The four of them slid out from under the after edge of the spinnaker and into the forest of hiding places. Guns at the ready, they worked their way forward toward that avenue of clear foredeck concealed from the bridge by the pipes and the walkway above them. Then they ran forward in single file, lowered themselves down to the main deck, and plunged into that avenue of cover. There was no point in being shy about their movements here. It was highly unlikely that they would be spotted. They ran forward quickly, therefore, careful only to pace themselves to avoid arriving exhausted at the other end.
The pipes ended twenty feet in front of the bridgehouse. Under the last of the cover they paused again. Then Richard gestured and the two teams went in opposite directions. Each team consisted of two men identically equipped: one man with a Kalashnikhov and a machine gun, the other with a Kalashnikhov and a radio to keep in contact with the other team and with Katapult. Ten seconds later, Richard flattened himself against the wall outside the port door onto A deck. He had rounded his back carefully so that the Kalashnikhov slung over his shoulder made no sound against the white-painted metal. His mouth was open so that he could breathe silently. His eyes followed Doc’s balletic movements as he whirled and crouched, covering the door with his gun. Richard held his Heckler and Koch MP-5 ready in his right hand and grabbed the handle with his left. A nod to Weary and he swung it wide, and they both leaped over the high metal sill, into the corridor, side by side.
It was bright. Cool. Almost silent.
The generators were throbbing. The power was on. Weary slapped his radio to his mouth. Pushed SEND. “IN!” he whispered.
“In,” it said in return: Martyr’s voice, whispering in answer. There was a stairwell immediately to their left. Richard went up first, freezing to a crouch in the angle of the turn, MP-5 machine gun pointing up. Weary went past him like a ghost, freezing just in sight above, rifle pointing up. Richard ran past him into the threshold of the B deck corridor. He thrust his head out at foot level. Look left. Right. Nothing. Out he went into the corridor itself, whirling round at once, MP-5 pointing up. Weary slipped past him noislessly.
C deck was empty as well. The doors to all the cabins and suites stood ajar.
Next deck up was the bridge-deck. There had to be a watch here. He checked the safety and tightened his hold on both the machine gun’s grips. Arms straight, letting the gun lead, he went. Fast and silent up to the first angle. Crouch. Freeze. Empty steps, linoleum covered, reaching up to a corner. And suddenly Weary was on that corner, still, Kalashnikhov rifle pointing up.
Bridge-deck corridor. Left. Right. Empty. Silent. Doors ajar. Bridge door opposite. All along the rear of the bridge, windows onto this corridor. At each end of those windows, doors out onto the bridge and bridgewings. Ajar. Not a movement. Not a whisper.
Weary at his shoulder. One meaningful glance. Weary nodded: understood. Off they went, one each way. Pause at the bridge door looking in. Instruments, chart table, nothing more. Whisper of sound. Stirring of air. Weary gone out onto the starboard bridge-wing. Count of three.
“Three!” said Richard to himself as he rolled in. The room was empty. He stood up. Weary came in off the starboard bridge-wing and they both ran left, guns at the ready. But the port bridge-wing was empty, too.
Weary put the radio to his mouth. “Bridge empty,” he whispered, and waited.
Richard stood behind him, eyes slitted against the glare of the sun reflecting off the water, looking down the whole length of Prometheus’s deck to that irregular white patch made by Katapult’s spinnaker on the forecastle head. Not a stir of motion. Not a flicker. Nothing.
And yet…
“Engine room empty,” whispered Martyr’s voice from Weary’s radio.
Richard slapped him on the shoulder and gestured with his thumb: going down. They moved off like a ghost and a shadow.
They used the same routine going down they had employed coming up. At the A deck level they deviated, plunging back into the rear sections of the bridge, silently exploring the warren of corridors that led back to the recreation areas overlooking the afterdeck with its swimming pool and helipad. Where the gymnasium was.
The gym was constructed so as to extend the rear of the bridge-house into a balcony looking aft. It had four doors. Two opened down onto the afterdeck by the pool. And the helipad where Prometheus’s little Westland Wasp was anchored. Two opened in from the bridge corridor. All of these doors had glass pannels in the top. So that Martyr and Malik coming in from the deck knew a second after Richard and Weary that it was empty. The four of them stood facing each other in the deserted room, looking about silently. The big room showed every evidence of recent occupation. There was bedding on the floor. There were tables and chairs. The ship’s televisions had been moved in here, each with its video player below. But there were no people. Richard looked up, vividly recalling the sound of automatic fire that had echoed behind his last departure from the ship. Sure enough, the panels of the suspended ceiling were splintered, scored, and pocked with bullet holes. But no other damage had been done.
They paused in the gym until Richard had finished that first, rapid inspection, then he led them to somewhere less exposed for a conference. Close to the gym was the doctor’s surgery. Unlike the exercise area, it had no windows. One thick-glassed porthole was the only way of seeing in or out, and the door was solid. Here they grouped, gulping in great lungfuls of air, stilling muscles all quivering with tension, whispering a conversation between ragged gasps. Three of them stood in the middle of the room while Weary stood guard at the door.
“Empty!” said Richard first. “Abandoned! Did you see any sign of life?”
“Not a thing. Not a soul.” Martyr shook his head in wonderment. Then he flicked the SEND button on his radio. “No one aboard, Chris. She’s deserted.”
“Where are they all?” Salah looked almost spooked. “There ought to be fifty-two people aboard. But not a whisper. Not a sign.”
“Not quite,” said Weary quietly. “There’s someone here all right. Or has been, recently.” He slid downward, his back against the doorframe, eyes busy through the inch he had left open. He put his left hand on the floor palm down, then lifted it like an American Indian saying “How.”
It was covered in blood. Liquid. Oozing. Fresh.
Chapter Seventeen
“No one aboard,” said Chris in wonderment. “All that performance on the afterdeck to an empty theater.” She laughed ruefully and rose, flicking the radio to OFF. She stretched and Robin eyed her lithe form enviously.
“I think I’ll go up and join them. You want to come, Robin?”
“D’you think I could get up that chain with my allday morning sickness?” Robin sounded uncharacteristically low since her earlier fright.
“Sure you could,” said Chris bracingly. “The men got themselves up there so it has to be a cinch. Tie her up tight and let’s go. You know if we stay down here we’ll just get bitched at for not having put the spinnaker away.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You know I am.”
It only took them a moment to dress — shirts and jeans over bikinis, and docksiders on bare feet. They made Katapult fast to one massive link, then climbed onto the chain itself.
Like the men, half an hour earlier, they arrived on the forecastle head under the light awning of the spinnaker. But, unlike the men, they saw no need to use it for cover. And no need at all to go creeping among pipes when there was a catwalk convenient to their feet. “It is odd, though,” Chris was saying as they started along the narrow path above the pipes. “Where could they all have gone?”