Goliath

by Richard Turner

The plan is falling apart, thought Alexandra Romanov, as she watched the black smoke from the destroyed police helicopters float, like an escaping genie, ever higher into the sky. What had begun as a day that would see her father propelled into power now looked to be in danger of failing. The sound of weapons firing swept the camp, as Chang’s men fought back against their unseen attackers. Still, if we can detonate the bombs, then something can be salvaged from the debacle, thought Alexandra.

  She grabbed Teplov by the arm and pulled him toward her. “Leave Colonel Chang and his men to deal with the infiltrators. We need to place the bombs without delay.”

  Teplov nodded, snatched up his Motorola, and quickly told Chang to find and destroy their attackers, no matter the cost. Without another thought, he turned his back on the men he had left to die while they rushed to place the bombs. With a wave of Teplov’s hand, everyone climbed back on their ATVs. With a quick look over his shoulder to make sure that they were ready, Teplov turned to his driver and told him to drive.

  With a dull roar from the lead ATV’s engine, the vehicle began to slowly crawl forward. Within seconds, the two vehicles and their deadly cargoes disappeared from sight into the long, gloomy tunnel.

  Mitchell felt the vehicle pick up speed as it descended deeper into the volcano, as if heading down to the pits of hell itself. The tunnel became cooler and darker the farther they traveled from the light at the entrance of the tunnel. Mitchell’s wrist had become a slick, bloody mess from the painful twisting and turning he had subjected his hand to. If he had another ten minutes, perhaps, he could do it, but Mitchell knew that he probably did not have the time. He tried lifting his bloodied arm. “Hey you, you got a bandage or something?” he said, trying to get his guard’s attention.

  The bored-looking man turned his head, smiled at Mitchell’s dilemma and spat on the passing ground.

  So much for that, thought Mitchell. He looked at the bomb and saw that it was secured to the trailer by several wide canvas straps. He reached over with his good hand and started to pull at the nearest strap to him.

  “Hey, you! Stop that!” bellowed the guard with a strong Scandinavian accent.

  “Screw you,” replied Mitchell, pulling and twisting the strap, trying to get it to loosen.

  Jackson ignored the gun battle going on behind him as Cardinal, from his position atop the tower, dropped anyone foolish enough to stick their head out in the open. He walked calmly to the entrance of the tunnel. Most of Chang’s men had learned their lesson and had moved under cover, forming up into fire teams. It would not be long before they figured out where Cardinal was and made a move against him. As much as he wanted to help, Sam and Cardinal would have to deal with the mercenaries by themselves. Right now, he had to save Ryan and stop the nukes from being detonated. When he stepped inside the darkened tunnel, Jackson spotted a thug sitting on a four-wheeled ATV, a cigarette hanging from his lips; his weapon lay across his legs while he dug around in his jacket looking for his lighter. Nate walked over to the guard and waved at the man to get his attention. The guard nodded in greeting. He was too busy looking for his lighter to realize that Jackson was not one of them. With one powerful punch, Jackson sent the guard tumbling off the ATV and up against the far rocky wall, coming to rest in a heap on the tunnel floor. Jackson grabbed the man’s rifle, threw it into the back of the ATV, and jumped onto the four-wheeled vehicle. He started the engine, quickly changed gears, spun it around, and charged off down the tunnel.

  The ATVs separated. Teplov and his vehicle turned down the left-hand tunnel, while Mitchell’s went right. Helplessly, Mitchell watched what was happening. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he frantically tugged at his restraint. Time was running out.

  “Quit it,” ordered the guard.

  “Come over here and make me,” taunted Mitchell, trying his best to piss the man off.

  With a loud huff, the man pulled himself up and stepped over onto the bomb trailer. “I said stop that,” threatened the guard. “I was told to keep you alive until we reach the bomb site, but no one said that you couldn’t be hurt.” The guard raised his rifle and took aim at Mitchell’s bloody arm.

  Mitchell took one quick look past the guard; he could see that everyone else was still looking forward and not paying the slightest bit of attention to what was going on behind them.

  The guard carefully edged forward until he towered over Mitchell. “Hold still, and I’ll try to only put one hole in you,” said the guard, with an evil grin on his face.

  Mitchell knew he only had one chance. In a flash, he shot out his legs, sweeping the legs of the guard out from underneath him. With his arms flailing about, trying to grab onto something, the large guard tumbled down onto the trailer. Ryan brought his right leg up and rammed it as hard as he could into the stunned man’s face. Blood flew as the man’s nose shattered. Mitchell’s heart was racing. He was relieved to see that no one up front had heard a thing over the sound of the ATV’s powerful engine vibrating off the tunnel walls. Mitchell scurried on his rear a little bit closer to the wounded guard. He quickly wrapped his legs around the man’s throat and, like a boa constrictor, started to squeeze the life out of the man. The shocked guard struggled to break Mitchell’s hold, but he didn’t stand a chance. It was only a matter of seconds before he would black out and die.

  A voice rang out. “Günter!” shouted one of the guards on the ATV. The mercenary scrambled to his feet. He tried to raise his weapon, when his head snapped back with a bloody hole in the center of it.

  A loud crack echoed down the tunnel.

  Mitchell turned to look back over his shoulder, and saw a bright headlight racing toward him. A moment later, Mitchell could not believe his eyes as Jackson sped past him, one hand on the ATV’s handlebar, the other holding out an assault rifle as he fired a short burst into the body of another guard, sending him tumbling over the side of the ATV.

  “Nate, for God’s sake, don’t shoot the bomb tech!” yelled Mitchell, trying to get his friend’s attention.

