Backing a step to consider his options, his boot crunched on something on the floor. He glanced down to find the deck beneath the console strewn with circuit boards, each one broken in half.
Felice had sabotaged the helm.
Even in death, she continued to thwart him.
Kane suddenly appeared at the port bridge hatch, followed a half minute later by a panting Bukolov and Nick.
“We found it!” Bukolov declared. “Or rather Kane did. Remarkable nose on that fellow. They contaminated hold number five, just behind us. But it’s sealed like a bank vault. Looks like someone sabotaged the locking mechanism.”
Felice.
Nick stared out the window, looking ill. “That’s Old Mission Point,” he confirmed. “Dead ahead.”
“That’s awful close,” Bukolov said. “If we crash before we can decontaminate that hold . . .”
LUCA would be let loose into the world.
8:27 P.M.
After explaining his inability to turn or slow the ship, Tucker wasted a full precious minute as he scanned the helm, clenching his fist all the while. There had to be something: an override, an emergency shut down . . .
Where’s a damned plug when you need to pull one?
His eyes skipped over a gauge—then returned to it, reading it more carefully.
HOLD FIRE SUPPRESSION
Tucker suddenly stiffened and swung to Nick and Bukolov.
“Follow me!”
He slid down the ladder, followed by the two men who scrambled after him. Kane used the outside stairs to join them below. At the bottom, Tucker grabbed the shotgun from the last man he had killed.
Nick looked around. “What are we—?”
“We need to find the crew,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Kane can help us.”
Tucker searched the next few rooms on this level and found a crewman’s cabin. He grabbed some dirty clothes from a hamper and placed it in front of Kane’s muzzle, ruffling it to raise the scent and gain Kane’s full attention.
“TRACK AND FIND,” he ordered again.
The shepherd buried his nose in the garments, snuffling deeply. He finally backed a step, lifted his nose high in the air—then bounded through the door.
The three men ran after him. Kane led them on a chase deeper into the ship’s bowels, but in short order, the shepherd skidded to a double set of doors, sniffing furiously along the bottom.
The door was labeled CREW DINING.
Tucker pounded on it. “Anybody there?”
Multiple voices shouted back, both frantic and relieved, overlapping one another.
He tried the knob and found it locked. “Move as far to your right as you can! And turn away from the door!”
After getting a confirmation, he waved Bukolov and Nick farther down the hall, along with Kane. He then pointed the shotgun at the door’s hinges from about six inches away and turned his head.
The blast stung his ears.
He moved immediately to the second hinge and did the same. With his ears ringing, he kicked the door the rest of the way open.
Seven or eight crewmembers stood huddled together in the far corner. Felice must have rounded them up when Tucker arrived by helicopter, knowing her hopes of contaminating the cargo without anyone’s knowledge were ruined.
A tall, auburn-haired woman stepped from the group. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
“No time,” Tucker said. “We’re working with national security. Who’s the engineer?”
A wiry man in a thick wool sweater and suspenders raised his hand. “I am. John Harris.”
“You’re familiar with the ship’s fire suppression system for the cargo holds?”
Tucker pictured the label on the helm’s gauge: HOLD FIRE SUPPRESSION.
Of course, a cargo ship must be equipped with a sophisticated means of controlling fires, especially those that broke out in their cavernous holds. Fire was a ship’s worst enemy.
“Yes, certainly,” the ship’s engineer confirmed. “It’s a high-pressure water mist system.”
“Where is it?”
“One deck down, right below us.”
“Can you isolate hold number five?”
“Yes.”
“Great. This is Doctor Bukolov. Take him to the fire suppression controls—then purge the water out of the tank and refill it with what the good doctor gives you. Can you do that?”
“Yes, but—”
He turned to Bukolov. “Doc, do you have enough?”
“Yes, more than adequate, I believe.”
“John, you’ve got your orders. Get moving.”
As they set out, Tucker turned back to the other crewmembers. “Who’s the captain?”
The tall woman stepped forward again and introduced herself. “Captain Maynard.”
“Captain, the Macoma is going to run aground in about three minutes, and the helm console is locked. Where’s the safest place on the ship?”
“At the stern. Chart Library. One deck below the navigation bridge.”
“Go there now!” he ordered.
As the crew filed past him, the last in line, a bald man wearing a cook’s apron, suddenly wobbled into him. He was holding a bloody towel up to his mouth, and there was a deep gash in his forehead. Dried blood caked his eyebrows, nose, and mouth.
Tucker asked, “What happened to you?”
The man moaned and removed the towel to reveal a split lip and a flattened nose.
More of Felice’s handiwork.
“I’ll get you medical help as soon as we can.” He turned to Nick. “Help get this guy to safety.”
Nick nodded and hooked the man around the shoulders, helping him move faster. The pair hurried after the others.
Tucker turned and slid down the ladder to the next deck, following Bukolov and Harris, the ship’s engineer. He found the pair standing before a wall console, with a panel open next to it. Bukolov’s dispersal tank rested nearby, a hose running from it through the open panel.
“The fire-suppression tanks are here,” Bukolov said as Tucker joined them. “He just finished siphoning the kill switch into the right one.”
Tucker checked his watch.
Two minutes.
He asked Bukolov, “Will this really work?”
“In an enclosed space like that hold? Without a doubt—that is assuming their fire suppression system works as described to me.”
“It’ll work,” Harris said and started pressing a series of buttons, then turned a lever clockwise. A button marked with the number 5 began flashing red on the board. “It’s ready.”