The silver fleet the com.., p.112
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 112
From there on down it was a battle of wills between man and machine as Noah sought to force the ship to do his bidding, while all the while he was horribly aware of how quickly they were descending. If he thought the backwash from the Peter the Great had been testing, it was nothing compared to this. The ship just wasn’t responding.
Only it was.
Ill equipped to work against air resistance, the Motar’s engines struggled to arrest his downward descent and he found his mind drifting back to Tony Chu. Noah had been there the time he managed to manhandle the Motar back onto the Montezuma’s flight deck. Tony’s face had been drained of all colour by the time he stepped down onto the deck and they’d all naturally assumed that he’d suffered some catastrophic burn out or else that something had gone terribly wrong with his avionics.
But, apparently, that hadn’t been the case. Nothing had gone wrong and, as the normally placid Tony had stressed repeatedly: nothing had gone wrong. He had been operating within the Motar’s accepted operating parameters at all times. The truth was that the Motar just wasn’t particularly well equipped to cope with this part of its job. And, as Tony had stressed when he had finally managed to track down Noah’s old man, the only thing wrong was that Tomas Senior was currently in possession of a deathtrap.
It all happened very quickly. One minute Noah was starting to think he was making some headway but the next the whole ship began to shudder violently before inexplicably lurching to starboard. The stick appeared to be locked down tight and, there seemed little that he could do to prevent the ship going into a full barrel roll. Trying to take stock of the situation, he saw to his horror that they’d already dropped to within four klicks of the surface. The mountain range over on their starboard side appeared to be rising up to meet them and he realised that if he didn’t do something in the next minute they were going to crash.
He put all his efforts into trying to level the ship by slowly bringing up the starboard wing. That way, he hoped to win back control of the ship but all the while he was doing this he could feel his seat belt cutting into the side of his neck.
This was going to be close.
At just under a kilometre from the surface, he started to level out, the Motar’s sixty tons of dead weight fighting him all the way. Finally, the ship’s thrusters kicked in, pulling him out of his headlong dive and for thirty seconds or so he experienced a period of normality where he was able to get his bearings to some degree, all the while working to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
“Springer Two Zero, this is Tigris Whisky Zero Tango. Repeat, Tigris Whisky Zero Tango. Are you receiving, Over?”
“Roger, Tigris Base, this is Springer Zero Two. Nice to hear from you. I was starting to get worried for a while back there.”
“Springer Two Zero, what is your current location?”
He checked his read-outs and as he did so the realisation that this ordeal might soon be over was nearly overwhelming.
“Tigris Base I’m approximately two hundred clicks north of your location. I should be with you in just over ten minutes.”
“Very good, although be advised that the terrain is somewhat problematic. We’ll put out marker flares, so be sure to use them.”
“Roger that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ardent was bad tempered and in a hurry.
Things were currently not going well and she had a lot to do. It wasn’t a great combination but it was certainly a productive one. And, as much as she’d have liked to spend the whole afternoon visiting with Faulkner she realised that that wasn’t going to be possible and so had opted instead for a quick lightning visit just to check out how he was before she headed off. Which meant that she was going to have to forego the pleasures of the Rose Garden and hope she’d be able to get her daily dose of inner peace some other way. Although she didn’t hold out much hope of that.
The atmosphere aboard the Renheim was sombre – it had been like that ever since they arrived at their current position overlooking the site last occupied by the Laxx orbital. She hadn’t seen Meyer in days, he was too busy organising the retrograde action of searching for survivors. The fact that no one appeared to have survived didn’t seem to dissuade him from this task. He’d do anything rather than risk having to engage with the Loki. The Yakutian ship had withdrawn to take up its previous position roughly a half a million miles spinward of Laxx.
Part of the reason why the atmosphere hadn’t improved much since they’d arrived was largely down to the fact that the flight deck was currently doubling up as a morgue, with racks of white utilitarian coffins mounting up all the time. Somehow, it had fallen to Ardent to try and oversee things because of her wide experience on the public health side of things. There were currently over two hundred down there and the situation would soon hit crisis levels unless they could find a more efficient way of keeping the corpses refrigerated. There were other areas better suited to this task spread throughout the ship but these were normally used for food storage so clearing them out in order to store bodies was throwing up a whole new set of problems. Regardless, this was something they were going to have to resolve to avoid the situation getting much worse.
So she didn’t appreciate having to hang around waiting to be seen.
The Convalescent Suite was even quieter than normal. For one thing, there was no one manning reception. Ardent checked the time. Quarter past eleven. She had a meeting at eleven forty-five which she couldn’t be late for.
She took a few steps past the reception desk and looked out into the lounge area.
No nursing staff in there or any patients for that matter. But that wasn’t so surprising. Most of the patients had classes or appointments with their doctors or physios at this time of the morning. Usually, visitors didn’t start arriving until well after lunch. Usually, one thirty, at the earliest.
