THE NUKE HAD been lowered into the ROV’s titanium sphere and secured in the framework built to carry it. It took up most of the small interior space. Leaning in through the hatch, Gideon checked over the device one last time, examining the various critical components. It remained in perfect working order.
“Now to arm it and set the timer,” he said. “How long?”
“Time to get in position?” Glinn asked Garza, who had just returned from his mission to the bridge.
“About thirty minutes, give or take,” Garza replied.
“I might suggest a fifteen-minute contingency. More, and you risk being stopped by the Baobab. Less, and if you run into a glitch you might not be in position when the nuke goes off. You’ve shut off the bomb’s remote-control mechanism?”
Gideon nodded.
“Very well. You won’t be able to abort the countdown once you’re underwater. Once that timer’s set, there’s no going back.”
Gideon nodded again. Then he turned to the bomb, punched in the arming code. That activated the timer and LED screen. He verified that the nuke was armed, then carefully keyed in 45 MINUTES and pressed COMMIT.
Forty-five minutes left to live.
The handler shut and sealed the titanium hatch. Gideon turned and walked across the fantail deck to Pete, which had been rolled out and positioned under the crane. It gleamed in the morning light, yellow and white. Next, the ROV was attached to Pete using a heavy tow cable. The two would have to be lowered into the water in tandem—a tricky operation.
Gideon stared at Pete. The ladder was in place, the hatch open. It was all ready for him. But he did not move.
“I’ve manually disabled the Pete’s AI,” said Glinn quietly, standing by the DSV’s ladder. “I’ve done the same for the surface override—just in case somebody in mission control tries to stop you.” He paused. “It’s time…”
Gideon licked his lips, and then walked across the deck to the bottom of the ladder.
“Good luck,” said Rosemarie Wong.
“Good luck,” said McFarlane, with a wintry smile.
“Good luck,” Glinn echoed. He held out his hand and Gideon shook it. In silence, McFarlane did the same. Gideon then turned and grasped the cold steel of the ladder rung, hesitated just a moment, and then climbed up. The handler was busy manning the crane controls. The small remaining group—McFarlane, Glinn, Garza, Rosemarie Wong—were on the deck, watching. Garza raised his hand in a farewell gesture.
Gideon gave one last look around: at the morning sun rising in the robin’s-egg sky; the fantastically sculptured icebergs, licked by a slow and steady swell—and on the horizon, a distant ledge of dark cloud, heralding the approaching storm. He peered down the hatch into the dark interior of the DSV. Then he grasped the handhold at the top of the hatch, swung over, and lowered himself. As he took his place in the seat, he heard the hatch being sealed from above. Almost immediately he felt the crane lifting the DSV toward the ocean. By necessity, they were skipping the entire safety and operational checklist. Pete was a spare DSV; they hadn’t expected to use it. It had been last checked out at Woods Hole, two months ago. It might just fail.
In that case, Gideon thought, he’d be dead a few minutes earlier. Not worth thinking about. What was worth thinking about was Lispenard’s death. And her cruel life after death, her brain somehow preserved and still conscious, buried deep inside the Baobab. How strange and awful it would be, to be cut off from all sensory input, her mental processes co-opted by an alien life-form for its own “thinking.” It was a ghastly idea. But he could save her: with death.
He strapped himself in. This was going to be a lonely, one-way trip to oblivion.
Captain Tulley swam back into consciousness. He found himself lying on the deck, momentarily dazed, ears ringing, wreathed in acrid smoke. A moment later, as his head began to clear and memory returned, he fumbled for his sidearm. Two figures loomed out of the gray gloom. They grabbed him, disarmed him, threw him on his stomach, and he felt cold steel go around his wrists.
He tried to say something and was answered with a blow to the side of his head. The smoke was starting to clear and, from his position on his stomach, he saw the other officers of the bridge in handcuffs, being manhandled toward the rear bridge bulkhead. It had happened fast: a well-planned and -executed operation.
“So it’s you, Masterson,” he said, recognizing one of the men who had cuffed him.
“Yes. And I’m sorry, Captain, but we’re taking over the ship. We’re getting us out of here—and we’re not taking any more chances.”
Tulley was hauled to his feet, led to the back bulkhead, and chained there. The navigator and second officer soon joined him, and in a minute the rest were all shackled together. As the smoke cleared on the bridge, Tulley could see several bodies on the floor—the two security men Garza had brought and an able seaman, all apparently shot. The bridge windows close to the port door had been blown out and others were cracked. The main navigational station, with the radar and chartplotters, looked badly damaged.
But the mutineers were organized. In an emergency, resetting certain master controls allowed the ship to be conned completely from the bridge, bypassing the engine control room. Captain Tulley saw that this was exactly what Masterson was now doing. He knew that the man, as second assistant engineer, was capable of controlling the engine and propulsion systems.
But were the other mutineers going to be able to operate the vessel?
He looked around. They had an assistant navigator; they had a helmsman; they had lookouts; they had the ship’s best electrotechnical engineer—and a few able seamen, as well. While the electronics in the navigation area had apparently been damaged in the explosion, they still had all the charts and navigation tools at their disposal. And a bloody cell phone these days would give you any necessary GPS coordinates. But as he assessed the damage, he realized it looked like it was going to slow them down. It would be a long trip to Ushuaia.
He watched the mutineers go about their business with focus and efficiency. Even as he was making these observations, he felt the telltale rumble of the engine, felt the ship begin to respond.
They were wasting no time getting out of there.