P Deutermann - The Moonpool

I settled down on the dark bank of the canal. It was cold now. That was good. Evil reptiles were still dying upcountry. I unslung the M4, leaned against a tree trunk, and waited. The siren was not as loud down here in the woods. Surely they’d found a way to refill that pool by now. So why was the siren still going?

It was late and I was one cold, weary bastard.

What in the world had Trask been thinking? That he was going to get away with this? Cause chaos at a nuclear power plant and then casually stroll into work the next day, see what was shaking? Hi, guys, I need to make a statement?

Technically, it didn’t make sense to me, even if I was technically ignorant when it came to nuke power plants. On the other hand, he’d rolled a terroristic bowling ball into a clutch of bureaucratic tenpins: the NRC bureaucrats, who loved nuclear power but had to live a split-personality life in their regulatory personae; the power company, providing the only source of totally nonpolluting electricity, except when something went wrong; the FBI, suspicious of everybody, painfully aware of past failures in intelligence and counter-terrorism, and now seeing wild-eyed, virgin-obsessed rag-heads under every truck; Homeland Security, at war with the terrorists, the flying public, and the FBI; and don’t forget the benighted local cops-state, county, city-trying hard to live right while the federal host maneuvered all around them, often creating as much chaos as they were untangling.

Trask may have had it right. Don’t execute an actual terrorist plot. Ignite a bureaucratic calamity. Make it seem as real and scary as possible. These days, in a complacent country, the perception of terror would be indistinguishable from the real deal, at least until the pregnant lady in the headscarf walked into the day-care center and pulled the wire hidden under her burkah.

I looked out at that boat. For some reason, I was convinced that he was there. He was probably sitting on that comfortable screened deck, having a drink, and smiling in the dark. His Billy Boy was taking care of business out there in the woods. His primary antagonists were in custody at the plant, trying to explain to a bunch of outraged nukes what they were doing there. The locals were cowering in their houses as the plant siren proclaimed that there was an invisible Destroyer abroad in the countryside. As he figured it, all he had to do was wait until daylight, and then appear back at the plant and add to the confusion.

I settled into what shooters called the sitting position, even though I did not have a marksman’s sling. The Keeper was perfectly aligned with the center of the outlet canal, broadside to me, its anchor line taut in the tailrace current. I aimed the M4 at the waterline of that lovely old boat, took a deep breath, and opened single fire. The noise was shocking, even one round at a time. If there were any fishermen out there in the dark, there’d be some frantic pulling of engine cords going on about now.

The M4 shoots what looks like a small round, 5.56 mm, but that little bitty bullet has a great big powder case behind it and travels at the speed of heat, squared. I started at the bow and worked my way back to the stern, stitching a dotted line of holes right at the waterline, inch by inch, until the magazine was empty. The sudden silence was dramatic. On the outside, the holes would be tiny punctures, but inside, they were probably the diameter of a coffee cup.

Then I scrunched back into the woods, reloaded, and waited. The Keeper didn’t do anything, at first. I wondered if Billy had come to yet. If he had, he was probably praying for unconsciousness to return right about now. I actually thought about going back there and doing it all again. That kick would have gone eighty yards, easy. I looked back at the boat.

She hadn’t moved from her anchored position out in the canal, but I could see her deck now, barely tilting toward me. I moved behind a stout tree just in case Trask decided to get one of his guns and rake the bank. But there wasn’t any movement out there. No emergency lights, no sudden starting up of engines or bilge pumps. Nothing, just more and more deck coming into view as she began to heel over.

I missed my shepherds. They should be out there in the woods now, making sure no one was creeping in on me. It was quiet enough for me to hear pretty well, but still, not like they could.

Quiet?

I realized that big siren had gone off the air. Good. They must have their moonpool problem under control. Or the last guy leaving the plant had turned it off as he ran for his life out the door. I couldn’t detect any wind, which was probably a good thing.

Keeper was really listing now, and I thought I heard some stuff inside falling over. Her port side railings were in the current, the stanchions lifting tiny individual bow waves of their own. The anchor line was also at a much flatter angle as she settled. One hole in a boat can be dealt with; thirty holes cannot. The water finally reached the rear hatchway, and a minute later, she went completely over with a lot of creaking noises and a couple of big vents of air from inside the hull. She flopped upside down for a few seconds, and then she went out of sight, leaving only a long trail of bubbles in the current.

Current.

The plant was still running, or there wouldn’t be any current.

I relaxed just a bit, not that I’d really been afraid of some big radiation release. Much. Still, there was always a chance that the moonpool had not been the main event. Trask might even be up there in the plant, pretending to help, ordering his security forces around while Moira went after the main reactor control systems and I sat out here in the cold darkness, thinking I was doing something worthwhile. Maybe it was time to just get up, find my vehicle, and go home. Tomorrow would be a very interesting day, to say the least.

But I didn’t do that. If Trask had been on the boat, he was now out there in that black water, maybe holding on to a cushion from the main cabin. My guess was that he would deliberately drift downstream until clear of the shooter on the bank, and then come ashore for a little one-on-one. Or, being smart in his crazy way, he’d go to the other side and simply walk away

I was sitting behind a tree twenty feet or so from where I’d done the shooting. I decided that I needed to move downstream, in the direction of the current. Movement was dangerous, though; an old Ranger like Trask would get to the bank and then cling there like a crocodile, listening hard. If he was coming this would be a battle of sound, because it was pitch-dark out there now as even the ambient starlight was gone. But I still needed to move, because otherwise, if he came to my side of the canal, he could get behind me. That was not a happy thought.

I rolled slowly to my right, holding the M4 out in front of me, and began the tortuous process of inchworming my way through all the litter on the forest floor, one elbow forward, the corresponding hip forward, then the other elbow, and so on. Foot by foot, I crawled in the downstream direction, parallel to the canal banks, orienting myself as much by smell and sound as sight. That was a strong current out there. If Trask had gone into the water about the time she began to keel over, he’d have been swept a hundred feet or more downstream before he could achieve either one of the banks.

If he was even out there.

He was out there. I sensed it, and I wanted it.

I almost collided with a large white pine tree, from the smell of it. Its fragrant, heavy branches swept out over the ground in all directions, and I’d crawled under them without even knowing it. I was tempted to stop right there; it was good cover. The blanket of pine needles under the tree would deaden any sounds I made, and besides, I was really tired.