It was more than that, though. The doctor in me — the person who made up most of who I was, I realized — wanted to take the Serpent apart and see its physical machinery. Healing a broken bone in less than a day… damn! That kind of process could lend itself to study for years. And how did the Korean researchers discover how to augment a person’s intelligence? I knew most of that information was in the file Campbell had been reading to me. But I wanted to roll up my sleeves and dig it out of the Serpent’s cells myself.
OK, then, add curiosity to the mix.
Tagging behind it was its distant relative, competitive spirit. That was the best way I could label it. This situation on the Dragon was a mystery, and my job was to solve it. And I wanted to know—had to know — what had happened onboard the submarine before we got here. The faded, grainy movie was playing on a loop in my head, the blank spots mocking me.
My guesswork sketched in scenes, however, providing a storyboard for the mayhem that had taken place.
Start with a close-up of the biohazard symbol on the refrigerator door. Pull back until we can see the whole thing. Then, with a reptilian hiss, the door cracks open, releasing trickles of water vapor into the sub’s dull atmosphere. A hand reaches through the crack. Still shots show a crewman cowering in fear. An officer barking orders. Sailors rushing to confront the beast, which tosses them aside like wadded-up pieces of paper. A different officer — Lee — watches his hands tremble as he twists the valves that will send water streaming into the battery compartment. He hopes the desperate move will lay the Serpent low.
But he failed. We knew that, now, beyond a doubt.
Blinking, I hauled myself out of my imagination. Yes, a desire to solve the mystery, to figure out whodunit and why it was done, was pushing me as well.
The last emotion I could sort out from the background of my thoughts was anger. It still tugged at me, cultivating resentment and doubt wherever it could.
I was angry that Larsen had lied to me. He had treated me like a teenager who couldn’t see what was good for her. With such a flimsy plan! That was insulting, as welclass="underline" the idea that he thought he could fool me with his moronic fabrication.
Of course, when he needed something examined, wanted clues gleaned from the crumpled bodies of his men, he had no qualms about bringing me out of my cell. He had reduced my surroundings to one room, had limited my investigation to one long conversation. He was a prick. My resolve to torpedo him in my reports to Patterson and Charlie solidified.
I realized, too, that I was angry about being here at all. There wasn’t any rationality behind this fury; I was just upset that I was stuck in an underwater prison surrounded by death, endless questions and a killer. I had a beautiful home and a safe bed, and that was where I belonged now.
The minutiae of everyday life called out from a place deep inside me. I wanted to see early morning sunlight kissing the cherry blossoms in my backyard as I made breakfast. I wanted to lie on my sofa and read a worn paperback with a glass of wine on the brass-trimmed coffee table next to me. I wanted to worry about meeting someone new, about keeping a doctor’s appointment, about remembering to call my brother or my mom. Even the lingering ache of a failed relationship was a familiar friend whose company I missed.
I had spent ten years at the CIA, applying as a freshly minted psychiatrist. Two years doing profiling. The rest reconstructing death scenes. In the middle, for about three years-two years, eleven months, eighteen days, I knew the dates and had not been able to forget them-I had dated, lived with and agreed to marry Tom Jenkins, a field agent I met on assignment. Two years ago, on June 11-another date I had failed to erase from my memory — Tom had told me over dinner that we had grown apart. And he left. There was no pretense of trying to remain friends. The few men I dated after that, I was sure, could feel the sliver of distrust wedged inside me.
Fucking hell, why had I become so introspective? I couldn’t remember ever immersing myself in my thoughts like this before, trying to find answers within them.
But I knew why. Glancing around the room I was sitting in provided ample explanation. There was no exterior world to focus on, no windows to look out of, no yard to pace in. My universe had been compressed from a place with a sky and a horizon to the interior of a steel tube.
The longer I stayed in it, the greater that compression became. From the entire sub, to the upper deck, to one compartment, to one room, and now to myself. I had reduced the totality of my existence to my own consciousness.
The epistemology of it all was fascinating. I wanted to let myself be swept away by the rumination. But the documents and evidence strewn across the table’s glossy surface wouldn’t allow me.
I had to focus on the stark, tangible situation that confronted us. A Serpent on the loose needed to be stopped, maybe killed, then studied. A scenario needed to be constructed to explain why twenty-eight Koreans lay dead in the Dragon's belly, with two more sprawled on its upper deck. And the keys to all of it lay here, in front of me, dependent on my ability to fit them together.
I considered closing the door, then decided against it. The contrast between the hallway’s uneven, shadowy ambiance and the mess room’s brilliance offered the only reminder that there was more to life than just four gray walls.
Pulling all the evidence within arm’s reach, I leaned over the table, trying to see the pattern that would make everything clear.
VIII
The shots made me jump.
There were three of them, pop-pop-pop, the sound made muffled and distant by the boat’s steel walls. As I sat there, immobile, my senses quivering at attention, they were followed by a long burst of automatic fire.
Then silence.
The shooting didn’t just die away-it vanished, leaving no echoes behind. I wanted to hear shouting, yells of victory, but there were none. Was that the hammering of combat boots running along the metal deck?
I waited for someone to walk through the doorway and tell me what had happened. I tried not to let my brain invent horrible, deadly explanations.
But it became too much. Standing, I thrust my head into the hall, first looking forward-nothing-and then aft. Through the hatch to the control room, I could make out feet scuffing about, and I crouched to see more.
The room’s aft door still was closed. There was one… no, there were two SEALs in the compartment. Both had their rifles unlimbered and were facing the sealed hatch, but they didn’t seem panicked. I felt the alarm begin to subside in my chest.
One of the men was Grimm, his nose jutting from his face like a sail. The other was a stockier SEAL with a Mediterranean complexion whom I’d heard referred to as “Chief.” He wore braces, and the bridge of his nose was irregular, almost jagged-I couldn’t tell whether it was genetic or the result of a fist.
Neither was doing anything different from what SEALs, at least those I had observed, did when they were waiting for something to happen. Or maybe they had been ordered to watch the door and blast whatever came through it.
They didn’t even look at each other, just kept staring at the hatch. It didn’t seem as if either had seen me.
“Do you think we should…” the chief said, but Grimm crushed the rest of his question with one curt word.
“No.”
I also had wanted to shush the man. My ears were the only way I could tell whether we were the victors or just the remaining victims.
A hatch clanged. Both SEALs flinched, but neither repositioned himself or lowered his weapon. I could see Grimm adjusting his grip on his rifle.