He rolled and rose to his knees behind the pilot’s seat. He craned his neck over Elena’s slumped body and peeked out the side window.
The helicopter was gone.
Smart, Felice . . . kill the pilot and the plane’s grounded.
Now she and her team could take their sweet time at capturing or killing them.
Tucker peered through the windscreen. A hundred yards ahead, the black silhouette of the island blotted out the stars. At its base, a gentle crescent of white sand beckoned.
Only then did he note that the Beriev was still moving toward their goal. He scanned the control panel, looking for—there. The pictogram of a spinning propeller glowed, bracketed by a plus and minus sign.
Easy enough to interpret.
Reaching around the seat, he shoved the twin throttles forward. The engines roared, and the nose lifted slightly, then settled as the Beriev’s speed climbed. The plane raced for the island, skimming the water, rapidly closing the distance. He knew they would never be able to escape the more agile chopper by air.
That wasn’t his plan.
He goosed the wheel, keeping them angled toward the beach.
“Brace for impact!” he shouted. “KANE, COME!”
The shepherd sprinted forward. Tucker curled his left arm around Kane’s chest and turned them both so they were tucked against the bulkhead. He propped his legs against the pilot’s chair and squeezed his eyes shut.
Beneath his rear end, the Beriev’s fuselage shuddered as it passed the shallows. Next came a shriek, followed by a grinding of metal on sand.
The plane violently lurched left, catching a pontoon on something—a rock, a sandbar—then flipped up on its nose and cartwheeled across the beach.
Glass shattered.
From the cabin, screams and shouts.
The copilot’s seat tore free and seemed to float in midair before crashing into the side window above Tucker’s head.
Then the plane hit the trees, shearing off one wing. They slammed to a teetering stop, the plane stuck up on its side, the remaining wing pointed to the sky.
Tucker looked around. A pair of emergency lights in the overhead bathed the cockpit in a dull glow. Tree branches jutted through the side window. Above him, over his left shoulder, he saw a sliver of dark sky through the windscreen.
He took personal inventory of his condition and ran his hands over Kane’s flanks and limbs, getting a reassuring lick in return.
Think, he commanded himself.
Felice was still out there, but her helicopter lacked pontoons, so it could not land in the water. He pictured the tree-lined beach. He didn’t believe it was wide enough to accommodate the chopper’s rotor span.
We have time—but not much.
They just had to survive until the plane Harper sent got here.
He called, “Everyone okay back there?”
Silence.
“Answer me!”
Bukolov called weakly, “I am . . . we are hanging in the air. Anya and myself. She hurt her hand.”
“Utkin!”
“I am here, pinned under my seat.”
“No one move. Let me come to you.”
Tucker ordered Kane to stay put and pulled himself to the cockpit door. He swung his legs until he was sitting on the door coaming. With the plane on its side, the left bulkhead was now the floor. He found an emergency flashlight strapped to the wall. He snagged it free, turned it on, and took a moment to orient himself.
Utkin was still buckled into his seat, but it had broken loose and rolled atop him. Above him, Bukolov and Anya were strapped in place and suspended in midair.
No one seemed to be direly injured, except Anya clutched her hand to her chest, her eyes raw with pain. For now, there was nothing he could do to help her.
“Utkin, unbuckle yourself and crawl to me.”
As he did so, Tucker hopped down next to him and stoop-walked aft until he was beneath Bukolov and Anya. He shined his flashlight up.
“Anya, you first. Press the buckle release with your good hand, and I’ll catch you. It’s not as high as it seems.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she hit the release and fell. Tucker caught her and lowered her to her feet.
He repeated the procedure with Bukolov.
Once down, the doctor leveled a finger at Utkin’s face. “You! You almost got us killed. Again.”
“Abram, I did not—”
“Quiet!” Tucker barked. “We have only a few minutes before Felice finds a way to reach us. We need to get out of here without being seen.”
