Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

Kurt had managed to bring the short-barreled M4 carbine, but the odd, almost nervous energy that he’d quickly begun to feel to

ld him he was breathing a high-oxygen mix. That was surprising.

He would have expected a tri-mix of gasses, or even an oxygen-helium mixture, that worked better at sustained depths. To be sure he wasn’t imagining it, Kurt spoke briefly. “Four score and seven years ago…”

He should have sounded like Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck, but he sounded exactly like himself. There was no helium in the air, or very little of it anyway. He put the rifle aside. There would be no gunfight at the bottom of the Tasman Lake. One shot would destroy the entire place.

He pulled a large dive knife from a sheath on his leg, wondering if this turn of events made his odds better or worse.

Twenty feet down a hall, he found water at the base of a ladder. He went up it and explored the next floor, finding two rooms filled with stacks of batteries. A wall panel displayed power states, most in the green and a few odd ones in yellow or red. Kurt wondered where they were getting the power to charge the huge stack or what they were using it for.

He went up another level and found what looked like the crew’s living quarters. Empty lockers and unmade beds gave him the impression the place had been abandoned.

He moved back to the central ladder, ascended to a third level, and found the next hatch resting on its stops. He was about to open it when he heard the sound of footsteps pounding down the ladder toward him.

He held completely still.

Voices echoed. “Come on,” someone shouted. “Move.”

Kurt was about to slide back down a level and hide, when the footsteps abruptly moved to the left, pounding on the deck above, and headed away from him. It sounded like several people in a hurry.

He opened the hatch just a sliver and looked through. No one there.

Quietly, he pulled himself up and peeked around the corner. Three men stood in front of another airlock. This one reminded Kurt of the revolving doors in a center-city office building. As it opened, two of them went in and the third waited.

The sound of more footsteps descending the ladder came next. Kurt looked up just as another man dropped in beside him.

“What the…”

Kurt clapped a hand over the man’s mouth and plunged the carbon steel blade into the man’s chest, slamming him against the wall in the process. A second man dropped in, landing on Kurt’s arm and knocking the knife to the floor.

Kurt spun around and threw an elbow into the second attacker’s temple. It sent the man sprawling to the deck near the airlock.

By now, a third man had come down the ladder, his hands and feet sliding on the rails instead of using the rungs. He landed and grabbed Kurt from behind, wrapping an arm around Kurt’s throat and trying to choke the life out of him.

Kurt pushed backward, ramming the man into the bulkhead wall. The grip loosened only a bit. Kurt pushed back again, this time trying to snap his head back in a reverse head butt of sorts.

The second impact shook the man loose, just as the airlock pinged like an elevator in a hotel lobby. Kurt was pushed to the ground as this third assailant rushed past.

By the time he got up, the airlock door was closing. The four remaining men were crammed into it, looking back at him. One of them shook his head, smiling sadistically.

Four against one, and they’d run off. Kurt could only think of a single reason for that: they were about to scuttle the station.

A quick glance at the dead man in the ladder well confirmed it. He carried wire strippers in his breast pocket, a roll of electrical tape on his belt, and a length of red-and-blue flat cable. In all likelihood, the station was set to explode.

Kurt grabbed the wire cutters and continued up the ladder. Based on the escaping group’s show of haste, he doubted there was much time.

ELEVEN

Joe’s plan was in full bloom now. He’d set up a pulley system, running the cable from the front of the last Jeep, around the tubular steel brush guard on one of the SUVs, and attached it to the tail end of another SUV.

His plan was simple: push the hooked vehicle into the water and over the edge. As it dropped, the cable would drag the Jeep forward rapidly enough for Joe to pop the clutch and get the engine going.

Ready to go, he checked on Bradshaw once more, crossed his fingers, and moved to the SUV he was using as a deadweight. He couldn’t open the windows without power, so he smashed them in. He opened all the doors and the tailgate and even popped the hood. Anything to let air out and water in to help the SUV sink faster.

He put the transmission in neutral, released the brake, and then hopped out. Digging his feet hard into the sand, Joe began pushing. Little by little, the SUV began to move, its pace quickened as it reached the firmer soil at the water’s edge. With a last great shove, Joe pushed it off and stepped back, almost losing his balance and tumbling into the toxic soup.

The SUV rolled out and began to fill with water. It nosed over just like the first vehicle had, then stopped as the wire cable pulled taut.