Chapter 41
Cressida ducked into an alcove and pressed her back against the wall, grateful for shadows and dim lights in the hallway. The salvage boat rocked with the choppy waves.
The floor vibrated and the rhythmic clanking of chains and cables echoed into the hall. A sharp hiss startled her—the hydraulics that controlled the cranes and could already have lowered the ROV—remotely operated vehicle—to retrieve what they’d come for. A shudder crawled over her.
Cressida did not want to be on this vessel if they actually retrieved nuclear material. She assumed they had prepared shielded containers and would monitor radiation, but that was a big assumption. Plus, she needed to stop this, no matter the cost.
God, how do I make this stop?
Someone wanted the information that Cressida’s father had discovered because of Evelyn’s request. Cressida had to go and reach right into the heart of a hornet’s nest and end up holding the prize everyone wanted .
. . but now the swarm was after her. Heavy booted footsteps sounded much too close, and she stilled to listen to two men arguing, but she couldn’t make out any words besides “clear” and “impasse.”
They moved closer to her position. She held her breath. No one had discovered Trent yet, but as soon as he woke up, she was done for if she didn’t find her way off this craft.
“I don’t like this,” Man One said. “We don’t have all the appropriate protocols in place for a night salvage, not to mention we don’t know the condition of the cargo, exactly.”
“We’ve prepared for anything we find, but we don’t have time to wait for you to get your act together.” Man Two spoke, and his voice sounded familiar. “We get in and we get out before someone comes to look for her.”
“And if they come for her?” Man One asked.
“Better to dump her body before they do,” Man Two said. Malloy?
Cressida held back a gasp. How could he talk about her like that, as if she meant nothing at all, after he’d delivered her to Hidden Bay and even warned her on the pier that day, and again, to watch her back?
Yeah, watch her back for the likes of him.
The two men paused. Listening?
Lord, please help me.
A loud voice crackled, blasting over the ship’s intercom system. “Team A, brace the ROV. We’re lifting the package. No mistakes this time!”
The two men raced away, and Cressida allowed herself to breathe. The constant vibration and low rumble of the ship’s engines and power generators filled her ears.
But the package. They’re bringing the package aboard now? She couldn’t allow that to happen, but how did she stop it? Trent was going to wake up soon, and they’d search for her. She had no time to waste.
I need a radio to call for help. A VHF marine radio.
But they could be monitoring that. If she could get her hands on a satellite phone, she could possibly make a private call.
She might find one in the captain’s quarters.
Whoever claimed captainship—Malloy? Trent?
Malloy’s son, Dax?—wouldn’t be in his quarters during this most important ROV operation to bring up the package—whatever was inside the package.
The thought of the contents terrified her.
Think, Cressida, think. Captain’s quarters on a vessel like this would be in the superstructure, which was on the main deck. Probably near the bridge. Maybe he wouldn’t be in his quarters, but those quarters weren’t far from the main activity.
Oh, what are you thinking?
If only she’d found a satellite phone on Trent.
But she was dressed the part, and so she would act the part.
She made her way to the upper deck to find the captain’s quarters or a satellite phone—some way to communicate her location and call for assistance.
Even if she escaped on a skiff, she was in international waters and the chances of her survival weren’t good. Might as well die trying.
Finally, above deck inside the superstructure, she stalked the narrow halls as if she had purpose and a place to be, passing a few cabins until she spotted the captain’s quarters, clearly marked as such.
The door stood open, confirming she was right that no one would be there during this critical moment in their operation.
Inside the room, she moved right to the desk.
A desktop was running but asleep, so no one had been here for a minute.
Near the desk she found communication equipment—monitors and radios so the captain could communicate directly with the bridge and crew—and there she found a satellite phone. Charged and waiting . . .
Just for me.
She snatched it out of its charging station, along with a different walkie-talkie than she’d found on Trent.
She eyed the radio—but again, that call out could be detected if someone monitored the frequencies.
They would hear her unsanctioned transmission.
Or maybe these guys weren’t as professional as they wanted to believe.
Whatever. It was too risky. She had the satellite phone, and that would do.
Satellite phone was her best bet for getting a message to Braden.
Now she’d have to go outside and find a quiet spot to connect the phone and make a call, then she would make her way back to the lower deck to shut down the engines and wreck anything and everything she could to stop this operation.
But who did she think she was? She was just one lone person on a vessel with a traitorous crew. She blew out a big breath.
You have to do this, girl. No other choice.
Cressida jammed the satellite phone into a pocket of the oversized black rain jacket she’d snagged from the captain’s quarters to go over what she’d already taken from Trent. In the other pocket of the rain jacket, she found a stun gun. Perfect.
