard into his back. The sun was high in the sky, scorching hot as they passed downstairs to the freight riser. It was a hub of activity, at least half a dozen of Esco’s men running around. Two of the men were already dressed in deep-sea diving suits. At the side of the deck, on the freight platform, a large steel object nearly six feet high reflected the sunlight: a massive bomb.
So he was right. The seafloor was their destination and the pumping station would be their target.
“Put on the suit,” Esco ordered.
They unchained him as two gunmen trained their rifles on him. Dewey slowly pulled the heavy suit on as he looked around the platform. He knew most of the conspirators by name, but he didn’t recognize the two men already suited up. They looked ex-military. Operatives, perhapsmercenaries. They certainly weren’t members of his crew. They must have come with the
Montana.
It all added up now. A bitter smile spread across Dewey’s mouth as he began to see the thread of the conspiracy laid out before him, the sheer scale of it. And he had missed it all.
If he lived, he would find out who was behind the operation and hunt them down. First he’d kill Pazur. Then Esco. Then their bosses, and
their
bosses. For every one of his men they killed he’d kill a hundred; for every drop of blood, he’d spill a gallon; for all of the pain, he would inflict limitless agony on each of them.
But he had to live to do it.
Under a vicious midmorning sun, Dewey and the two guards strapped the steel deepwater helmets on and took the big open-cage freight elevator down. The helmets were very heavy, made of synthetic steel. The body suits were made of triple-redundant Kevlar on steel frames, all designed to withstand the fierce pressure and bitter cold temperatures of the depths below. Each man was connected to the rig by an oxygen tube that extended down as they descended, their lifeline to the surface, fitted with a communications link and a complex air-pressure equalizer that enabled the men to descend and ascend quickly without the usual acclimation periods that a free diver needs.
As the elevator hit waterside, he looked up one last time. He made eye contact with Esco. Then, the platform plunged beneath the surface.
They descended through the murky water. One guard held an old, high-powered APS underwater assault rifle. The APS was a Russian-made armament developed for Russian combat frogmen. It fired long, dagger-sharp steel darts capable of penetrating most material, certainly Dewey’s heavy suit. That was how they’d get rid of him after the scanner read his iris, he guessed
The cage dropped straight down, latched between two of the four oil chutes. Halogen lights every ten yards gave off a dull green hue. After more than ten minutes of steady descent, they reached the ten-pole marker, a red and white flash that indicated that they
“It’s all in your hands, Chief,” Esco said with a sickeningly serene smile. He turned to the gunman. “Put him out of his misery,” nodding to the man who’d been hit in the chest and continued to scream.
The gunman stepped forward and dispatched him with a single shot. More than one crew member began to sob.
“I’ll help you,” said Dewey. “Let me say something to them.”
“Go ahead.”
Dewey stepped forward. “There are hundreds of you!” he shouted. He glanced at Esco. “You want to live, storm the gunmen and kill them!”
He got the words out before Esco hammered him on the side of his head with the butt of his rifle. The room full of roughnecks erupted in yelling and screams as the terrorists hauled Dewey away, but volleys of gunfire silenced the outcry and the doors quickly closed.
They pulled Dewey across the deck, the tip of a rifle pressed hard into his back. The sun was high in the sky, scorching hot as they passed downstairs to the freight riser. It was a hub of activity, at least half a dozen of Esco’s men running around. Two of the men were already dressed in deep-sea diving suits. At the side of the deck, on the freight platform, a large steel object nearly six feet high reflected the sunlight: a massive bomb.
So he was right. The seafloor was their destination and the pumping station would be their target.
“Put on the suit,” Esco ordered.
They unchained him as two gunmen trained their rifles on him. Dewey slowly pulled the heavy suit on as he looked around the platform. He knew most of the conspirators by name, but he didn’t recognize the two men already suited up. They looked ex-military. Operatives, perhapsmercenaries. They certainly weren’t members of his crew. They must have come with the
Montana.
It all added up now. A bitter smile spread across Dewey’s mouth as he began to see the thread of the conspiracy laid out before him, the sheer scale of it. And he had missed it all.
If he lived, he would find out who was behind the operation and hunt them down. First he’d kill Pazur. Then Esco. Then their bosses, and
their
bosses. For every one of his men they killed he’d kill a hundred; for every drop of blood, he’d spill a gallon; for all of the pain, he would inflict limitless agony on each of them.
But he had to live to do it.
Under a vicious midmorning sun, Dewey and the two guards strapped the steel deepwater helmets on and took the big open-cage freight elevator down. The helmets were very heavy, made of synthetic steel. The body suits were made of triple-redundant Kevlar on steel frames, all designed to withstand the fierce pressure and bitter cold temperatures of the depths below. Each man was connected to the rig by an oxygen tube that extended down as they descended, their lifeline to the surface, fitted with a communications link and a complex air-pressure equalizer that enabled the men to descend and ascend quickly without the usual acclimation periods that a free diver needs.
As the elevator hit waterside, he looked up one last time. He made eye contact with Esco. Then, the platform plunged beneath the surface.
They descended through the murky water. One guard held an old, high-powered APS underwater assault rifle. The APS was a Russian-made armament developed for Russian combat frogmen. It fired long, dagger-sharp steel darts capable of penetrating most material, certainly Dewey’s heavy suit. That was how they’d get rid of him after the scanner read his iris, he guessed
The cage dropped straight down, latched between two of the four oil chutes. Halogen lights every ten yards gave off a dull green hue. After more than ten minutes of steady descent, they reached the ten-pole marker, a red and white flash that indicated that they
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