The Shadow Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  They quickly reached cover. “Wait here,” he told her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check the lake. Keep out of sight.”

  Adam slung the Geiger counter’s case from his shoulder, then picked his way through the trees. The woods were far from dense; he soon had a clear view of the lake. A snow-covered jetty extended about a hundred feet out into the icy waters.

  An echoing sound from behind. He looked around to see the Beriev, its lights standing out clearly against the rising hills to the north. The seaplane, red and blue stripes running along its white fuselage, descended toward the lake. It dropped to just feet above the dark surface, jet wash from its high-mounted twin engines kicking up a great plume of spray behind it, then almost hesitantly lowered its keel into the water. More spray exploded outward, the jet bouncing before falling again. This time it stayed down, the shrill of the engines echoing across the valley as the pilot engaged reverse thrust to slow it.

  Adam turned away from the sight and set off again. Before long he arrived at the cutting and cautiously crouched behind some snow-covered logs at its edge.

  At the shore end of the jetty were several buildings, all in disrepair, with broken windows and missing planks. The workings were long abandoned. A line of battered, corroded mine carts, some of them overturned, was not far to his right; he had been right about the railroad track. Farther away was another little train. He looked up the hill at the mine entrance. The purpose of the machinery there was now clear. It had been a simple gravity-assisted system, full carts being sent down the slope under their own weight, using a cable and pulley to bring the other, empty train back up to be loaded.

  He also saw Sevnik leading the way into the mine. Once al-Rais confirmed that the RTG was genuine and the money was exchanged, the terrorist leader would load his prize into the seaplane and leave. “Holly Jo, how far away is Baxter?”

  “They’re still about four miles from you. I’ve told Tony the situation—they’re trying to get there as quick as they can.”

  That surprised him. “Tony’s with them?”

  “Yes, he wanted to even up the numbers. There are a lot more of them than us.”

  “I’d noticed. Look, al-Rais is going to take possession of the RTG. I’m going to delay things for as long as I can.”

  “How?”

  The mine carts gave him an idea. “Just tell Kyle to keep watch.” The noise of the Beriev’s engines grew louder as it pushed through the drifting ice toward the pier. Keeping low, Adam headed for the nearest row of carts.

  A steel cable, scabbed with rust, was attached to the leading wagon’s frame. When the mine was operational, the line would have led all the way up to the entrance, then looped around the pulley to link up to the other train.

  He gave the cable an experimental tug. Coils of it popped up from under the snow like a startled snake. It had been broken or cut. Another wary glance uphill. A couple of men were at the mine entrance, but the others had all gone inside.

  Still crouched, he followed the line of the cable, staying close to the trees. The skeletal remains of a tractor lay beside the tracks, surrounded by discarded scrap. “Heavy metal …,” he muttered.

  “Say again?” said Holly Jo.

  “Nothing. Am I still clear?”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “The plane’s coming up to the jetty.”

  He had to act fast. Gripping the cable with his gloved hands, he pulled more of it free from the snow and headed along the edge of the cutting to the tractor. He brought the rusted line around the front of the machine, then crouched by its rotted tire and looked up the hill.

  The two men, one a Russian soldier and the other one of al-Rais’s followers, were still at the mine entrance. The Beriev was holding their attention as it moved toward the dock. He needed to get to the other side of the cutting, but if he crossed the open, snow-covered ground they would spot him immediately …

  Both men turned, looking down the darkened shaft. The others were coming back out. Adam seized his chance. Running the cable through his hands, he bolted across the tracks.

  The steel line twanged, resisting him. He yanked at it. More coils burst from the snow. He headed for a mound of moldering logs. Twenty feet to go, the cable heavier with each step. Ten feet, five. The Russian soldier turned back around—

  Adam dived behind the logs, the Geiger counter’s case digging hard into his side. Had he been seen? Heart thudding, he flattened himself against the wood. “Kyle! The men at the mine—what are they doing?”

  No alarm in the younger man’s voice. “Looks like they’re coming out. I can see Zykov, al-Rais … Sevnik’s waving at the guys by the helicopter.”

