Prolog

LiegertÕs life drains away like dirty bath water.

The killer enjoys the comparison. YouÕre dirty, you take a bath. When the water drains it carries off all the filth. YouÕre left naked and clean, ready to move on to something new.

So the watcher waits, eager to be rid of LiegertÕs defilement. He wants this finished, so that he may leave feeling cleansed. He is motionless except for slow breaths through his nostrils. With the ventilation system shut down, for inport ops, the smell of hydraulic oil is stronger than normal. But he likes it that way.

This is his space, after all, and he is in control here. Shaft Alley is the aftermost place on the whole submarine, the pointed portion of the boatÕs tear-drop profile. Here, the bulkheads taper in and converge around the subÕs yard-thick main shaft. The shaft itself, now still, divides Port from Starboard.

The space is crammed full of industrial equipment and storage lockers. There is not much room to maneuver, it smells bad, and there is nowhere to sit.

No one comes here unless they have to, especially at this time of night. Time. The waiting man glances at his watch. The Shutdown Electrical Operator isnÕt due for several minutes. Liegert hangs by his neck. The rope is thin and tar-coated, tied to a metal support bracket for one of the fluorescent lights. The watching man almost frowns. Liegert Òhangs.Ó Such a passive-sounding word to describe such an animated flurry of motion. Legs thrash, kick, and jerk as if searching for support. There is none, and the killer is tempted to smile.

The light jerks with LiegertÕs frenzy, so the shadows in Shaft Alley join the struggle in one, unified dance. A flailing heel knocks an orange handle out of place. The watcherÕs hand reaches out and returns the hydraulic system valve to its proper position.

The hanging man strains against the duct tape wrapped around his wrists. No escape. Stop fighting, Liegert. You cannot change what has been ordained from eternity past. The watcher allows his lips to curl into the slightest smile. It will be worse for the others.

Twisting and rotating at the end of the rope, LiegertÕs body turns until they are face to face. The watcher tries to read his expression. It is difficult, due to the involuntary contortions, of course, but panic is there. Unmistakable, and delicious.

Something changes, something small but perceptible. The killerÕs smile melts to nothing. His stomach sinks, and, later, the memory will make him mad all over again. Liegert is looking down at him.

The panic of a moment ago is gone. It isnÕt panic now, but pity.

The watcher wills himself calm. ÒJust die,Ó he says. The words are half-whispered, half-hissed.

The rope cuts into LiegertÕs neck without warning or fanfare, and his civilian shirt turns blackish red down to the middle of his chest. The thrashing stops, yielding to the inevitable.

He checks the time again. 0257. He knows that EM3 Reynolds is the SEO, and that Reynolds is punctual to a fault. Still, if the young man is early on his rounds at all, he thinks, he might interrupt things, and we would all hate that. He decides to get out of there, A.S.A.P.

He cuts the tape from LiegertÕs wrists and leaves the suicide note on the hydraulic sump five feet away. As he starts up a ladder into Engineroom Upper Level, he looks back. The corpse is still, surrounded by the consistent hum of one vent fan in slow speed, and the intermittent operation of the hydraulic pumps. All continues as it should, he muses.

He whispers to a lifeless Shaft Alley, ÒI offered you mercy, Liegert. Now behold the awful price of blasphemy. The others will join you soon.Ó