Jon Merz - Raider X

He dashed up the steps toward the bridge. Even as he did so, more gunfire broke out elsewhere on the ship. What was the body count now? Had Cyra whittled down the crew to almost no one? Were there bodies scattered everywhere, broken and ripped apart as the others had been? Thatcher shuddered at the thought of how Steinkopf must look now that he was dead. He and his friend had raced right into the thick of things. With a gulp of air, he chose instead to shut the image out of his mind and concentrate on reaching the bridge.

When he did so, he found but two sailors there. One manned the wheel and the other was busy on the communications equipment, desperately radioing ahead for help. That was when Thatcher saw it: a small box about the size of a thick suitcase that was attached to the cipher machine nearby the radio operator. It looked like something that a typewriter might fit in. Thatcher had heard whispers of German encoding devices. Was this a brand new machine they were trying out on Raider X for the first time? If so, the Allies would obviously be desperate to get their hands on it as soon as possible.

The sailor manning the wheel was unarmed and so was the radio operator. That was fortunate. But what concerned Thatcher now was that the shell in the engine room had not yet detonated. Perhaps it never would. Maybe Thatcher’s idea of placing it near the shafts was a stupid one. Blame it on Hewitt, he decided for not training him up to speed on sabotage techniques.

But he still had a job to do. So even as he broke onto the bridge and both sailors suddenly looked up, Thatcher was breathless and gasping as he pointed back the way he’d come. “There’s some sort of creature on the ship. It’s killing everyone. You’ve got to hurry.”

The sailor on the wheel turned back and kept his eyes fixed on the far port of Tenerife which was drawing ever closer by the moment. The radio operator sent one further distress call and then removed his headphones and stood up.

“Where are the weapons?” asked Thatcher. “We need to arm ourselves.”

The radio operator looked at the wheelman who only nodded. The radioman motioned for Thatcher to follow him. He led the way to a small room at the back of the bridge that was locked. He fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door. Inside Thatcher saw a small assortment of pistols and machine guns along with a crate of grenades, the potato mashers he’d seen in newsreels before his arrest.

The radioman handed a pistol to Thatcher who promptly clunked him over the head. The radioman dropped to the floor of the bridge and Thatcher grabbed a handful of grenades and stuffed them into his belt. He stepped out and stepped behind the wheelman. Too late the sailor realized it just as Thatcher knocked him unconscious with the butt of the pistol. He dropped to the floor of the bridge as well.

Thatcher eyed the port. It was dark out so he only had the lights of the harbor to go by but he estimated they were only a few miles away. Tune was running short.

He ducked out of the bridge with the pistol at the ready. It had been years since he’d shot a gun, but it came back to him easily as he chambered a round and headed down below.

If he could manage to reach the engine room again, he would hurl the grenades inside and then run for the life boats. If he could get one down he could slip over the side and row to shore even as Raider X was going up in a ball of flames.

He hoped.

With the gun in hand, and grenades stuffed into his belt, Thatcher made his way down the steps once more into the belly of the ship. The gunfire was more sporadic now than it had been and he wondered if there were any survivors or if Cyra had killed them all. Such a ruthless stance toward a ship and her crew was truly horrifying to Thatcher especially given there were three hundred and forty souls aboard this ship that would soon be dead.

He needed to end this now. As he made his way deeper into the bowels of the ship, he slowed. Yes time was rolling by he also didn’t want to run into Cyra. For all he knew she could smell him anyway. But if Thatcher could keep away from her he might just have a chance to fulfill his mission after all.

It was on the third level down that he thought he heard something close by. But for whatever reason he didn’t think it was Cyra. It sounded far too furtive to be her and Thatcher thought he knew her well enough that she would no longer be sneaking about but rather fully embracing her mutated state.

So who was it?

Thatcher proceeded with caution, pausing at key intervals to determine if he was getting closer to the person who was ahead of him. He heard a few more shots ring out but nothing sustained. Cyra was probably combing the ship looking for any survivors to kill.

Which meant that aside from Thatcher and the two men he had incapacitated back on the bridge, there might only be a few survivors left.

His mind drifted to Schwarzwalder. Where was the captain of Raider X and what was he doing about the creature on his ship? Was he already dead? Probably, thought Thatcher. Cyra was relentless and would stop at nothing to ensure that Raider X and its crew were destroyed. Those were her orders after all.

If he’d had time to debate with her, he might have asked deeper questions about her abilities and how she’d managed to get them. Cyra didn’t strike him as a Nazi and she certainly didn’t look like one but they had obviously gotten her to agree to be experimented on with devastating results. Had they offered her something she couldn’t find elsewhere?

The questions would have to wait, Thatcher knew. And if he was successful, he would never get answers to them.

He had no idea what the depth of the water was, but he figured it would be deep enough that if he could trap Cyra below decks when the explosion happened she would be unable to escape and find herself trapped by the immense water pressure. At least that was the plan. As Cyra had demonstrated, she didn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own. And those who commanded her.

Thatcher just needed to make his way to the engine room and finish what he had started. He felt sure that a couple of grenades exploding would surely detonate the artillery shell as well, which was far more powerful and capable of ripping a hole in the keel. He just had to reach it.

He crept along the corridor now, still hearing faint noises up ahead of him. Whoever it was, they seemed to be heading in the same direction as Thatcher.

Steinkopf was presumably dead; he had rushed into mayhem when Thatcher had tried to stop him. He didn’t know who else might be left.

He reached a junction and squatted before peering around the corner. There.

A lone figure armed with a pistol and a bag slung over one shoulder crept along the same corridor. Thatcher gave a very low whistle and the person stopped.

Turned.

Thatcher breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was Schwarzwalder. The Captain looked relieved as well upon realizing it was Thatcher behind him. He waved him forward and Thatcher came abreast of him.

“Thought I was the only one left alive,” said Thatcher

Schwarzwalder grinned. “You and me both.” He eyed the grenades. “What are you planning to do with those??”

“Blow up the ship. Destroy the creature. Whatever it takes.”

“A couple of grenades aren’t going to do the job,” said Schwarzwalder. “You need something bigger than that.”

“I managed to get one of the artillery shells down into the engine room earlier before I had to flee from Cyra,” said Thatcher. “I thought if I threw the grenades inside they might trigger the shell as well and rip a hole in the keel.”

Schwarzwalder laughed. “There’s armor plating under the keel, it won’t work. Not without scuttling charges.” He gestured to the bag he was carrying. “Which I happen to have.”