spider with metal legs, skittering.
“Hey! Somebody there?” His voice cracked.
His gaze was caught by a sudden movement between two of the generators, near a thick bundle of cords and cables that ran through an access hole in the deck. The tail end of an electrical cord disappeared through the hole, as if jerked down by unseen hands.
He stubbed out his smoke and put down the walkie, still scared but not as bad as when he’d first heard that weird noise. It couldn’t be a person, unless they were four feet tall or could breathe fuel oil; there wasn’t room under the deck for anything else.
So what made that noise? And where did the cord go?
Had to be a mechanical problem; one of the cords had gotten caught on something, that was all—maybe hooked onto a rotor or some such. Squeaky picked up the flashlight and clicked it on, walking over to the bundle of cables and feeling fike an idiot.
Terrific, great—leave me alone for ten minutes and I turn into a fuckin’ mouse. Squeaky, that’s me . . .
He stepped up to the access hole and shone the light down, seeing only the thick cables that led off to one side, distributing power to the ship. The hole was just big enough for the bundle, maybe three feet across, and packed to all sides with the heavily insulated cords.
He crouched down and stuck his hand into the mass, spreading the cables as far as they would go. He squeezed himself forward, surprised at how easily they parted; he’d be able to get a pretty good look after all—
—and the cables tightened suddenly, trapping his arms against his body.
“What the fuck—!”
He struggled against them, terrified, unable to get free. The cords pulled tight, tighter—and jerked him down through the hole and into the darkness, before he even had time to scream.
Woods was dogging his heels like a scared woman; every time Richie stopped, the skinny blond tripped all over himself not to run into him. Richie thought it was pretty funny, actually; he’d stopped suddenly a couple of times just to watch the man dance.
They were on C deck, and it was dark. Not pitch black, they had passed a couple of overheads, but the corridors seemed to be randomly lit; for every lamp on, there were three or four off. It made for strange patterns, tricking out Richie’s perspective so the halls seemed to stretch and condense in front of them.
Woods had only protested their little side trip once, but Richie had set him straight. If they were gonna be wandering around in hostile territory, they needed to be ready for anything; he’d just told Junior that he was free to go down to the engine room solo if he didn’t like it. Woods had shut up quick after that, and had been breathing down his neck ever since.
They’d already passed several storerooms with bedding and uniforms and shit like that, not to mention a couple of computer rooms that had been totally trashed. Richie knew they were close; the layout of the Volkov was similar to ships he’d heard about back in AIT.
Research vessel, my black ass. Researching on weapons development, more like it, out here, all quiet like . . .
Richie stopped in front of a heavy door, and Woods caught himself about an inch from running into him, his face pale and slick in the cool, shadowy hall. Richie smirked and opened the door, shining his flashlight into the room.
He felt a slow grin spread across his face and took in the sight, deeply satisfied at what he saw. Racks of AK-47s and banana clips; Rocket Propelled Grenade Launchers, 58.3-millimeter thermite grenades, they looked like, and the Russian equivalent of a 16D antitank launcher to go with ’em. No way a spy ship wasn’t gonna be equipped to the teeth, he knew it.
“Weapons locker,” he said, and stepped inside, Woods close behind.
He snapped on the lights, still grinning, and reached for one of the AK-47s, checking the bore and nodding happily. Chromed and smooth, hadn’t been fired with any of that corrosive shit that the
“Hey! Somebody there?” His voice cracked.
His gaze was caught by a sudden movement between two of the generators, near a thick bundle of cords and cables that ran through an access hole in the deck. The tail end of an electrical cord disappeared through the hole, as if jerked down by unseen hands.
He stubbed out his smoke and put down the walkie, still scared but not as bad as when he’d first heard that weird noise. It couldn’t be a person, unless they were four feet tall or could breathe fuel oil; there wasn’t room under the deck for anything else.
So what made that noise? And where did the cord go?
Had to be a mechanical problem; one of the cords had gotten caught on something, that was all—maybe hooked onto a rotor or some such. Squeaky picked up the flashlight and clicked it on, walking over to the bundle of cables and feeling fike an idiot.
Terrific, great—leave me alone for ten minutes and I turn into a fuckin’ mouse. Squeaky, that’s me . . .
He stepped up to the access hole and shone the light down, seeing only the thick cables that led off to one side, distributing power to the ship. The hole was just big enough for the bundle, maybe three feet across, and packed to all sides with the heavily insulated cords.
He crouched down and stuck his hand into the mass, spreading the cables as far as they would go. He squeezed himself forward, surprised at how easily they parted; he’d be able to get a pretty good look after all—
—and the cables tightened suddenly, trapping his arms against his body.
“What the fuck—!”
He struggled against them, terrified, unable to get free. The cords pulled tight, tighter—and jerked him down through the hole and into the darkness, before he even had time to scream.
Woods was dogging his heels like a scared woman; every time Richie stopped, the skinny blond tripped all over himself not to run into him. Richie thought it was pretty funny, actually; he’d stopped suddenly a couple of times just to watch the man dance.
They were on C deck, and it was dark. Not pitch black, they had passed a couple of overheads, but the corridors seemed to be randomly lit; for every lamp on, there were three or four off. It made for strange patterns, tricking out Richie’s perspective so the halls seemed to stretch and condense in front of them.
Woods had only protested their little side trip once, but Richie had set him straight. If they were gonna be wandering around in hostile territory, they needed to be ready for anything; he’d just told Junior that he was free to go down to the engine room solo if he didn’t like it. Woods had shut up quick after that, and had been breathing down his neck ever since.
They’d already passed several storerooms with bedding and uniforms and shit like that, not to mention a couple of computer rooms that had been totally trashed. Richie knew they were close; the layout of the Volkov was similar to ships he’d heard about back in AIT.
Research vessel, my black ass. Researching on weapons development, more like it, out here, all quiet like . . .
Richie stopped in front of a heavy door, and Woods caught himself about an inch from running into him, his face pale and slick in the cool, shadowy hall. Richie smirked and opened the door, shining his flashlight into the room.
He felt a slow grin spread across his face and took in the sight, deeply satisfied at what he saw. Racks of AK-47s and banana clips; Rocket Propelled Grenade Launchers, 58.3-millimeter thermite grenades, they looked like, and the Russian equivalent of a 16D antitank launcher to go with ’em. No way a spy ship wasn’t gonna be equipped to the teeth, he knew it.
“Weapons locker,” he said, and stepped inside, Woods close behind.
He snapped on the lights, still grinning, and reached for one of the AK-47s, checking the bore and nodding happily. Chromed and smooth, hadn’t been fired with any of that corrosive shit that the
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