Impatience got the better of her and she went over into the lounge area. There was absolutely no one about, but she noticed a vase had been knocked over, the flowers strewn across the floor. Strange. So she angled back towards reception before turning left in the direction of the treatment rooms. There was a patients’ rec room down there somewhere, she had watched Faulkner through the window once, not wanting to disturb his morning routine. He’d been painting a still-life scene which had been set up on a central table, though the room was deserted now.
She pushed open the door and headed across to the far room, keeping as straight a course as possible glancing against the sides of chairs and tables in her haste. There was a nurses’ room at the rear. It was where they stored all the arts and crafts equipment but she knew that the nurses often used it as an impromptu space to hold their own breaks. She pushed at the door but it would only open a few inches.
Something was stopping it from opening.
Ardent put her shoulder against the door and pushed.
Somebody must have knocked a chair over, but then why hadn’t one of the staff members seen to it? It was all very odd. Plus, she couldn’t help but feel as if she were trespassing in some way. The chair was solid enough though and she had to push hard just to open it a little.
When the gap was wide enough, she reached inside. Sure enough, there was a chair wedged up against the door handle. She had to pull the door slightly closed before she could tip the chair over. Keeping a firm grip on the handle, she eased the door open and stepped inside.
It was some kind of informal staff room with low chairs and coffee tables.
And over in the far corner was a group of four women and one man. The man was big but soft looking. The women were all in their thirties except for one woman in a darker colored uniform who looked to be a good ten years older. They regarded Ardent with undisguised terror.
The senior woman hissed, “What are you doing? Come away from that door.”
She said it in such a way that suggested she was used to giving instructions and having them obeyed. Her authority immediately established her as the spokesperson for the group.
Ardent pushed the door too but didn’t close it.
“What’s going on?”
“Lower your voice,” the woman said. “He’ll hear you.”
“Who?”
“The gunman. Who do you think?”
In the background they heard the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor.
“Just the one gunman?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just the one gunman – we need to be clear.”
They nodded.
“Which one of you saw him?”
The older one indicated a heavyset woman.
“He came into the lounge. Didn’t say anything. That’s when he started shooting.”
The upended vase.
The flowers littering the floor.
Someone must have disturbed them in a bid to escape.
“What sort of gun was it?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Was it a big gun? Like a bolt gun, or something smaller?”
“A handgun. Yes. A handgun. But very quiet.”
“Thank you,” Ardent started back towards the door.
“What are you doing?” the older woman demanded. “Don’t go out there!”
“Call security,” Ardent said. “Don’t wait, do it now.”
Then she stepped out into the rec room.
Knowing that there was a gunman out there seemed to have changed everything. Everywhere she looked, every corner, every niche, was filled with the threat of violence. Even looking along the corridor filled her with foreboding.
She moved as quietly as she could, bracing herself against the sides of tables and the backs of chairs in order to prevent herself from making a noise.
She had to get to Faulkner before the gunman did. Whatever happened after that, was anyone’s guess.
When she got out into the corridor, she turned first right then left to check that the way was clear. Then she went left. Faulkner’s room lay in that direction and her only hope was that the gunman hadn’t beaten her to it.
There was a bathroom at the end of the corridor with a door wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs and she took a right turn there, moving along in virtual darkness for a while as the lights had been switched off. She welcomed the darkness, it made her less of a target.
There was a small kitchenette about halfway down on her left. Very compact, it had a small refrigerator next to a traditional oven. There was an open box of cereal on top of the refrigerator. Directly behind this were two small cabinets. There was a sink over in the corner full of unwashed dishes.
She went back into the corridor and passed two small offices. The fire door at the end was made of dark wood and had a rota posted on it. Through the door, lay the patient accommodation.
Faulkner’s room was to her left.
She took three steps down the corridor and had to stop, her heart was hammering in her chest. She rested her hands on the opposing walls and just stood there taking long slow breaths to help steady herself. It was inevitable that the gunman would find Faulkner’s room eventually but it wouldn’t be an easy task. Unless he knew that Faulkner was staying under an assumed name, the gunman was going to have to check all the rooms and that might give her an advantage.
The problem was that the corridors were so narrow. If she got caught in there with the gunman around, there’d be no place to hide. She’d be completely exposed and, with no ready escape route, she’d be an easy target.
Once she’d committed herself to this line of action, there’d be no turning back.
She took a deep inhalation of breath and then moved forward. There were guest rooms on either side but she ignored these. Up ahead, the corridor turned to the right.
One of the doors to her immediate left was standing open and she made to move past it as quickly as she could. Even so, she could see by the play of shadows across the wall that there was someone in there. They looked to be searching for something.
