Pandemic Page 47

This was almost a thousand feet below the surface. Could there be survivors?

“A battle,” Steve said, his voice a husky whisper. “Between who?”

“The Americans. They shot at each other.”

Steve couldn’t think. Why hadn’t he asked more questions?

The final picture showed blackness: the Platypus moving over the submarine to the other side. Then, a wider shot of the sunken s.h.i.+p; from this angle, it looked bent, like a loaf of French bread kinked in the middle. A huge gash marred the hull, metal shards bent violently inward.

Bo Pan pointed to the gash.

“There,” he said. “Can your machine go inside?”

Steve stared. What had happened? Why had the navy destroyed its own vessel? If the navy would slaughter everyone on the Los Angeles, it wouldn’t think twice about sinking the Mary Ellen Moffett. He started to shake. He was in danger. This little excursion might get him killed.

“Steve,” Bo Pan said sharply. “Can it go in inside?”

Steve tried to clear his thoughts, tried to focus. He examined the tear in the hull.

“No, that’s probably not a good spot,” he said. “The metal is too torn up, too jagged. The Platypus could get hooked on a shard, get stuck.”

“Then go back to the picture of the dry deck shelter.”

Steve started to ask what that was, but then he knew — the sausage-shaped construct behind the sail. He called up that image.

“There,” Bo Pan said. “Could it go in there?”

A hole large enough for two men to walk through … the open inner hatch … far enough away from the torpedo damage that the corridors would be flooded, but mostly intact …

But if the Platypus went in and got stuck, and the navy captured it, could any of the advanced tech lead back to Steve? What would happen to him if it did?

“We need to leave this alone,” he said. “The data shows there are American ROVs in the area.”

He felt an iron-hard hand grip his shoulder. Steve’s body scrunched up from the sudden pain.

Bo Pan bent close. When he spoke, Steve felt the old man’s breath on his neck.

“I said, can it go inside.”

“Yes, sure,” Steve said in a rush. “But it’s like a maze in there. Without a deck plan, the Platypus might get stuck. We’d never get her back.”

Bo Pan stood straight, lifted up his bulky Detroit Lions sweats.h.i.+rt to reach into his jeans pocket — when he did that, Steve saw the handle of a small revolver.

A gun?

Bo Pan had a gun?

Steve realized he was staring, turned quickly to lock his eyes on the laptop screen.

“Steve, what is wrong? You seem startled.”

The tone in Bo Pan’s voice made it clear: I know you saw the gun, and now you know who is really in charge, yes?

“I’m fine, Bo Pan. Fine.”

“Good.”

The old man offered Steve a folded piece of paper.

Steve took it, started unfolding it. Even as he did, he wondered if this might be the end of him. Once he looked at it, would he know too much?

He found himself looking at a detailed deck plan of the USS Los Angeles. Under the t.i.tle were the words Modified: Operation Wolf Head.

Bo Pan flicked the paper. “This cost your country a great deal of money.” He pointed to the sub’s nose. “There. The Tomahawk missile tubes were removed and a lab was installed.” He slid his finger to a small box with an X drawn on it. “And that is their containment unit. Tell your machine to look there, and bring us whatever is inside.”

Steve turned in his chair, stared at the older man. Bo Pan still looked like some rich white man’s gardener, yet here he was with cla.s.sified information that had to go way beyond top secret.

“The alien artifact,” Steve said, “that’s what’s inside the containment unit?”

“Hopefully,” Bo Pan said.

“This is a bad idea. The submarine was. .h.i.t by a torpedo. Even if the alien artifact is inside, it could be broken into a hundred pieces, and each piece might have that contagious disease that turns people into killers. We should just go. The navy will be angry if they find us looking in there, and—”

The slap rocked Steve’s head back. He stared, wide-eyed, hand cupping his now-stinging cheek. He hadn’t even seen Bo Pan move.

The old man stared down at him. “You are wasting time, Steve Stanton. Do you think you are the only intelligent person on the planet? The X on the paper represents a locker, a locker built to withstand a direct hit from almost any kind of weapon. Inside that locker is a piece of alien s.h.i.+p stored within an airtight container that has already been decontaminated. If the locker is not damaged, the container can be brought onto this s.h.i.+p with no danger to any of us.”

The sting of the slap faded to mild heat. Steve gently rubbed at his cheek. It hurt. He’d made a mistake by following orders and not asking questions, but he wouldn’t be bullied into making an even bigger one.

“No,” Steve said. “I’m done with this.” He turned to his laptop, fingers reaching for the keys. “I’m telling the Platypus to return to —”

A cold pressure pushed against his temple. He felt a mechanical click that sent a slight vibration through his skull — Bo Pan had put the revolver against his head and c.o.c.ked the trigger.

Steve couldn’t move.

“If the container makes it to sh.o.r.e, you make it to sh.o.r.e,” Bo Pan said. “Do you understand?”