Medusa (NUMA Files 8)
“Hauling away,” the captain said with relief in his voice. “What kind of music do you want for the ride to the top?”
“I’ll leave that up to you,” Austin said. He was too tired to think.
A moment later, the strains of a Strauss waltz came through his earphones, and he began his long trip to the surface to “Tales from the Vienna Wood.”
As Austin was hauled toward the ship, he was vaguely aware that he still clutched the AUV’s blade in his metal claw as if it were a hunting trophy.
CHAPTER 11
THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM THE WILLIAM BEEBE, LOIS Mitchell was trying to quell a riot in the mess hall, where Gordon Phelps had herded the staff at gunpoint. Someone had noticed that Dr. Logan was missing, and when Lois said that the marine biologist had been shot dead the news had prompted a chorus of anger and fear.
Lois tried to shout down the cacophony. When that didn’t work, she lined up several mugs on the counter and filled them from a coffeepot. The simple ritual had a calming effect. After the uproar had quieted down and she could be heard, Lois flashed a sweet smile.
“Sorry this isn’t a Starbucks Grande, but it will have to do for now.”
Her attempt at humor triggered an outburst from a young female lab tech whose pale face and tearful eyes indicated that she was on the verge of hysteria. Lacing into Lois in a voice choked with sobs, the tech demanded: “How can you be so calm knowing Dr. Logan was murdered?”
Stubbornly refusing the urge to break into tears herself, Lois said, “Dr. Logan is lying in the passageway outside the control room with a bullet in his heart. He tried to fight back and was killed by the man who locked us in here. If you want to avoid the same fate, I suggest you take several deep breaths and calm down.”
With a trembling hand, Lois pushed a mug across the counter. The young lab tech hesitated, then reached out for it and took a noisy slurp. Lois then gathered everyone around a large table and described her encounter with Phelps and the murder of Logan. A biologist who had been Logan’s closest friend rose from his chair and picked up a kitchen knife from the counter. He summed up his rage in a single word.
“Bastard!”
Lois remained in her seat and regarded the biologist with a calm gaze.
“You’re absolutely correct,” Lois said. “In fact, the man who shot Dr. Logan is worse than a bastard, he’s a murderer, but his moral character is not at issue here. You might get him with that knife, although I doubt it, but what then? Phelps obviously is not the only one involved. We are dealing with ruthless people who have the resources to gain entry into a heavily guarded facility three hundred feet below the ocean’s surface. I don’t know how they learned about the Locker, who they are, or how many are involved, but we are completely at their mercy.”
The knife clattered on the counter, and the biologist sat down.
“You’re right, Lois,” he said in defeat. “I just wish I knew what they wanted.”
“I’m sure they’ll let us know,” she replied. “In the meantime, let’s have something to eat. It’s important we keep our strength up. MiGod!” she said with her rollicking laugh. “I sound like an actor in one of those disaster movies telling everyone to remain calm after the ocean liner turns upside down or the plane crashes in the jungle.”
The comment produced nervous smiles. A couple of people headed for the kitchen and, in short order, returned with a tray stacked with ham, turkey, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Fear must have sharpened the scientists’ hunger because they devoured the sandwiches like victims of a famine.
They were cleaning up when the mess hall reverberated with loud humming. Everyone stopped working and listened. After a few moments, the humming stopped, and the floor jolted as if jarred by an earthquake. There was a second jolt, and the room shuddered and swayed.
Those still standing fought to keep their balance, and there was an outcry of alarm, but the room went silent when the door burst open and two armed men stepped into the mess hall to clear the way for Phelps. The two strangers were wearing black diver’s suits still wet with seawater and carried short-barreled machine pistols.
Phelps grinned and said, “Looks like we arrived too late for lunch.”
“What’s happening to the lab?” Lois asked, holding on to the edge of a counter to keep from falling.
“Don’t you remember what I said about going for a little ride? The lab’s being moved to a new neighborhood.”
Lois thought she must be going mad. “That’s impossible.” “Not really, Dr. Mitchell. All we had to do was hitch the lab to a tow truck, so to speak.”
“What happened to our support ship?”
“It’s out of action,” Phelps said. He issued an order to the gunmen: “Take these folks to their quarters.”
The gunmen stepped aside to allow the scientists to pass.
“Thank you for allowing my staff to leave,” Lois said. She went to follo
w her colleagues through the door, but Phelps reached out and held her arm. He shut the door, pulled up a chair, and asked Lois to sit down. Then he sat in another chair and leaned on the backrest.
“I’ve been looking at your bio, Dr. Mitchell. Pretty impressive background. Bachelor’s degree in marine biology from the University of Florida, master’s from Virginia Institute of Marine Science, topped off with a Ph.D. in marine biotechnology and biomedicine from Scripps.”