  Jackson leaned over, grabbed onto the larger ATV’s roll bar, and hauled himself over onto the speeding ATV. The last of Chang’s mercenaries, a broad-shouldered, red-haired man sitting beside the driver, lunged at Jackson, trying to grab him by the waist. Jackson had anticipated the move and brought his hands down onto the man’s back. With a loud grunt, the guard’s legs buckled and he dropped back in his seat. Jackson swung at the man’s head. However, the red-haired man pulled his head back at the last second and scrambled over his seat, trying to get his hands on Jackson. The driver, seeing the melee going on beside him, tried to grab his holstered pistol. His momentary lapse of attention caused the ATV to crash into the side of the tunnel, sending both Jackson and his attacker tumbling over the side of the ATV and onto the hard, rock-strewn floor of the tunnel.

  Mitchell watched in dismay as Jackson and the guard rolled past him, locked in a struggle to the death. With one hard tug of his legs, Mitchell heard the last gasp of air escape from his adversary’s shattered nose. He reached down with his free hand, grabbed the dead man’s shirt collar and dragged him closer. Mitchell started to rummage through the pockets on the man’s shirt, desperately looking for the key to the restraint.

  The tunnel grew dark as Mitchell’s ATV sped away. The only light now was from the overturned four-wheeler that Jackson had abandoned, casting eerily long shadows as Jackson and his assailant desperately grappled with one another. Fists and elbows flew, as both men tried to cripple the other; it was like a gladiatorial fight to the death. The guard flung his left hand at Jackson’s face, his fingers clawing for his eyes. Jackson pulled his head back as far as he could and waited until the man’s hand was as close as it would get. He bit down hard on the thug’s hand and tasted blood. With a howl of pain, the goon pulled his hand free. He let go of Jackson, recoiled in pain, and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Jackson, displaying unexpected agility for a large man, jumped up to his feet. The red-haired goon pulled a six-inch blade from
his belt that gleamed in the light of the tunnel. With a loud snarl on his lips, the man stepped forward and thrust the blade toward Jackson’s exposed midsection. The man may have had a weapon, but Jackson had years of experience and training on his side. He turned on his heels, shot out his right hand and grabbed the man’s extended hand in a vise-like grip, squeezing it as hard as he could. The man yelped in agonizing pain as Jackson turned the man’s arm over, snapping his wrist. A second later, the knife dropped to the dirt. With a swift thrust of his free hand, Jackson brought his large fist straight down on the man’s jaw, knocking him to the ground, unconscious.

  Deep in the goon’s pocket, Mitchell felt something cold and metallic…yes. He wrapped his fingers around it. Mitchell smiled when he pulled out the keys to his restraint. As quickly as he could, Mitchell opened the cuff. His bloody wrist ached in pain, but that was not going to slow him down, not now. Mitchell grabbed the dead man’s assault rifle, pushed the dead body off the trailer, and jumped over onto the fast-moving ATV. The only passengers remaining on board were the driver and the bomb technician, both of whom were in no position to stop Mitchell. He hauled back and then slammed the butt of his rifle down hard into the side of the technician’s head. Mitchell watched him slump over before he jammed the cold muzzle of his weapon into the back of the driver’s neck.

  “Stop this vehicle, now!” warned Mitchell.

  The vehicle quickly slowed and came to a halt.

  Mitchell ordered the driver to place his hands on his head and slowly climb out of the vehicle. The driver, his eyes wide and scared, did as he was told. Mitchell smiled at the guard just before butt-stroking the man in the head with his rifle. The guard flew straight back onto the rocky floor like a dropped sack of potatoes.

  Mitchell had just finished hog-tying the guard when Jackson drove up on his four-wheeler with a broad grin on his face.

  “Where’s your guy?” asked Mitchell.

  Jackson pointed over his shoulder. “He’s back there, looking as pretty as yours,” replied Jackson, looking at the tied-up guard lying facedown on the ground.

  Mitchell walked over and grabbed his comrade by the arm. “Nate, I need you to stay here and get that specialist over there to disarm the nuke,” said Mitchell, nodding over at the woozy technician.

  “What if he doesn’t want to help?”

  “Then kill him and try to disarm it yourself,” Mitchell said loud enough that the unsteady technician could hear.

  “I help, I help, just don’t shoot me,” the terrified technician said with a strong Russian accent.

  “Okay then, come here and no screwing around,” said Mitchell, pointing his weapon at the battered man.

  “Jesus, Ryan, what the hell is going on?” asked Jackson. “Why the hell do these people have a couple of nukes?”

  Mitchell turned and looked back down the darkened tunnel. The other bomb would soon be in place. “Sorry, Nate, there’s just no time to explain right now. You have to disarm this bomb, or millions of people will die.” Mitchell climbed onto Jackson’s borrowed four-wheeled ATV. “I have to stop the other bomb from being armed.”

  Jackson nodded, reached behind his back and handed Mitchell a Glock 9mm pistol. “You might need this,” he said.

  Mitchell gave his friend the assault rifle he had. He took the pistol, jammed it into his belt, revved up the ATV’s engine, and sped off down the long dark tunnel.

  Jackson watched his friend disappear from view. Turning his attention to the terrified Russian engineer, Jackson walked over to the man, easily towering over him. “How long to disarm this mother?” asked Jackson, looking over at the bomb.

  “Uh, three minutes, perhaps,” stammered the technician.

  “Well, I’ll give you two before I put a bullet in your head.”

  The man practically tripped over his feet to get to the bomb.

  43