The Wrecking Crew

CHAPTER 13

Dr. Nassiri watched from the periscope as the burning Horizon vanished into the distance like a Viking funeral pyre, remaining pirate skiffs chasing closely behind. It was fitting, in a way. The doctor tried to rationalize the probable outcome of events as an honorable death, but suspected Jonah would have preferred not to die at all.

His mother stood behind him, silently clutching her wrist. The doctor felt cheated; there was no laughter, no tears of joy, no grateful embrace. Just a lonely ship vanished into the night, chased by murderous outlaws.

Dr. Nassiri shook his head and stepped away from the periscope. The Scorpion couldn’t catch up, not while running submerged on battery power. The hit-from-behind trick was a card they could only play once.

The doctor looked at the assembled refugees standing in the cramped command compartment. His mother to his left, leaning up against the interior boarding ladder to the conning tower. Vitaly at the pilot’s console, his drugged eyes sunken with pain. Alexis, standing at the hatchway between the engine room and the command compartment.

He realized with immense discomfort that they were looking to him for orders. The idea bothered him. Jonah was a natural, albeit reluctant leader. Dr. Nassiri didn’t want the role or the weight of command.

“They’re gone,” said Dr. Nassiri. Vitaly nodded gravely and Alexis buried her face in her hands. Fatima looked down and away, her face heavy with shame.

It wasn’t your fault, thought the doctor. There would be time to comfort her later.

“What happened?” asked Alexis.

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Nassiri. “There was a massive explosion aboard the Horizon. I doubt it was survivable. Complicating matters, the pirates are still in pursuit and we can’t match their speed without exposing ourselves.”

“The pirates told us they’d kill us if we tried to escape,” said Fatima.

“They could have been just threatening, bluffing—” began Alexis.

“And what exactly would you know about that?” interrupted Fatima. “It wasn’t just a threat. They only kept us alive because they believed Islam forbade the murder of Muslim women.”

“Klea deserved a better end to her sufferings.”

“So did Jonah Blackwell,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Your erstwhile rescuer.”

“If nobody ask,” said Vitaly. “I ask. Now what?”

Dr. Nassiri set his hand on Vitaly’s shoulder and glanced down. A large, angry splotch of red seeped from the Russian’s chest. He’d broken his stiches.

“Back to your bunk,” ordered Dr. Nassiri. “Now.”

“Chto za huy!” swore Vitaly, looking down at the spreading stain. “New shirt ruined.”

“Let’s find another one,” said Dr. Nassiri, helping him to his feet.

The doctor walked the Russian to the bunk beds in the compartment just forward of command and helped him lie down. Taking a pair of scissors from a side table, the doctor cut off the shirt, exposing the two wounds. Several of the stiches had indeed separated, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Vitaly was healing quite well, all things considered. The mere fact that he was no longer in danger of slipping into shock at any moment represented significant progress.

“We still do bracelets?” asked Vitaly, motioning towards the handcuffs on the side of the bunk.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Nassiri. “But you must wear the manacles when you’re in your bunk.”

Vitaly was getting stronger every day; the cuffs were no longer an unnoticed nuisance in the dreamlike twilight of medicated sleep.

They must be maddening to wear, thought Dr. Nassiri.

Time to give Vitaly his shot of painkillers. The doctor hoped they didn’t need a skilled navigator, at least not for the next four or five hours. Alexis was passable, but of course didn’t know the complicated array of systems to the same degree as Vitaly. It was just like medical school. Some used a scalpel like an artist’s brush, others like a child’s crayon. During her first few tries, Alexis “porpoised” the Scorpion, diving, pulling up, diving again, up, down, up, down until Jonah had finally relieved her of duty.

Dr. Nassiri filled his syringe from a tiny bottle of refrigerated painkiller. He tapped it and squeezed a little, freeing two tiny air pocket from the body of the instrument. He went to administer the shot but Vitaly caught his wrist to stop him.

“You must know,” he said. “I am in your debt. This very important for Russians.”

“And I’m in your debt,” said Dr. Nassiri in the same soft voice he reserved for all his patients. “You single-handedly saved this vessel.”

“Not same,” said Vitaly. “My comrades of the Scorpion. And myself. We came to kill you. I could lie, I could say Vitaly protest, Vitaly never know real mission. But none of this true. I must tell truth. We came to give you no chance to fight, no chance for life. You and your crew, you fight, you win. And you still save me.”

