Frank Schatzing - The Swarm

'I've had an idea.' She hesitated. 'God knows if it'll work, though. I thought of it yesterday, but somehow it didn't seem viable. I guess things have changed.' She summarised.

'Sounds promising,' said Anawak. 'But we must act fast. We may have only minutes. We need to be out of here before the ship sinks.'

'But I don't know how we can do it in practice.'

'Well, I do.' Anawak pointed down the ramp. 'We need a dozen hypodermic syringes. I'll fetch them. You two go down and take care of the submersible.' He thought for a moment. 'And we'll need… Do you think you'll find someone in the lab?'

'Sure. No problem. But where are you going to get syringes?'

'The infirmary.'

Above them the noise intensified. Through the opening to the port-side elevator they saw a helicopter rise up and wheel round, flying close to the waves. The steel girders of the hangar deck groaned. The ship was warping.

'Be quick,' said Weaver.

Anawak met her gaze. Their eyes lingered. 'You can depend on it,' he said.

Evacuation

Unlike most people on the Independence , Crowe knew almost exactly what had happened. Footage of the glowing sphere had been relayed via the cameras on the hull to the monitors above. From what she could tell, the ball had been made of jelly, and there'd been gas inside, which had expanded when it burst. Probably methane, thought Crowe. Amid the swirling bubbles she'd caught sight of something familiar: the outline of a submersible racing towards the ship.

A Deepflight armed with torpedoes.

In the seconds that followed the explosion all hell had broken loose. Shankar's head had cracked down on the desk and was bleeding profusely. Crowe had helped him to his feet, before soldiers and technicians stormed into the CIC and hustled them outside. The repeated buzz of the alarm kept them moving. People were crowding into the companionways, but the crew seemed on top of the situation. An officer was there to help them out. He guided them aft to a companion-way that led upwards.

'Straight through the island and on to the flight deck,' he said. 'Don't stop for anything. You'll get further instructions at the top.'

Crowe pushed the dazed Shankar up the ladder. She was small and dainty, and Shankar was big and heavy. She had to summon all her strength. 'Come on, Murray,' she gasped.

Shankar's hands trembled as he reached for the rungs. He pulled himself up with difficulty. 'I never thought making contact would end like this,' he gasped.

'You must have seen the wrong movies.'

Ruefully she thought of the cigarette she'd lit only seconds before the explosion. It was still smouldering in the CIC What a waste. She'd have given anything for a cigarette now. Just one before she died. Instinct told her that no one on the ship was likely to survive.

But no, she thought suddenly. Of course. They weren't reliant on lifeboats. They had helicopters.

Relief flooded through her. Shankar had reached the top of the companionway. Hands stretched down to haul him out. As Crowe followed, it struck her that what they were experiencing might be the kind of contact humans knew best – aggressive, ruthless and murderous.

Soldiers pulled her into the island.

Well, Ms Alien, she thought, what do you think now about finding intelligent life in space?

'You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?' she asked a soldier.

He stared at her. 'You've got to be kidding, lady. Just get the hell out of here.'

Buchanan

Buchanan was on the bridge with the second officer and the helmsman, keeping himself informed of developments and giving orders. He stayed calm. As far as he could tell, the blast had destroyed some of the ammunition magazines and the engine room. They could have lived with the loss of the magazines, but the damage to the engine room had sparked a chain reaction in the hydraulic system and the fuel-pumping stations, triggering more explosions. One by one the vessel's systems failed. The ship drew her electricity from a series of motor-driven power plants. In addition to the two gas turbines, the Independence had six diesel generators, which now broke down in quick succession. The main priority now was to evacuate. The explosion had occurred amidships, but some of the forward cargo compartments had already flooded, causing the Independence to sink bow-first.

There was too much water in the hull. As the pressure built, it would force its way towards the far end of the bow, then blast through the bulkheads and on to the level above. If the bulkheads at the stern gave way too, the ship would fill with water.

Buchanan had no illusions: he knew that the vessel would sink. It was merely a question of when. Whether or not they survived depended on him and his ability to assess what was happening. Right now he estimated that the water was about to break into the vehicle stowage compartments located below the lab. It would probably flood some of the troop berthing too. The one small comfort was that there were no marines aboard. During a normal operation he would have had to evacuate three thousand men. Now he had only a hundred and eighty, and they were mainly on the upper levels.

Some of the monitors that usually displayed the information from the integrated main screen in the CIC had stopped working. Directly above Buchanan's head was the sealed case containing the red phone: his hotline to the Pentagon. His gaze wandered over the chart tables, communication devices and navigational aids, all arranged in neat, logical order. None of that could help him now.

USELESS CLUTTER.

On the roof, the landing crew were keeping everyone moving. People were being led out of the island and over to where the helicopters were waiting, rotors whirring. Everything happened quickly. Buchanan spoke briefly to Flight Control and looked out through the green-tinted windows of the bridge. A helicopter had just taken off and was disappearing from the vessel. They had no time to lose. If the bow dipped any further, the flight deck would turn into a chute. The helicopters were securely tethered, but soon the situation would become critical.

03 LEVEL

Anawak didn't encounter many people. He was afraid he might run into Li or Peak, but they must have headed in the other direction. Out of breath, with a constant pain in his chest, he raced along the passageway towards the infirmary.

It was deserted. There was no sign of Angeli or his staff. He had to pass through a series of rooms lined with beds before he came to the one that held equipment. Cupboard doors gaped open, and the floor was littered with shards of glass that crunched as he walked. One after another he yanked open all the drawers and rummaged through the debris on the shelves, but failed to find a syringe.

Where the hell did they keep them?

He tried to think where they were usually kept at the doctor's surgery. In little drawers. He could picture it. Shiny white cabinets with lots of little drawers.

There was a rumble beneath him. Groaning noises rose through the ship. The steel was buckling.

Anawak hurried into the compartment across the way. Much of the equipment had been smashed, but the room contained several white cabinets, which seemed to have been bolted into place. He opened them, searched inside and finally found what he was looking for. He grabbed a dozen syringes in sterile packaging and shoved them into his jacket.

Their plan was crazy.

Either Karen was right, and it was a stroke of genius, or they had no idea of the reality of the situation. On the one hand it seemed plausible, but on the other impracticable and naive, especially compared to the sophisticated messages that Crowe had been sending into the depths…

Where was Crowe?

There was a deafening clanging noise as though a bell had exploded. The deck tilted further. He could hear a muffled sloshing.