Ruskies had been so fond of for so long . . .
“Is that . . . is that an AK-47?” Woods asked anxiously.
“Yeah. Kicks all ass over an M-16, Woodsy—we’re talking rapid-fire capability, high muzzle velocity . . . Got a short sighting radius, but you don’t even need to aim one a’ these babies, just point and squeeze.”
He tossed the rifle to the helmsman and watched him fumble with it, then turned and picked up a munitions pack, handing it to the other man. “Let’s load up.”
Richie fell to the work with a vengeance, stuffing Woods’s pack with every clip on the rack; each curved black mag held thirty. The RPGs went in too, since the grenade launchers only held two missiles—he could see that they were finned, meant a nice, flat trajectory and slow rotation; excellent fuckin’ accuracy. He found a couple of sets of night vision goggles, not as good as a starlight scope but better than nothing; they went in on top.
He stood up and looked around, nodding. They’d cleared the locker out, but there was another hatch at the end of the room that probably led to more. Woods had six AK-47s slung across his back and the grenade launcher sagging off one shoulder.
“C’mon, Richie, that’s enough.”
Richie shook his head, picked up the last AK-47, and slammed a clip home. “You can never be too rich, too thin, or too well armed,” he said, and opened the hatch. A stairwell, dark and empty.
Richie pulled a joint out of his breast pocket and lit up, held the first toke in until his brain started to scream for air. He exhaled slowly, feeling at ease for the first time since the whole anchor incident. There was a watcher on this boat, maybe more than one; those goddamn video cameras all over, the back of his neck going cold every time one found him, fuckin’ with him—
—but now we’re cookin’ with gas; ain’t no commie bastard gonna get the drop on me, no way no how . . .
“Where ya goin’? Let’s get outta here, Richie.”
Woods sounded like a cartoon. Richie took another hit and started down the dark stairs. Squeaky could wait, at least until Richie had scoped out the available firepower.
He was a man with a mission. And God help the Russians, ’cause he was through bein’ fucked with.
• 12 •
T he sick bay wasn’t where Everton had proposed, but it was close. Foster threw open the door and found the lights, the bright fluorescents chasing away the shadows and showing them a gleaming white medical lab. There were wide lockers, gurneys, stainless tables—it seemed to be one of the only places on the ship so far that hadn’t been wrecked.
Foster walked in cautiously, Everton, Steve, and Hiko right behind. She heard the mounted camera in one upper corner swivel towards them and glanced up, felt a chill run through her; there were surveillance cams everywhere on the Volkov, probably standard equipment on a vessel like this—but she couldn’t help feeling like they were being tracked, their every move studied. Whoever had dropped the anchor on the Sea Star obviously had the skills to do it, too; they’d blocked the bridge console from them easily enough . . .
They all stood for a moment, listening, but the lab seemed empty of life, as empty as the rest of the ship.
But not empty, either—it’s like a ship of ghosts, invisible but always watching. We can’t see them, but they’re here with us now, sliding between us, examining us, touching us . . .
She shook off the feeling and walked to a counter of drawers and cabinets that lined one side of the room, opposite the locker bank. Steve and Everton helped Hiko to one of the examining tables while she pulled open drawers, found gauze and boxes of rubber gloves. She crouched down in front of a cabinet and got lucky on the first—swabs, bottles of disinfectant, and suture kits. She grabbed up an armful and walked across to where Hiko lay, Everton leaning on the table. Steve was rummaging around for dry clothes in one of the
“Is that . . . is that an AK-47?” Woods asked anxiously.
“Yeah. Kicks all ass over an M-16, Woodsy—we’re talking rapid-fire capability, high muzzle velocity . . . Got a short sighting radius, but you don’t even need to aim one a’ these babies, just point and squeeze.”
He tossed the rifle to the helmsman and watched him fumble with it, then turned and picked up a munitions pack, handing it to the other man. “Let’s load up.”
Richie fell to the work with a vengeance, stuffing Woods’s pack with every clip on the rack; each curved black mag held thirty. The RPGs went in too, since the grenade launchers only held two missiles—he could see that they were finned, meant a nice, flat trajectory and slow rotation; excellent fuckin’ accuracy. He found a couple of sets of night vision goggles, not as good as a starlight scope but better than nothing; they went in on top.
He stood up and looked around, nodding. They’d cleared the locker out, but there was another hatch at the end of the room that probably led to more. Woods had six AK-47s slung across his back and the grenade launcher sagging off one shoulder.
“C’mon, Richie, that’s enough.”
Richie shook his head, picked up the last AK-47, and slammed a clip home. “You can never be too rich, too thin, or too well armed,” he said, and opened the hatch. A stairwell, dark and empty.
Richie pulled a joint out of his breast pocket and lit up, held the first toke in until his brain started to scream for air. He exhaled slowly, feeling at ease for the first time since the whole anchor incident. There was a watcher on this boat, maybe more than one; those goddamn video cameras all over, the back of his neck going cold every time one found him, fuckin’ with him—
—but now we’re cookin’ with gas; ain’t no commie bastard gonna get the drop on me, no way no how . . .
“Where ya goin’? Let’s get outta here, Richie.”
Woods sounded like a cartoon. Richie took another hit and started down the dark stairs. Squeaky could wait, at least until Richie had scoped out the available firepower.
He was a man with a mission. And God help the Russians, ’cause he was through bein’ fucked with.
• 12 •
T he sick bay wasn’t where Everton had proposed, but it was close. Foster threw open the door and found the lights, the bright fluorescents chasing away the shadows and showing them a gleaming white medical lab. There were wide lockers, gurneys, stainless tables—it seemed to be one of the only places on the ship so far that hadn’t been wrecked.
Foster walked in cautiously, Everton, Steve, and Hiko right behind. She heard the mounted camera in one upper corner swivel towards them and glanced up, felt a chill run through her; there were surveillance cams everywhere on the Volkov, probably standard equipment on a vessel like this—but she couldn’t help feeling like they were being tracked, their every move studied. Whoever had dropped the anchor on the Sea Star obviously had the skills to do it, too; they’d blocked the bridge console from them easily enough . . .
They all stood for a moment, listening, but the lab seemed empty of life, as empty as the rest of the ship.
But not empty, either—it’s like a ship of ghosts, invisible but always watching. We can’t see them, but they’re here with us now, sliding between us, examining us, touching us . . .
She shook off the feeling and walked to a counter of drawers and cabinets that lined one side of the room, opposite the locker bank. Steve and Everton helped Hiko to one of the examining tables while she pulled open drawers, found gauze and boxes of rubber gloves. She crouched down in front of a cabinet and got lucky on the first—swabs, bottles of disinfectant, and suture kits. She grabbed up an armful and walked across to where Hiko lay, Everton leaning on the table. Steve was rummaging around for dry clothes in one of the
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