“What the devil?” he said, watching as the group started to flee en masse.
Poseidon hit the keys and found another exterior view. He saw the white fire of an explosion rock the men’s dormitory.
“We’re under attack,” he said in disbelief. Could Cawdor have brought in reinforcements so soon? Impossible! Poseidon returned to a view of the submarine pens and tried for a closer view of the Raleigh. The sub seemed to be secure, until he saw Ryan appear on the sec-camera monitor, a tiny image running like a two-legged engine of flesh and muscle toward the gangplank.
The pair of sec men standing guard at the sub’s access hatch never knew what hit them. One of the men spun and got off a rash of shots from the automatic weapon he carried, and one lucky burst ricocheted off their attacker’s rifle. But Ryan was unstoppable at that point.
There was no audio, but Poseidon could imagine the dry snapping sound as the one-eyed man threw his useless rifle at the sec man, then lunged forward and broke the first man’s neck with a forceful twist. No audio, but he could almost hear the crunch as Ryan swung back with an elbow and caught the second sec man, who had just stood there stupidly and never even fired his weapon, full in the nose.
Poseidon beat the keyboard of the computer with both fists, his angry cries guttural as the words clogged in his chest. He picked up the monitor screen and hurled it down the stairs.
“Not over. Not yet,” he raged, and turned at an all-out run for the surface.
“WHERE’S CAWDOR?” Poseidon rasped. He’d run all the way back up to the submarine pen, and he was out of breath. It had been a long time since he had been forced to exert himself past a quick walk, and he was sweating beneath his prim uniform.
“Hiding,” the groggy sec man said with a sniff. Red blood was already beginning to dry on the front of his uniform tunic. “He’s below. In the sub.”
“Is he, now?” Poseidon chuckled. “What a wonderful idea. If Ryan wants a tour of the Raleigh, he’ll receive a working man’s look. But he’ll not leave our submarine alive, I’ll guarantee you that much. And after I’ve slung our Tomahawk at that commune and those mutie bastards, I’ll blast his stubborn ass through a torpedo tube.”
Poseidon glanced back. “What’s your name, sailor?”
“Coleman, sir. Robert Coleman.”
“Coleman, I don’t recognize you as part of the regular detail assigned to the Raleigh.”
“No, sir. First time here, sir.”
“You lost your weapon, Coleman, to the enemy who entered the same submarine you were supposed to watch. Those are serious offenses, Coleman. Court-martial offenses.”
Coleman swallowed hard. “Sir?”
“Bugger it all, man, I’ll save some time and take care of this myself.”
And with that statement, Poseidon pulled his side arm and shot Coleman in the stomach.
Poseidon turned and dropped down the main sub hatch in a show of disgust, his wide waist and shoulders constricted by the narrow access way. He stopped and pulled the hatch cover overhead as tightly as he could to make sure the automechanism locked properly, then did the same for the secondary hatch, spinning the locking wheel with more force than necessary and being rewarded with a dull clunk as the bolts shot true.
No one was coming in or going out now, by God, without going through him first.
“Brosnan?” he called out.
“Aye, sir,” the second in command replied from the control room. “What’s happening above, Admiral? We’re getting all kinds of conflicting reports.”
“Never mind that now. Have you seen Ryan Cawdor in here lurking about?”
“No, sir.”
“What is our status?”
“All primary systems green and checked. We are ready to dive when you give the order.”
The Admiral went into the control room and glanced at the various panels of mech, electrical and hydraulic controls. One bank was dark and two others a mix of reds and greens. So what if the Raleigh wasn’t armed with the standard complement of twenty-two Tomahawk nuclear missiles? He still had the one and it was ready to launch.