James Axler – Watersleep

“Krysty,” Mildred said, “Krysty, are you all right?”

The physician quickly checked her for any cuts, wounds or contusions. Apparently all of the blood on her clothing had come from other parties. Her skin was ice-cold, and Mildred knew she was in a form of shock that could only be treated with rest.

But there was no time for resting now.

“I know who this is. Cawdor’s woman,” Carter said. “She’s not dead?”

“Apparently not,” Mildred retorted.

“And the blood all over her isn’t her own?”

“Nope.”

“You mean she killed whoever with her bare hands?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cawdor must like them rough,” Carter said. “There anything more you can do for her?”

“In here? Not much.”

“I—I’m all right. I think,” Krysty said, her eyes still closed. She reached up and rubbed her forehead gingerly. “But I’ve got one hell of a headache.”

“Sorry, but it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” J.B. said, checking his chrono. “Those gren timers should start popping in eight minutes, thirty-two seconds, give or take a second. The timers aren’t exactly new.”

“We’ve got to find Ryan,” Krysty said, standing and leaning on Mildred’s offered shoulder for sup­port. “Poseidon has him.”

“Dark night! Any idea where?”

“Yes, I can take you there,” Krysty said. “Jak’s here, too, in the hospital.”

“Let’s get Jak first. We might need the extra hand,” J.B. said.

“Hot damn, but is this a night for resurrections, or what?” Mildred asked excitedly. “We might just make it through this yet.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ryan fought his way back from the subbasement hid­den away beneath the entrance to the massive sub­marine pen of Kings Point, chilling a half dozen of the hired sec men after reloading the AK-47 with a clip he’d taken from the dead man with the spectacles back at the doorway to the redoubt.

In the heat of the moment, Ryan regretted not going into the redoubt and chilling Poseidon personally, but now that he knew Krysty was alive he was less in­clined to hang around this pesthole.

The best strategy was to wait for a diversion. The squad of mercs he’d encountered in the stairwells be­neath the base had to have been backups, told to fol­low Poseidon at a distance. So far, it appeared as though the sound of gunfire hadn’t escaped out into the aboveground chambers.

Ryan had taken a small comm unit from one of the newer sec men he’d chilled. The airwaves were silent. He looked at his chron and hoped that J.B. had been able to plant the grens to go off at midnight.

Twelve o’clock, the chron read.

Ryan waited.

One minute past twelve blinked on the digital read-out, and the explosions he’d been counting on began to rock the base.

Both enlisted and sec men alike at the submarine pens fled their posts, seeking the source of the attack. The little radio at Ryan’s side crackled into a mass of voices all trying to communicate. He took a deep breath and sized up a pair of sec men near a gang­plank leading up to the Raleigh. Apparently even the explosions rocking half the base weren’t going to sway them from their duty.

There was no way for him to sneak past. He would have to take the offensive.

Besides, there was still the matter of Poseidon’s plan to take the sub out to Shauna’s place for his test of the Tomahawk. Even if the Admiral was stuck in the redoubt for the next one hundred years, his evil could live on past his mortal form if one of his lieu­tenants decided to carry out a final order. All Ryan had to do was pull some wires and sabotage the un­derwater crate.

ADMIRAL POSEIDON INPUT the doorway code and stepped out of the redoubt, avoiding the pool of blood and other internal fluids that surrounded the bisected Jonesy.

“You’re not as smart as you think, Cawdor,” he muttered as he began to run up the steps.

Poseidon paused to catch his breath and accessed a small terminal in a corner of a stairwell at the half­way point. The screen lit up. He toggled some keys to access a security net. He was rewarded with an overview of the submarine pens.