Hell Divers (9 page)

X gave this a moment to sink in and then said, “Diving requires more than courage. You have to bury your fear and realize there is more to life than your own survival. We dive for humanity. So get those selfish thoughts out of your mind,” he said, holding Magnolia's gaze an extra beat.

She rolled her eyes.

X almost rose to the bait, then stopped himself. “Listen up, everyone. I'm here to train you and keep you alive when the time comes.”

“Like you did your old team?” Magnolia muttered.

“Excuse me,” X said. “What did you say?”

Magnolia tipped her head back, uncertainty in her wide eyes. “I said you couldn't keep your old team alive.”

“Captain Ash dropped us into a fucking electrical storm,” X said. “My team was dead before they ever got to the surface.”

Magnolia nodded and took a step backward. “I'm sorry.”

X doubted it. But at least, he knew where he stood with his new team. They had about as much confidence in him as he had in them. And why should they feel any differently? They were replacing men
he
couldn't save.

“I don't expect you to trust me,” X said. “But I do expect you to listen—”

A voice over his shoulder cut him off. “Commander X!”

He turned to see Lieutenant Jordan, flanked by two Militia soldiers, coming across the room.

“Commander X,” Jordan repeated, stopping a few feet from him. He seemed uncharacteristically agitated. “Captain Ash would like to see you.”

X reached for his earpiece and realized he had left it in his locker. “I'm almost done here,” he replied.

“She needs to see you
now,
” Jordan insisted.

X could read the urgency in Jordan's eyes, and he doubted it was some half-assed rumor of civil unrest. The captain didn't want to talk about a food shortage or a problem with the ship. This was about Hades.

* * * * *

Captain Ash stood with her back to the wall, studying the two Hell Diver team leads seated at the command table. Cruise, of Team Apollo, sat tapping his finger on the white table. He had big shoulders, a shaved head, and the air of a man you didn't want to keep waiting.

To his right sat Tony, Team Angel's lead.

At the knock on the door, the captain stopped massaging her neck as X and Jordan entered.

“Sorry we're late,” Jordan said. “Commander X wasn't wearing his headset.”

X nodded. “I was too busy figuring out what to do with the sorry excuses for divers you guys assigned to my team.”

“Sam and Murph are okay,” Tony said.

“Magnolia can be a pain, no doubt about it,” Cruise added. “She is a criminal, after all. But she ain't all bad.”

Ash stepped to the table and gestured for the two new arrivals to take a seat. She could feel all eyes follow her as she sat at the head of the table. She had earned their respect over the years, but with it came responsibility.

“A day ago, we received a distress call from
Ares
. Captain Willis sent coordinates from a location directly over Hades.”

She saw the sudden tautness on the faces before her. Cruise shifted nervously in his chair. It was the first time Ash had ever seen him show any sign of apprehension.

“What the hell are they doing
there
?” Cruise asked.

Ash reached forward and activated the table's built-in console. The SOS video from
Ares
emerged on the individual screens in front of the divers. She waited for them to digest the information.

“Willis is a bigger fool than I thought,” Cruise said. “He would've been better off trying to make it to another location than attempting a dive over Hades.”

Ash took a deep breath and said, “Whatever desperation drove him to attempt a dive at Hades doesn't matter right now. All that matters is that we help them.”

Cruise muttered something profane. “You have got to be kidding me. We can't risk our ship for theirs. They made their decision, they have to live with it.”

“Team Raptor has just provided us with enough nuclear fuel cells to keep us in the air for years,” Ash said. “We have the juice to get to Hades—”

Cruise cut her off. “And X's men paid the full price to make sure we don't end up in the same position as
Ares
. I can't believe you would risk that!”

Before Ash could respond, X rose from his seat and loomed over Cruise. “Excuse me,
Commander
, but your superior officer was speaking. I'm with Captain Ash on this. If we have the ability to aid
Ares,
then why not do it? If we get to Hades and can't provide support, then we pull back.”

Cruise snorted. “Am I the only one that thinks this is a crazy idea? Tony? Jordan?”

No one spoke, and X sat back down. Ash let Cruise fidget for a moment. It was the best way to defuse the situation. Dressing him down in front of the other team leaders would only infuriate him more.

“God only knows what's down there,” Cruise said under his breath.

“God isn't the only one,” Ash replied. She punched in another command. “We received another transmission about an hour ago. Only a chunk came through.”

After entering in her credentials, she pulled up the confidential file. Static crackled from the PA system. Ash crossed her arms across her chest and listened to the message for the fourth time.

“Commander, I just reached the second warehouse. Shit, this place is a fucking gold mine, sir! There's got to be hundreds of cases of fuel cells!”

“What about the pressure valves?”

