Clive Cussler - Serpent

"This time around the skeet will be shooting back," Austin said grimly

Phelan produced two boxes of shotgun shells and threw them into a canvas bag with the wooden case Austin had been carrying. Then they hurried up to the bridge.

Before they entered the wheelhouse, Austin called out in a low voice, "Joe, it's us."

The warning was well advised because when they stepped through the door they were staring down the barrel of a flare gun.

Zavala lowered the gun. "Mike's sending off an SOS."

The young crewman Austin had coffee with earlier stepped into the wheelhouse from the radio room. "The signal is on automatic and will broadcast our positron until someone shuts it off."

Austin didn't have much hope of the cavalry galloping in for a rescue. The ship was many miles from civilization. .They would have to do what had to be done without outside help.

"Guess you won't be bored for a while," Austin told the wide-eyed crewman.

"Guess not. What should I do?"

"It's .too late for you to go below with the others, so I'm going to put you to work. Climb up on top of the bridge where you get a good view of the ship. Captain, when I give you the signal, I want the News lit up like Broadway and Forty-second Street, but keep the bridge in darkness."

With a quick nod and no questions Phelan went over to a console and put his hand on a panel of buttons. Austin and Mike went onto the starboard wing, and Zavala took up a position on the port wing.

As Mike started up the ladder to the bridge roof, Austin said, "When the fights go on I want you to count every stranger you see and remember where you saw them. We'll do the same down here. Remember, keep your head low."

As soon as everyone was in place, Austin called in to the captain.

"Showtime, skipper."

The ship was equipped with floodlights at every angle, so the crew and scientists could work at night as easily as during the day. Phelan's forgers danced over the console. In an instant the Nereus lit up like a Caribbean cruise ship; every deck was bathed in light from one end to another.

Two decks below, Austin saw a trio of figures freeze, then scurry for cover like startled roaches in a pantry.

"Cut!" he called.

The lights blinked off.

Mike called down. "I saw three guys on top of the submersible garage. Heading our way. None forward."

"You flatten down and stay put for now" Austin stepped into the wheelhouse as Zavala came in from the other wing.

"Three on my side, three decks below. Dressed like Ninjas."

"Same with me. Mike saw three coming from the aft deck That makes nine. That we know of. Captain, can Joe borrow your shotgun? He's had a little more experience shooting, ah, skeet."

The captain knew there was a big difference between picking off clay targets and shooting to kill. He handed the shotgun to Zavala. "Safety's off," he said calmly. At Austin's suggestion, he stepped into the radio room where he would be out of the way.

Austin and Zavala stood back-to-back in the middle of the darkened wheelhouse, the guns pointed toward the open doors on each side. They only had to wait a few minutes before their unwelcome company arrived.

9 A PAIR OF SILHOUETTES MATERIALIZED in the starboard doorway, where they were framed against the blue darkness, one behind the other, making no attempt at concealment. It was a fatal mistake. Seizing his opportunity, Austin lined his sits up on the lead intruder and squeezed the trigger: The Bowen's thunderous roar rattled the wheelhouse windows as it sent a heavy .50caliber slug smashing into the first attacker's sternum, shattering it to bony splinters before the bullet burst from his nib cage and ripped through the heart of the second figure. The force of the impact threw the intruders back, and their bodies crashed over the rail.

The shotgun boomed. Austin spun around with his ears ringing and through the haze of smoke saw another attacker step boldly through the portside door. Zavala's shot had gone off to one side, and the shotgun pellets gouged a headlevel chunk from the door jamb. Zavala rapidly pumped another shell into the chamber and got off a second shot. This time the pellets found their mark. The intruder yelped and drew back, but not before squeezing off a quick unaimed burst of machinegun fire. The rounds went wild except for one.

The bullet grazed Austin's ribs, passing through the flesh under his left armpit. He felt as if he'd been lashed with redhot barbed wire.

Zavala was shaking his head in disgust and didn't see Austin go down on one knee. "I aimed right at him," he said incredulously. "Point-blank range. I couldn't miss."

The captain came out of the radio room and slammed a fist into his palm.

"Damn! I forgot to tell you that old gun pulls right. You've got to aim it an inch left."

Zavala turned and saw that Austin was down. "Kurt," he said with alarm, "are you all right?"

"I've been better," Austin said, clenching his teeth.

Years at sea had given Captain Phelan a hair-trigger reflex in emergencies. He brought over a first-aid kit, and while Zavala kept guard, pacing from one door to the other, the captain fashioned a compress that stemmed the bleeding.

"Looks like your lucky day" he said, rigging a sling. "They missed the bone."

"Too bad I don't have time to play the lottery" With the captain helping, Austin got back on his feet. "I nailed two with one shot. Unfortunately they took their guns over the side with them."

"Showing me up again," Zavala said peevishly. "I think I only wounded my guy."

"My guess is that they figured they'd catch us asleep and unarmed, so they got too cocky for their own good. It won't happen again. They'll test us next time, draw our fire to see what we've got. They'll see real fast that the ship is mostly deserted and will concentrate all they've got on the bridge. We'd better be gone by then."

"We can move around through the ship's conduits," the captain offered. "I know them better than my own living room."

"Good idea. Our guerrilla operation will be a lot more effective if we can pop up where they least expect us. Be careful, these guys are dangerous but not invincible. They fouled up when they let Nina get away, twice, and just now they got a little overanxious and it cost them. So they make mistakes."

"So do we," Zavala said.

"There's one difference. We can't afford our mistakes."

They secured the wheelhouse doors and went into the radio shack. The SOS was still broadcasting mindlessly into the night. Austin wondered who would hear it and what they would make of the message. He paused and lifted the Bowen with his good arm. The weight was too much for one hand, and the revolver wavered from side to side.

"My aim's shaky. You'll have to use it."

He passed the revolver to Zavala, who tucked the flare gun into his waistband. Zavala handed the shotgun to the captain and told him to watch the door. "Remember, it pulls to the right." He hefted the revolver. "Two birds with one stone. Good shooting. With four shots left we can take out eight guys."

"We can do it with one shot if they all line up, but I wouldn't count on it," Austin said. He picked up the slim darkwood case he'd dug out of his luggage. "All is not lost. We've got the Mantons."

The ends of Zavala's lips twitched. "Poor bastards won't stand a chance against your single-shot dueling pistols," he said with bleak humor.

"Ordinarily I might say you're right, but these aren't just, aiy dueling pistols."

A matched pair of antique flintlock dueling pistols lay inside the box snugly cushioned in compartments covered with green baize. The gleaming brownish barrels were octagonal and the highly polished butts rounded like the head of a cane.

During the ship's stopover in London, Austin had gone to a Brompton Street antique dealer whom he'd had good luck with before. The brace of pistols had come into the shop as part of an estate liquidation, said the proprietor, an older man named Mr. Slocum. From their high finish and lack of ornamentation Austin would have known who made the pistols even if he hadn't seen the Joseph Manton label inside the case. Manton and his brother John were the most renowned eighteenth-century gun makers in England, where the best dueling pistols were made. Manton pistols were short on decoration and long on what really counted in matters of honor:mechanical precision. When Austin heard the astronomical price he balked.