  He was safe—for now. But he still had to set up his plan. He reeled the cable in to pull it semi-taut across the cutting at ground level. One log had the large stump of a severed branch jutting from it. He formed the metal line into a loop and hooked it around the wooden stub, then wedged the cable under the log itself.

  The whine of the Beriev’s engines died down—and at the same moment he heard the growl of the Vityaz setting off. As he’d hoped, al-Rais was going to use the all-terrain vehicle to carry the RTG to the jetty. He took out a pair of compact binoculars and looked up at the mine.

  The deal had obviously been agreed on. Sevnik was considerably happier than before. Even the terrorist leader seemed in a better mood. Whatever he had seen inside the mine had been to his liking.

  Zykov clapped Sevnik on the shoulder, his expression suggesting that he could almost taste the champagne. Al-Rais shouted something into the shaft.

  His men were bringing out the RTG.

  “How far out are Tony and John?” Adam asked.

  “Still more than three miles away,” Holly Jo told him apologetically.

  “They’re not gonna get there in time, are they?” said Kyle.

  “They might if I can stall things here.” Adam picked up the cable again and gave it an experimental shake. Sinuous steel ripples ran across the cutting.

  The Vityaz’s engine note changed. He looked up the hill to see it crawling laboriously but relentlessly toward the mine’s entrance. It would reach it in a couple of minutes. He raised the binoculars again.

  Before long, al-Rais’s men came into view, along with the Russian soldiers. They were clustered together, carrying something extremely heavy.

  The nuclear generator.

  Browning’s thoughts resurfaced, almost excited about what he was about to see. What have they got? Is it a Senostav, or one of the older units? Is it damaged?

  The RTG was now out in the open, but he still couldn’t see it properly past its bearers. Put the thing down, damn it! “They’ve got the RTG,” he reported grimly. A look back toward the lagoon. The Beriev was at the end of the jetty, a man using a rope to secure the seaplane to the dock. A hatch was open, ready to accept cargo.

  The Vityaz snarled, the articulated crawler bending as its driver made a tight turn just below the minehead to position the trailer for loading. Those who had stayed at the helicopter climbed out with the money. The cases were placed on the ground.

  The shuffling men brought the RTG to the vehicle. Adam was concerned that he wouldn’t get a proper look at the device before it was placed aboard, but then al-Rais gave an order. With obvious relief, the men set down the generator and stepped back.

  Adam focused the binoculars. Browning’s knowledge instantly told him what he was looking at. An IEU-2M, the core’s green-painted radiator fins visible within its outer frame. Weight: six hundred kilograms, of which just five was the strontium—the rest was mostly shielding. Planned service life: fifteen years. This particular unit was well beyond that. But its fuel was still deadly. Strontium 90 had a half-life of close to thirty years, so even though its radioactive emissions were far less than they had been when the RTG was built, it remained active enough to be lethal.

  Nobody at the mine appeared concerned about taking a terminal dose, though. As far as Adam
could tell, the core was intact and undamaged. He put down the binoculars and switched on the Geiger counter. Even at this distance, an exposed nuclear core would set it crackling furiously, but the reading was only slightly above normal background levels. He wouldn’t want to spend any appreciable time in close proximity to the unit, but for short periods it was safe.

  At least … until it was deliberately opened. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Adam returned the counter to its case, then retrieved the binoculars. An order from Sevnik, and the men heaved the RTG off the ground and brought it step by careful step to the Vityaz’s tailgate. The entire vehicle lurched on its suspension as it was placed aboard.

  Another couple of minutes passed while the generator was secured for its short journey; then people climbed aboard the crawler. Zykov, al-Rais, and Sevnik got into the cab, two of the terrorist group picking up the money cases and joining their leader. A sort of musical chairs began among the others, nobody wanting to ride in the trailer with the RTG, but some unlucky soldiers drew the short straw.

  The Vityaz revved up and started down the slope. It followed the tracks, heading straight for the cutting. Adam crouched lower behind the logs. He would get only one chance: His timing had to be perfect.

