Plague Ship (11 page)

“Of course.”

“And will you please bring Sol too?”

“As soon as we get you and Will settled.”

“Thank you for being so kind, David,” she said and again rested her head on Will’s chest. She stroked her boy’s arm, as if willing it to come to life.

David walked back over to Carolyn, who was now leaning heavily against the wall. “When we leave with Will’s body, give me some Valium pills for Marilyn.”

“Five-milligram pills?”

“Yes, but a bunch of them.”

Marilyn began sobbing again and murmuring quietly to Will, as if he were still alive.

Carolyn shook her head sorrowfully. “Even if she survives, her life is destroyed.”

David nodded. “She’ll never get over Will’s death, never in a million years.”

Carolyn nodded back. “Will was such a sweet, gentle kid. Everybody liked him.”

“Particularly Kit.”

“Have you told her about him yet?”

“Yeah, a few minutes ago.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Badly,” David said and looked away. He swallowed hard, his mind going back to Kit’s tears. “They were best pals.”

Carolyn smiled knowingly. “They were closer than that.”

David’s eyes narrowed as the revelation sunk in. “Boy-girl stuff, eh?”

“Boy-girl stuff,” Carolyn repeated, thinking that men were sometimes so oblivious to emotional bonding. “She’ll really hurt for a while, David.”

“I know.”

“Where is Kit now?”

“I left her with Karen.”

Carolyn’s face tightened, her dislike for Karen Kellerman obvious. From past experience, Carolyn knew the woman was tough as nails and only softened when she wanted something in return. “I wouldn’t have picked her to be with Kit right now, and I think you know why.”

David shrugged. “I had no choice. Juanita is sick and may well have the damn flu.”

“Oh Christ!” Carolyn moaned and slumped even more heavily against the wall. “Things are really going from awful to worse.”

“By the minute,” David added and gazed at Carolyn, who
appeared weary and drained from handling a sick bay filled with dozens of sick people all by herself.
God! She was holding up so well
. But the fatigue was showing through in her face and posture. “You look beat. Why don’t you rest for a while?”

“I’m just getting my second wind,” Carolyn said and forced herself to perk up.

“You don’t lie very well.”

“I know, but I’m getting better at it.”

David gave her an affectionate bump with his hip. “I think I could grow to like you.”

Carolyn grinned. “You say that to all the girls.”

“Just the pretty ones.”

The landline phone rang loudly and continued to ring. Other buttons on the phone lit up, indicating even more incoming calls.

“It never stops,” Carolyn sighed through her fatigue and picked up the receiver. As she listened to the voice on the other end, her expression changed to dead serious. Almost in a whisper she said, “Yes, I understand.”

Slowly she placed the phone down and steadied herself against the desk. The color left her face.

“What?” David asked anxiously.

“Richard Scott has taken over the bridge, and he has a gun pointed at the captain’s head.”

sixteen

Richard Scott and his
three fellow mutineers were armed with shotguns, and they were holding the weapons like they knew how to use them. Standing at the far wall of the bridge, with their hands atop their heads, were four of the officers aboard the
Grand Atlantic
. Only the new captain, Jonathan Locke, had put up any resistance, and he had an ugly bruise on his forehead to show for it.

“Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve broken?” David asked pointedly. “You could spend a hundred years in jail.”

“Which would be a lot better than dying on this infested ship,” Scott retorted. “I’ll take my chances ashore in a court of law.”

“You’re going to have some problems that I don’t believe you’ve considered.” David briefly studied the mutineers and decided he could take out one or maybe two, but then the firing would start and some people would end up dead. “Big problems.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who will navigate the
Grand Atlantic
and take you exactly to where you want to go?”

“The first officer,” Scott answered at once and gestured to the group of officers with his shotgun.

David glanced over and, by the process of elimination, picked out the first officer. He recognized the captain who he had witnessed taking command, and the chief radio officer who had set up the conference call with the CDC, and the security officer who had congratulated him on his fine skeet shooting. That left the new first officer, a chubby man, in his late thirties, with a protuberant abdomen, round face, and wisp of a moustache.

David stared at the first officer and wondered if the man had the know-how and courage to vary the ship’s course unnoticed or perhaps sail it in wide circles until all its fuel was used up.

Scott’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men, as if suspecting that a silent message was being transmitted. Quickly he interjected, “And the first officer better not play any games. We know where due south is. In addition, Robbie, my colleague with the rose tattoo, has had a fair amount of experience navigating ocean-going yachts. So we’ll know if we go off course, and the first officer will be punished for it in a very unpleasant manner.”

“But why go through all this?” David argued mildly. “The Navy will never allow you to make landfall in an American port.”

“Who said we’re going to America?” Scott smirked, then looked over to the first officer. “Due south, and you’d better stay on course.”

There was a loud knock on the door. The mutineers abruptly turned and trained their shotguns in the direction of the sound.

“Who is it?” Scott called out.

“Choi,” came the response.

