Medusa

correcting navigational system. It provides an observation post to detect intruders. You were seen long before you landed.”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to create a hideaway.”

“My understanding is, the people behind this scheme intended to use the atoll for transpacific smuggling.”

A pounding on the door interrupted their conversation. Then the door flew open, and an Asian man holding a machine pistol stepped into the cabin. Right behind him was Phelps. Phelps gave Zavala a lopsided grin.

“Hello, soldier,” he said. “You’re a long way from home.”

“I could say the same thing about you, Phelps.”

“Yes, you could. I see you’ve made friends with the captain and his crew.”

“Captain Mehdev has been very generous with his liquor cabinet.”

“Too bad the party’s over,” Phelps said. “The captain and his boys have work to do.”

Mehdev took the hint and ordered his crew out of the cabin. Phelps told his guard to escort them back to their posts, and then he pulled up a chair and put his boots up on a small writing table.

“How did you find this little hidey-hole?” Phelps asked.

Zavala yawned.

“Dumb luck,” he said.

“I don’t think so. Next question. Anyone else know about this place?”

“Only the U.S. Navy. You and your pals can expect a visit from an aircraft carrier any minute.”

“Nice try,” Phelps said with a snort. “The atoll would be swarming with ships and planes by now if the Navy knew about us. The camera on the island sent a picture of your pretty face directly to my boss, Chang. He’s the one who ordered Mehdev to grab you, even at the risk of being seen by someone. You’ve got yourself in a hell of a mess, Joe.”

Zavala’s lips turned up in a slight smile.

“It only looks that way,” he said.

Phelps shook his head in disbelief.

“What do they give you NUMA guys to drink?” he asked. “Bull’s blood?”

“Something like that,” Zavala said. “Now, I’ve got a question for you: why did you give us the key to the handcuffs and return Kurt’s gun after our skirmish with your boss lady?”

Phelps slid his feet off the desk, put them back on the floor, and leaned closer.

“Actually, I’ve got three bosses,” he said. “Triplets. Chang is in charge of the rough stuff. He’s got a brother named Wen Lo who takes care of business. But the hologram you met back in Virginia is the top dog. Don’t know whether it’s a he or she.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes it’s a man image, sometimes it’s a woman. You never know.”

“What’s with the holograms?”

“They don’t trust anyone, not even one another. They’re crazy too, but you already know that.”

“It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they’re not playing with a full deck, Phelps. How’d you get hooked up with this bunch of maniacs?”

“I’m an ex-SEAL. Crazy or not, they pay better than the Navy. I was going to retire after this gig.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Like I said, I’ve got family back home. You really think the virus the Triad came up with will hit the U.S.?”

“It’s only a matter of a very short time.”

“Damnit, Joe, we’ve got to stop this thing.”

“We?” Zavala scoffed. “I’m in no position to do much about anything right now.”

“I’m going to change that. I’ve been thinking how to work this out. But I’m gonna need your help.”

Phelps’s cell phone buzzed. He answered the call, listened for a moment, said, “Okay,” then hung up. He told Zavala to stay put and slipped out of the cabin.

Zavala pondered his conversation with Phelps. The man was a hired gun and killer, not the type he normally would choose as an ally, but their goals coincided. They would have to smooth out the wrinkles in their relationship later.

Zavala got off the bunk and walked around the cabin. He went over to the sink and splashed water on his face, then walked some more. He was almost feeling normal when Phelps returned.

Phelps was wearing a black neoprene wet suit and carrying a big duffel bag. There was worry in his hound-dog eyes.

“We’re going to have to postpone our talk,” he said. “That was Chang calling.”

“What’s going on?” Zavala asked.

“Things just got more complicated,” Phelps said. “Feel like going for a swim?”

“I just had one,” Zavala said. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope,” Phelps said.

He handed the duffel bag to Zavala, who hefted it.

“Is this part of the complications?” Zavala asked.

Phelps nodded.

He told Zavala to suit up and left him alone in the cabin. Zavala opened the duffel and found a wet suit. He stripped out of his damp clothes and pulled on the neoprene top and bottom, then opened the door and stepped out.

Phelps was waiting in the passageway with two men, also suited up for a dive. He motioned for Zavala to follow and led the way through the labyrinthine innards of the giant submarine. They encountered a number of crewmen who gave Phelps sullen looks. At one point, the guards split off, and Phelps stepped into a compartment at midship.

“Escape chamber,” Phelps said, pointing to a hatch over their heads. “There’s one on the other side of the conning tower that our two guard dogs will be using.”

He opened a bulkhead locker and pulled out two complete sets of scuba gear that included full face masks with wireless-communications capability. When they were ready, Phelps climbed up a ladder into a cylindrical chamber. Zavala followed him up, moving slowly under the weight of the gear.

The escape chamber was a tight fit for two men in full scuba gear. Phelps hit a switch that closed the floor, and water poured in. Once the chamber was flooded, he opened the hatch over their heads.

Phelps let air into his buoyancy regulator and swam up the escape shaft. Zavala followed close behind. They emerged from the submarine at the base of the lofty conning tower. The two guards were waiting for them. Each guard held a gas-powered speargun with a nasty-looking barb on the business end. Zavala ignored them and slipped his feet into his fins.

The greenish light that filtered through the camouflage net bathed the black hull of the submarine in a spectral glow. Zavala had once seen a Typhoon at dock, when the hull was mostly submerged, and had been impressed by its size, but that was nothing compared with seeing the gigantic sub and its massive conning tower in full.

A ducklike voice quacked in his headset, and Phelps waved to get his attention.

“That’s enough sightseeing for now, Joe. Follow me. This is a technical dive. Three hundred feet plus, but you’ve got Trimix in your tank, so you’ll be okay.”

Phelps switched on a waterproof dive light. With a fluttering kick of his legs, he swam away from the deck, propelling himself through the water using expert form, and then angled downward. Zavala came next, with the two guards following his bubble trail.

They headed toward an amber cluster of sparkling lights. As they descended further, Zavala saw that the lights were on the outside of four large globes attached to each other with tubelike connectors. He immediately recognized the lab from the diagrams he had studied.

“Davy Jones’s Locker!” Zavala said.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” Phelps said.

Zavala noticed something else. Ghostly blue forms were moving slowly in the shadows just beyond the reach of the lab’s searchlights.

“Are those blue medusae I see?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Phelps said. “You want to stay away from those puppies. They’re hot-wired. We can do a nature tour