“How?” Anya asked, wincing. It appeared she had either sprained or broken her wrist.
“A window in the cockpit is smashed. That’s our way out.”
He turned and clambered back through the door that led to the cockpit. He swung his legs until he was straddling the coaming.
“Grab our packs!” he ordered. “Then Anya up first.”
Moving quickly, Tucker shuttled everyone out of the cabin, past the cockpit, and through the broken window. It was a tight squeeze amid the broken branches, but it allowed them to exit directly into dense forest, keeping off the open beach.
Utkin was the last of the three to leave. He looked at Tucker. “You’re wrong about me. I wish you would believe that.”
“I wish I could.”
As the man shimmied out, Tucker turned to Kane. “Ready to go, pal?”
Kane wagged his tail and belly-crawled after the others.
Tucker followed, but not before grabbing Elena’s Shpagin machine gun. He slung it across his back, while staring down at the young woman’s lifeless body.
“I’m sorry . . .”
The words sounded idiotic to him.
I’m sorry you’re dead. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.
Anger stabbed into him, fiery and fierce. He used it to steady the edge of panic, to clear his head to a crystal focus.
Felice, you’re dead.
He made a silent oath to make that happen.
For Elena.
Turning away, he crawled out and joined the others huddled together in the darkness of the forest. The neighboring beach looked like polished silver under the moonlight that pierced the clouds.
“What now?” Bukolov asked. “I don’t see the helicopter. Perhaps they think we are dead.”
“It’s possible, but you’re their prize, Doctor. They won’t leave without knowing your true fate.”
“What about your people?” Anya asked.
He checked his watch. It was still a few minutes until they were supposed to arrive.
Tucker dug through his duffel until his fingers touched the satellite phone. Even without looking, he knew the phone was shattered. The casing had split open, and the innards lay in pieces at the bottom of his pack.
“Stay here,” he ordered and crawled to the edge of the sand. He scanned the sky, while straining to listen. He thought he heard the distant thump of rotors, but when he turned his head, the sound faded.
Options, Tucker thought. What do we do?
Felice had them pinned down.
Again, Tucker heard thumping.
The helicopter was definitely out there, moving with no lights, like before, lying in wait.
And not just for us, he suddenly realized.
No wonder she didn’t immediately come after them.
He pushed back to the others. “Kharzin knows this is the rendezvous point, that others must be coming. Felice is out there waiting for them, intending to take them out, to catch them off guard like she did us, leaving her free to deal with us after that.”
“What are we going to do?” Anya said.
“I don’t know—”
Utkin suddenly bolted past Tucker, his heels kicking up sand as he broke from cover and stumbled out onto the open beach.
Tucker’s first instinct was to raise the Shpagin, but he stopped himself. He still couldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back.
“Stop!” he called out to Utkin. “There’s
nowhere to run!”
A strobe of navigation lights burst above the treetops at the northern tip of the island. A floodlight bloomed, stabbing down to the beach. The helicopter’s nose followed the beam down, picking up speed.
Utkin got caught in the light, sliding to a stop. He lifted his arm against its blinding glare and waved his other arm.
“What is that idiot doing?” Bukolov said. “Does he think they’ll pick him up?”
“He’ll get away,” Anya cried.
Skimming the trees, the chopper reached the beach in seconds and banked over the crashed Beriev. All the while, the floodlight kept Utkin pinned down.
Suddenly fire winked from the chopper’s open cabin door.
Bursts of sand kicked up, and a bullet struck Utkin’s leg. He toppled forward, lay for a stunned moment, then started crawling in agony toward the trees, pushing with his good leg.
The gun flashed again from the helicopter’s doorway.
A second bullet struck Utkin’s other leg. He pitched flat to the sand. His arms paddled as he tried to push himself back up.
From the precision of the shooting, it had to be Felice.
He knew what she was doing, torturing Utkin to draw him out. She didn’t know that the traitor had been exposed—or maybe she didn’t care.