“Come in!”

The door opened, and a heavily muscled Asian entered. He was a short, stocky man, with black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and thin lips that seemed pasted together. He gave David a hard stare and waited for him to look away. David stared back and thought this must be the tough who, according to Carolyn, controlled the crew.

“Sir,” Choi said, addressing Scott. “All crew with you. They no want to stay on death ship.”

“They will leave with us when we reach land,” Scott promised. “And you may tell them so.”

“Good,” Choi said, then asked, “Sir, one problem may be. What if passengers no listen to orders from crew?”

“A little intimidation should take care of that.”

Choi smiled thinly.

“Now return to your post and wait for further information,” Scott directed. He watched the Asian deckhand leave, then turned to Robbie, who was checking the breech of his 20-gauge Browning shotgun. “Keep an eye on him. I don’t trust those sneaky bastards. They’ll turn against you as soon as the wind changes.”

“They’re all that way,” Robbie said and closed the breech of his weapon.

Scott signaled Robbie with his hand to follow the Asian, then came back to David. “You will continue looking after the sick people, and as long as you don’t interfere with us, we won’t interfere with you. If you attempt to contact the outside world, you’ll pay a heavy price.”

“I’ll still have to talk with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta,” David told him. “They’ll be calling the ship for updates. There’s no getting around that.”

“I know,” Scott said, unconcerned. “So we’ll monitor your calls in the small, private communications room adjacent to the bridge. Any attempt on your part to alert the CDC will cause us to end the conversation. From that point on, you’ll have a shotgun pointed at your head every time you have contact with the outside world. Understood?”

“Understood,” David said tonelessly, but he was wondering how Scott knew about the private communications room. Was the chief radio officer a part of the mutiny? Or maybe the security officer who kept the Browning shotguns used for skeet shooting under lock and key? Richard Scott would most likely have tried to persuade someone on the inside to help carry out the mutiny. It would have been the smart move.

“If you have something to say, now is the time to say it,” Scott broke into David’s thoughts.

“I was thinking about the sick passengers,” David lied easily. “In particular, the crew won’t assist us in moving patients back to the rooms. I may have to lean on their leader a little.”

Scott smiled humorously. “If I were you, I’d be careful around Choi. He can be a very nasty character.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” David said, unfazed.

Scott gave David a long look before saying, “There’s more to you than just being a doctor. You look and act ex-military to me. Maybe you were once an MP. Right?”

Yeah, in a way
, David thought.
Special Forces operatives and military police, like cops everywhere, share the common purpose of keeping the slime of the world at bay. I guess that makes me an
ex-cop in a generic sense
. David found himself nodding.

“Well, in case you try to overthrow us, I’m going to take some added precautions. We’ll post a guard outside your daughter’s cabin and keep a close eye on her. She’ll be our guarantee that you don’t try to upset our plans. Do you get my drift?”

David fought to control his temper, but it still nearly boiled over. For a brief moment, he was tempted to snatch Scott’s shotgun from him and quickly pump rounds into the three other mutineers. But it was too risky. Twenty-gauge Brownings didn’t require accurate aiming, and even an accidental discharge could blow him to pieces at short range. David took a deep breath and collected himself, then said in a monotone, “If you harm my daughter in any way, you’ll be the first to die. And it’ll be the worst death you could ever imagine.”

Scott shrugged off the threat. “Go about looking after the ill passengers. I’ll expect an update every few hours.”

David nodded, but Kit was still on his mind. Somehow he’d have to find a way to protect her. “Remember what happens if you hurt my daughter.”

Scott shrugged again. “Don’t make me come looking for you to get the updates.”

As David left the bridge, he glanced out an expansive side window to the pool area below. Dozens of crewmen were strolling about or lounging in chairs, enjoying the bright sun. Some were even splashing in the pool. They were taking the place of the passengers, who were hiding from the virus in their plush cabins. Oh, yeah, David thought darkly, the crew could now enjoy all the pleasures of the
Grand Atlantic
, except for skeet shooting. Only Richard Scott and his band of mutineers would have the shotguns that gave them absolute control. And when the time came for the great escape, the unarmed crew would be let loose and spread ashore like ants, thus providing cover for Scott and his companions. But what was their final destination, and how did they plan to gain entrance to it? David had no answers for those questions.

He hurried down a long passageway, his brain focusing on the weapons Richard Scott had. The shotguns gave Scott an insurmountable advantage and it would be foolhardy to attempt to take him on in a fight.
Without a weapon, I’m at Scott’s mercy and there’s nothing I can—
David’s eyes abruptly narrowed as he remembered the firearms Jonathan Locke had spoken about just after the transfer of command. Was the new captain referring to shotguns or something else?

David picked up the pace, now almost running. He dashed around a corner and came to the section reserved for officers’ living quarters. Looking both ways to make certain he wasn’t being seen, he quickly knocked on the door to William Rutherford’s cabin and entered. The room was stuffy and hot, and had the stale smell of death about it.