She walked the hall, descended the stairwell, her palms slicking around the taser in her left pocket and the satellite phone in her right. Steps pounded from above. Someone was running down the stairwell. She kept her head down, tugged the cap lower, and he passed her without a word.
Then . . .
He suddenly turned around and his eyes narrowed. “Hey, you!”
She didn’t run from him.
Instead, she continued walking toward him with purpose, then when she was close enough, she hit him with the stun gun. It would only immobilize him for a few moments. Her time was shorter than she thought.
Cressida bounded through an exit, out into the rainy night—perfect—and found a corner at the far end of the massive ship where no one stood. Everyone focused on something in the sky.
Huh. A drone?
Too many shots were being fired at the drone, so clearly it wasn’t part of their operation.
Then whose?
She didn’t have time to think through those possibilities. Adrenaline coursed through her as she waited for the satellite phone to connect her to Braden. Then she made the call.
Come on, come on, come on . . .
The call disconnected before she could even leave a message. On the radio, she overheard their conversation. They knew she was here. The search was on. She didn’t have time to keep calling people. But if she had only one more chance to do something, she had one call to make. To her mother.
God, please let my call go through. Please let me say this to her before it’s too late.
Voicemail picked up.
“Mom, I forgive you,” she said.
A noise drew her around, but no one had found her yet. She ended the call and tucked the phone in the jacket. She couldn’t stand here on the deck waiting to be discovered, and jumping into the ocean would be suicide. She wouldn’t hide and wait for no one to come.
But she could do something useful, even if this was the last thing she’d ever do.
Making her way down to the engine room was problematic, given the several levels and security and other crew she’d likely run into before getting there.
Dad had told her too many wartime stories for her to ignore, and she had a real chance to sabotage this endeavor.
She’d studied a few schematics of research and salvage vessels.
Granted, this was a new one, but she had to try.
She ducked into a stairwell, rushing with purpose to fit in with the search for the missing woman.
The engine room would probably be in the lowest deck, near the stern, or rear, of the ship.
She made her way down two stairwells and a set of ladders.
Finally, at the lowest deck beneath the waterline, she felt sweat bead on her back and at her temples with the increase in temperature.
The earlier rumble she’d heard in the upper decks was now a constant, heavy vibration through the floor.
The rhythm of machinery—the engines and generators—was louder here too.
Her palms were sweating but not because of the heat.
She walked the narrow hallway until she approached a heavy bulkhead marked “Engine Room” and “Authorized Personnel Only.”
Her breathing hitched up. Can I really do this?
The door was heavy, thick, and watertight, but she entered the engine room unheeded, finding the expected maze of turbines and generators. She breathed in hot and humid air that smelled of oil, grease, and diesel, yet the room was kept pristine.
What she needed were the control panels.
The clang of tools sounded from the back—crew members working—and with the bright overhead lights, her presence would not go unnoticed.
She would probably need earmuffs if she remained here because the high-pitched whirring, loud compressors, and pumps overwhelmed her ears.
Yeah, this is going to get you killed.
But she was probably already dead once they found her. For you, Dad, I’m going to make a lot of noise going down. Once, Dad had shared a story about shutting down fuel lines, but more than one component had to be disabled.
Whatever she did, it had to be fast. They’d search the entire rig and eventually find her here.
Fuel lines. Valves. She stared at them. She had no time for any real plan other than to cause chaos and disrupt this operation. Simply turning off the engine wasn’t good enough. She had to make this vessel inoperable for the foreseeable future.
Aha.
The engine cooling system. She turned all the valves that circulated coolant completely off.
That was a start. It would overheat and seize up.
But before that happened, she had time to do some other damage.
Across the space, she spotted the main electrical panel and rushed over.
Pulled breakers out. Toggled switches. Used a lug wrench from the toolbox to the right and tossed it into the box.
Sparks flew and lights flickered. Shouts erupted.
Alarms sounded. Steam rose.
Cressida pulled the hose from the cooling system out, praying she didn’t get burned or electrocuted.
A main lever labeled “Emergency Stop” called to her.
Cressida rushed forward and pulled it down—this was the main kill switch, but she’d disabled enough that turning the operation back on wouldn’t be easily done.
The rhythm and thrum of the engines slowed . . . lights blinked on and off, and the machinery powered down.
Then the lights went out completely.
In the dark, she stood still and listened to the panicked engine room crew.
Exhausted and pumped with adrenaline, she swiped the salty sweat from her stinging eyes.
Flashlights came on in the engine room, including hers.
She raced to the exit. And just as she almost cleared it, big, strong hands grabbed her, and she shined her light up into an angry, sweaty face.