X grabbed Sloan’s wrist and said, “Lieutenant, if something does happen to me and I don’t make it, tell Michael I want him to take care of Miles.”
“You’re going to make it,” Sloan said.
He gripped her wrist harder. “Just promise.”
She glared at him and then nodded. “Okay, I promise.”
He let go of her wrist and reached down to Miles. The dog licked his hand, and X closed his eyes and the let darkness swallow him again.
“Oh, and, Lieutenant, watch out for bird lady,” X said. He opened his eyes, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “I don’t want her slitting my throat while I sleep.”
“You have my word, sir.”
He looked out the window at the warship one last time, but he was no longer thinking about Moreto. He was thinking about Ada, alone on the ocean.
FOUR
The massive radioactive ship’s rusted bow plowed through the water. Ada had fled when she first saw the vessel heading straight at her small boat.
Panicking, she cranked the small motor, burning through some of the gas. She had been convinced it was Cazadores, defectors, or maybe unknown pirates.
But the rusted monster was nothing more than a ghost ship, drifting aimlessly with no one at the helm.
Looking at the vessel in the distance, she confirmed again: it was real and abandoned.
From what she could see earlier, no one was on the weather deck, and the command center appeared dark.
As the vessel drifted farther and farther across the horizon, she had decided to pursue it, hoping to salvage something for her journey.
Her little boat was now closing in on the ghost ship’s stern, near enough that she could see several faded letters, though she couldn’t make out a word or name.
She checked her wrist monitor for radiation levels. It was in the yellow-zone range—not immediately deadly, but enough to pose a threat if there was long-term exposure.
Still, she wanted to search the ship for anything useful, and she could use a break from bobbing up and down like a bathtub toy.
If she was really lucky, there might be a weapon, although she doubted she would find any gas or ammunition that would work.
As she closed in, she began to question her decision.
Suck it up, Ada. You got nothing to lose.
“Except your life,” she said aloud.
She pushed down on the throttle. The engine rumbled, and smoke billowed from the little motor.
If there was anyone out there, they would definitely hear her coming, but she would never catch up using the oars.
With the engine at full throttle, it took only a few minutes to catch up. She came alongside the stern and glanced up, struck again by the sheer size of the ship.
She wasn’t sure what it had been used for, but it wasn’t a fishing vessel or one of the cruise ships that had carried thousands of tourists on vacation. It didn’t look military, either, though it had a crane and a domed structure on the deck, along with multiple satellite dishes.
Perhaps it was a scientific research vessel.
She drew parallel with the starboard hull, chugging along under broken porthole windows festooned with dried vegetation. More branches clung to the rail far above her.
She took one hand off the wheel to pick up a coiled rope. The remains of a rusted ladder hung from the hull just ahead, stretching all the way down to a waterline marked by barnacles and a pink mosslike growth.
After checking the rusted rungs, she decided to tether her boat to something else. She motored along, scanning for a way to secure her craft.
Two steel booms from a broken crane hung over the rail near the bow. Both appeared to be sheared off and hung over the hull like broken arms.
It struck her then. The ship had been moored at some port, where vegetation had overgrown it at one point, only to die off after the vessel broke free and was swept out to sea.
Perhaps the ship had slipped its moorings in a yellow or red zone and was still radioactive. She hoped that was the case and that nothing on board was causing the readings.
She steered around the broken booms, which hung low enough to block the way. Once past them, she pushed the throttle and motored toward the bow.
She was steering closer to the ship when a wave slapped her boat right into the towering steel hull. The boat caromed off, and, for a beat, she thought she would capsize.
The stacked gear inside her enclosure clanked to the deck behind her, but she kept her gaze on the water and her hands on the wheel.
Heart pounding, she steadied her craft and again got parallel with the ghost ship. The massive rusting hulk drifted on as if nothing had happened, the only evidence a patch of barnacles scuffed away.
Her boat had sustained a large dent on the bow and a loose stanchion.
For another fleeting moment, she considered abandoning her plan and just heading back to her route. That would be the safe thing to do. The smart thing. But she had come this far and wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. There could be something useful on the ship, and she could use the rest. And as long as she wore her suit, she would be protected from the minimal radiation.
Having found no better spot to tether the boat, she steered back toward the ladder, waiting for a calm stretch. Then, holding her coiled rope in one hand, she swung the grappling iron at the ladder.
The first throw fell short, and the second bounced off the ladder’s rail. On the third toss, a fluke caught and wedged between a rung and the rail. Tying her end to the bow, she snugged the grappling hook tight, then pulled over to the hull. The rope felt secure, but she decided to run a stern line as well since she didn’t really know what she was doing.
After securing the stern line, she turned off the engine, picked up her rifle, and moved back into her shelter to grab her gear. Three crates had fallen over, but nothing appeared broken. She would clean it up later.
She put on her backpack, then slung the rifle strap over her shoulder. But as she started to leave, she felt as though something was missing.
“Oh, yeah,” she muttered, grabbing a sheathed machete and hooking it to her duty belt. It might come in handy with all that vegetation on board. Armed and equipped, she crawled out of the shelter and shut the hatch.
The hull towered like a cliff above her boat, and again she reconsidered her decision.
“Come on, Ada,” she said. “Whattaya got to lose?”
Your life.
She jumped up to grab the first rung. Her sore palms hurt like hell, but she didn’t let that stop her. She began the climb, rifle smacking against the backpack, machete slapping against her thigh.
The ladder was rusty, but the rungs seemed secure. She was halfway up before one cracked under her weight.
A yelp escaped her, but she held her grip on the ladder’s rail and pushed off the hull with her boots to keep climbing.
At the top, she poked her helmet up and looked around. Crates and rusted equipment littered the deck, and dead vines snaked through the debris.
The large domed structure in the middle of the deck had a hole in the center.
Vines cobwebbed up from the hole and spilled out the opening.
In the stern, the command tower also had foliage covering the hull. The top level was crushed, as if something big had fallen onto it.
Ada swung her legs over the railing and jumped down onto the deck. After checking that her boat was secured below, she pulled her headlamp from her backpack and strapped it around her helmet. The beam shot out like a white saber through the darkness.
The first thing she checked out was the dome structure. The wheel hatch would hardly budge at first, but she got it to turn and it finally popped open.