A part of Tucker knew Utkin had brought this upon himself.
But another part railed against such brutality.
He felt his ears pop, a rush of hot air, the screams of his fellow rangers filled his head. He saw a mirage of a limping dog, bloodied and in pain—
No, not again . . . never again. . .
He broke from cover, sprinted past the wreckage of the Beriev, and across the sands. He charged forward, eating up the distance until he was twenty yards away. He dropped to one knee, jerked the Shpagin to his shoulder, and took aim.
He fired a short three-round burst. The Shpagin bucked in his grip. The bullets went wide. He tucked the weapon tighter to his shoulder and fired again, squeezing and holding fast. Bullets shredded into the chopper’s tail.
Smoke gushed.
The helicopter pivoted, exposing its open doorway. A lone figure stood there. Though her lower face was hidden behind a scarf, he knew it was Felice.
He opened fire again, stitching the fuselage from tail to nose.
She stumbled out of view.
Abruptly the chopper banked hard left and dove for the ocean’s surface and picked up speed, heading away, trailing oily smoke.
Furious, blind with rage, he kept firing after it until it had vanished into the darkness. Critically damaged, the helicopter wouldn’t be returning any time soon.
He swung over to Utkin, dropping to his knees beside him.
During the firefight, the young man had managed to roll onto his back. His left thigh was black with blood. His right poured a crimson stain into the sand, spurting from his leg, with a brightness that could only be arterial.
Tucker pressed his palm against the wound and leaned on it.
Utkin groaned heavily. One hand rose to touch the hot barrel of the machine gun. “Knew you could do it . . .”
“Quiet. Lay still.”
“Someone . . . someone had to flush out that evil suka before she ambushed your friends . . .”
Hot blood welled through his fingers.
A sob rose in Tucker’s chest, escaping in shaking gasps. “Hold on . . . just hold on . . .”
Utkin’s eyes found his face. “Tucker . . . I’m sorry . . . my friend . . .”
Then he was gone.
9:02 P.M.
Tucker sat on the sand, hugging his knees. Kane lay tight against his side, sensing his grief. A small fire burned on the beach, created by igniting driftwood with some of the leaking fuel from the wreckage, a signal to those who were coming.
It seemed to have worked.
The drone of an engine echoed over the water. A moment later, a seaplane swept above the beach. Anya waved with her good arm. From the plane’s side window, a flashlight blinked back at her, signaling the identity of their rescuers.
As the plane circled for a water landing, Bukolov wandered over to him. “I still don’t understand why he did that.”
Off to the side, Utkin’s body was covered by a tarp.
“Redemption,” Tucker said. “I think he purposefully drew the chopper out of hiding, so I’d have a chance to take it out before the others arrived.”
“But why? Did he do it out of guilt?”
Tucker remembered his last words.
. . . my friend . . .
Tucker laid a hand on Kane’s side. “He did it out of friendship.”
27
March 18, 8:00 A.M.
Istanbul, Turkey
Tucker followed the embassy aide into the conference room. The space looked ordinary enough: white walls, burgundy carpet, maple table. Someone had set out glasses and pitchers of ice. He also smelled coffee, one of life’s necessities at this early hour after such a long night.
Bukolov and Anya joined him as he settled into one of the leather chairs. They all squeaked heavily into place for this private meeting.
Anya’s left arm was in a cast from midforearm to her knuckles. She had broken two bones in her wrist as a result of the plane crash. Her eyes were still glassy from pain relievers.
For this meeting, it would just be the three of them, seated around a speakerphone.
“Your call is being routed,” said the aide, a young man in a crisp suit. He promptly left, sealing the door behind him.
Despite the unassuming decor, Tucker knew this room in the U.S. consulate was soundproofed and electronically secure. No one else would be listening in.
Tucker stared across the table at the other two.
Anya looked haunted.
Bukolov defeated.
