Precipice: V Plague Book 9

by Dirk Patton

  48

  Over the past half hour activity on the docks had died down to almost nothing. Crawford had watched what was obviously a changing of the guard, then lights were dimmed and most of the Russian sailors disappeared below decks. That left a few men on the deck of each ship and a small roving patrol on the docks. The work gang that had been throwing dead infected into the water was done for the night. Several shots rang out from beyond the farthest ship and the Colonel mused they’d be busy in the morning.

  He waited another hour to give the sentries standing static posts time to get bored and start letting their minds drift. The patrol had taken shelter from the rain under a small tree, the men smoking and talking quietly. Occasionally one of them would step out and look around for infected. If he spotted one he’d take his time aiming and shoot it from where he stood.

  The Colonel was ready to go. The mines and spools of wire were in a pack securely strapped to his chest. Swim fins he’d taken from a sporting goods store were hanging from his belt. Goggles were on his head, pushed up off his eyes for the moment. The patrol did their check of the area, one of the soldiers scanning directly in the Colonel’s direction. Not seeing any infected, he huddled back under the tree.

  Crawford moved as soon as the man turned back to his cigarette. He dashed across a narrow service road and to the top of a ladder that descended the side of the tall pier to the water below. Swinging onto the rungs, he climbed down into the inky darkness, wishing there had been some night vision at the Armory. Pausing halfway to the surface of the water he removed one boot and sock at a time, stuffing them into the pack with the mines.

  Continuing on, he carefully lowered himself into the cold water. Holding tight to the ladder with one hand, he removed the flippers from his belt and got them on his feet. Next he rinsed the inside of the goggles in seawater to prevent them from fogging, then slipped them on and pushed off from the ladder.

  His first stop would be Peter the Great. The ship that had looked so big from shore now appeared twice as large. And it was still a hundred yards away. Focusing on managing the weight strapped to his body, Crawford began kicking, careful to keep his feet deep enough to not cause a splash that might be heard by one of the sentries.

  He hadn’t gone far when something heavy bumped into his right shoulder. It was pitch black on the surface of the water and he nearly panicked, swallowing some ocean water when the first thing that went through his head was shark. He lashed out with his hand, coming into contact with something he couldn’t identify at first, but it wasn’t a shark. It didn’t even seem to be alive. Quickly running his hand over the object he suddenly realized it was one of the dead infected the Russians had been tossing off the docks.

  Ignoring the corpse, and almost forgetting the thought of being eaten by a shark, he started swimming again. As he moved through the water, several more bodies that bobbed on the surface bumped into him. Progress was slow as the Colonel had to focus on managing the dead weight he was carrying as well as remaining silent. He had noted the lookouts posted on the ship’s decks weren’t equipped with night vision, so unless someone turned on a spotlight he would remain invisible in the dark water.

  Eventually reaching Peter the Great he paused and glanced up. The hull of the giant ship soared out of the water, curving out as it went up. He was completely hidden from the deck. Even if a sentry looked directly down over the rail he would be screened by the curved steel side of the battlecruiser.

  Carefully he began making his way towards the stern. He had arrived near the mid point of its length and was still going with the assumption the reactor core would be closer to the back. This was confirmed after a few minutes of movement when he reached an area where a gentle current could be felt tugging on his fins.

  But it wasn’t an ocean current. Wasn’t flowing horizontally. It was trying to pull him under. He had found the intake for the reactor’s cooling system. Even tied up to the dock the reactor was running, generating power for the ship’s systems. And if a reactor is running it has to be cooled, otherwise bad things happen very quickly.

  Reaching into the pack on his chest, Crawford had to pry the two mines apart because their magnets had found each other. The wire into the detonator had been attached before he left shore, so all that was left to do was put the mine in place. Taking several deep breaths, he dove and followed the curving hull in absolute darkness.