“Still searching.”

“Stand by, Jones. I'm on my way.”

The audio cut in and out, only to return a few seconds later.

“Our father in heaven, hallowed be your name …”
[Static.]
“Forgive us our debts …”
[Static.]
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

“What the hell is he yammering about?” Cruise asked.

“Lord's Prayer,” Tony replied. “My mom used to recite it when I was a kid.” He flinched at the sound of gunfire that followed the words.

“Commander …”
Hiss of static.
“The Sirens—they're inside!”

“Get out of there, Jones!”

There was a flurry of gunshots, followed by a piercing screech. The sound sent a chill through Ash. She recalled her conversation with X. Were these the same creatures he had stumbled onto?

“Jones, come in. Jones, where are you?”

White noise.

“Oh, Jesus! They're coming!”

Labored breathing broke over the channel, then the crack of more gunshots.

“Jones, do you copy? Where are you? Where the hell are you?”

A throaty gurgle came next, then a barely decipherable answer. Ash could make out only three syllables. It sounded like
“God help me.”

A high-pitched screech—a sound that could not have come from human vocal cords—ended the transmission.

For several minutes, the three divers sat in silence. Ash studied them one by one and stopped on X. His features were tight, his jaw clenched, as if he was trying to forget a nightmare.

“Those sounds were familiar, weren't they?” she asked.

X nodded. “Yes, Captain. The things they are calling ‘Sirens' sound exactly like the creatures I encountered on my last dive.”

Cruise twisted in his chair to glare at X. “You saw something down there and didn't tell us?”

Ash intervened. “He told me, and now we're telling you.”

“Excellent,” Cruise replied. He put his hands behind his shaved head and leaned back in his chair. “Am I always the last one to hear about stuff that could get us killed?”

Ash resisted the urge to take Cruise down a peg in front of his peers.

“We don't know the status of
Ares,
but we're going to find out in …” She looked down at her wristwatch. “In five hours. Oh, and, gentleman, you'd better get your teams ready just in case we have to mount a rescue operation.”

Cruise stood, and his eyes flitted from X to Captain Ash. “You're going to get us all killed.”

“Dismissed,” Jordan said sternly.

Cruise stalked out of the room. Tony and X followed him out, but X paused in the doorway. “Wait for me to tell my new divers,” he shouted after Cruise and Tony. Then he turned and met Ash's gaze.

“Captain,” he said, “I hope you got a plan when we get to Hades, because after seeing what I saw down there—those things, the Sirens—chances are, Captain Willis' divers are already dead.”

The beam from Commander Weaver's headlamp cut through the inky darkness of the warehouse. He clambered up the stairs and raced over the skeletal platform, the light bouncing across his path.

“Jones, do you copy?” Weaver repeated for the hundredth time.

The maddening crackle of static was the only response. He ran up another staircase and across a second mezzanine, which ended at a steel door connecting the two warehouses. Weaver approached cautiously, pistol up.

Snippets of Jones' last words repeated in his mind:
The Sirens. They're everywhere!

Weaver cursed himself for not making the arduous trek to the crate and loading up on weapons. The allure of the buildings, close by and full of supplies for the taking, had clouded his judgment. He would trade the rest of his water for a blaster or an assault rifle.

It was too late now. There was no turning back to the crate unless he had the cells and valves. His eyes flitted to his minimap. He had set a nav marker on Jones' last known location. If the computer was correct, Jones—and the Sirens—were in the next building.

He eased into a cautious trot across the catwalk. The ancient metal shook and groaned. He grabbed on to a railing with one hand and glanced over the other side. It was farther down than he had thought. Even with the armor shielding his vital parts, he would likely break something if the catwalk gave out. The sturdy warehouses had been built to last, but two and a half centuries was a long time.

Walking across the final stretch to the door, he crouched down and shined the headlamp over the rusted frame. Long gashes ran down the length of the metal. He crab-walked closer, examining the door under the glow. The abrasions were deep and looked recent. Rust hadn't worked its way into the deep crevices yet, but something else had. A jagged piece of what looked almost like bone stuck out of one of the incisions. He pulled it and held it under the light. It looked like the broken-off end of a long, curved talon from something big—something the size of a Siren.

He rotated it under the light. The jagged, yellow claw was rough, but when he tried to bend it, it wouldn't budge. It had the strength of steel and the coarseness of sandpaper.

The wind outside beat the sides of the building, rising into a howl that sounded alive. Weaver swallowed and looked at the crevices again. He forced himself to think of his wife, his kids, and the mission. The nuclear fuel cells were on the other side, and the pressure valves could be there, too.

He shut off his lamp and activated the night-vision optics.
You can do this,
he told himself.
You have to. Jones could still be alive.
The words sounded hollow and unconvincing.

