The Coffin Ship Read Free Page A

left in his system; or should he walk more slowly and risk simply running out of time? In the end he walked as fast as he could toward the Fire Control Room. Blackness swirled around the periphery of his vision. Lightning flashed before his eyes. The door, coming closer, suddenly became much taller and he never realized he had fallen to his knees.
    All he could feel was the pain in his chest. It was like fire but he would not breathe. He fell forward and gashed his head on the jamb of the door. The blood came out blue. The shock of the fall surged through his system, giving him an iota more strength. As though in a dream, he pulled himself to all fours and crawled. Weaving from side to side, a terrible parody of the numberless drunken staggers of the last few years, he crossed the room untilhis head hit the wall opposite. By a supreme effort of will he found the strength to reach the masks a mere three feet above him, and he pulled one off the wall. Dizzy with relief, he placed the face mask over his nose and mouth and switched the equipment on.
    And nothing happened. It was empty.

C HAPTER T HREE
    Martyr was a fit man, lean and hard; and yet he was completely out of breath by the time he reached the Pump Room hatchway on the deck. He stood, back straight, head up, gazing at the pearl-bright stars and filling his lungs with oil-tainted air, the backpack caught up from the Emergency Room on his way here held erect before him on the deck. The pause gave him time to think—not about the danger he was going into, but about the man he was going to save.
    He had nothing but contempt for the other officers aboard. Oh, Nicoli looked a little better than the rest on the surface; Kanwar and Tsirtos, perhaps, just young and in the wrong company, but there was not one of them who could have called on an instant’s loyalty from him until to night. That one professional gesture. That one silent command from Captain Levkas. That one act worthy of a captain, unexpectedly putting the safety of ship and majority of crew before his own life. That deserved a little of Martyr’s hard-won respect.
    And, as senior officer left alive, even in this situation—even on this ship—he had a duty.
    He checked the pressure reading on the backpack’s oxygen canister, slipped it over his shoulders, and pressedthe mask over his mouth. Then, suddenly full of energy, he knelt and tore the hatch clasps loose.
    When he looked down the ladder, at first he felt a swirl of vertigo. The steel uprights looked thread-thin as they plunged ninety feet straight down. The rungs blurred into one another, making the ladder look like a slide. But there was no time for hesitation now. Perhaps he had taken too long already.
    He swung one leg over the raised rim of the hatch and placed his foot carefully on the first rung. Then deliberately, hand over hand, he began to climb down. He breathed slowly and evenly, watching the rungs go by. Watching the backs of his hands. Watching the display on his digital watch. It was 00.50 Gulf time when he started climbing down and he never remembered seeing the display change from that reading; but when he checked again, consciously if automatically as he stepped off the last rung, it read 01.00 exactly.
    He hesitated an instant before turning. He had seen enough of death already, and had hoped to see no more. It was not fear; more a weariness. He was exhausted deep inside, as even the strongest will become after a while when tested near to destruction. As especially the strongest will become when they will not—cannot—share their burdens. But now he was here. He had no choice. He drew strength from that and turned.
    Most of them were piled by the door, sitting or lying at ungainly angles; eyes and mouths wide, as though incredibly shocked at what had happened. A glance at them was enough to satisfy him that they were all beyond help. Another glance at Nicoli and his men clustered round their short ladder scant yards away. At