They’d flown straight from the Caspian Sea to Turkey, arriving well after midnight. They’d been given rooms here, but it looked like none of them had slept well. Tucker had left Kane behind to give the shepherd some extra downtime.
The conference phone on the table trilled, and a voice came over the speaker. “Your party is on the line. Go ahead.”
After a series of beeps, followed by a burst of static, Ruth Harper’s voice came on the line.
“Tucker, are you there?”
“Yes.” Again he felt the comfort of her familiar soft twang. “I have Doctor Bukolov and Anya here also.”
“Very good.”
In Harper’s usual brusque manner, she got right down to business. “Let’s start with the most pressing concern of the moment. Stanimir Utkin. How much information do you believe this mole shared with his superiors? With this General Artur Kharzin?”
Tucker had already given Harper a condensed version of the last twenty-four hours, including the betrayal and ultimate redemption by Utkin.
Bukolov answered angrily. “How much information? How about all of it? He had access to all my research material. I never suspected him in the slightest.” He glanced over to Anya, his voice dropping further into defeat. “I never suspected anyone.”
Tucker stared between them.
Anya looked down at the table. “I told Abram last night. About my involvement with Russian SVR. About my assignment. I thought he should hear it from me first.”
“Anya Averin,” Bukolov muttered. “I didn’t even know your real name.”
Harper spoke into the awkward silence that followed. “I made some discreet inquiries. As far as I can tell, Anya’s story checks out. She was falsifying intelligence to her superiors.”
Anya glanced to the doctor. “In order to protect you, Abram, to protect your research, so it wouldn’t be abused.” She reached her right hand to him. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
Bukolov turned slightly away from her. “Does she need to be here? She’s of no use to me now. I have all of De Klerk’s diary. I can handle the rest on my own.”
“Not your decision to make, Doctor,” Tucker replied.
>
“Not my decision? How can you say that? She betrayed me!”
Anya said, “Abram, please. I gave them nothing of your work. I protected—”
“I am done with you! Mr. Wayne, I refuse to allow her to accompany us.”
Harper cleared her throat. “Let’s put a pin in this, Doctor, and get back to Stanimir Utkin. For now, we must assume he gave Kharzin everything. Including the information from Paulos de Klerk’s diary. Is that correct, Doctor Bukolov?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then let’s move on to the threat posed by that information, about the danger of LUCA falling into the hands of Kharzin?”
Bukolov took on a defensive tone. “You must understand, that if handled properly, LUCA could be an unprecedented boon to humanity. We could turn deserts into—”
“Yes, I understand that,” Harper said, cutting him off. “But it’s the phrase handled properly that worries me. Correct me if I’m wrong, but even if we’re able to find a viable specimen of LUCA, we still have no way of controlling it—not you, not Kharzin’s people. Is that right?”
Bukolov hesitated, frowned. “Yes,” he said slowly. “No one has developed a kill switch. But I am convinced the mechanism for controlling LUCA does exist. So is Kharzin convinced. The general would only have to introduce a few ounces of LUCA in a handful of strategic locations, and without a kill switch in our possession, the organism would spread like wildfire, destroying all native plant life. There would be no stopping it. But the larger threat is weaponization.”
“Explain, Doctor,” said Harper.
“Take smallpox, for example. It’s one of the most feared biological weapons known to man, but that threat alone is not enough. To be sure of infecting the maximum number of victims, smallpox must be weaponized—it must be deliverable over a wide area in a short period of time, so it overwhelms the population and the medical infrastructure. Kharzin will see LUCA in the same light. He’s a military man. It is how they think. Weaponized LUCA, delivered strategically, could reach critical mass in hours. Yes, yes, LUCA in its raw form is dangerous, but not necessarily catastrophic. There would be a chance we might be able to stop it. If he weaponizes it . . . it’s an endgame move.”
“End?” Harper asked. “As in end of the world?”
“Without a kill switch, a way of controlling what’s unleashed, yes. We’re talking about the fundamental destruction of the earth’s ecosystem.”
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