Holding the pistol in one hand, he grabbed the knob and rotated it. The loud click of the latch made him cringe, and he braced himself for the high, keening wail that was sure to follow.

Nothing.

He inched the door open and peered into the darkness. He could see the outline of another mezzanine, and the top rows of shelves. Curiosity won out over fear, and he sneaked through the opening.

He was on the third level of the massive warehouse, standing over hundreds of shelves. Some had come crashing down, perhaps decades ago; others leaned against each other like some giant's house of cards. The catwalks stretching over the maze sagged or listed in places, but the one in front looked study enough.

Weaver stepped out onto the nonskid metal grate. It creaked under his boot, and a shriek answered. He froze like a child caught stealing cookies.

The noise came again, echoing through the space. He whipped his head around, searching for the source, but nothing moved in the NVG's green-hued field of vision.

The otherworldly shrieking died away until he could hear only the echo of his breath inside his helmet. He had to find Jones and the salvage they had come for, and get back to the ship.

He took three silent steps without attracting any audible response.

Jones, where the hell are you?

At the end of the walkway, he stopped and grabbed the railing to look over the side. A shelf had collapsed below, spilling its contents across a floor he could hardly see.

He continued, searching the darkness for any sign of Jones, when a distant screech stopped him in mid stride. Another came from the east, and a third from the west corner of the room. They rose and fell in a whine that made him shiver in his warm suit.

Weaver trained his pistol in each direction, but he couldn't see much of anything. His night-vision optics simply couldn't penetrate the darkness of the warehouse. The battery unit under his vest glowed weakly, giving off barely enough light to see a foot ahead.

The gun shook in his hands as the eerie wailing started up again, coming from all three directions. With a bump of his chin, he deactivated his night vision and let the darkness swallow him.

You're fine. Everything is fine … 

Weaver listened to the alien vocalizations. Everything was
not
fucking fine. He took another long, calming breath and reached up to click on his headlamp.

The slight motion cued a symphony of the strange cries. He moved the light over the floor below, seeing nothing. Then he swept it over the catwalks, stopping on something bulky. Lying in the center of one of the walkways, a body. Jones' right arm dangled over the side, his hand open.

The whines sounded louder and closer, but Weaver felt stuck, frozen in place. His light had captured a naked, leathery creature kneeling next to Jones. The shape looked almost human, but of course, that wasn't possible.

He moved the beam over the spikes jutting from the wrinkled skin of the creature's back.

The thing suddenly tipped its head in his direction. The beam of light caught it where its eyes should have been, and Weaver saw lips, stretched into what looked like a wide grin, flecked with blood.

Weaver's beam stopped on Jones' limp hand, dangling over the edge of the catwalk. Leaning over the railing, he saw a case on the ground below.

The sound of scrabbling claws pulled his gaze upward. Three of the creatures scampered effortlessly across the ceiling. The sight shocked him into motion, and experience took over. Taking a step backward, he raised his revolver and aimed it at the shrieking things.

He fired off a shot that went wide and ricocheted off the wall. The long-limbed monsters darted away, nails sparking against the metal.

Steady, Weaver. Steady
.

Closing one eye, he squeezed off two more shots. Both pinged off the wall. The creatures were so damn fast, he had to lead them more. By pure luck, he hit one in the back, and it dropped from the ceiling, arms flailing as it caromed off a catwalk and went cartwheeling to the floor. The sound of the squishy impact sent the Sirens into a frenzy. They fanned out in all directions. Motion below revealed more of the eyeless monsters scuttling across the floor of the warehouse.

He lined up a shot and hesitated.

How many bullets did he have left in the cylinder? Two? Three? He could hardly think. He was operating on instinct and adrenaline. The beam of his light rolled over a half-dozen bulb-shaped nests on the eastern wall. The area was alive with movement. One of the Sirens landed on the platform in front of him and dropped to all fours. It lunged, and a hollow-point bullet blew out the back of its skull. The beast slumped to the floor and slid to a stop inches from his boots.

He heard the clank of another Siren dropping to the platform behind him. He whirled and shot it in the neck as it charged. It flopped to the walkway, choking on its own blood.

Weaver fired until his revolver clicked, then kept squeezing the trigger, hoping for a bullet that wasn't there. Talons scraped across the metal platform as more of the beasts closed in. Their screeching reverberated from every corner of the warehouse.

He looked at Jones' inert body once more, glanced back down at the case of cells, and ran.

* * * * *

Ash felt the
Hive
slow as they reached airspace above the edge of Hades. She stared at the surprisingly crisp feed from the bow of the ship. Flashes of electricity streaked across the main display and danced across the horizon, illuminating a shelf of storm clouds that stretched across the entire skyline.

