It was like being hit by a truck: an immense jolt and flash of light, and he lost the use of his legs and fell to the ground. But even as he crashed to the floor, barely conscious, he realized the worms had dropped from his body. Crawling, trembling all over, he zapped himself again. Then he collapsed.
He wasn’t unconscious; merely unable to use his muscles. He felt like an immense stone was on his chest, retarding his breathing. But the worms—the worms were crawling away. Fleeing him.
He lay there, trying to breathe, trying to clear his head of the millions of stars. After a moment, with an immense act of will, he managed to pull himself to his knees and crawl the length of the engine room, get to the door, climb over the metal lip, and seal it behind him.
Then he fell back on the cold steel decking and tried to get his jumping, tingling muscles back under control. It was in that moment he realized they had failed: they were never going to clear the ship of worms.
Because the worms were adapting.
62
THANK GOD, THOUGHT Gideon, that the nuke chamber was high-security and damn near impregnable. Glinn’s QBA had proven correct: the ship had descended into chaos. They had just received word that a group of mutineers had tried to take over the bridge, killed Lennart and the officer of the watch, and were now holed up in the crew quarters. They had somehow taken over the ship’s intercom and were broadcasting their message, steadily attracting converts to the cause. A group of people had tried to steal the ship’s helicopter, and even managed to get it aloft, but the AStar had only gone a quarter of a mile before spinning out of control and crashing into the sea. There were also reports that the DSV John had been stolen and launched by persons unknown. The ship was overrun with worms. Garza had just reported the loss of his remaining team and the ship’s chief engineer to a worm attack.
The people attacked by the worms, Gideon knew, were not dead, of course; they were going about their business as if normal, but all the while unconsciously doing the bidding of that thing down at the bottom of the ocean. And doing so while remaining resolutely certain their actions were justified and logical, even while they were carrying out sabotage and murder.
Inside the nuke chamber, Glinn and McFarlane, with the aid of two technicians, had used a ceiling-track winch to lift the nuke onto an electric dolly, specially built to transport it to the hangar deck for loading onto the ROV. All the electronics had checked out. Gideon had given the device a final once-over: the bomb was going to work perfectly. All that remained to do was set the timer.
Now the nuke was in a canvas sling dangling from the ceiling-track lift. Slowly, slowly, the two technicians lowered the device onto the cradle built to receive it, steadying it in gloved hands and rotating it into position.
Done.
The technicians unhooked the winch cables. Glinn went to the door and listened. Gideon could hear periodic muffled noises in the hall outside.
Glinn went into the back of the nuke chamber, unlocked a cabinet. Gideon was startled to see that it contained a small arsenal of firearms. Glinn sorted through them and removed five Colt .45 pistols in holsters, a stack of magazines, and boxes of bullets. He placed them on a worktable. “We may need to defend ourselves,” he said. “Each one of you take a sidearm and load two magazines.”
McFarlane quickly sorted through the weapons, Gideon following. The two technicians hesitated.
“Ever fire a weapon before?” Glinn asked them.
One shook his head and the other said, “I’m not sure now’s the time to start.”
Glinn leaned in. “This is no time for scruples.” He pulled a pistol from the holster, ejected the magazine, demonstrated how to insert rounds into it, slapped it back into place, and showed them how the safety worked and how to rack the initial round into the chamber.
“Both hands on the grip when you fire. Understood?” He handed a gun to each technician. “It’s a war zone out there. We need to do what it takes to get this device up to the hangar deck.”
Gideon discarded the holster and stuck a gun into his belt.
Glinn turned to the nuke sitting in the cradle. “And now we’d better disguise that.” He opened a life-preserver container—ubiquitous throughout the ship—pulled out a few preservers, and heaped them up on the nuke.
“Cover it with the tarp.”
The technicians placed the tarp over and tied it down with straps, creating a vague, canvas-covered lump.
“What’s it supposed to be?” asked Gideon.
“Chocks and dunnage,” said Glinn.
“What’s the hell’s that?”
“No one’s going to ask. Let’s go. Two in front, two behind, guns drawn and visible. Sam, you watch our rear.”
Glinn unlocked the door while one technician climbed into the seat of the motorized dolly. The nuke chamber was deep in the ship; they had to take it half the ship’s length and up three decks in order to reach the hangar.
Glinn swung open the door. The corridor was empty. They reached the elevator without incident, not running into anyone and not seeing any worms.
The elevator doors shut and Glinn pressed the button for the hangar deck.
Even before the doors opened, Gideon could hear shouting. He drew his weapon, and so did the rest.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a group of men waiting for the elevator. They, too, all had weapons—the main armory had apparently been looted—and they looked agitated.
“Hey—look who’s here,” one of them said, stepping forward. “If it isn’t Eli Glinn himself.”
There was a moment of tense silence. There were six of them, to Glinn’s five. Gideon had the distinct impression the men were heading down to the crew deck to join the mutineers.
“You’re coming with us,” the apparent ringleader said, leveling his AR-15 at Glinn.
A shot rang out and the man’s head jerked back. Then he crumpled to the floor, his assault rifle going off harmlessly. McFarlane stepped forward, smoking .45 now aimed at the man standing behind the leader. “You’re next.”
The sound of the shot seemed to shock the group into a momentary freeze. His own gun leveled, Glinn slowly stepped out of the elevator, with Gideon and McFarlane following. Glinn waved to the technicians to bring along the dolly.
The group of mutineers continued to point their weapons, but nobody fired. The ringleader lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading from the ugly wound in his head. Even as they watched, a worm began to emerge from the wound. The other five backed up, frightened and uncertain.
Glinn spoke in a strangely calm, even warm tone. “Be careful where you put your trust, gentlemen. And now we will be on our way.”
The group, sweating, moved aside and let them pass, McFarlane and Gideon keeping their weapons trained on them until they had turned a corner.
In a few minutes they came out onto the hangar deck. It was thankfully deserted, the hangar doors rolled open. The lights were already on and John was indeed missing. Glinn dismissed the two nuke technicians, telling them to return to mission control and join the teams sweeping for worms.
Standing at the far end, his bald pate shining in the sodium lights, was Patrick Brambell. He had pulled the canvas off the ROV and—inexplicably—was bashing at it with a sledgehammer.