by Brian Drake
Minimal light lit the cargo hold, and the low glow forced Cavallos to engage his other senses. Hearing, mostly. He’d hear either hatch open before he saw it, and judicious use of gunfire would take care of Steve Dane.
The only sounds penetrating the hull were the creaking of the steel and the crash of waves.
Cavallos’s throat felt dry—a typical pre-combat condition. He looked around for Roxana but couldn’t see her in the darkness.
The connecting hatch clicked and opened with a loud squeak that echoed through the hold. Cavallos and his wife fired into the hatch opening, two short bursts each.
Cavallos shouted, “Cover me!” and hopped from behind cover. He approached the open hatch with a flashlight, shining the light for two seconds. No Dane. He cursed.
Across the hold, the other hatch opened. Gunfire thundered.
IT WASN’T much of a ruse, but any distraction that gave him any sort of edge, Dane certainly welcomed.
The bright lights in the passageway made stepping into the cargo hold like diving into an abyss, but Dane moved for cover as he fired both submachine guns. Return fire crackled, rounds tearing into crates and whining off walls. The ricochets continued well after the firing stopped.
Dane’s eyes adjusted and he crawled forward on knees and elbows, bumping into a trooper also on the floor. Dane shot the man in the face.
A muzzle flashed to his left. Dane fired that way. The muzzle flash moved and Dane fired to either side, a trooper screaming as he fell.
Dane dropped flat to reload.
How many more?
Movement to the right. A shuffling step, the outline of a man in the low light. Dane winged a shot that way, missed, the bullet bouncing off the wall to zing across the hold. The trooper, staying low, fired back, but Dane rolled away. He slammed into a steel barrel, jarring the other barrels stacked on top. He scrambled to his feet and ran as the top two fell over and landed with an echoing crash, exposing Dane. He fired a long burst at the trooper behind him, who fired back, the return fire splintering a nearby crate and sending slivers of wood into Dane’s bare chest. He dropped behind the crate, fired over the top, missed again. The trooper moved right, tripped over the fallen barrels. Dane triggered both Veresks and hosed the area. The steel barrels took the hits with loud clangs, the cacophony of the shooting drowning out the trooper’s scream.
Dane ceased fire, hunkered down and reloaded. Three down. Was that all? Which one had been Cavallos?
Dane remained still, the ringing in his ears making it hard to get a sense of whether or not he was alone. Then a radio squawked across the hold. Arkady’s voice. Coast Guard choppers in sight. “Where is Dane? Where are you?”
Arkady’s call continued with no answer.
Dane jumped up and ran to the M-113. He’d rode aboard many M-113s in the Marines but this one looked obviously different, with the 680c controls on the passenger side. He found the power switch, and the control panel sprang to life. A monitor displayed crosshairs lined up on the far wall of the hold. Dane used the joystick to reposition the dish, and heard small motors purring above the roof as the weapon responded to his input.
Three switches under a label reading “Fire Control” received Dane’s attention next. He flipped each switch. A hum joined the motors, and the motors stopped once Dane had the weapon aimed at the floor a few feet ahead of the M-113. Something flashed on the monitor below the crosshairs, two words: “Stand By.”
Gauges on the panel swung from green to yellow to red.
The hum continued.
Dane caught movement outside the cabin and dived below the dash. Automatic weapons fire from two points smashed into the cabin, careening off the steel and punching cleanly through the Plexiglas. The DEW target monitor exploded, bits and pieces flying in all directions.
The two figures outside the M-113 moved closer, the light hitting them just right. Cavallos and Roxana. Dane stayed low and reached for the joystick. He clamped a finger on the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He still heard the hum. Had the gunfire damaged the weapon? He pulled the trigger again and again. Still no response.
Dane dropped from the cabin, firing over the hood. Cavallos and Roxana dived for cover. Dane ran for the hatch he’d entered from, rounds splitting the air around him. His feet caught on something, the body of a dead trooper, and he fell face-first onto the floor, the submachine guns flying from his grasp. He lay there, winded, feeling like a mule had kicked him in the gut.
Dane rolled onto his back, drawing the SIG P-226 9-millimeter. A figure with an obvious female shape ran his way. He fired twice. The woman yelped and hit the floor, unmoving.
“Roxana!”
Dane rose to crouch behind a crate. He looked over the top. Cavallos broke cover and ran in front of the M-113. He fired at Dane, who fired back, and then the floor exploded. Dane fell back, landing hard on his rear, as the DEW let off another silent pulse and a second explosion rocked the cargo hold.
Dane rose to hands and knees. A third pulse was coming, assuming the three times he’d pulled the trigger meant something. As he cleared the hatch and started down the passage, the third blast occurred. The ship shook and Dane lost his footing, slamming into the hull wall. He fell to his knees, the grating of the walkway tearing open his skin. He screamed, falling forward. The ship continued to rock, listing a little further to port than starboard. Getting up, Dane gripped the 9-millimeter pistol in his right hand and started to run. He had to neutralize Arkady before the Coast Guard landed.