  The engine noise grew steadily louder. He didn’t dare lift his head to check the Vityaz’s position in case he was seen. Instead he inched forward to look past the logs at the dilapidated tractor across the cutting. The cable he had run around it was partially visible in the snow, a dotted rust-orange line.

  His own footsteps ran alongside it.

  Nothing he could do about that. He was committed to his plan. If it failed, he would be left with only two choices: either watch impotently from hiding as al-Rais flew the RTG and its deadly contents to parts unknown … or make a desperate suicide attack in the hope of at least killing the terrorist leader before he could escape.

  Neither appealed. It had to succeed.

  His hands tightened around the cable. The Vityaz drew closer, the growl of its engine making the logs tremble. Only seconds away. Wait, wait …

  It drove past, the fat tracks kicking up clods of snow. The cable bucked in his grip as the ATV rolled over it. Not yet—

  Now!

  The instant the first of the two articulated units was past, Adam whipped up the cable and snapped it forward to hook it over the caterpillar tracks.

  It caught on one of the deep rubber blocks and was yanked along the top of the tread. The line was snatched from Adam’s open hands. If he had kept hold of it for a fraction of a second longer, it would have sliced off his fingers. The log he had looped the cable around leapt from the pile and spun across the cutting, smashing against the Vityaz’s side in a shower of rotten flinders.

  The ATV jerked sharply off course. The cable had jammed the track—and also become entangled in the clutch of hydraulic rams linking the forward unit to the trailer. The two sections of the vehicle convulsed, the trailer slewing sideways and crashing to the limit of its articulation. Metal shrieked. The Vityaz slithered to an emergency stop, the back end of the trailer about thirty feet from Adam.

  He pressed himself against the piled logs. “Tell me what’s happening,” he hissed. His cover was already slight enough that he couldn’t risk looking out from it.

  “They don’t know what the hell just happened,” Holly Jo told him. He heard shouted Russian. “Sevnik’s yelling at the driver, the driver’s yelling at him, all the other guys are piling out—lots of guns.”

  “Maybe they’ll shoot each other and save us the trouble,” Kyle added.

  Adam doubted he would be that fortunate. Instead he lay still, listening to the commotion. Zykov implored everyone to calm down, with mixed success. “We hit a mine!” someone cried.

  “It wasn’t a mine—it was a log!” the arms dealer yelled back. “Look! We ran over a log, that’s all.”

  “No, it’s not all,” said another voice—the driver, Adam realized. “The tracks are jammed, there’s something—what the hell? Shit! Look at this.”

  “They’ve found the cable,” Holly Jo reported. “The driver’s trying to pull it out—nope, not happening.”

  “Is it stuck?” Sevnik asked.

  “It’s caught in the hydraulics!” A few strained grunts of exertion. “Balls! It’s jammed in there.”

  “You didn’t see it?” al-Rais said with suspicion.

  “It was under the snow! I don’t have X-ray eyes.”

  “Can you get it out?” asked Zykov.

  “I’ll have to cut it. I’ve got the tools, but it’ll take time.”

  “How long?” demanded al-Rais.

  “I don’t know. Twenty minutes, half an hour? I need to check that the driveshaft isn’t damaged too.”

  “That is too long,” said the terrorist leader. “We’ll carry the generator to the plane.”

  Although he couldn’t see him, Adam somehow knew that the driver was shrugging. “Up to you. But I’ll have to cut it free anyway.”

  “Get it out,” al-Rais ordered. Muffled footsteps followed as the men headed to the trailer.

  Frustrating minutes passed, Adam still unable to risk moving. The running commentary from Holly Jo and Kyle told him that the RTG was being taken from the Vityaz, then slowly carried down to the waterfront. Tony and his team were still over two miles distant. “It’s all downhill from here,” Holly Jo added hopefully. “Oh wait, that didn’t come out quite like I wanted …”

  “I know what you meant,” said Adam. “Is anyone close to me?”

