The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

EIGHTEEN The Nautilus

Making good time as it rounded the boot of Italy and cruised up the eastern coast, the Nautilus ran at full power under a magnificent sky. Flying fish swarmed in the churning white wake.

Below the conning tower, in the submarine vessel's control room, sunlight penetrated the sea-splashed windows of the bridge. Wearing a deep frown and scratching his stubbly chin, First Mate Ishmael examined the complex controls and dials. Nemo stood next to him, curious, as Ishmael tapped the crystal plates that covered compasses and heading gauges.

"They're not 'ow I left them, Cap'n. S'all I'm saying."

Nemo glanced down at the deck, then silently crouched to examine something.

"You think it might be sabotage?"

" We ain't that far off course — I caught it in time," Ishmael said. "Still, there's too many strangers aboard this boat, if y' ask me."

"Please don't refer to my Lady as a mere 'boat', Ishmael."

Nemo brushed at the floor and dabbed some of the residue onto his fingertips, then spiffed them. "Powder. I don't recognize the smell. Perhaps Mrs. Harker will be able to—" Suddenly, he felt an unexpected movement in the air, a faint stirring in the control room. Nemo's dark eyebrows knitted together. "Mr. Skinner? Are you here skulking about?"

The silence that followed gave him no answer. He and Ishmael heard nothing more than the thrumming of the Nautilus engines and the rushing sound of the waves against the hull.

Around the corner, Tom Sawyer sauntered up to the bridge, eager to go outside to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine. He thought he heard quick, feathery footsteps, someone passing unseen? For a moment he was tempted to thrust out a foot to see if he could trip the invisible man, but he couldn't be sure he had actually heard anything. There wasn't much room in the narrow corridor for Skinner to go by, no matter how sneaky the thief might be.

A loud gunshot came from outside, above the bridge, and Sawyer started running.

Already on edge, Nemo and Ishmael went to the observation windows, looking around in alarm as another gunshot rang out from the deck overhead.

But Sawyer was grinning as he started to climb the conning tower. "He said he wouldn't start without me!"

With a slap and a hum, the launcher shot its buoyant target. The colorful shape sailed ahead through the air and landed with a splash far from the racing Nautilus.

At the edge of the foredeck, Quatermain adjusted his spectacles and squinted out at the water. He drew a deep breath, shouldered the stock, sighted along the line, and calmly aimed Matilda. The target bobbed in the water, and Quatermain tracked it, aiming… aiming… aiming. Then, as the colorful floater drifted past, he pulled the trigger.

The elephant gun made a sound like a crack of thunder, and the hunter braced himself against the recoil that punched into his shoulder bone. The target blew out of the waves, bright pieces flying up with a spray of water. Good enough for practice. He called out again in Hindi, "Pull!"

One of Nemo's turbaned crewmen ratcheted back the firing mechanism and launched another target.

When he reached the top of the conning tower, Sawyer blinked in the Mediterranean sunlight and kept watching Quatermain instead of the flying target. The object soared through the air and then splashed down.

The young American didn't venture closer, not wanting to disturb the old adventurers aim. They stood apart, separated by the wide deck. As he aimed carefully, his eyes never leaving the floating target, Quatermain sensed the young man's presence. "Do you want something?"

"No, not really."

Quatermain fired again, another perfect shot, another target destroyed. He didn't bother to show any satisfaction at his prowess.

Sawyer was extremely impressed, though, and ventured closer. "Well, I guess I was just wondering why you signed up for all of this."

Quatermain didn't look at him. The turbaned crewman positioned another target in the launcher.

The young American pressed. "Cap'n Nemo told me that you hate the British Empire. So it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense, you joining in."

"They called. I answered." Quatermain cracked the gun and reloaded.

Sawyer thrust his hands in his pockets. "Well, that isn't all of it, though. Is it?"

"Pull!" Quatermain said, and another target soared. Clearly there was to be no more conversation. He sighted it, following the target as if he was tracking a flight of geese. This time, he wanted to shoot the object out of the sky instead of waiting for it to strike the waves.

"I'm sorry for asking," Sawyer said, turning away.

Quatermain lowered his gun without firing and looked at the young American. He wrestled with words, dredging up memories he no longer wanted to think about. "Years ago… the British approached me with a mission for Queen and Country. They appealed to my patriotism. They promised thrills, adventure…" He let out a long, lonely sigh.

"That's like the morning ride to work for you, I'd imagine." Sawyer looked at the old hunter with hopeful eyes.

Quatermains' gaze was distant, though — seeing farther than the hazy coastline of Italy. "I signed up without hesitation. I even took my son along, promised to watch him. I led, and my son followed."

He sighed. The Nautilus continued, surging past the floating target out on the waves. Quatermain leaned on his elephant gun, making no attempt to take the shot.

He didn't look at Sawyer as he continued. "The boy died in my arms. After that, I washed my hands of England, the Empire… and the legend of Allan bloody Quatermain."

The young American chose to see the other mans strength instead of his misery. "So if you succeed this time, then your son's memory will be honored."

"No. It doesn't work that way." Quatermain eyed the American agent who was so full of optimism and guileless honesty. He changed the subject abruptly, as if out of self-defense. "Now, would you like to learn how to shoot, lad?"

"I can already," said Sawyer, propping one hand on his hip.

"Yes, I saw you in Grays library. Very American. Just fire enough bullets and hope that some of them will hit the target. No finesse. No skill."

The young agent frowned as if suspecting that he'd just been insulted. "I reckon a good many of the Fantom's marksmen would beg to differ."

The old adventurer wrinkled his brow. "Sawyer, I'm talking about pipping the ace at nine hundred yards." He offered the gun to the American. "Try."

Sawyer was surprised, but took the big weapon with eager hands. Holding it by the stock and barrel, hefting its weight, he let out a low, appreciative whistle. He squinted one eye and looked down the long barrel of the elephant gun.

"Steady on," Quatermain said. To the turbaned crewman, he called out, "Pull!"

The launcher flapped, and a fresh target soared high. The old hunter leaned in so they sighted the gun together, man and boy, as the colorful object tumbled and then splashed down.

"Now… aim," Quatermain said, focusing on the shot with all his concentration.

"Aww, that's easy."

"Allow for wind and target movement."

"That's easy, too," Sawyer said.

"Its the next part that's not. You've got to feel the shot."

Sawyer concentrated, aimed, tried to do exactly as Quatermain said. But the submarine vessel picked up speed, and a rooster tail of spray kicked up from the bow. The bobbing target was racing past.

"Take your time with it."

Sawyer swallowed. "It's moving pretty fast."

"Take your time. You have all the time you need. Anybody can hit it with ten shots. But take only one. Hit it the first time."

The target was getting closer. Sawyer was itching to fire. The elephant gun twitched in his hands.

"All… the time… in the world," said Quatermain.

The target passed, almost out of range. "Take… your…"

Sawyer fired — and missed the target by a fraction of an inch. The large-caliber bullet made a splash like a leaping fish.

"— time."

"Darn it!" Sawyer shaded his eyes and looked forlornly at the floating target as it drifted away.

But Quatermain was impressed. "Too soon, but that was bloody close, and at five hundred yards, too. Try again."

Sawyer shouldered the gun once more, grinning. "Pull!"

Though Sawyer didn't speak Hindi, the Nautilus crewman understood. The target soared.

With his confidence brimming, Sawyer said, "Did you teach your son to shoot like this?"

At that, Quatermain gently pushed the muzzle down and took the gun back. The moment between them was suddenly gone. "Lesson's over."

The old adventurer walked away, leaving Sawyer standing there alone on the deck, uncomfortably aware that he had said too much.