Checkmate by Tom Clancy Read Free Book Online

torches.
    He keyed his subdermal: “I’m back.”
    Grimsdottir said, “Thank God. I was worried.”
    “Didn’t know you cared.”
    “Dummy. Sam, I don’t know what went wrong. I was sure I’d covered the alarm redundancies.”
    “The curse of modern technology. No harm done.”
    Lambert said, “Are you in or out? Scratch that; dumb question. What’s your status?”
    “Doing a little spelunking while they finish their security sweep.”
    “Okay, stay—”
    A voice came over the dock’s PA system. Fisher told Lambert, “Wait,” then listened: “All hands, security alert stand down. Security Alert Team report to control for debriefing.”
    Lambert said, “I heard. Stay safe and stay in touch.”
    Fisher signed off.
    Hunched over, occasionally ducking under valve junctions or cloverleafs of piping, he began picking his way down the catwalk. He paused every few seconds to switch his trident goggles to infrared for a quick scan of the area ahead; with the swirling steam, he found the NV unreliable. Aside from the red and yellow heat signatures of the conduits, he saw nothing.
    With a screech, a parrot-sized rat scurried across his path and darted down the catwalk. Fisher realized he’d drawn his SC; he holstered it. Constant training made for good reflexes and a lot of almost-dead rats.
    After another fifty feet he came to a T-intersection. He switched to IR. Clear. Ahead, the catwalk continued to who knows where; to his right, a ladder rose from the catwalk and disappeared.
    Thank God for maintenance hatches .
    The ladder was but a few rungs tall and ended at a manholelike opening. He took out his flexi-cam, plugged the AV cable into his OPSAT, waited for the image to resolve on the screen, then snaked the camera through one of the cover’s holes.
    It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. A boot; a black leather boot. He froze. Standard Navy-issue Chukka, size 12. He knew the model only too well. He’d worn out three pair during BUD/S, the Navy’s six-month SEAL boot camp.
    Ever so slowly he eased the flexi-cam back through the hole.
    Above him, the sailor’s boot was joined by a second. Fisher could smell the tang of cigarette smoke. “They find anything?” the first sailor asked.
    “Nah. You know how it is: They always say, ‘This is not a drill,’ but it almost always is.”
    “Yeah. So what’s the deal with this ship? What’s with all the guys in space suits?”
    “That’s biohazard gear, idiot. The Master Chief says its an exercise, but I don’t buy it. I think there’s something—”
    A grizzled voice interrupted. “You two! Got nothing to do, I see. Follow me. I’ll find you something.”
    “Come on, Chief, we’re just taking a break.”
    “Break’s over, ladies. Back to work.”
    Fisher waited for the count of thirty, then slipped the flexi-cam back through the hole. The boots were gone. He switched to IR and did a 360 scan. There was nothing. No bodies, no movement.
    Using his fingertips, he gently lifted the manhole cover, slid it aside, and crawled out.

8
    HE slid the cover back into place, crab-walked four steps to his right, and ducked behind a pallet of crates. Now that the security sweep was over, the dock had returned to normal work lighting. Sodium-vapor lamps hung from cross-girders high in the vaulted ceiling, casting the dock in gray light. Farther down the dock, amid the loading derricks, a group of sailors moved crates around on a hand truck. Here and there he could see the sparkle of welding torches, could smell the sulfer stench of acetylene.
    To his right was a familiar sight: the Trego . She was moored bow-first toward the dock door. Her deck hatches, portholes, and windows were covered with yellow plastic sheeting and sealed with red duct tape. At the midships hatch a tentlike structure had been erected—the decontamination entry and exit, he assumed. As he watched, a pair of NEST people in white biohazard suits stepped out of the tent. They were met