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“I’m not a miner,” Devlin said.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I was bloody well shanghaied,” Devlin swore under his breath. “Weren’t you?”
“No,” Masinga said. “I signed a contract. We all did. Paid us twice the rate De Beers was offering. Only when it came time to leave, we were kept on against our will.”
“Have you tried to escape?”
The man laughed. “Do we look like fish? We’re on an island in the middle of the ocean. Where would we escape to?”
“But your families,” Padi said. “Surely, they can protest.”
“They’ve been told we died in an accident,” another man said. He sounded like he might be from South America. “And they never knew where we were in the first place. None of us did until we got here.”
It sounded like madness to Devlin, but then little had made sense since he’d spotted the Voyager in the harbor off the coast of Jakarta.
“What about you?” Masinga asked. “Maybe someone will come looking.”
“Not likely,” Padi said, remembering that Keane was unconscious when he found the Voyager. “If I had to guess, the whole world probably thinks I’m dead too.”
“You are, then,” Masinga said. “We all are.”
“Tartarus,” Devlin mumbled, prison of the underworld. Now it made sense to him.
“Fire in the hole!” the foreman called out.
The burly man pressed a switch. A dozen small charges went off in rapid succession. The wall bulged out, holding its shape for an instant and then crumbling in a great clamor and cloud of dust.
Fans designed to draw the dust and heat out of the room kicked on, and the cloud was evacuated up a large vertical shaft that led to the surface. It swirled past them, sticking to their sweat-covered bodies. By the time it cleared, Padi’s face was as dark as Masinga’s. In fact, all of them were the same gray color no matter the shade of their skin.
The foreman looked over, the shotgun resting on his shoulder. “Break’s over,” he shouted. “Back to work.”
Masinga and the others rose up and wearily began moving into position. Against his will, Devlin followed.
THIRTY-ONE
MV Rama, 1745 hours
Location 61°37' S, 87°22' E
Fifteen hours after abruptly ending his chess game, Gregorovich stood over the lighted chart table as another new course line was drawn. This one led off to the northwest.
Kirov stood across from him with one of the commandos at his side. “That’s the ninth course change he’s ordered.”
The MV Rama could be felt turning to starboard.
“Approaching new heading,” the navigator called out nervously. “Three hundred twenty-three degrees.”
“He’s toying with us,” Kirov said dangerously. “And you’re indulging him.”
Gregorovich stared. The presence of the second commando was Kirov’s idea. A show of force. No doubt the mutiny he felt brewing was close to being launched.
The men were getting nervous. It was palpable. They were land-based commandos far from home in a dangerous situation with deteriorating conditions. The ship was rolling appreciably in the growing swells, and the sky had turned gray-white. It looked like snow would be falling soon. At Austin’s direction, they’d come so far south they’d begun dodging small icebergs, an effort not helped by the reduced visibility.
Worst of all, they’d heard in detail how the Orion was crushed and dragged to the depths as if by a monster from the deep. So far, order remained, but Gregorovich sensed it would not last.
“At least we’re heading north,” he said, turning to the navigator. “What’s in this direction?”