Dr. Nassiri didn’t know what to say. He let the silence hang over both men.

“I treated you because I needed you,” began Dr. Nassiri. “I needed you to pilot this vessel. Many men died that day. You almost died that day.”

“No!” Vitaly’s eyes were bright. “You save me because you save people. You save your mother. You save me. And I think you will save Jonah.”

“From prison?” asked Dr. Nassiri. “Because I helped him escape from prison?”

“No,” said Vitaly. “I think you save Jonah now.”

“He’s gone, Vitaly,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And I don’t understand why you’d say that. He nearly killed you.”

Vitaly scowled, growing frustrated with the doctor, trying to communicate a point that was simply not received.

“Shot now please,” Vitaly finally said. “Very much pain.”

Dr. Nassiri nodded and stuck him with the syringe, delivering the powerful painkillers deep into the Russian’s arm. Vitaly’s eyes fluttered and closed. The doctor sighed and placed his palm on the young man’s chest, willing healing energy into the Russian’s broken body.

Hearing a noise from behind, Dr. Nassiri turned away from the bunk to see his mother standing behind him, still holding her wrist. He vaguely remembered her reaching out with the same hand to brace herself as she slammed into the conning tower.

“I… I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

“Nonsense, let me take a look,” said Dr. Nassiri. He took his mother’s hand in his, and gently probed with his fingers. “Does this hurt?”

“Very badly,” said Fatima through gritted teeth.

“You have a fractured wrist,” he said. “Normally I would order an x-ray to make certain there are no misalignments. I’m afraid we do not have that luxury.”

Dr. Nassiri directed his mother to sit in a nearby chair as he dug through the medical kit to find an adjustable splint and bandages. It wouldn’t be a proper cast, but it’d have to serve as one for the foreseeable future.

“What have you uncovered?” asked Fatima. “What do you know about the red tide?”

“Too little,” admitted Dr. Nassiri. “We’ve been forced to react to circumstances as they arise. I thought you dead — we were attacked by this very submarine and forced to capture it to survive. It was only then I discovered your incarceration in the pirate encampment.”

“Charles Bettencourt is the key to everything,” said Fatima. “Who else could deploy an anti-aircraft missile in the middle of the ocean such as that? Too sophisticated for pirates, that much was certain. I believe I know why he wanted to silence me, wanted to kill us all.”

“You speak of your research?”

“I do,” said Fatima. “I have a theory on the Horn of Africa red tide, the de-oxygenated waters that have decimated sea life in this ocean. The spectrometer readings left little doubt. It’s such a shame that all that beautiful data is now rotting on the bottom of the ocean. I saw… something… before we were hit.”

“What did you see?”

“I don’t know for certain. But I think it was the first concrete evidence of the Dead Hand.”

“The what?”

The professor sighed. “A thing too terrible to exist,” she finally said.

Dr. Nassiri formed the metal and foam splint and carefully arranged it around his mother’s wrist, wrapping it with bandages. He finished his work by gently pinching the tips of her fingers, ensuring that he hadn’t inadvertently cut off any capillary blood flow.

“This is unfortunate,” said Dr. Nassiri. “But I believe your research is irretrievable at this time, perhaps forever. The transponder has stopped communicating and we have reason to believe the submerged crash site is guarded. To attempt to reach it would invite ambush. We are in no position to defend ourselves with Jonah gone.”

Crestfallen, Dr. Nassiri realized he’d almost said with Jonah dead. He cleared his throat.

“Tell me what you found,” he continued. “Tell me what you know definitively, and what you surmise.”

“I believe my research represented the final piece of the puzzle,” said Fatima. “I’d suspected dumping of biological and radiological waste from medical facilities throughout Europe. It’s known that elements of organized crime control this practice, and have so for nearly thirty years. Even if legitimate institutions are paid to deal with the waste, it’s cheaper to subcontract the task to criminals and take the difference in straight profit. After all, Somalia is the last coastal region on earth without some type of navy.”

“So this is it? The dumping of medical waste? All of this death, all of this destruction — over that?”

Fatima shook her head. “Hardly,” she answered. “That would only explain a fraction of what I saw.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Ten years ago, a rumor began circulating throughout the halls of oceanographers and marine biologists. It still chills me to think about, a nightmare one hoped some small pang of conscious would have prevented its conception or smothered it at birth.” Fatima sighed and stretched out her fingers, touching her simple cast. “In the mid-1980s, the Soviet Union had a dilemma,” she continued. “American president Ronald Reagan introduced his plan for a missile shield, terrestrial and space-based technologies that would render Soviet missiles useless. It would give the Americans the ability strike first then swat any Soviet retaliation from the sky. Unable to compete with the sudden advancement in American nuclear and missile technology, Soviet strategists discussed other means of ensuring the survival of the communist experiment.”