Rutherford was dozing and appeared even sicker. He was sweating profusely, and his face was beginning to turn bluish-red, which indicated oxygen deprivation. His strength had ebbed to the point that it required an effort for him to cough.

Opening his eyes, Rutherford slowly turned to David and tried to clear the sputum from his throat. “Has there been some change?”

David nodded gravely. “I’m afraid Richard Scott has taken over the ship. It’s a good old-fashioned-type mutiny.”

“The imprudent bastard,” Rutherford growled. “How did he manage it?”

“He and three of his friends somehow got hold of the shotguns and took over the bridge,” David replied.

“And it was easy enough for him to accomplish that.” Rutherford paused to cough up some bloody sputum. He wiped the phlegm from his lips before continuing. “All he had to do was say they wanted to enjoy some skeet shooting, and the weapons would have been handed to him without hesitation.”

“Or maybe your security officer decided to join them,” David suggested.

Rutherford shook his head. “Bob Cooperman has been at sea for over thirty years, half of them with me. He’s tried and true.”

Well, I suspect one of your officers isn’t
, David wanted to say, but said nothing because he had no proof.

“Is the crew involved with the mutiny?” Rutherford asked.

“To a man.”

“Then Scott has total control of the ship.”

“So it would seem.”

“There may be a few of the crew who won’t voluntarily participate in this cowardly act. They could be of some assistance to you.”

“That’s unlikely,” David told him. “If Choi sees anyone wavering, he’ll see to it that they toe the line.”

“Be wary of Choi,” Rutherford cautioned. “He can be very ill-tempered when provoked, and he’s a master of martial arts, which makes him doubly dangerous.”

“Have you seen him in action?” David asked.

Rutherford nodded. “A deckhand on the last cruise purposefully tried to provoke a fight with a passenger. Choi stepped in to calm things down, but the deckhand attacked him instead. The deckhand ended up with a fractured jaw and multiple broken ribs.”

“Did you actually see Choi do the damage?”

Rutherford nodded again. “From the bridge. He used both his hands and his feet to deliver vicious blows that were lightning-fast.”

David guessed that Choi was Korean and knew that country’s martial-arts specialty was taekwondo, a tough and brutal form of hand-to-hand combat. In David’s estimation, taekwondo was more lethal than karate and more difficult to defend against.

“What about my officers?” Rutherford broke the silence. “Have any of them been harmed?”

“No, they’re fine,” David answered, again wondering if an officer was involved in the mutiny. Deep down he believed one was, but believing it and proving it were two different things. And he had to know for sure. The last thing he needed at that point was another backstabber. “Can your officers be trusted? I mean, really trusted?”

“I think so,” Rutherford said evenly but without strong conviction. “They’re all family men, with clean records. But then again, one never knows.”

“What about the acting captain?” David asked directly. “Does he have the gumption to stand up to Scott if the need arises?”

“I would say so, as long as his diabetes remains under control,” Rutherford replied. “He requires four injections of insulin every day to keep his blood sugar steady.”

A brittle diabetic!
David groaned. It was another serious medical problem he might have to deal with. “What about the acting first officer? You know, the chubby one with a little mustache.”

“He’s new to the ship. I can’t vouch for him.”

Rutherford began to cough violently, bringing up gobs of blood-streaked sputum. With great effort, he cleared his throat, then lay back to gasp and rest. Every breath now seemed a struggle.

David watched the man slowly dying right before his eyes. A good and decent man whom David really liked. But he had to push Rutherford further for more information. It could be critical to his and everybody else’s survival. “I’ve got a few more questions. Do you feel up to it?”

Rutherford nodded weakly.

“We’re headed due south on Scott’s orders,” David said in a rush. “Do you have any idea why and where we’re headed?”

Rutherford swallowed heavily, his voice low and hoarse. “My guess is he’ll try to make it to some Caribbean island that has no navy or coast guard.”

“So he’ll sail right in and spread the goddamn virus and start a pandemic.”

“Unless someone decides to blow us out of the sea, or somehow disable us.”

“Are you referring to our navy?”

“Or the Coast Guard.”

“Forget it,” David said bluntly. “They’ll have no notion as to what’s going on. Scott now has complete control of all communications in and out of the
Grand Atlantic
, so there’s no way we can inform anybody of the mutiny. I’m afraid we’re on our own.”

“Bloody Christ!” Rutherford muttered and started coughing again. But the coughs were weak and ineffective and unable to clear the secretions blocking his large bronchi. The captain sucked for air as his complexion turned more cyanotic.

“Just one more thing,” David asked quickly. “Locke told me about some firearms the ship has. True or false?”

“True,” Rutherford gasped and again tried to clear the thick sputum from his airway. He pointed a trembling finger to a file cabinet beside the desk in his quarters. “The bottom drawer has a combination-lock panel. Punch in two, eight, four to open it. At the back of the drawer is a semiautomatic pistol.”