  It didn’t take long to find the large intake, the flow of cold seawater threatening to suck his body up against the opening. Pushing the mine forward, the magnets took over and slammed it against the hull a couple of feet away from the opening. Using his hands and finned feet, Crawford walked himself away from the current then kicked for the surface, wire trailing behind him.

  He gulped air as quietly as he could when his head broke into the clear. Carefully kicking, he moved himself away from the constant tug generated by the ship’s pumps. Once free of the suction he transitioned back to swimming, staying in the shelter of the hull’s curve. At the stern he paid out enough wire to let it swing deep into the water and not tangle on the gigantic propellers.

  Rounding the turn to reach the opposite side of the ship, Crawford struck out across two hundred feet of open water to reach the destroyer. It had looked diminutive next to the battlecruiser when he was on shore, but when he reached the hull it no longer seemed small. Looking up he couldn’t see what he needed to see, so he swam a few yards back the way he’d just come from. Now he was able to spot the pipes and valves that were used for fueling the ship and swam to a point on the hull right below them.

  The Colonel didn’t know a lot about ships. He’d been on a few different Navy ships during his career, even a nuclear sub once, but he was far from a nautical expert. Most of his knowledge came from books and movies. So he was guessing when he decided the fuel tanks would be low in the hull to help ballast the ship in rough seas. Hoping he was right, he dove, again following the hull by feel as he was completely blind in the inky darkness.

  When he reached a point where the curve seemed to begin transitioning from nearly vertical, he stopped and attached the second mine. The first spool was already on a hook attached to his belt and the second one joined it as he kicked for the surface. Breaking through, he turned and headed away from shore.

  There was a large, man-made breakwater that protected the harbor. It jutted into the water at an angle meant to combat the waves that rolled down from the north when there was a storm. He was pretty sure he had enough wire on the large spools to reach that far. But he hadn’t even made it past the stern of Peter the Great when he heard an outboard motor.

  With his ears only inches above the surface the Colonel couldn’t tell where the boat was, but the sounds were coming closer. Had he been spotted? No, there would have been activity on the ship’s decks. Lights would be on and alarms would be sounding. Someone would probably already be shooting at him by now.

  Turning back, he struck out for Peter the Great which was closer. Less worried about making noise, he swam hard, hoping to reach the hull and fade into the darkness. He made it just as an inflatable boat that looked very much like an American RIB rounded the stern of the destroyer. Three men were aboard. One was driving, one was controlling a spotlight and the third was behind a pintle mounted machine gun.

  “Fuck me running,” Crawford grumbled.

  He watched them for a few moments as the boat moved along barely above an idle. The spotlight was being played up and down the hull of the destroyer at the waterline. He should have known the Russians would have more security than just a few guys on deck. As he observed he noted the thoroughness of their inspection. It wasn’t just a quick pass of the light before moving on. The man would check a section of the hull, then reverse course and check it again, then swing the light across it a third time before moving on to the next area.

  There was no way he was going to be able to hide from them. Not without scuba gear. They were spending too much time on each area. He couldn�
�t hold his breath that long. His diseased lungs were already protesting the time he’d been underwater, and he was fighting to not start coughing.

  With a sigh of resignation, he slipped a hand into his pack and removed a trigger. Treading with his finned feet while he worked, he pulled a long loop from one of the spools and wrapped it around his wrist so it couldn’t get lost in the water if he dropped it. He did the same thing with the other spool, then used his teeth to break through each thin wire.

  Biting on the ends, he stripped back a few inches of insulation and attached one of the wires to the stainless steel terminals on the top of the trigger. Digging the second one out, he wired it as he watched the patrol finish with the destroyer and turn to begin checking the much larger battlecruiser.

  He thought about trying to swim around the stern, but dismissed that as a bad idea. Was going underneath the hull and coming up on the other side a possibility? He had no idea how far into the water the giant ship sat. Draft. He finally remembered the term for it. His lungs were burning, threatening to begin spasming. He couldn’t make the dive. He was sure he would drown. And if he drowned, there’d be no one to detonate the mines and he would have died for nothing.

