Arctic Rising

7

Anika’s attacker had been about to stand, as were some of the other men on the uncomfortable-looking bench.

They were, she realized, quite young. Very early twenties, maybe late teens. Hardly more than boys. One of them had a patchy beard.

This crew wasn’t a group of hardened drug runners, as Anton and Yves had passed along to her. That was what the Kosatka’s crew told the navy they were, after they’d been captured.

The U.S. Navy said they’d most likely weighted and sunk their evidence after ramming her airship in the water, then ran for it, because there was nothing in the Kosatka’s holds when they found the ship. And the U.S. Navy didn’t buy the whole seasoned criminals thing either.

“A bunch of young punks, most likely first timers, who panicked,” Yves said. “That’s what everyone seems to think.”

Now Anika felt like a tightly wound spring that had snapped, pieces scattering everywhere. She’d come here taut and angry. Self-controlled, but sadness and anger torqued tight and deep within her.

These … kids, she thought.

Just scared kids.

Anton and Yves sat down on small metal chairs in front of the five drug dealers and started asking questions.

“You’re … you’re not the lawyers, then?” one of the young men asked. He looked scared.

Yves shook his head and leaned forward. “Terrorists don’t get lawyers on a U.S. Navy ship,” he said softly. “Terrorists don’t get much of anything at all.”

One of the young men leaned forward and threw up.

Anika turned around and left the stink of fear behind her.

Half an hour later Yves joined her, leaning against the rail, looking out at the Kosatka again. “Okay?” he asked.

“They’re younger than I expected,” she said.

“Young drug dealers. Young murderers.” Yves lit a delicate thin cigarette and drew in a deep breath of smoke. Exhaled. “You know … drug dealers on a street corner, they can be any age. They are still deadly people, yes?”

Anika looked over. “I’ve seen enough fourteen-year-olds with automatic rifles, Yves. I know. I was just surprised.”

Maybe she thought she’d left some of that behind in the desert. Lagos was built up. Like any other city in the world, it was its own little country deep in the canyons of its skyscrapers and municipalities. Not what foreigners thought of when she said Nigeria when they asked where she’d been born.

But up north … Up north it was all still tenuous country in scattered places. Religious tension. Riots. Broken landscapes and desperate people.

Kids with weapons.

She’d been a city girl with Nollywood-inspired dreams of becoming a pilot. To fly out from the depths of city and noise and packed people outside in the heat.

And she’d flown into a part of Africa that she’d only ever seen in news reports or Western-made movies.

“If they were running drugs, then how come my scatter camera went off?” Anika asked, turning and leaning her back against the cold metal rail. “Are drugs radioactive now?”

Yves grinned briefly around the edge of his cigarette. “They are not. But, you know, it is good you asked.”

“Why is that?”

He took another long drag. “Your airship transmits flight data via satellite continuously. Your scatter camera logged nothing on this flight. I think maybe there was a mistake?” He looked meaningfully at her.

“The scatter camera went off. We went in for a closer look.”

“Maybe you heard the wrong alarm,” Yves suggested. “It’s been seven months since your last event. That’s a long time. Combine that with the trauma of the attack…”

Anika stared at him. “We went in closer and got further readings. There was something on that ship.”

Yves looked uncomfortable for the both of them. “Maybe something went wrong somewhere?” he suggested. “Bad data?”

“Maybe. I have a physical backup of the data at home. Pass that back to our superiors. When I get back I can prove this wasn’t just about drugs, and that they’re lying.” Anika rubbed her temples. This sort of mess was why she always made sure to cover herself. Her father had always warned her about bad equipment and bureaucracy. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore, Yves. What’s next?”

“Next?” Yves mulled the word over. “Next.” He folded his arms and looked out over the dark harbor water.

She followed his gaze, turning around to face the rail again. “The boat.”

Yves nodded. “Kosatka, yes. Understand, it is just routine, yes? But I like the poking around. There’s a dinghy waiting for us.”

“Routine?”

“We have the bastards who did this to you,” Yves said. “We have their confessions. You identified them.”

“And then that’s it.…” Anika said.

“That’s it,” Yves said.

Except it wasn’t. They were lying about being drug runners. And why lie about something bad unless you were covering something worse?

“Let me come with you,” Anika asked.

Yves moved his head back and forth, as if considering. “We just needed you to identify the crew. You are not needed for this part.”

“You need me to fly you back, though, right?” Anika said.

“You wouldn’t!” Yves protested.

“You leave me here on this ship to go out there, I’m headed for the airport,” Anika insisted. “After a day like this, do you think anyone would be willing to formally discipline me?”

The dinghy that took them out was a twenty-foot-long semirigid inflatable, a fiberglass flat-bottomed hull that sliced through the waves and that had inflated pontoons around the edge.

Anika bit her lip as they slowed down and approached the rusted-out bulk of the Russian ship.

It loomed, shoving everything else out of her mind, replacing it with the implacable metal bulk thundering, surging through the water at her.

She gasped and grabbed the rope running along the pontoons, sitting down and looking up the side of the giant wall.

“Coming up?” Anton pointed at the rope ladder dangling down from the rails up above. “Are you good?”

She waved him away. “Lost my footing. I’ll be right there.” Yves was already attacking the ropes, swarming his way aloft.

Anton nodded, and then awkwardly starting pulling himself up.

The fresh-faced seaman who’d piloted them over walked forward. He tied them to the ladder, and waved her up.

Anika leaned forward and touched the hull. Paint and metal flaked off and fluttered down into the space between the dinghy and the ship.

The dinghy slammed against the Kosatka. For a second Anika was worried about falling into the water, following the flakes she’d disturbed. But she got a hand on the ladder, and then a foot.

“Got a good grip?” the seaman asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to pull back a bit, so we don’t rip the sides apart on this hull. It’s rusty as hell, ma’am.” He gunned the outboard engine in reverse, the water boiling around the dinghy as he pulled away.

Nowhere to go but up. Anika scrambled until she reached the rail, then swung onto the deck.

Her boots hit the metal surface with a clang.

She was on the surface of the enemy, the ship that had tried to kill her.