MACEDO AND Storey, the Coast Guard pilots in the P3-C Orion AWACS, still orbiting near the ship, reported the bow explosions. Flames flashed from one of the cargo areas. The choppers en route aimed for a middle-deck landing instead and made a circle around the ship to improve their approach.
DANE ROSE from a deck hatch near the superstructure, the wind slamming into him, cooling the sweat on his skin. The sun blinded him and he squinted against the glare. He waved at the choppers and pointed at the deck. Not that the gesture didn’t mean he wasn’t a member of the ungodly, but perhaps any uncertainty would give him a moment to explain his presence.
The ship started to list deeper to the port side as Dane climbed the superstructure’s outer ladder, passing through gaps in the exterior walkways on his way to the bridge. Smoke drifted his way, stinging his eyes. He coughed but kept climbing. The rotor blast from the two choppers blew the smoke away, and when the helicopters set down, side doors open, four men exited each. The raiders wore commando black with the usual tactical gear and weapons, and they ran toward the superstructure.
Dane cleared the last walkway and ran to the bridge hatch. He wrenched it open and charged in with his pistol ready.
The sailors yelled, “Don’t shoot!” and dropped to the floor, but Captain Sokolov drew a gun. Dane shot him in the head. As the captain’s body dropped, Dane locked eyes on the Hawk. Defiance flashed in Arkady’s eyes. He dived for Sokolov’s pistol. Dane let him get his hands on it before he fired once more. The bullet caved in that hawkish nose before tearing out the back of the Russian’s head, and Arkady fell on top of the captain.
THE CHIEF engineer shut off the engine and sealed the bow so the water flooding into the ship didn’t go too far. The container vessel remained as still as the waves allowed, the front end submerged well above the waterline.
The strike team held Dane and the surviving crew members at gunpoint while they awaited an approaching cutter. The prisoners sat with their hands secured behind their backs. Dane made no effort to explain anything.
Once they were all aboard the cutter, a guardsman placed Dane in his own cell. The ship made for Texas. Dane remained under guard the whole time.
At the Coast Guard station on the Texas side of the gulf, they moved Dane to a holding cell, where he spotted a familiar face, the Frenchman who had pointed a gun at him in Florida until he admitted Number One and his pals into the hotel room. The Frenchman showed the on-site commander some papers.
The commander made a few calls. Then a young guardsman let Dane out, and the commander placed Dane in the custody of the Frenchman. The Frenchman drove Dane away in a Ford sedan.
“You look like hell, monsieur,” the Frenchman said.
Dane examined his chest and legs. Welts. Dried sweat. Dirt and grime. His knees ripped open, the dried blood a coagulated mess. He sure did look like hell. But he still lived, while he’d sent Arkady to a different kind of hell. Dane figured he’d come out ahead.
THE FRENCHMAN checked Dane into a local hospital for a checkup. Nina found him there while he was sitting on an examining table. She rushed into his arms and he squeezed her tight.
“What happened?” she said.
“All the baddies are dead, honey.”
“McConn’s here, too. He’s a little woozy from surgery but he’ll be okay.”
The doctor entered the room and shooed her out.
WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR hours, Dane was out of the hospital and back in normal clothes, though not moving very fast and bandaged in several places. McConn, on crutches, joined him and Nina at the hotel.
Sitting up in bed, Dane called Trent.
“Are you okay?” said Trent.
“All is well. I’ll spare you details for now.”
“I know some.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to rebuild your weapon.”
“I don’t need it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I had a visit from three friends of yours last night. Older gentlemen.”
“Okay.”
“They have put me in touch with some venture capital people who are very interested in how my company can improve laser-based medical devices. Apparently research my daughter has done has not gone unnoticed.”
“Well,” Dane said, “the deus ex machina is clanking a little, but it seems to have worked for you.”
Trent laughed. “You have my eternal gratitude.”
“I’ll pass that along, and give our best to your daughter.”
Dane hung up and told Nina and McConn. McConn, at the table with his bandaged leg propped up on the bed, saluted with a beer.
“Not a bad job,” McConn said.
Nina sat beside Dane and snuggled close. Dane offered only a weak smile.
DANE LAY awake in bed that night with Nina snoring beside him. McConn had long before departed to his own room on another floor.
His cell phone lit up and vibrated. Dane took the phone into the bathroom. He leaned against the counter, wincing a little, and answered.
“Up a little late, aren’t you, Mr. President?”
President Cross laughed. “I figured this would be the best time.”
“Are you up to speed?”
“Yes, and thank you.”
“I assume the bodies and the survivors will be quietly returned to Moscow?”
“Arrangements in progress,” Cross said. “You could have taken Arkady alive, you know.”
“You know why I didn’t, sir. The last thing we need is living proof of what happened, and somebody to find out Putin himself ordered the theft. The survivors won’t know anything more than what they were ordered to do. This way the major players are dead, it’s covered up, and we can save a little face. In other words, certain senators won’t be calling for war.”
“You still put your country first, Steve.”
“I put the balance of power first. We all know what Putin is doing, but there’s no point in rushing into a fight right now.”