“What did they do?” asked Dr. Nassiri in a hushed tone.

“They created the Dead Hand,” said Fatima with a wry, sad smile. “The Kremlin called it Mertvaya Ruka, the hand from the grave. It ensured that even upon total destruction of the Soviet state, the military would retain the fully automated ability to strike back with the most virulent plagues and poisons, borne not by missiles, but by sleeper agents and unmanned drones. This was the game, to find some way to rebalance the powers, perhaps even give the Soviets some distinctive edge.”

“Were there not treaties? Something to prevent such horrors?”

“There are always treaties,” said Fatima. “But treaties were broken. Post-collapse, this program became a massive liability. The plagues and poisons necessitated disposal, and it is extraordinarily difficult to dispose of such virulent materials. I believe the waters off Somalia have been designated as a sacrifice zone. By whom, I do not know. When I saw the readings of this region, I felt I saw the fingerprint of the Dead Hand. Evidence indicates this is done under the direct supervision, protection, and profit of Charles Bettencourt and his mercenaries. The entire purpose of Anconia Island may well be to secure, facilitate, and conceal this disposal effort. He will stop at nothing to ensure our silence.”

With Vitaly asleep, his mother cooking in the galley, and Alexis at the tiller, it might be time for a job he’d been putting off, a job he’d been dreading. Jonah’s little science project in the forward compartment had to be nearing its inevitable outcome. Dr. Nassiri shuddered a little just thinking about it. He’d already stacked up a rough equivalent to biohazard gear, mostly amounting to a painter’s mask, gloves, and a pair of slick plastic coveralls. He’d also found a discarded axe, an implement he desperately hoped he wouldn’t need. At least the Scorpion had a few body bags on hand; otherwise the job would be wholly unmanageable.

Sighing, Dr. Nassiri put on his gloves but stopped when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Hey,” said Alexis, leaning up against the wall, hands in the pockets of her cutoff jeans.

“Hello,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Just about to begin the… unpleasantness.”

“Can I help?” she asked.

“It’s no job for a woman,” he stammered. Dr. Nassiri instantly regretted the sexist remark, what little he knew about Alexis should have told him she’d hate hearing that.

“So I’ll just go back to painting my nails,” said Alexis irritably, waving her engine-grease-stained fingers in his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He leaned against the wall, took off his gloves and let them fall to the floor. He crossed his arms. “I’ve been really dreading this task. The very thought of what lies beyond this threshold turns my stomach.”

“And you’re trying to spare me from it,” she said. “Thoughtful, but still super sexist and kinda dumb to boot.”

“I don’t want you to help me,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Disposing of burned bodies is a horrible task. If I allow you to help, you’ll look at me differently.”

“How do I look at you now?” she asked.

Was she… blushing? Dr. Nassiri smiled and looked away. He tried to come up with some answer, any answer, but couldn’t. To him each glance they shared, however fleeting, held immense meaning.

“What would you be doing right now if you were home?” asked Alexis, changing the subject and sparing the doctor the painful silence.

“My life in Morocco is very ordinary,” he answered. “I live in one of the smaller cities near the coast. Very beautiful. My flat had a very pleasing sea view. And I have a cat. Had a cat.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No,” laughed Dr. Nassiri. “Despite the best efforts of my extended family. Although I’ve dated some, most women I know are interested in immediate marriage and family life. I suppose I wasn’t ready for that.”

“I hear you there,” said Alexis. “Pretty much all the girls from my high school and college are married and pregnant. My Facebook feed is babies, babies, babies.”

“Truth be told, most of my friends are unattached and incorrigible bachelors. They like the finer things in life — good food, expensive drinks, beautiful cars.”

Alexis absentmindedly tapped her wrench against the bulkhead, thinking.

“I don’t think I’d fit in with your friends,” she finally said. “And your mom already hates me.”

“Perhaps I must find new friends,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And I believe mother will eventually come around.”

Dr. Nassiri coughed and gagged as he scrubbed at the last long, angry tendril of smoke damage. He glanced over at the two bagged bodies, little more than blackened skeletons covered with dry, crepe-paper like fragments of skin.

