“I like it,” the chief said. “Is she going to be OK, though?”
“I’m fine,” I answered for Larsen. “I’ve got a weapon, I know how to use it, and if it makes it to the doorway here, I’m going to pop it as it climbs through.”
“Well, then. You want me to get the rest of the guys in here?” The chief stood up, got a nod from Larsen and climbed up the ladder and out of the room.
“You cool, Ridder?” the lieutenant asked.
“Sure. I’m always cool.” I had no argument on that one. But then he turned to me. “And don’t shoot me in the back.”
“Jesus, that’s the least of your problems. Get in the officer’s mess and figure out the ideal position to hide,” Larsen said. After the seaman had left, he continued. “You stay cool, too, all right? I know you’re not going to panic and shoot one of us. But I don’t want you to worry that we’re not on our way. We’re covering you.”
“I know. I don’t have any desire to be the one shooting at this thing. And I trust you.”
Grimm and two other SEALs interrupted our moment by clambering down the stepladder into the compartment. One was the black man who had been stationed up here right after they boarded the sub. Jakes. The other’s name was… something Hispanic. Rodriguez?
“Reyes, we’re going hunting,” Larsen said.
Yeah, that was it. Reyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d forgotten a name so quickly.
“That’s good news, boss, ’cuz I got a fine, government-issued rifle I’ve been itching to use,” Reyes replied in an accent that was part street, part Spanish.
Larsen gave his spiel, again using the football analogy. I was a casual sports fan, but I knew what he was talking about, and it was a perfect parallel to our plan. There were no questions after he finished describing how dead and bullet-riddled the Serpent was going to be when this was over.
“So when do we go?” Jakes asked.
“No point in waiting, Seaman,” Grimm said. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Assemble in the electrical control room, and no talking,” Larsen said. “We don’t want it to have the slightest idea that we’re about to kick its ass. I’ll be in there in a minute after I brief Campbell.”
He watched the others leave, then turned back to me.
“You sure you don’t have any problems with this?”
“Problems? What problems would I have? I’m just sitting here waiting for a homicidal super-soldier to come after me, and I can’t think of a single reason why that would bother me.” The expression on Larsen’s face told me he didn’t realize my sarcasm was good-natured. “No, relax. It’s not anything I’d normally sign up to do, but I know-just like you do-that this plan is our best shot. I’m ready, no reservations. Let’s do it.”
He smiled. “Fuckin’ A, Doctor.” He held the expression for a moment, then turned to leave. But as he was about to climb through the door, he called over his shoulder: “Next time I see you, I’m going to shake your hand over this thing’s steaming corpse. You’re all right.” Then he left without waiting for a reply.
Glancing around, I tried to find the best place to position myself. As far forward as I could get, for sure. No way was I going to be near the hatch. I settled for standing between the torpedo tubes’ loading doors, trying to ignore the pressure-suited body Jakes had shoved under the port-side torpedo racks.
All these torpedoes… damn, that was irony. Each could rip apart a warship and send it plummeting to the ocean floor. Yet they were useless against our foe, unless we wanted to blow ourselves up in the process. The torpedoes still radiated danger, but it seemed small in comparison to the more immediate threat roaming the ship.
I had become accustomed to this environment, I realized as I peered inward. Here I was in a submarine. So what? No one was at the wheel. What did I care? We were on the sub, and that wasn’t negotiable. Meanwhile, we had a job to do.
It was as if Larsen were in my head giving me a pep talk.
I was listening for a hatch to slam, some indication that the game was afoot. But I realized after fifteen minutes or so that they were leaving the hatches open. So the next thing I heard would be gunfire, if the plan unfolded as we hoped.
Crouching down, I could see the entire doorway to the officers’ mess. But no sign of Ridder. I guessed that was the way it should be.
And Campbell. Boy, was that a tough assignment. I still was amazed he could think straight, let alone read, let alone stand guard with an assault rifle. But, I reflected, he didn’t have to hit anything. He was just a human tripwire.
What was he thinking while sitting there — lying there? — on the coarse, gray blanket, staring at the doorway? The same things I was, I imagined. Trying to focus on the task at hand without letting the details freak him out. That was my strategy. And it was easier to do than worry about what might happen to me. Or to him.
I pondered hiding the pistol behind my back. But why bother? I doubted the Serpent would be deterred by the sight of a gun in my hand.
It would take actual bullets to dissuade it, and I was ready to deliver them. Let’s see… yep, there was one in the chamber, I saw as I worked the slide and ejected an unfired cartridge into my palm. I loaded it back in the magazine.
Ready to go. Ready to fight.
Nothing to do but wait.
I remembered playing hide-and-seek with my brother when we were growing up. The woods behind our house were overgrown, choked with bushes and vines. Perfect, in other words, for two kids to frolic in and be fretted over by their mother when they came home covered in poison ivy.
I had been… eight? Something like that. I felt swept away by the waiting and anticipation that I had felt then, as I felt them now. Hiding in leafy, green undergrowth down in a gully. Knowing that if I just waited long enough, Stephen would come by, maybe humming to himself like he always did when he was thinking.
I was never afraid in the woods. My brother and I spent countless summer hours wandering in them, alone and together, charting the topography of our childhood playground. In the woods, I discovered a refuge from my mom’s sadness, which never seemed to fade. It was also where I first realized that I could predict, without understanding why, exactly what tactics Stephen would use when I hid from him.
When I was a kid, while all my friends were having sleepovers and beating on pinatas at each other’s birthday parties, I was begging Mom to let me camp out in the woods. The trees and greenery were safe. Serene. Distant. I could pick my way through them and discover new truths, always confident that I could return to where I started. And it was the only place where Mom felt comfortable with me and Stephen being out of her sight. Whenever I went on a date in high school, and when Stephen left to go to college, her face-and I’m sure she didn’t realize this-sagged into a caricature of despair, just for a moment. We both understood why, but it was wrenching to see. I’ve never looked in the mirror and witnessed that expression on my own face. That was another reason I enjoyed hiding in the woods.
An odd, metallic report echoed through my reverie. I raised the .45.
The .45?
Oh, shit. My heart began hammering against my ribs as the verdant forest was replaced by steel. Leaves became rivets, branches became wires and pipes, and I no longer was a little girl enjoying the thrill of an innocent game.
I still was standing up, my nostrils flared at the scents of growth and rot that now were stale sweat and grease. Blinking, I looked around, listened. How long had I disappeared into that daydream?