Checkmate

Degaussing was a fancy term for demagnetization. Over time, steel-hulled ships pick up a magnetic charge that can interfere with radio and navigation systems. In this case, the charge was making it hard for the NEST inspectors to nail down the signature of whatever material was hidden in the Trego’s ballast tanks, so they were using degaussing emitters.

“Switch to internal,” Grimsdottir said. “You’ll still have the blueprint, but no overlay.”

“No problem,” Fisher said. “I’ll improvise.”

* * *

He returned to the head of the ladder and drew his SC- 20 from its back holster.

Compact and lightweight, the SC-20 was equipped with a flash/sound suppressor and it fired a standard NATO 5.56mm Bullpup round. That, however, was where similarities to other weapons ended. The SC-20’s modular under-barrel attachment gave Fisher an unprecedented array of options, including a gas/frag/chaff grenade launcher; LTL (Less-Than-Lethal) weapons such as ring airfoil projectiles (RAFs) and sticky shockers; an EM (Electro-Magnetic) pod with a laser-based directional microphone, a signal jammer, and a laser port sniffer for at- a-distance data transfers with IR computer ports; SPs (Surveillance Projectiles) such as a self-adhesive remote camera nicknamed, predictably, a “sticky cam,” and finally a gadget Fisher had dubbed the ASE, or All-Seeing-Eye, a micro-camera embedded in a tiny parachute made from a substance called aero-gel.

Consisting of ninety percent air, aero-gel could hold four thousand times its own weight and had a surface area that boggled the mind: Spread flat, each cubic inch of aero-gel — roughly the size of four nickels stacked atop one another — could cover a football field from end zone to end zone. In the case of the ASE, its palm-sized, self- deploying aero-gel chute could keep the camera aloft for as long as ninety seconds, giving Fisher a high-resolution bird’s-eye view of nearly a square mile.

Unfortunately, tonight, he wasn’t likely to need the ASE; he was hoping he wouldn’t need the SC-20 at all, but then again, ring airfoils and sticky shockers could turn out to be his best tools should he encounter trouble aboard the Trego.

He flipped his NV goggles into place and heard the faint electronic whistle in his earpiece as the they powered up. He scanned the darkened deck below. He saw nothing.

“Proceeding belowdecks,” Fisher radioed.

9

With the SC-20 held at ready-low, Fisher crept down to the next deck, turned the corner, and headed aft. He was halfway down the passageway when he froze. With exaggerated slowness, he crouched down, crab-stepped to the left, and pressed himself against the bulkhead.

Thirty feet down the passageway he’d seen a pencil-eraser-sized red spot on the bulkhead.

Sensor, he thought. But what type? Infrared, motion…

The spot moved. Not a sensor. It was the tip of a cigarette. Whether it was a security guard or a NEST person, he couldn’t be sure, but someone was leaning against the bulkhead behind a stanchion, taking an illicit smoke break.

Moving on flat feet, Fisher started easing himself backward.

The figure moved, stepping from behind the stanchion.

Fisher raised the SC-20 and pressed his eye to the scope.

The man was in a white bioharzard suit, the hood tilted back onto his forehead. On his hip was a model- 1911 Colt.45 automatic — standard issue for armed Navy watch personnel.

Other way, sailor. Turn the other way….

The man turned toward Fisher. He went still. His body tensed. He cocked his head, obviously seeing something in the dim light, but not sure what. His hand drifted toward the hip holster.

Fisher fired. The SC-20 coughed, a barely perceptible thwump.

The RAF struck high on the man’s sternum. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the deck. Fisher trotted forward and knelt down beside the man. He felt for a pulse; it was strong and steady. While classified as an LTL weapon, a ring airfoil projectile had a punch to it, and Fisher had seen it kill men, usually from a lung clot.

He unholstered the guard’s Colt, ejected the magazine, and hid it inside a pipe bundle near the ceiling, then reholstered the gun. If things went to hell, this would be one less gun shooting at him.

He found a dark corner for the guard’s body, covered it with a few scraps of discarded cardboard he found nearby, then pulled the man’s hood back in place and fired a dart into the man’s thigh for good measure.

He doubted he’d need more than the two hours the tranqulizer would buy him, but as with the Colt, if things went to hell, this would be one less guard to deal with.

* * *

He reached the passageway outside the engine room and crouched before the hatch. He switched his goggles to IR, then rose up until he could see through the porthole. Having been powered down for the past eighteen hours, the engine room was a field of dark blue structures broken only by still-warm yellow pipes and the lighter blue outlines of the engines. He saw no one moving about.

He checked his dosimeter reading on the OPSAT: All green. What was the rule with these things? Fisher thought. Green, good; red, dead.

He undogged the hatch and slipped inside.

* * *

He found the section of catwalk between the engines just as he’d left it: pried back and tossed to one side. The fire hose he’d used to stop the Trego was also still there, a charred and tangled mass wrapped around the reduction gear. Aside from the ticking of cooling pipes and the occasional hiss of steam, the space was quiet.

He heard the metallic thunk of a hatch opening. He switched his goggles to NV and turned around. A pair of figures in bio-hazard suits were stepping through the hatch.

“… I told you: I don’t know why,” said one of the men. His voice was muffled inside the hood. “The boss wants another reading, so we’re getting another reading.” He held up a Geiger counter and panned it through the air; it gave off a steady but slow chirping.

“Yeah, well, this place gives me the creeps.”

“Join the club. Come on, let’s get it done.”

They started down the catwalk, circling the space’s outer bulkhead. Fisher waited until they were out of sight, then reached up, grabbed a pipe, and lifted his legs off the deck and hooked them over the pipe. He reached again, this time snagging the edge of a ceiling I-beam with his fingertips. He rolled himself onto his belly with his thighs and chest resting across the conduits.

Below, he heard the clunk of the men’s footsteps on the catwalk.

The chirp of the Geiger counter grew louder.

Fisher drew his pistol. He thumbed the safety off and switched the selector to DART.

In his peripheral vision, through a tangle of pipes, Fisher caught a glimpse of a biohazard suit coming closer. The men appeared at the head of the catwalk and walked beneath Fisher. They stopped at the open grating. “You have any idea what this is all about?” one man asked.

“Just the rumors. Somebody was in a hurry to stop the ship.”

“Well, hell, I’d say they got the job done. No way they’re going to be able to cut that outa there. That gear is fried, but good.”

“Not our problem.” The man passed the Geiger first over the engines and then the grating, then knelt down and checked the fire hose. The chirping remained steady. “I got nothing. Control, this is Peterson.”

“Go ahead, Pete.”

“Second engine room sweep is done. All clear.”

“Good. Come topside. Time for you to rotate out.”

* * *

Once they were gone, Fisher lowered himself back to the deck and slipped feetfirst through the grating. Using