A burial at sea would have to do; the freezer was already full of dead men from the command compartment. They’d run out of shelving space for the engineer, his clear-plastic unwrapped corpse lay on the freezer floor. The forward compartment was more or less wrecked, but the doctor had cleared it of all the burned-up equipment. At the very least, it could serve for storage at some point in the future. He couldn’t image anyone sleeping here, not after what had happened.

“Doc!” called Alexis from the command compartment, her voice echoing as it came up through the main passageway.

He and Alexis didn’t know how to use the intercom system, and it wasn’t worth waking up Vitaly for something so minor.

Dr. Nassiri glanced around the forward compartment. It was probably good enough; the bodies and the worst of the damage more or less mitigated. Still he closed the heavy hatchway between compartments before stripping off his gloves and making his way back.

“What is it?” he asked, stepping into the command compartment.

“Check out the periscope,” she said.

Dr. Nassiri dropped the periscope and stepped up to it. He was surprised to see the sun in the sky. Daylight already and he hadn’t slept. Fortunately Fatima had found a quiet place to get some rest; he supposed she needed it more than he did.

Alexis yawned, mirroring his exhaustion. Dr. Nassiri felt terrible, his eyes sunken, face unshaven, complete exhaustion anchoring every sigh and footstep.

Visible through the periscope, a single wispy column of smoke rose from the horizon. Alexis kept the submarine on course, advancing on the mysterious target. Before them, the smoking hulk of a ship lay dead in the water.

“It’s the Horizon,” announced Dr. Nassiri. “Continue forward, dead slow.”

“Dead slow,” confirmed Alexis as she piloted the submarine ahead.

The Scorpion edged closer to the hulk as Dr. Nassiri scanned the area for any remaining pirates. None appeared on the radar screen or through the periscope. They’d either given up the chase or decided the smoking wreck was not worth retrieving.

“Surface,” he ordered. The Scorpion rose through the water, her conning tower slicing through a dissipating biodiesel slick.

“What should we do?” asked Alexis.

“I’m going to take a look,” said the doctor.

He left the command compartment, made his way through the engine compartment and stepped into the bunk room. Vitaly could continue sleeping but he’d need Fatima. He gently touched his mother’s shoulder, allowing her to gradually wake.

“What is it?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“We’ve found the Horizon. She’s dead in the water.”

“Any sign of Klea? Or the pirates?”

“No pirates,” said Dr. Nassiri. “And no signs of life. I’m going to take a look; I’d like you to accompany me.”

“Of course,” said Fatima. “Give me a moment to dress.”

Fatima followed him up the interior ladder of the conning tower. Dr. Nassiri wrestled with the hatch until it came free and squeaked open. He lifted himself outside, feeling better for a moment as sunshine and fresh air washed over him. For the first time, he could see the true extent of the damage inflicted when the Fool’s Errand rammed the Scorpion. Much of the steel plating behind the conning tower was torn away down to the pressure hull. Chunks of carbon fiber and aluminum were still stuck in the submarine’s skin like shrapnel. Thick gouges and scars covered much of the rear of the submarine.

The still-smoldering hulk of the Horizon bobbed in the water. Dr. Nassiri descended the conning tower, paused for a moment, then jumped onto the nearest pontoon of the experimental yacht. Hand over hand, he made his way to the main body, to the cockpit, and the fantail. The entire cockpit of the ship had been completely torn open by a single explosion, laying the interior bare to the hot sun beating down from overhead.

The yacht was an unsalvageable mess. She was completely holed; the only thing keeping her afloat was her half-empty pontoon fuel tanks. Seawater washed over the deck, more with each passing wave. Fatima leapt onto the fantail, awkwardly clambering up to join her son.

“Any bodies?” she asked.

“No,” said Dr. Nassiri. “No bodies.”

“The pirates could have taken them. Or just dumped them at sea.”

Dr. Nassiri said nothing. Fatima tapped a nearby railing.

“There was a lifeboat here,” she said. “Maybe they escaped in that.”

“Doubtful,” said Dr. Nassiri.

“What do you want to do? They’re not here.”

Dr. Nassiri stood for a moment, watching the Horizon toss in the waves, flexing and groaning with each movement. Jonah must be dead. The alternatives were worse — captured or floating alone in an unforgiving ocean, far from shore. Every professional instinct in his body insisted to him the hopelessness of the situation.

“We stay,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Jonah is not a man to give up. Neither shall we. We will search until we find him.”