He, Hunt and a burly, bearded man in a seaman’s sweater were bound to the legs and arms of the chairs. Two surgeons stood in front of them, disguised in red crew waterproofs but identified by Ingrams fitted with long tubular suppressors.
‘You walked into that one, Cain.’ Zuiden’s grin. ‘Thanks for delivering the pope.’ He tried to switch on overhead lights. They didn’t work.
Cain didn’t recognise the second man — broken nose, red hair — probably one of the senior surgeons recalled from assignments around the world. ‘Bastards. So what are you waiting for?’
‘Vanqua wants a word.’ Zuiden’s cruel smile. ‘That’s why we didn’t retire you yesterday.’
‘Big of you. Where is he?’
‘Still at Alpha. I expect he’ll tell us to fly you back. Then he’s going to ask you some questions while I make sure you talk.’
‘Questions?’
The red-haired man was happy to explain. ‘Department D files are altered. Things don’t square. We want to know what Rhonda set up.’
‘Why ask me? I’m out of the loop.’
‘You were her crony,’ Zuiden said, then pointed to Hunt. ‘She was, too. We’ll get it out of one of you.’
‘Pirates.’ The heavily accented voice of the burly seaman. ‘What you do with my crew?’
‘We’re minding them, Captain,’ Zuiden said, ‘while we collect our property. We’ve got no beef with your operation.’
‘You destroy expedition, dumb shithead.’
‘Bullshit. I’m letting your officer of the watch and the airship crew get on with their work.’
‘You know half of fuck-all. Bergs to west. Temperature drop. Wind rise. We hit pressure ridge — airship is wreck. I have to be on bridge.’
‘Tough.’ Zuiden turned to his offsider. ‘Watch them. I’m going to call Alpha.’ He left.
The carrot-head pulled around the remaining chair and sat facing them, the sub-machine-gun across his knee.
‘So how’s the genocide tracking?’ Cain said.
The man grinned. ‘We getting to you, Cain? That’s good.’
Cain tested the strength of the old wooden-armed chair. The right arm was slightly loose on its upright but he couldn’t do much with that. He looked across at Hunt who was watching for the slightest diversion.
A knock at the quarter-open door. A man’s deferential face peered around it and gaped at the trussed form of his captain.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ The surgeon aimed the Ingram. ‘Get in here.’
The crewman came in reluctantly. He carried an electrician’s kit and, outside his overalls, wore a belt-pouch holding screwdrivers and wire cutters.
When the surgeon challenged him again, he shrugged as if he didn’t speak English. The captain muttered to him in Russian and the surgeon told the captain to shut up, then jerked the gun at the wall. ‘Over there.’
The wary crewman placed his tools on the floor and stood against the inboard wall.
The captain drawled on in Russian, ignoring the carrot-head who levelled the gun at him and swore.
The sailor’s blink rate rose. The two seamen were up to something. Cain tensed, ready.
Then the crewman snatched a dart from the board behind him and hurled it at the surgeon. He was good — just south of a bull’s-eye. The spike flashed across the room and buried itself in the surgeon’s right lower eyelid up to the brass.
A roar of pain from the carrot-head as he plucked it from his face, then the crewman was on him, gripping a screwdriver like a dirk.
This was the best it would get.
Cain wrenched the right arm from the chair’s front upright and thrust his hand forward until the rope around his wrist slid off the end. He lunged until the chair toppled, grabbed for the tool-box.
Hunt and the captain were yelling.
The Ingram popped. The subsonic round and suppressor made the loudest sound the slap of the bolt.
The crewman staggered against the door, heading for the great dry dock in the sky.
Cain cut his second wrist free with a Stanley knife — expecting to be shot. But the surgeon was on one knee, a screwdriver planted in his belly and a hand to his bloodied eye.
Cain lunged, got his arm inside the gun before the half-blinded, grunting man brought it up. As he shoved it wide, bullets punctured overhead pipes.
Hot steam sprayed down as Cain cut the man’s throat.
He retrieved the Ingram, used the dripping blade to slash his ankle bonds then free the others.
The captain lurched up, rubbing his wrists. ‘Now we get these shitheads good.’
‘How many left?’ Cain grabbed the Ingram.
The captain shrugged. ‘Eight? Ten maybe?’
Hunt frisked the surgeon and found another clip while the captain unlocked a cabinet and produced a pistol of his own.
Cain checked the Ingram, caught the spare mag tossed by Hunt. He gripped the forward webbing hand-strap that formed a rudimentary fore-grip. ‘Okay, I go first. Back me up.’
Hunt’s grim smile. ‘Dentists forever.’
The outside passage. Clear.
The captain pointed up a ladder. ‘Bridge.’
‘Has this ship got a chopper?’ Cain asked him.
‘One. Is taking equipment on contract to scientist at Hally base.’
‘So there’s just the one helo in the hangars? Theirs?’
‘Yes. They make us stow it to hide.’
They entered the chartroom, walked through to the bridge. The setup reminded him of a frigate — two raised chairs with readouts and a miniature engine telegraph between them. One display showed a high-res view of the pack ice ahead, probably coming from a camera on the tower. Two men were taped to the chairs and had tape over their mouths.
The captain muttered, ‘Steering station, starboard wing.’
Cain looked along the glassed-in projection. It had a duplicate console at the end where an officer was conning the ship. The surgeon minding him was halfway along the wing, lighting a cigarette. He turned.
Too late.
Cain fired and took him down.
As Hunt retrieved the man’s gun, the captain swore with satisfaction and started ripping the tape off the crew. ‘Leave you with it,’ Hunt said.
The captain nodded, lifted the bridge phone to his ear.
He and Hunt descended the musty creaking levels of the ship, feeling the engine throb, hearing the ice grinding the hull. They inched down a final ladder until they stood on thick black rubber.
He said, ‘Looks like the main deck. Machinery spaces below here.’
They grouped at the next corner, covered the new angle fast.
A red-clad figure, Ingram lowered, climbing from an access trunk.
Hunt fired.
The man crumpled against the metal lip.
A dull crack echoed from below. Not a gun. The hull — under stress.
She went forward, kicked the body down the ladder out of sight.
They doubled back along the fore — aft passageway beside the starboard hangar, brushed past a frightened sailor wheeling propane cylinders strapped to a handcart. Loose items in the tool-tray under it shuddered and chattered. The general noise of the ship was giving them cover enough.
At the hangar doorway, they did the one-two entry routine. Just the pilot in there, his back to them, examining the Sikorsky’s tail rotor.
Hunt shot him and, when he collapsed, Cain sprayed the tail blades until they splintered then emptied more into the rotor hub and the final drive gearbox.
A yell and firing from the passageway.
Cain was at the door. Too late.
Hunt was down. But she’d drilled the surgeon who’d done it. He lay gut-smacked on the deck, but alive. His second burst sang off the secured-back metal door near Cain’s head.
Cain shrank back, held the gun around the edge and sprayed the deck.