“Ramirez?”
“That’s sure what they thought. And they assumed we were in on it together — the two Navy guys aligned against the two Alliance officers. So she snapped, and here I am.”
Pete hesitated for a moment. “I think I killed Ramirez,” he said.
“Jesus, Pete, really?”
“I woke up with a gun in my hand, and he was dead.” He looked at his feet, unable to face the captain. “I guess that means that one of us, me or Ramirez, was a traitor.”
McCallister shook his head again. “I don’t know what happened, Pete. But I do know this: those two maniacs are the only traitors. And god help us with them in charge.”
Pete looked into Finn’s eyes, and believed him. “I’ll get you out of there,” he said.
“Please do,” said McCallister. “But don’t let it get in the way of the mission.”
“The mission?”
“We have to get that cure,” he said. “Whoever finds it first will control everything. We have to make sure we get to it before anyone else does. I have no idea what’s going on up there,” he said, pointing upward. “Eris Island may be the last piece of land the Alliance holds. It should be — it’s a goddamn fortress surrounded by ten thousand drones. But if we can get the cure, and secure it for the Alliance, then we win.”
“I’ll get you out of there,” Pete said again. He started looking around for whatever implement had been used to bolt the grid in place at McCallister’s feet.
“It’s in that locker…” said McAllister, sticking a finger through the grate and pointing.
Pete opened it and saw a large wrench. He started to get it out.
There was a sudden whoosh below their feet.
“Are they shooting torpedoes?” asked the captain, recognizing the sound, alarm in his eyes. “What are they shooting at?”
“No,” said Pete after a moment, realization setting in. “Getting rid of Ramirez’s body.”
Their ears popped as pressure changed in the boat as a result of the shot. Then they heard footsteps on the forward ladder, and locked eyes.
“I can wait,” said McCallister.
“I’ll be back,” whispered Pete, returning the wrench to the locker.
“Hold on,” said Finn. “Before you go,” he pulled a key from around his neck, “take this. It’ll give you access to everything in memory on the central computer. There’s a key slot in the deck right by the main console in control. No one even knows it exists, it’s unique to Polaris submarines. I designed it myself.”
Pete took the key and looked at it. It was a simple, flat steel key with no identifying markings. “Old-fashioned,” he said.
“Yeah, old-fashioned. Like me,” he said. “Now, get out of here before anyone sees you talking to your traitorous captain.”
Pete walked away quickly and hung the key around his neck. As he did, he was surprised to find another key already hanging there, this one painted red.
CHAPTER NINE
Pete walked forward, distracted by all the new information, and found himself at the door to his stateroom.
Ramirez’s body was gone. A large red stain streaked against the bulkhead and trailed out the door. Pete had walked through it, he saw to his revulsion, and the soles of his shoes were now stained by his friend’s blood. Holmes had dragged the body out of the room, pulling him across the floor like a hyena dragging a carcass across the plain.
Trying to avoid the blood, Pete sat down on the small chair at the stateroom’s desk and pulled out the tablet computer that he’d gotten from Moody. He turned it on, hesitated, and then opened the file that contained his service jacket.
Doctorate in engineering. Cum laude from Georgia Tech. A list of military commendations. Marital status: widower. No children.
He scanned backward in time, flipping through the years with the tip of his finger, going further back into his own, unknown history. He saw that he had been an overachiever, but not one without a blemish. He’d been reprimanded lightly for a bar fight in Tokyo. Worse: he’d been demoted for a time for another altercation, this one with a superior at Eris Island. Clearly, his talents had been desperately needed by the Alliance, or they never would have tolerated him.
At the thought of Eris Island, he skipped ahead to that tour of duty, which had lasted for almost a year. When he got to that part of his biography, though, he reached an electronic dead end. The tablet read CLASSIFIED and wouldn’t let him proceed any further.
He sighed and looked around his stateroom for additional clues about who he was. He identified the desk that was his — it was mostly filled with military documents, but there were a few personal items. A worn novel by Stephen King. He flipped it open and saw an opening passage that had been highlighted:
Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.
He picked up a digital music player, but the battery was dead; even his own taste in music remained a mystery to him. Above his desk there was a coconut that had been carved into a woman with obscenely large breasts. On the bottom of the coconut-woman were etched the words BEAUTIFUL HAWAII. Someone had drawn onto its chest with a black marker, like a nametag on a uniform: POLARIS.
He inventoried the information he had assembled about himself: it wasn’t much. He searched his mind for more than what the paltry artifacts in his stateroom and the scant information in his service jacket gave him. The effort soon exhausted him.
He stood and climbed up into his rack, needing to lie down even if he couldn’t sleep. There he found something that contained more information about his life than everything he’d seen since regaining consciousness.
Taped directly above him in the short distance between his mattress and the overhead was a photo of a woman: he knew instantly she was his wife. Her name came back to him suddenly with a power that took his breath away. Pamela.
She was blond and athletic, with a smile that electrified him. In the picture, she was dressed in hiking clothes, laughing at the camera, her hair tied back in a ponytail. A green tropical forest closed in behind her, not another person in sight. She was standing by a sign at a trailhead that read: KEALIA TRAIL. Pete knew he had taken the picture; he could remember the moment. He could smell the sweetness of the flowers, the tang of the rotting mangoes, the cleansing sea air. He felt an incalculable sense of loss.
Soon he couldn’t look at it anymore, the pain was too great. He turned over and fell into deep sleep.
He had a vivid nightmare about the mutiny. He was fighting in the stateroom, and he knew he was fighting for his life. It was dark, and the quarters were so close that he could barely see whom he was fighting as they struggled. His opponent was strong and fast, but Pete soon had the edge and began to wear him down. Finally he got behind his adversary and put him in a choke hold, just as he had done to the doctor. But this time he didn’t let up. He held his grip until the body beneath him slackened and died.
He rolled the dead man over, and looked into his own face.
He awoke with a start. A piece of paper, folded in half, had been placed on his chest while he slept. He opened it.
MEET ME IN SHAFT ALLEY—0600
He looked at his watch: he had ten minutes. He didn’t know whom the message was from, or what it meant, but the rendezvous might provide more answers. He took a final glance at the photo of his wife, and slid out of bed. He tried not to walk in blood as he exited, but there was too much to avoid.