“I hope to God
Ares
isn't in there,” she whispered.

Every officer on the bridge had stopped to stare at the monitor. Jordan stood at Ash's side as they waited anxiously for any sign of their sister ship.

“Have we heard anything?” she asked.

Jordan shook his head. “The last transmission we received came over seven hours ago.”

“What about radar? Have we detected
anything
?”

“Negative, Captain. The interference is too strong. If they're out there, they're blind, deaf, and mute.”

Ash sighed. “Willis, where the hell are you, you old bastard?”

“Captain?” Jordan asked.

“Nothing.” She changed the subject. “What's our current power situation?”

Jordan held up a clipboard. “Samson reported that we're running at ninety-two percent of power. That was three hours ago.”

“A bit better than yesterday.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Ash took a moment, painfully aware that whatever decision came next could put the entire human race in jeopardy. She had hoped
Ares
would be waiting on the outskirts of the storm. Then she could have sent Hell Divers with fuel cells and whatever parts Willis needed.

Now she didn't have many options—at least, not many good ones. Ash couldn't leave the ship to die, but she couldn't risk navigating the storm to find it, either. An impossible choice, but she already knew what she had to do.

Flashes of lightning bloomed across the screen in brilliant arcs, and in that fleeting glow, she saw an outline. Could it be … ?

“Did you see that?” Ash stepped closer to the screen.

Another bright net lit up the sky, but this time she saw only churning clouds. Perhaps that was all she had seen: a dark pile of cumulus in the form of a ship.

Jordan came and stood by her side. “What madness do you think drove Captain Willis inside there?”

“Desperation,” Ash said.

“
Ares
is a strong ship. They could still be afloat.”

“Aye,” Ash replied. “But for how long?” Still peering into the storm, she said, “What did Samson say?”

“I haven't asked.”

“Don't bother.” She already knew the answer. The airships were built to survive storms, but only for a limited time. It didn't take many direct lightning strikes to rupture a gas bladder. Worse, the lightning could fry the extensive electrical network snaking through the bowels of the ships. Either event would be catastrophic.

Ash felt the eyes of her crew on her. Everyone was looking to her for orders. The moment she saw the storm, she had made her decision. Now it was time to give the hardest order of her command. She hated to say it, but Cruise was right: she couldn't risk the
Hive
to save
Ares
.

“The captains before me didn't keep the
Hive
in the sky by taking unnecessary risks,” Ash said. Turning from the monitor, she looked toward her navigation officers. “Ryan, Hunt, keep us on the edge of the storm. Do not—I repeat, do
not—
enter without my command. I don't care if the
Ares
is ten feet on the other side.”

Both ensigns acknowledged with short nods.

“Jordan, tell our comm team to keep hailing
Ares
. I want to know the minute we hear anything.”

“Aye, Captain,” he replied.

Ash spied a hint of a frown forming on Jordan's face. Like the phantom ship outline, it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

* * * * *

Travis stopped at a row of tomato plants in Compartment 1 and spat into the first pot. The dirt was moist with the saliva of other lower-deckers. They all worked together down here, using every resource they could to survive. Manure from the livestock that still remained became fertilizer for the plants growing under the lights. Hides and fur from slaughtered animals became clothing. He had a blanket made of rabbit furs, and his leather shoelaces were from a hog killed years ago. Nothing went to waste. Everything was used and reused.

He passed hundreds of cages of squawking chickens and chirping guinea pigs, and the platoons of workers tending the precious livestock. Captain Ash had apportioned these animals to the lower-deckers after the food riots nearly two years ago. It was a measure to prevent future rebellions, but only a Band-Aid on a bigger problem. Extra rations of eggs and guinea pig meat wouldn't begin to get at the real needs belowdecks.

Travis followed a line of passengers toward the two Militia soldiers standing guard at the stairs leading up. Some lower-deckers were going to work, others to the trading post to barter their produce. He wasn't doing either. He was on his way to the brig, to visit his brother.

The line surged forward, and Travis pulled out his ID. His head pounded from a migraine that he couldn't shake. The stench was starting to get to him again. Passing a pen of hogs, he coughed into the sleeve of his trench coat.

When he finally got to the front of the line, he thought he was going to puke. He handed his ID to the guard on his right.

“What's your business?”

Travis pulled a piece of paper authorizing access to the brig and gave it to the man. “I'm visiting someone.”

The sentry held the ID under the bank of lights overhead and glanced at Travis, then studied the piece of paper. He gave both back to Travis and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Get moving.”

Travis climbed the steps and negotiated the maze of corridors to get across the ship. He could have done it blindfolded if he wanted. He knew each passage, nook, and cul-de-sac by heart.