One of the mat-trans units lay in a subterranean complex beneath the Kings Point base. Poseidon had been unable to access it, since the entrance codes to the security door had been consumed in the nuclear megacull of a century before. The self-proclaimed admiral was certain Ryan knew the correct codes, and he had been right—not that it had done him any good. His plan to destroy Shauna Watson’s commune with the refitted Raleigh had been scuttled.
As he dressed, he told his friends about Poseidon’s fate and that of his submarine’s crew. Lacing up his boots, he said, “Our best chance to get out of here is to reach the gateway under the main building.”
“Is it functional?” Krysty asked.
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be. I do know I don’t want to spend any more time floating around out here.”
“I concur,” Doc said. “Though I have a bit of sailing experience, none of us are ‘borned to the I sea,’ so to speak.”
J.B. frowned, tugging at the brim of his fedora. “There may be some of Poseidon’s sec men prowling around, and we’re under armed.”
“Poseidon chilled,” Jak announced. “Second-in-command, Brosnan, chilled. Nobody alive to give sec men orders, give them pay. Won’t want to fuck with us for free.”
Ryan probed his twinging rib cage and grimaced. “Mebbe so. It’s worth the risk. Let’s move while we’ve still got the night.”
Doc returned to the cabin and keyed the cruiser’s engine to life while Dean and Jak hoisted the anchor. The motor made liquid, burbling sounds as Doc steered the craft in the direction of Kings Point. The sea itself was silent, but it was the dreadful silence that bore in it the threat of a storm.
J.B. joined Ryan in the bow, handing him the Smith & Wesson scattergun while he unlimbered the mini-Uzi. Both of them scanned the dark water ahead.
The boat cut through the sea slowly but steadily. As they drew closer to the arrangement of concrete quays and jetties extending over the water, Ryan was able to discern more details of the devastation J.B. and Mildred had visited on the installation. Smoke boiled from many of the low-roofed buildings in the compound and the fires cast a hellish illumination over the entire base.
“You didn’t take half measures,” Ryan commented.
J.B. grinned wolfishly. “Do I ever?”
Ryan would have grinned, too, but his face hurt too much.
Under Doc’s guidance, the craft approached a concrete jetty. Suddenly, an eighteen-foot launch swung around the headland. It was painted a drab military gray. The steady thud of its diesel engines had been swallowed by the purring murmur of their own craft.
The boat was about a hundred yards away, and three men stood behind the steel-framed windshield. The man handling the wheel was dark-complexioned, and his companions were crew-cut, beefy men in one-piece coveralls—the duty uniform of Poseidon’s mercenaries.
Bolted to the deck behind them, Ryan spotted an M-60 tripod-mounted machine gun. “Fireblast.”
Chapter Two
The launch’s engines bellowed throatily, and the craft’s props chopped the water to froth. The boat lunged toward them, its prow like the snout of a gray killer whale arrowing in on helpless prey.
Even over the roar of the engines, Ryan heard short, barking sentences hurled back and forth between the three men. One of the crew-cut mercs scrambled aft, hands clawing for the machine gun, swinging around its long perforated barrel.
J.B. shouted to Doc in the pilot cowling. “Evasive! Feed her more gas!”
The sound of the cruiser’s engines rose in pitch, and the craft churned forward. Synchronized with the sudden increase in speed, the tripod-mounted M-60 spit flickering spear points of flame. The blaster trembled on its fastenings. Steel-jacketed bullets sped across the rolling waves as the cartridge belt writhed like the coiling of a gleaming serpent.
Miniature waterspouts sprayed up just behind the cruiser’s stern. Cursing, the man behind the heavy-caliber blaster tried to realign the barrel with the people aboard the suddenly surging cruiser. The range was too great for the scattergun, which Ryan had, to be very effective, so J.B. opened fire with his Uzi. The bone-rattling chatter of the autoblaster joined the staccato hammering of the M-60.