“Have you spoken with our friends?”
“They have my number, sir.”
“I’ll light those candles like you asked.”
“We appreciate it.”
“What are your plans now?”
“Wait for that other call, first. I think we’ll be in the U.S. for a while.”
“Call me when you get to Washington.”
“I will. Good night, sir.”
Dane returned to the bed and finally dozed off. His cell did not ring again.
DANE AND Nina quietly ate breakfast the next morning, the window open, morning sounds drifting in. Chirping birds, car engines; quiet and tranquil. Just what the doctor ordered after the events of the previous day. Then a knock on the door. Dane froze with a sausage halfway to his mouth. Nina didn’t pause. “I’m not getting up,” she said.
Dane answered and the Frenchman entered with The Trust behind him.
“You have a habit of interrupting my meals,” Dane said as the three old men found seats.
“We won’t be here long,” said Number One, sitting on the edge of the bed. He said to Nina, “So you’re the one I talked to.”
“We didn’t wait very long for help,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“Friends in high places come in handy, don’t they, Mr. Dane?”
“Sure,” Dane said. “I appreciate you breaking me out of the Coast Guard.”
“It was nothing that dramatic. We told the commander you couldn’t be there, since you didn’t really exist.”
“Funny how that works.”
“Any thoughts on our original discussion?”
“I will honor the deal. One job for you in exchange for what you promised me. And if things go well, maybe a job now and then, too.”
“The job will come eventually,” said Number One. “Here is our end of the deal.” The old man took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. Dane took it from the offered hand.
He unfolded it.
“A man’s name?”
“You remember him, of course.”
“Yes.”
“That’s where you start.”
Dane blinked a few times. There was a lot he could have said, but actual words failed him. He folded the paper and ran his finger along the edge.
“Once you arrive,” Number one said, “you’ll know what to do.”
Dane nodded and let out a breath.
“It’s time to answer questions I’ve been asking for a long time,” he said.
Number One turned to Nina. “And what about you, Miss Talikova?”
“What about me?” she said.
“Once we are done with Mr. Dane’s enterprise, we would be happy to devote our resources to your cause.”
“I wasn’t aware I had one.”
A half smile crossed Number One’s face. “We know what happened in Moscow, Miss Talikova. You might say the two of you are on a collision course with what made you.”
Nina folded her arms. If looks could kill, the frown she gave Number One would have put him in the morgue.
The half smile faded from the old man’s face.
“Of course. But you are not ready. We understand.”
“I’d like it if you left,” she said.
Dane, sitting still, made no move to argue with her.
Number One said, “Be seeing you,” and departed with his crew. They quietly shut the door behind them.
Dane felt Nina’s eyes on him but remained still.
“I need a drink,” Nina said.
She left the table and retrieved a bottle of Russian Standard from the dresser. Dane didn’t stop her.
A collision course with what made them. Dane played with the words in his head. He couldn’t escape the past. He couldn’t run forever. Those who tried had to pay a price. Was he paying that price? Had the mental torture, the unknown what-ifs of his life, finally taken their toll, with the guiding hand of the universe now forcing him into action?
He unfolded the piece of paper and looked at the name again. Burn the paper, he thought. Pretend it doesn’t exist. Pretend you don’t know.
But what toll would come due if he did?
He watched Nina pop open the vodka and pour a generous portion into her orange juice. She took a long drink. When she set her glass down, their eyes met.
Dane wasn’t sure what she saw in his eyes, but what he saw in her eyes was crystal clear.
Fear.
Acknowledgments
Thank you again, gentle
reader, for spending time with my story, in all of its ridiculousness and improbability. Some have said my work lacks “realism,” but I’m less interested in realism, and more interested in having a good time. I hope you did too.
Thanks also, once again, to the Liberty Island crew who helped produce this and the other Steve Dane titles. My association with Liberty goes back to 2015, when I first met the editorial crew at a writer’s conference hosted by Taliesin Nexus. Special thanks and acknowledgment to them as well, and their efforts to get conservative and libertarian writers into the mainstream, otherwise I’d have to find real work.
I’m also indebted to some pals at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories, real Sheldon Cooper types, who so bored me to death with details of “real laser weapons” that I just decided the hell with it and made it all up. Serves them right too, as they’re poker charlatans who always find a way to separate me from my money (which is why they shall remain unnamed, hahaha). Of course, we know Steve Dane could clean their clocks, but he’s never around when you need him (just ask Nina). I’m kidding—their time and information is greatly appreciated, but I’m bringing my own deck of Bicycles the next time we play cards.
One last shout out to my wife Sarah, who, when I needed a name for the Trent daughter, suggested her middle name. What the heck, I decided. Beats calling her Rose or Beatrice or the names of one of the other Golden Girls...
About the Author
Brian Drake has been a writer of mystery, crime and adventure fiction since his first publication at age 25. He is lifelong resident of California, and lives with his wife and two cats. In his spare time, Drake can be found racing through the San Francisco Bay Area in one of several bright red sports cars. More Drake titles may be found on his Amazon page.