Virus by S. D. Perry Page A

rapidly, almost as if the computers were searching for something.
    Foster pressed a few buttons on the computer’s keyboard, but nothing happened, at least that Everton could tell. He looked around the bridge absently and then back at the screens.
    “Someone else is running this,” said Foster nervously.
    Everton frowned. “Looks like it’s running itself.”
    “Computers don’t run themselves,” she said, and started tapping keys again.
    Letters and numbers raced across the monitors, and Everton felt a cold fist tighten in his gut as they stopped suddenly, fixing on an icon of an anchor. The symbol blinked red, and Foster punched at more keys in desperation, accomplishing absolutely nothing.
    Damn it, what now? Everton turned back to the windows, angry and suddenly quite nervous. Everything had been going so well—
    —and he held his breath at the sound of heavy chain rattling outside, a sound he shouldn’t, couldn’t be hearing. Because the Volkov’s anchor was directly above the Sea Star’s position.

    Richie held the walkie-talkie loosely and looked down on Hiko, standing on the deck of the Star and watching solemnly as the tug pushed the massive ship’s bow into the direction of the coming wind. He was thinking idly about what a Maori would do with three million dollars; more tatts? Maybe there was a panel of tribal elders who decided shit like that, took money and passed it out to the peasants or something . . .
    Whatever. Richie had already started making plans; he was gonna set himself up good. He was gonna buy a new car, a Lamborghini, the kind you couldn’t get in the States. He was gonna get a big ol’ house in the Caribbean with a private beach and find one of those smiling island beauties to spend some time with, a nice girl with a tight body and big tits. They were gonna spend all day on the beach drinking and getting high and watching the waves, all night screwing their brains out on silk sheets—
    There was a heavy rattling and Richie felt his brain freeze suddenly, even as he jerked his gaze down to the anchor well. He knew that sound.
    No—
    Time stretched and slowed, the next few seconds horribly clear, Richie helpless to stop it. He could only watch in dumb surprise as Hiko looked up, directly beneath the rattle of chain, his cool expression melting into one of shock and fear—
    —as the Volkov’s anchor, seven to eight tons of iron and chain, let go of its mount and plummeted down.

• 10 •
    F oster looked away from the obstinate machine, frustrated and upset—and heard a tremendous, booming crash, her fears confirmed as Richie yelled from out on deck in panic.
    “Fuck! Fuck—!”
    His voice suddenly blared into the room over their walkies, high and breathless. “Emergency on main deck! The anchor hit the tug! Ripped a hole right through her!”
    Everton pushed past her and they both ran for the door, hurrying out onto the deck and racing across to the port side. The captain shouted into his walkie as he ran.
    “Baker! Baker, did you copy? Get up here!”
    “Copy, I’m on my way—”
    Foster rushed to the side and looked down, saw in a split second that the damage was irreparable. The Sea Star was going down fast, stern first, water spurting up through the gaping hole in the deck.
    Hiko!
    The Maori staggered across the tilting deck, blood pouring from a wound in his leg. Foster realized that he must have been almost right under the anchor; a thick, jagged chunk of wood decking had been driven deep into his right leg.
    Hiko stopped, gripped the wood with a shaking hand, and pulled it out, face contorted in pain. He dropped the bloody, eight-inch shard to the deck and struggled on, trying to reach the railing.
    Richie had grabbed a life preserver and marker, tossing them overboard even as Hiko collapsed to the deck, clutching his leg weakly. Foster looked around desperately, but there was only the one, the other preservers gone to the storm or the Russian crew.
    Woods