The Menagerie 2 (Eden) by Rick Jones Page B

the wall. The undersea platform tilted with the pull of the terrace, the Umbilical tube stretching between the platform and the ship pulling tight, the ends of the tube hanging on by the magnetic rings that bound them together.
    Inside the platform where the slant of the staging area was approximately fifteen degrees, anything not tacked down slid off tables. Computers and monitors slid off their countertops and shattered upon impact against the slightly corrugated floor. And the walls protested against the sudden shift.
    The engineers monitoring the atmosphere, pressure and temperature joined themselves to anything immovable and prayed to God.
    #
     
    Whitaker white-knuckled the edges of his desk and hung on as the floor took on a lean that seemed like that slow ascent to the top of a roller coaster where the car sat precariously at its peak a moment before the drop. For a second he felt like that lead rider overlooking the edge and waiting for the fall.
    But the fall never came.
    The tremors stopped.
    After a moment Whitaker took in a deep breath, and then released it with an equally long sigh.
    His world had literally altered when the ship’s fore dipped at an angle that favored a drop to the bottom of the crater, a five-mile journey, should the next tremor prove too much.
    Grabbing his helmet and weapon, Whitaker made haste.
    #
     
    When the tremor struck John and Alyssa immediately took to the floor. O’Connell lost his balance and did the same, falling on his injured shoulder which sent a course of white-hot pain throughout his body. Maestro and Goliath stumbled, held their stances, however unsteady, with Goliath cradling the laptop as if it was the Holy Grail.
    Seeing an opportunity, Savage lashed out with his leg and kicked Maestro’s legs out from under him, the large commando going feet first into the air with the flat of his back crashing hard against the surface, knocking the wind out of him. With the assault weapon skating several feet away, Savage and Maestro crawled hastily toward the MP5. Just as Savage was about to grab it, Maestro seized his ankle and pulled him from the weapon.
    Though the tremors stopped, the two men fighting did not. Maestro gained the advantage by straddling Savage, raised his fist, and thrust it downward, the blow deflected by Savage with the fist hitting the deck, hard. Savage then brought his knee up and hit the center of Maestro’s back, the warrior to arcing in pain, which provided Savage with a moment of opportunity. In a flash he brought his knuckles up and hit Maestro in the neck, a perfect strike to the Adam’s apple, the large man grasping his throat as he fell back wheezing for breath.
    Just as Savage laid his hand on the stock of the weapon, the biggest sole he had ever seen, a size fifteen shoe, hit him squarely in the face, which brought on a nebula of light a moment before he was overtaken by absolute darkness.
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER FOURTEEN
     
     
    The ship’s ceiling.
    The phosphorous green light.
    The smell of his own blood.
    John Savage rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His head felt as heavy as an anvil. The pain incredible.
    “Mr. Savage.” The voice sounded distant and hollow, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. “Are you with us, Mr. Savage?”
    Savage shook the cobwebs free with lingering traces of gossamer strands not totally washed away from his sight. He then worked his way onto his backside and faced off with Whitaker, who was hunkering beside him.
    “I thought a SEAL would be smarter than to take on two elites,” he told him. “Not a bright move on your part.” He then got to his full height, looking down. “Apparently you have a hard head, Savage. You’re lucky. Usually when Goliath hits someone square in the face with those big ol’ feet of his, he usually caves it in.” He then chortled. “I guess he was just being polite.” He turned to Goliath. “Goliath, were you being