Free Exit Alpha by Clinton Smith

dimly lit, glassed-in eagles’ nest that protruded from the island. The air boss sat on a raised chair in front of intercoms and consoles, controlling the launch.
    Spencer asked his assistant, ‘Did a big fair-haired man and a woman come in here?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    The commander’s face tightened. He looked across at Cain. ‘Must have gone back down the way we came up.’
    Cain said, ‘I’m on it.’
    He ran back on the walkway to the hatch and half-slid down the ladders, surprising other sailors coming up.
    ‘See a fair-haired guy and a woman come down here?’
    ‘Check.’ One rating pointed down. ‘Guy was carrying her. Said she’d fainted.’
    Zuiden had dropped her on the noisy island walkway without the others even seeing it. Accurate pressure on the carotid sinus was all it took. Cain, using the rails, half-slid down more ladders. If Zuiden was carrying her he wouldn’t have got far.
    He was on the level below the flight deck before he saw them — at the far end of a passageway running athwart the ship. Beyond hurrying sailors and air-crew, he glimpsed the flash of Zuiden’s back with the woman like a sack over his shoulder. He ran after them, past cabins and ready rooms, pushing past the crew.
    At the end, the passage split and a ladder rose through a trunk. It was a three-way choice. He took the ladder.
    A light trap brought him out into the wind and darkness near the waist of the vessel on the catwalk that ran around the flight deck. He turned away from the sea which foamed 60 feet below the overhang — faced the island across the deck which was level with his chest. It was alive with light-wands and launching planes.
    Where the hell were they? Up here? He dodged past reels of hoses, heading forward.
    On the deck, a Tomcat — wings spread, flaps set, exhaust gases shimmering — was moving toward the catapult shuttle. As it paused, inching forward, a blast shield rose from the deck behind it.
    A yellow-jacketed officer held his wands crossed above his head while red jackets did something to the missiles on the pylons beneath its wings. Last-minute checks. The plane’s control surfaces cycled. Cain moved further along the catwalk, trying to ignore the drama on his right.
    He saw a sponson below him, beside a column holding what looked like a signalling lamp or searchlight. The small outcrop looked deserted.
    Zuiden knew his stuff, had cut loose during the main event. Hunt might not be unconscious, he realised. Perhaps he’d killed her — come here to drop her overboard. No, he couldn’t be up here. There were green-clad sailors further forward — a launch or recovery crew — and Zuiden wouldn’t have gone near them. The bastard wasn’t on the catwalk and now could be anywhere in the ship.
    Another jet was waiting behind the shield while the first one ran up, the power of its engines depressing the nose wheel strut. The roar was visceral.
    White flame thundered from the Tomcat’s tailpipes. He covered his ears as the sound became unbearable. The plane’s port and starboard lights came on and the white light on the tail. The crouching catapult officer swung his yellow wand in an arc to the deck, then brought it up to the horizontal like a lunging fencer. A green light winked out near a control bubble further forward. As steam slammed against the catapult pistons the aircraft rocketed down the rail, twin furnaces of flaming orange and, in three seconds, was flung off the deck.
    Cain had instinctively ducked, found himself facing tie-down chains hooked from a rail and a red fire extinguisher labelled CARBON DIOXIDE. He rose, padded back through drifting steam, wondering how much hearing he’d lost.
    As he passed the jutting sponson, he thought he saw movement. Was someone there?
    He craned over to see more, could just make out a shape that looked like a boot.
    Then a sailor appeared on the sponson — a burly black man who crouched and pulled at something. A flash of teeth but his voice was