She tip-toed to the end of the corridor before turning right, only allowing herself to breathe out once she was clear. It was a particularly long corridor and she took a moment to rest her head against the nearest door frame, the sound of her blood pumping loud in her ears.
In the meantime, whoever had been in that room had finished their search. Now they were moving towards her, trying all the doors.
In which case, she didn’t have much time. Once they got to the corner they’d see her.
If she was going to hide she was going to have to find somewhere fast. She tried the door she was leaning against, but it was locked.
Perhaps, she thought, if she could gain access, it might be possible to lock the doors from the other side.
But all the doors she tried were locked.
The back of her neck actually started to prickle with anticipation and in her panic, she found herself running softly down the corridor, expecting at every moment to hear a shout from behind.
Faulkner’s room was the last one on the left.
The door was wide open. Like an invitation.
She didn’t know how to proceed.
The urge to rush straight in was enormous but, for some reason, she held back. Checked the corridor behind her.
Empty. She still had time.
She wanted to shout something, a warning that she was coming in, but she didn’t want to give herself away.
Then she had an idea.
She took off her jacket. It was white, like a flag of surrender. She could use that.
Rolling it into a ball, she threw it so that it landed in the open doorway.
Nothing happened.
“It’s me,” she said in a stage whisper, before striding forward.
She popped her head around the door jamb and froze.
Faulkner was sitting in his wheelchair.
Facing her, his elbows braced on the arm rests.
In his hands, an old-fashioned service revolver, its steel blue barrel levelled at her chest. The gun looked ridiculously large, far too big for someone confined to a wheelchair.
Faulkner jerked his head to one side, urging her to come in.
She nodded, gathered up her jacket and stepped inside. Then she gently closed the door, easing the handle down so that it didn’t make a noise.
Once she was happy that it was secure, she made to move to the right but Faulkner shook his head.
Of course, if the gunman opened the door, he’d see her straight away. She moved over to the left-hand side and then just stood there, trying to quieten her breathing.
She could just make out the sound of the gunman moving about. He appeared to be in no rush, methodically checking each door in turn, keen not to walk into a trap. Anyone could be hiding behind those doors.
She could hear him getting closer but Faulkner was having difficulty keeping the gun level.
They could hear the man’s soft, padded footsteps. But then they stopped.
He’d tested every door in the corridor and now it was their turn.
Faulkner sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes wide and unblinking. She could see how desperately he gripped the lacquered handle, one finger curled around the trigger, the hammer locked fully open.
His shoulders were hunched, his arms starting to shake with the effort.
Outside, muffled though it was by the carpet, she heard the unmistakeable sound of someone transferring their weight from one foot to the other.
A shadow played across the carpet and she thought she could make out the bulk of a looming shoulder.
“Housekeeping.”
Faulkner eased himself backwards slightly, the barrel of the gun rising.
Then a sudden flurry of movement as a figure appeared at the door.
The sound of the gun going off in such an enclosed space was enormous, rocking Ardent back against the wall. She clutched at her ears as the pain of the gunshot swelled to fill her head.
She watched through a veil of gunsmoke, as Faulkner eased himself up out of his chair, one hand gripping the armrest while the other clutched the revolver.
It was an effort for him just to stand but somehow he managed the few short steps out into the corridor. He turned to regard the figure on the floor with a grim certainty.
Then, bracing his right hand with his left he took careful aim at a spot on the ground and fired.
The simple effort of squeezing the trigger seemed like an immense challenge but somehow he managed, firing twice more, the sound of these shots strangely muted in comparison with the first.
When he’d finished, he sagged against the door frame, the revolver dangling from his hand.
Ardent managed to get an arm around him and from there the pair of them stumbled back to his wheelchair. He surrendered the gun without argument, the handle feeling hot and sticky.
She turned then and went to check on the body in the corridor. She’d seen dead people before, she reasoned. And, she had to check that he no longer posed a threat.
The gunman lay slumped against the door of a laundry cupboard. His eyes were open and appeared to be staring at the point of his right foot which was stuck out at an angle. There was nothing exceptional about him. Dirty blonde hair, cut short in the navy style, above a big slab of a face. He was dressed like a maintenance worker in simple brown overalls. The sort of guy you wouldn’t look at twice, and maybe that was the point.
His gun lay to one side. Black and stubby, it looked like it could do a lot of damage so she stretched out her foot and slowly dragged it back into the room. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Once that was out the way, she felt a lot better. She squatted down to check whether he was still breathing, though she needn’t have bothered. His upper torso was a mess. Faulkner had known what he was doing. Each bullet having had a devastating effect.
She looked up when she heard movement coming from the other end of the corridor. Could there be two of them?
She didn’t want to wait around to find out. But what to do with Faulkner?
She moved back into the room before checking out the revolver. When she opened the cylinder, she found three more chambered bullets.
Hopefully, that would be enough.
