BioShock Rapture

Another boom, another quiver, and Bill closed his eyes, trying to will away the pictures rising in his mind. The boom of a flak shell, the clatter and whine of many small, vicious impacts. Another shell exploding just outside, a section of the bomber hull suddenly gone, blown out by the Jerries. Wind roaring in through the ragged gap like a mad house invader, as Bill McDonagh, radioman, sees the curly-headed Welsh lad, a green little blighter just a week out of training, being sucked backward against a five-foot breach in the curved metal wall, pulled hard by the sudden drop in air pressure, the boy’s face contorting in terror. Bill shouts to the pilots, “Reduce altitude!” as he rushes to the young flyer, gripping a stanchion with his right hand so he can try pulling the Welsh lad back with his left—knowing full well it was no good. The boy screams as the suction around the breach jerks him harder into the jagged edge, the sharp metal ripping through his left shoulder; his blood precedes him, streaming out through the gap—and then he follows it, just gone like a magic act, vanished into the roaring sky. All that remains are scraps of torn clothes and skin flapping on the ragged edges of the bulkhead. The boy is falling somewhere, out in the gray mist. Bill clings to the stanchion as the bomber angles sharply down to equalize air pressure …

“Bill? You all right?”

Bill managed a sickly grin. “There’s a reason I took a ship to America ’stead of a plane, guv. Sorry. I’m all right.”

“I think we both need a drink…”

“Right you are, Mr. Ryan. That’s the very medicine…”

“Let’s have a seat in the main cabin and ride out this storm. We should be at the airport in another hour or so—winds are behind us. Then it’s to the ship. Come on, I’ll have Quee pour you the best single malt you ever tasted, and I’ll tell you about the Great Chain…”

*   *   *

The bar in Staten Island was almost deserted tonight. But Captain Fontaine was there, as arranged, sitting in a booth in the dim corner, frowning at his beer. Just waiting for Frank Gorland.

Captain Fontaine did look a lot like the man who called himself Frank Gorland—but he was more weather beaten, a little older. He wore a red watch cap and a long green corduroy double-breasted coat. His calloused red hands showed the life he’d led at sea—first as a smuggler, now as the head of a small fishing fleet.

Gorland ordered a bottled beer from the stout barmaid, who seemed to be flirting with a drunken marine, and carried it over to Captain Fontaine’s table.

Fontaine didn’t look up from brooding on his beer as Gorland sat across from him. “Gorland, seems to me that every time I run into you, something goes wrong.”

“How’s that? What about all that cash you made from what I did for you on your last cargo?”

“Your cut was near as big as mine, and all you did for it was run your mouth.”

“Well, running my mouth is how I live, friend. Now look, Fontaine. You want the information I have or not? I’m offering it for free. I’m hoping we can work together again, and we can’t do it if you’re in jail. So you’d better cock one of those shell-like ears—I’ve got word they’re going to wait till you head out— and raid you on the way back.”

Fontaine slurped at his brew. “They … who?”

“Why the…” Gorland leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Just the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that’s who. Agent Voss is chewing at your rump!”