  “Just the driver. Everyone else is almost at the jetty.”

  “Which way is the driver looking?”

  “He’s got his back to you,” Kyle said.

  Adam raised his head. The driver was kneeling at the Vityaz’s central coupling, using a small saw to cut the cable. Beyond the stalled all-terrain vehicle, he saw the scrum of men bearing the RTG, Zykov’s bodyguards having joined in to lighten the load. He was unsurprised that the leaders of the three groups were not volunteering their own services. “Okay, I’m going to get closer to the plane.” He cautiously backed up to the tree line. The conifers’ drooping branches, laden with snow, provided good cover. He looked east, seeing the buildings through the trees. Still watching the driver, he headed toward them.

  “Adam!” Kyle said, urgent. He ducked behind a trunk and froze. “I just saw movement on the infrared camera, other side of the tracks. I think it’s Bianca.”

  “I told her to stay still,” he muttered, peering across the cutting. The Vityaz obstructed his view.

  “I guess she got cold.”

  “I don’t see her. Where is she?”

  “Two o’clock from the ATV, looking north. About thirty yards from the edge of the trees. I think she’s following your tracks.”

  He couldn’t see her. “Damn it! We should have given her a headset.”

  “Hindsight’s always twenty/twenty, brah. Oh wait—she’s stopped. She’s about twenty yards from the cutting. Hold on, I’ll zoom in … yeah, she’s hunkered down. Doesn’t look like she’s planning to get any closer.”

  That was a relief, but she was far from out of danger. There was no way he could tell her to retreat without exposing his own presence to the conspirators. “Okay. Warn me if she moves.”

  He set off again. Through the trees he saw the RTG’s porters gingerly bringing it along the jetty. While the wooden structure had been built to carry heavy loads of minerals to waiting boats, many harsh winters had passed since it was last maintained, and nobody appeared fully convinced that it would take the weight of the generator—to say nothing of the men themselves.

  Before long he reached the largest building. He quickly made his way to the rear. A door hung off its hinges. He drew his gun and stepped inside.

  The former headquarters of the mining operation had been ravaged by weather and looters. Anything of value had been stripped from its interior, only trash remaining. He moved carefully through the d
erelict structure to a front window.

  It gave him an excellent view of the jetty. He got his first proper look at the Beriev. It was a big aircraft, its high wings over a hundred feet in span and the fuselage very nearly as long. The hatch in its flank was still open, a bored young man sitting in it smoking a cigarette. Lights in the cockpit revealed the pilot watching the ponderous advance of his cargo.

  Adam looked back to the shore. Sevnik, Zykov, and al-Rais were less than fifty feet from him.

  His hand tightened on the gun’s grip. One shot, and Muqaddim al-Rais would be dead …

  But the threat his organization posed would not. Somebody else would take over. Unless al-Rais was captured alive, and the PERSONA used to extract all his secrets. Patience.

  “And so, we are done,” Sevnik proclaimed loudly. “I suppose you want your share now, Ruslan Pavelovich.”

  Zykov gave him a sarcastic smile. “It would be nice to have it before you leave for your tropical paradise, yes.”

  Sevnik did not appreciate the joke, but nevertheless he crouched and opened one of the cases. He took out and unfolded a nylon carryall, then started tossing bundles of banknotes into it. Zykov counted them off. “Two million,” he said before long. He zipped up the bag and lifted it. Two million dollars in tightly packed hundreds required surprisingly little effort to carry. “Good doing business with you, Kirill Makarovich.” Sevnik grunted in response, closing the case and standing to watch the men on the jetty.

  “Tony’s just over a mile out,” Holly Jo told Adam through a crackle of static. “Coming from the southwest. They’ll be there in about eight minutes.”

  “Okay.” But did he have eight minutes? Despite their concern about the state of the jetty, the men had still managed to get the RTG to the plane. The man with the cigarette flicked it into the water and disappeared inside the cabin. The porters eased their heavy burden through the hatch. The Be-200 listed, the float beneath the end of its starboard wing dipping lower into the icy water.