Soldiers pulled her into the island.

Well, Ms Alien, she thought, what do you think now about finding intelligent life in space?

'You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?' she asked a soldier.

He stared at her. 'You've got to be kidding, lady. Just get the hell out of here.'

Buchanan

Buchanan was on the bridge with the second officer and the helmsman, keeping himself informed of developments and giving orders. He stayed calm. As far as he could tell, the blast had destroyed some of the ammunition magazines and the engine room. They could have lived with the loss of the magazines, but the damage to the engine room had sparked a chain reaction in the hydraulic system and the fuel-pumping stations, triggering more explosions. One by one the vessel's systems failed. The ship drew her electricity from a series of motor-driven power plants. In addition to the two gas turbines, the Independence had six diesel generators, which now broke down in quick succession. The main priority now was to evacuate. The explosion had occurred amidships, but some of the forward cargo compartments had already flooded, causing the Independence to sink bow-first.

There was too much water in the hull. As the pressure built, it would force its way towards the far end of the bow, then blast through the bulkheads and on to the level above. If the bulkheads at the stern gave way too, the ship would fill with water.

Buchanan had no illusions: he knew that the vessel would sink. It was merely a question of when. Whether or not they survived depended on him and his ability to assess what was happening. Right now he estimated that the water was about to break into the vehicle stowage compartments located below the lab. It would probably flood some of the troop berthing too. The one small comfort was that there were no marines aboard. During a normal operation he would have had to evacuate three thousand men. Now he had only a hundred and eighty, and they were mainly on the upper levels.

Some of the monitors that usually displayed the information from the integrated main screen in the CIC had stopped working. Directly above Buchanan's head was the sealed case containing the red phone: his hotline to the Pentagon. His gaze wandered over the chart tables, communication devices and navigational aids, all arranged in neat, logical order. None of that could help him now.

USELESS CLUTTER.

On the roof, the landing crew were keeping everyone moving. People were being led out of the island and over to where the helicopters were waiting, rotors whirring. Everything happened quickly. Buchanan spoke briefly to Flight Control and looked out through the green-tinted windows of the bridge. A helicopter had just taken off and was disappearing from the vessel. They had no time to lose. If the bow dipped any further, the flight deck would turn into a chute. The helicopters were securely tethered, but soon the situation would become critical.

03 LEVEL

Anawak didn't encounter many people. He was afraid he might run into Li or Peak, but they must have headed in the other direction. Out of breath, with a constant pain in his chest, he raced along the passageway towards the infirmary.

It was deserted. There was no sign of Angeli or his staff. He had to pass through a series of rooms lined with beds before he came to the one that held equipment. Cupboard doors gaped open, and the floor was littered with shards of glass that crunched as he walked. One after another he yanked open all the drawers and rummaged through the debris on the shelves, but failed to find a syringe.

Where the hell did they keep them?

He tried to think where they were usually kept at the doctor's surgery. In little drawers. He could picture it. Shiny white cabinets with lots of little drawers.

There was a rumble beneath him. Groaning noises rose through the ship. The steel was buckling.

Anawak hurried into the compartment across the way. Much of the equipment had been smashed, but the room contained several white cabinets, which seemed to have been bolted into place. He opened them, searched inside and finally found what he was looking for. He grabbed a dozen syringes in sterile packaging and shoved them into his jacket.

Their plan was crazy.

Either Karen was right, and it was a stroke of genius, or they had no idea of the reality of the situation. On the one hand it seemed plausible, but on the other impracticable and naive, especially compared to the sophisticated messages that Crowe had been sending into the depths…

Where was Crowe?

There was a deafening clanging noise as though a bell had exploded. The deck tilted further. He could hear a muffled sloshing.

Anawak wondered whether he had time to get out. Then he stopped wondering and started running.

Lab

Weaver didn't know what lay ahead. Just the thought of opening the door to the laboratory made her stomach churn. But if they were to go through with the plan, it was their only hope.

The floor shook. From under the deck they heard gurgling. Johanson leaned against her, breathing heavily. 'Well, go on, then,' he said.

The red light was flashing above the keypad. The lab was sealed. Weaver tapped in the code and the door slid open. Water rushed towards them, swirling round their feet, but instead of flowing down the ramp, it collected round their ankles. The level rose. In a flash Weaver saw why: the ship was tilting at such an angle that it couldn't run down to the well deck. This section of the ramp wasn't a ramp any more: it was level.

She took a step back. 'Careful,' she said. 'The jelly might have got out.'

Johanson looked inside. Two lifeless bodies floated next to the wreckage of the chamber. He waded into the streaming water, and advanced through the door. Weaver followed. Her eyes shot over to the two large containers that made up the biohazard lab. They appeared intact, and she felt a wave of relief. This wasn't the time to be poisoned by Pfiesteria.

Aft, the deck sloped out of the water, most of which had formed a deep pool at the opposite end of the lab. 'They're all dead,' she whispered.

Johanson squinted over the water. Look!'

There was a third body – Rubin's.

Weaver fought back revulsion and fear. 'We're going to have to take one,' she said. 'It doesn't matter which.'

'That means wading in deeper.'

'It can't be helped.' She set off.

'Karen, watch out!'

She tried to turn, but something collided with her from behind and her feet skidded out from under her. Yelping, she landed in the water, and rose, spluttering, to the surface. She struggled on to her back.

A soldier was standing in front of her, training an enormous black weapon on them both.

'Oh, no,' he said slowly. 'Ooooh, no.'

In his eyes she could see panic and incipient madness. She got up slowly and raised her hands, showing her palms.

'Oh, no,' he repeated.

He was very young, no more than nineteen, and the weapon trembled in his hands. He took a step back and glanced from Weaver to Johanson, then back again.

'It's OK,' said Johanson. 'We're trying to help you.'

'You locked us in,' said the soldier. His voice sounded whiny, as though he were about to scream.

'That wasn't us,' said Weaver.

'You locked us in with that – that – you left us alone with it.'

This was all they needed – the Independence was sinking, they were racing against time to stop Li, they still had to get hold of a corpse and now they had to deal with a hysterical boy.