And DelGiudice knew no more.
Chapter 2
Riddles Beyond the Blackness
BILLY SHANK’S EYES opened upon a surrealistic scene of destruction. The glow of the emergency light reddened the misty shroud of steam and smoke that wafted through the air and distorted his perceptions of familiar images. He recognized Del, stretched out facedown on the floor, somehow still having managed to hook his arm around the support of the captain’s chair. Billy watched mesmerized as a dark liquid flowed out from under Del and made its way toward the wall.
“Listing?” he heard himself whisper, and then he looked again at the liquid and wondered if its blackish hue was another trick of the light.
Perhaps it was red-red like blood.
The realization that Del was dying before his eyes shook the grogginess from Billy, but when he tried to sit up, he found that a support pole had been folded right over him, pinning his shoulders. He struggled with all his strength but had no leverage to push the pole away. “Damn!” he screamed, raising his eyes to an unmerciful God. “You would make me watch him die?” Ignoring the protests of his flesh as the metal cut a deep line across his upper back, he twisted and jerked wildly.
Then a sickly sweet odor filled his nostrils, demanding his attention. He twisted again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a charred body lying on top of a shorted-out electrical panel.
McKinney.
“Jonson!” Billy called frantically.
No answer. Billy scanned the room, searching for some hint of the remaining crewmen, squinting to penetrate the steam and smoke and the tears that welled in his dark eyes. He saw something, perhaps it was a foot, sticking out from under a toppled computer bay. Yes, it was a foot. A moan escaped Billy’s lips as he imagined Jonson’s body squashed under the heavy case.
“And so it ends,” he said softly, and giving in to the pain and weariness that hammered dully at his senses, put his head down and closed his eyes.
And wondered what death would be like.
In his dazed state Billy could not track the minutes as they passed. Delirium swept over him and he could not react when the door crashed open and four wraithlike forms drifted in. Couriers to escort him to the land of the dead?
Never had he imagined that the sound of Mitchell’s shouting could bring him comfort.
“What the hell happened?!” the captain screamed. He stormed across the slanted room to the intercom, apparently taking no notice of his injured crewmen.
Doc Brady didn’t hesitate when he saw Del’s lifeblood streaming out. He tore a makeshift bandage from his shirt and dove down to stem the flow.
“This one’s gone,” Reinheiser declared as he peered under the cabinet at Jonson’s crushed body. “And I don’t think there’s much hope for that one,” he added callously, pointing to McKinney’s smoldering corpse.
“Nasty cut,” Brady chided with a wink and a calming smile. He pressed the shirt hard against Del’s neck and helped the injured man to sit up. “Might need a tourniquet.”
But Del hardly heard the doc; his eyes focused on Billy.
Ray Corbin answered the concerned look evenly. “He’ll be fine,” he assured Del, turning the bent support aside. Billy moved to rise, but Corbin held him down. “Just you relax. Doc’ll be with you in a minute.”
Mitchell stared blankly at the dead indicator panel, at the blank screens, not even a cursor flicking on them. “Something very big hit us,” he growled. “And we didn’t react. We just took it!” He kicked at a nearby piece of wreckage. “Someone up here, in command of the bridge, did nothing!” he fumed. “Not even a goddamn warning!” Of course, Mitchell, like all the others, had to realize that what happened had been unpreventable, and with such quick and complete devastation that no one could have changed the course.
But Del, who knew Mitchell so well, realized that he needed a release, a scapegoat, someone to blame so he could rid his personal feelings of vulnerability. If this was no one’s fault, then it could just as easily have happened to Mitchell, but if Del had somehow failed…
Mitchell whirled about and charged at Del. But Corbin and Brady, like Del, saw it coming well in advance and easily intercepted him.
“You did nothing!” Mitchell screamed from behind the wall of the two men. “Not a goddamned thing!”
“There was nothing to do,” Del snapped back, but he had to repeat himself several times as a litany against the guilt Mitchell had just laid upon his shoulders.
“Stop it! Listen!” Reinheiser shouted, and the others quieted, surprised by the physicist’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Listen,” he said.
A few seconds passed, the only sound an occasional creak of settling metal.
“I don’t hear anything,” Doc Brady said.
“Not a thing. Nothing at all,” Reinheiser emphasized. “Not even the hydraulic system.” In the span of a couple of seconds, Reinheiser’s words sinking in, terror seized all of the men with the expectation that they would be instantly crushed, as if they believed that death, in a final stroke of cruelty, had waited patiently for them fully to realize their doom.
Reinheiser was the one to break the silence.
“Why aren’t we dead?” he asked, echoing the thought that reverberated in all their minds.
They remained silent, trying to sort out a rational answer to the question. And if they weren’t perplexed enough, the main lights suddenly brightened, indicator needles jumped to life, a couple of computers beeped and began their reboot, and, most amazing of all, the familiar hum of the Unicorn’s mighty turbines returned. The men jumped in unison when a shaky voice crackled over the intercom.
“Hello… anybody,” it pleaded, balancing precariously on the edge of hysteria. “This is Thompson. Can anybody hear? Oh, God, please don’t make me be alone!”
Mitchell ran to the com. “What’s going on back there?”
“Captain?” Thompson cried.
“Where are you?”
“Auxiliary power with Sinclair,” came the reply. “He’s pretty bad off. I don’t think he’s going to…” Again the voice trailed away.
“On my way,” Doc Brady called, and he headed for the door.
“No!” came the shrieking reply from Thompson. “You can’t!” Doc turned back to his companions, all of them frozen by the sheer desperation of the wail.
The prospect of one of his men, reputably the finest crew ever assembled, losing control, enraged Mitchell. “You had better explain yourself!” he barked into the microphone.
“Flood, sir,” Thompson answered evenly. “Everything between the gym and auxiliary power is underwater. You crack the hatch to forward barracks and you’ll flood the front of the ship, too.”
“The crew!” Mitchell cried. “What about my crew?”
Thompson’s inevitable response stuck like a dagger in Mitchell’s heart. “Dead, sir. Everyone’s dead-they’ve got to be-except for me and Sinclair and you guys in front.”
Once again the survivors were reminded of the hopelessness of their situation. Eight men, six on the bridge up front, two in back, with fifty feet of flooded rooms between them.
“Seems we’re in trouble,” Corbin said offhandedly.
But Mitchell couldn’t view things that way. He put this situation into the perspective of one more challenge, probably the greatest he would ever face. His entire life, from city streets to the merchant marine to his naval commission, had been one continuous fight. He had done more than survive, he had become a leader. “Stow it, Corbin!” he growled. “We’ve got a job to do.” He motioned at Billy and Del. “I want those two ready to work tomorrow.”