Medusa

for the flotation system and waited for something to happen.

AUSTIN HOVERED ABOVE the bottom of the ocean with the Hardsuit’s lights trained on the top of the B3. The cable went taut as, a half mile above his head, the winch began to turn, but the bathysphere didn’t budge. Dire scenarios marched through Austin’s head: the jury-rigged hook would break immediately and the sphere would remain trapped in the suction created by the mud; Zavala would forget to deploy the flotation system or the system wouldn’t work when he did; worse of all, both men were unconscious.

“Cable’s tight to the winch,” Gannon called down. “Anything happening at your end?”

Austin saw that the cable splice was unraveling.

“Just keep hauling,” he said.

He gritted his teeth as if he could lift the B3 through sheer willpower. The bathysphere remained where it was. The cable unraveled some more.

“Move, damnit!” he yelled.

Plumes of mud billowed around the bathysphere. Then the sphere pulled free, popping from the mud like a cork from a bottle, and righted itself. A thick cloud of silt hid the sphere for an instant before it rose into the glare of the Hardsuit’s searchlights.

Austin’s triumphant yell blasted through the ship’s public-address system.

The B3 was ten feet from the bottom, mud streaming off its sides, then twenty feet, and still there was no sign of air-bag deployment. What was Joe waiting for? Maybe the flotation doors were clogged with mud.

Austin kept pace, rising slowly with the bathysphere, his eyes glued to the hook and cable.

As the last strand of cable splice gave way, doors along the sides of the sphere suddenly blew open and six air bags blossomed and rapidly filled. The bathysphere rocked back and forth, stabilized, then began to ascend.

Austin watched the B3 until it was out of sight.

“They’re on their way,” he notified Gannon.

“You’re next,” the captain said. “How are you?”

“I’ll be a lot better topside.”

Austin steadied the thrusters so that he was in a more or less vertical position, and was ready when the Hardsuit jerked at the end of the cable. As the suit began its long trip, Austin turned off his lights and saw that he was not alone.

The blackness was speckled with dozens of constellations. He was surrounded by luminescent sea creatures that hung in place like stars. Occasionally, he saw something moving like the lights of an airplane across the night sky. Then his eye caught movement off to the left. The constellation hanging there at the edge of his peripheral vision seemed to be growing larger. Turning his head, he saw what looked like a trio of glowing amber eyes moving closer.

An alarm went off in Austin’s brain. He’d been focusing on the rescue and forgotten about the sinister shadow loitering nearby when the cables were cut on the B3 and the ROV.

The Hardsuit’s searchlights reflected off the smooth, dark surface of something shaped like a flattened teardrop. It was a submersible of some kind, most likely an automated underwater vehicle, or AUV, because he couldn’t see a tether. The glowing eyes on the leading edge were apparently sensors, but Austin was more interested in the sharp-edged metal mandibles protruding from the front of the vehicle.

The vehicle moved fast, gliding at a depth where the mandibles would intersect the cable pulling him to the surface. Austin stomped on his vertical-thrust pedal. There was a second’s delay before the thrusters overcame the Hardsuit’s inertia, then he shot up several feet, his attacker passing below him, the mandibles snapping at empty water.

The vehicle made a wide banking turn, rose to keep pace, and circled back for another attack.

Gannon was watching the encounter on the ship’s monitor.

“What the hell was that?” the captain yelled.

“Something that wants me for dinner!” Austin yelled back. “Haul faster!”

The nimble AUV was quick to adjust its strategy and speed. Coming in for its second attack, it slowed to a walk, stalking its target with the wariness of a predator whose prey showed unexpected behavior.

Austin waited until the thing was just yards away and then tapped his foot pedal. The Hardsuit rose a few feet, but not fast enough to escape the attacker. He raised his arms defensively, holding them out straight and close together. He crashed into the AUV’s extended manipulators glancingly, but not before his claw stabbed the AUV in its middle eye.

Austin’s head slammed against the inside of the Plexiglas helmet. The impact knocked him sideways, and he swung at the end of his cable like soap on a rope. Pain shot up his left arm from the wrist.

The AUV went for another pass, but it was moving slowly, and it jerked erratically from side to side like a hound sniffing out prey. Rather than coming straight for Austin, it feinted a frontal attack, then angled upward toward the cable. Because Austin was still dazed from the last attack, he was slow to give the vertical thrusters juice. The AUV’s pincers caught his raised right arm at the elbow and closed around it.

With his left manipulator, he grabbed onto a thruster mandible and powered himself down, then up, operating like a yo-yo. The thrusters were designed for horizontal rather than vertical movement, and the weight of the vehicle worked against it, bending the mandible so that it was useless. Then the blade snapped at the base. The AUV thrashed wildly, peeled off, and disappeared into the darkness.

“Kurt, are you okay?” the captain’s voice rang in Austin’s earphones. “For God’s sake, answer me!”

“Finestkind, Cap,” Austin managed to croak. “Haul me up.”

“Hauling away,” the captain said with relief in his voice. “What kind of music do you want for the ride to the top?”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Austin said. He was too tired to think.

A moment later, the strains of a Strauss waltz came through his earphones, and he began his long trip to the surface to “Tales from the Vienna Wood.”

As Austin was hauled toward the ship, he was vaguely aware that he still clutched the AUV’s blade in his metal claw as if it were a hunting trophy.

CHAPTER 11

THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM THE WILLIAM BEEBE, LOIS Mitchell was trying to quell a riot in the mess hall, where Gordon Phelps had herded the staff at gunpoint. Someone had noticed that Dr. Logan was missing, and when Lois said that the marine biologist had been shot dead the news had prompted a chorus of anger and fear.

Lois tried to shout down the cacophony. When that didn’t work, she lined up several mugs on the counter and filled them from a coffeepot. The simple ritual had a calming effect. After the uproar had quieted down and she could be heard, Lois flashed a sweet smile.

“Sorry this isn’t a Starbucks Grande, but it will have to do for now.”

Her attempt at humor triggered an outburst from a young female lab tech whose pale face and tearful eyes indicated that she was on the verge of hysteria. Lacing into Lois in a voice choked with sobs, the tech demanded: “How can you be so calm knowing Dr. Logan was murdered?”

Stubbornly refusing the urge to break into tears herself, Lois said, “Dr. Logan is lying in the passageway outside the control room with a bullet in his heart. He tried to fight back and was killed by the man who locked us in here. If you want to avoid the same fate, I suggest you take several deep breaths and calm down.”

With a trembling hand, Lois pushed a mug across the counter. The young lab tech hesitated, then reached out for it and took a noisy slurp. Lois then gathered everyone around a large table and described her encounter with Phelps and the murder of Logan. A biologist who had been Logan’s closest friend rose from his chair and picked up a kitchen knife from the counter. He summed up his rage in a single word.

“Bastard!”

Lois remained in her seat and regarded the biologist with a calm gaze.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Lois said. “In fact, the man who shot Dr. Logan is worse