  “Fuck it,” he said to himself, making his decision.

  Closing his eyes for a moment he said a short prayer, hoping everything his wife had so fervently believed was true and that they would be together again very soon. Colonel Crawford opened his eyes, lifted the safety gates that protected each trigger from accidental initiation, and simultaneously pressed both buttons.

  -----

  General Kozlov was settled into his seat on board the Antonov troop transport, several squads of soldiers crammed into the back, the big plane climbing steeply to clear the mountains to the east of Seattle. He looked up when the co-pilot suddenly appeared in front of him, breathless and looking terrified.

  “What is it now?” The General asked irritably.

  “Peter the Great, Comrade General,” the man sputtered. “It has been attacked.”

  “Does Captain Romanov have it under control?”

  “It is sinking, Comrade General! And the other ships at the dock are on fire.” The man flinched under Kozlov’s gaze.

  “What? Turn us around and get me on the ground. Quickly!” He snapped, sending the young officer dashing back to the cockpit.

  Moments later the plane banked hard to the right and began to rapidly lose altitude, changing course to return to McChord Air Force Base.

  “Have a helicopter ready to go when we land,” Kozlov barked at his aide.

  Ten minutes later the heavy plane screeched onto the runway, the General unbuckling his seatbelt and standing up while they were still decelerating. The pilot taxied for a brief time then came to a sharp stop. Kozlov had already pushed his way through the troops to the back of the plane and slapped the button to lower the ramp, running out onto it before it was fully down onto the tarmac.

  His aide had stayed on his heels and they ran to an idling Hind, reflexively ducking their heads as they came under the spinning rotor even though there was no danger of it striking them. The General yanked the door open and climbed aboard, shouting at the pilot to take off as his aide was still trying to board.

  They streaked north, the conflagration at the docks soon becoming visible.

  “How far are we?” Kozlov asked the pilot over the intercom.

  “Thirty kilometers, Comrade General.” The man answered.

  “Thirty kilometers and we can already see the fire,” Kozlov said under his breath.

  The pilot was pushing the aircraft to its maximum speed and they covered the distance quickly. Kozlov’s attention was fixated on the burning ships, his fists clenched so hard they ached. He had been assured there were no Americans left in the city, and he had trusted his staff. Their incompetence and his acceptance of their assurances would most likely cost him his life. If he was lucky, that’s all it would cost him. He had a wife and children back in Russia.

  The helicopter flew over the tall buildings in downtown Seattle before going into an orbit to provide the best view of the devastation below. Peter the Great was listing severely to port, water visible washing across the deck. It was apparently sitting on the bottom of the harbor. The other four ships were all aflame, and a spreading fuel-oil slick was burning on the surface of the harbor.

  “Comrade General, the radiation detectors are in alarm,” the pilot said, his voice startling Kozlov. “The reactor on Peter the Great must have been breached. We are already at exposures well above the minimum safe threshold.”

  The view of the destroyed ships had caused a calm to descend over the General. An acceptance of his fate. He had failed, and would pay the price. Perhaps if only the destroyer and the three frigates had been lost he could have survived, but Peter the Great was the pride of the Russian Navy. There would be no coming back from this.

  “Very well,” he said. “Take me to my headquarters.”

  The pilot immediately turned out of the orbit and streaked away from the deadly radiation emanating from the sunken ship.

  “Misha,” the General spoke to his aide without taking his attention off the burning ships behind them. “Get my wife on the phone.”

  49

  “That fuckin’ Russian is beating on one of them women pretty bad,” Titus shouted over the radio.

  I had just stepped into a three story building that overlooked the area where they were being held. One of the sniper teams we’d spotted was on the roof.

  “Which one?” I asked, heart leaping in my chest. I threw caution to the wind and began racing up the stairs.

  “The big one, with the stitches on his head.”

  “Which woman, goddamn it!” I almost shouted, turning the landing at the second story.

  “Sorry. The small, darker one.”

  Martinez. I experienced a moment of relief that it wasn’t Katie, then rage that it was Martinez being abused because of me. Well, the fucker wanted to flush me out. He was about to get his wish. Reaching the third floor I spent precious time searching for access to the roof, finally finding it in a maintenance closet at the end of the main hallway.

  There was a vertical ladder that ran up to a hatch set into the ceiling. It was pretty close to the middle edge of the building, and if I was remembering correctly it should let me come out behind the sniper and his spotter. But a little distraction never hurts.

  Pulling out the remote trigger, I selected the first channel which was keyed to the bomb in the restaurant and pressed the fire button. A heartbeat later an explosion rocked the small town that was so loud I clearly heard it inside the building.

  Rifle ready, I climbed the ladder and cracked the hatch open a few inches. I lifted my head enough to see over the lip of the opening, finding the two Russians about twenty yards away. Their backs were to me. Both were still prone, in position, but their heads were turned in the direction of the large fireball that was climbing into the sky. Must have been propane tanks or something very flammable in the restaurant that was touched off by the blast. C-4 doesn’t do that by itself.

  I pushed the hatch open a couple of feet, climbed enough to get my shoulders above the roof line and brought my rifle on target. Two bursts into each did the job. Sure, it was probably overkill, but I was in the mood for overkill.

  Worming my way fully onto the roof, I stayed low. There was still the other sniper team. They had a clear view of this roof, and I wasn’t about to announce my presence or give them a target.

  Reaching the two Russians I’d just killed, I pulled the sniper back from the low parapet, concealing him from view. Shoving the body to the side I took his place, leaving the spotter where he was. If the other sniper took a good look through his scope, I was fucked, but I planned to solve that problem.

  I took a moment to check the Dragunov rifle and make sure it was loaded and ready to fire. I had no reason to expect it wasn’t, but I also wasn’t about to trust my life on the expectation that som
eone else had done what they should have. Settling in, I pulled the butt tight to my shoulder and pressed my cheek to the stock.

  The view through the scope was blurry and I had to adjust the focus for my eye, everything suddenly snapping into sharp clarity. I wanted to take the time to check on the girls, but every second I didn’t eliminate the other sniper was an opportunity for him to notice something was very wrong on this roof.

  There was a sophisticated scope on the rifle, calculating distance to target automatically when I placed the cross hairs on the other shooter’s face. He was 512 meters from my position, and I had a problem. I had no idea what caliber the fucking Russian rifle was, which meant I had no idea how much to compensate for bullet drop.

  Then I realized the fancy scope had already taken care of that for me when it measured the distance to target. Well fuck me if that isn’t convenient as all hell. With the scope automatically adjusting, all I had to do was put the cross hairs on what I wanted to hit and pull the trigger. Yeah. It’s really not that simple.

  512 meters is a long shot. Not record setting by any means, but it’s still a long shot for someone who doesn’t regularly train on long range shots. There was wind to take into account. It was raining. The humidity was high which meant the air was denser. I was guessing the Dragunov was most likely chambered in 7.62 mm, and if I was right it would take the bullet two thirds of a second to reach the target. That provided a lot of time for environmental forces to affect the trajectory.

  And finally, and maybe most importantly, if I wasn’t rock steady when I squeezed that trigger, none of the rest of this shit mattered. Wiggle the rifle a hair when I pull the trigger and that movement would be magnified exponentially by the time the bullet arrived on target. It’s easy to miss, despite how deceptively easy the guys and girls that are really good make it look.

  This all went through my head in under a second. Body stilled, I held on the sniper’s face, resting the crosshairs on his large, Slavic nose. Fortunately, he still hadn’t looked in my direction because I was taking my sweet time. Once I was comfortable with the shot I’d take on him, I pivoted the muzzle to check the spotter. He couldn’t be left alive to sound the alarm. My plan was to fire on the sniper and without waiting to see if I had hit my target, turn and fire on the spotter.