by Roger Weston
He dumped their guns in a random stripped-out room and closed the door.
The alarms continued to blare out. He figured that now there must be over a hundred Black Cobra killers hunting for him, and he had to act quickly. The odds painted a grim picture. He had slim chance of getting off the boat alive, but at least he had a prayer of accomplishing what he’d come here for.
A shooter came around the corner, but he was in too much of a hurry and hadn’t expected Chuck to be right there.
Chuck pointed his gun right in the thug’s face. “You wanna hurt me. Is that what you want?”
The thug’s eyes hung wide open with fear. He shook his head rapidly. “No, no…No! Please, please don’t kill me.” His voice cracked. He dropped to his knees. “Don’t hurt me. I beg you for mercy, please!” The killer actually began to weep and moan. He rolled on the floor and scratched at his own face. “Please don’t hurt me? I’ll do anything—anything.”
“Shut up, you pathetic coward. Leave your gun there and run.”
The man didn’t hesitate. He abandoned his weapon and fled. He ran faster than even Chuck had run a few minutes ago when he was being shot at from behind.
Now Chuck jogged in the opposite direction. He ran down a long, ever-changing passageway. He frequently leapt over tall steps called “knee knockers.” He grabbed an ax from a damage-control station and descended a staircase. Moving through several hatches, he entered the Third Deck machinery spaces. This had once contained many of the ship’s essential systems. He passed stripped-out rooms where wires dangled from the walls because the electrical switchboards had been torn out. He passed barren machine shops where most of the machines were gone, having been removed and shipped out to the fleet for spare parts. He passed emergency generators that no longer worked. He passed abandoned medical and dental offices with papers scattered across the floor. Half of the track lighting didn’t even work. The receptionist’s chair was broken, and the desk drawer hung open, revealing a couple of forgotten files. It looked like the VA had taken over their management.
Then Chuck found what he was looking for, the air-conditioning plant.
The scientist had bragged that his computers were so powerful that they would literally melt if not for the air conditioning. Chuck worked quickly, rigging C4 and detonators. He set his timing device. Then he cleared out. If they found him, at least he would have done his dirty deed.
Of course, his old shrink would have called him unstable—a liability to the mission!
What mission, you fraud? The “liability” was the only one left from RUMAN with the guts and willingness to fight against the oppressors. Patrick Henry died 200 years ago. When he’d said, “Give me liberty or give me death,” he’d spoken to a nation of brave men. But he’d also spoken through the centuries. He’d spoken to men like Chuck Brandt.
And Chuck’s PC shrink had called him unstable because he took risks in the war against evil…Chuck was called a liability because he took action. That was not going to change.
He lunged up steps to the second deck, but he was cut off while on the run.
Two killers spilled into the long passageway from a crosswise shaft-alley. As the leader raised his gun, Chuck squeezed off four shots. The two Black Cobra terrorists crashed down onto the lime-green tile floor. As Chuck passed them, he stripped one of them of his grenades and added a few more magazines to his own tactical vest. He didn’t need to switch out his magazine just yet, however, because he was conserving his bullets.
Good thing he did because noise attracted attention, and now a strike team was spilling down the corridor, leap-frogging from one nook to the next. They took turns shooting at Chuck, who was driven back into the officer’s ward room, a big green lunch room with a dozen tables. He pulled the pin on one of his newly-acquired grenades and lobbed it down the alley way. The explosion reverberated through the enclosed spaces. A fast glance at down into the hot zone showed Chuck that a couple of terrorists were down. The others were out of sight.
A noise behind him!
He threw a look over his shoulder and didn’t like the view. His peripheral vision showed several hostiles right behind him, so he took his chances and burst out into the main passageway again, dodging death and devastation. He leaped over knee knockers and flashed through hatch combing. He’d barely gotten up to speed when a gunner leaned out of a doorway up ahead. He was already getting a bead on Chuck with a pistol. Chuck dove into the doorway of an officer’s stateroom, which was like a green hotel room. He crawled back to the entrance and flung another grenade.
A thundering blast sent a deadly cloud of fragments down the passageway. Chuck seized the moment and headed aft. As he ran, the walls were a blur of power-boxes, pipes, and wires. He flashed under vents and past fire equipment. After a moment of silence in an officer’s room, he was hearing a lot of voices from both directions. A quick look out into the hall told an ugly tale. There were at least a dozen terrorists closing in from each direction. They weren’t shooting because they were now moving towards each other.
“Do not move.”
***
Fifty-one minutes till WMD attack
In the secondary Control Room, the albino was testing the HAARP equipment in synchrony with scientists over on the supertanker. They were working on a bug related to power surges protection. He had just hung up his satphone when he was interrupted by a Black Cobra commander from the bomb squad. Normally, the Black Cobra bomb squad specialized in rigging explosives in cities to kill and cripple as many civilians as possible, but today they’d been called on for the rare task of dismantling an explosive. Nobody knew if they could do it because that wasn’t their specialty. They were thought to be out of practice, but these fears were soon put to rest. Carrying a toolbox, the man said, “I was told to report to you when the American’s explosives in the air-conditioning plant were neutralized.”
“Excellent,” the albino said, promptly shifting his attention back to the power circuit diagrams showing on the computer in front of him. “Now don’t bother me anymore. I’m running behind and time is short.”
CHAPTER 31
Forty-five minutes till WMD attack
Brulé jogged down the steel tunnel. He crept through the dim passage until he came to the Ready Room with its green walls and rows of bucket seats under track lighting. He faced a bank of mounted television monitors that were streaming security video from security cameras placed at key locations around the ship.
There he was! Brandt!
Gripping his Mac-10 machine pistol, Brulé moved slowly through the steel maze.
Very soon, he heard footsteps and ducked into the Marine head across from the Marine barracks. Craning his neck forward, he was just able to see a man coming his way.
Brandt!
Just then two Black Cobras appeared at the extremity of a side passage. They were about to ambush the American. If that happened, then they would take credit for killing Brandt. Brulé’s future would not be defined by failure. That was not going to happen.
He swung up his machine pistol and opened fire. A stream of bullets honed in on the two Black Cobras, pinning them against the wall, where they jerked and twisted as if they were in a disco back in Lima. One fell against a rack of flood-control gears on the wall. The other slammed against big metal lockers. They both hit the deck, succumbing to the darkness of death. One let out a pitiful last howl, a last doomed protest against betrayal of Dante Brulé. Death came swiftly upon them.
Brulé shifted his gun toward Brandt, but the ghost had flitted down a side passage.
Brulé ran after him.
***
With bullets ricocheting past him, Chuck ducked into a doorway in the welded city and stood by the door-jam of the garbage room. He was determined not to make it easy on the Black Cobra trash. If they were determined to kill him, he was going to make them earn it. They were going to have to fight for every inch. He squeezed off a burst. Then he spun his assault rifle around and sprayed the op
posite hallway with a torrent of flying lead.
One team disappeared and then the other team opened up with a barrage, several shots hitting the doorway where he was taking cover. Then, just as the shooting calmed down, Chuck heard a voice behind him.
“Drop your gun, Brandt. It’s over.”
CHAPTER 32
Forty minutes till WMD attack
He turned his head sideways anyway, only half caring if he was shot dead then and there. He felt a gun barrel press hard on the back of his neck. He saw his own mistake. In the melee, he hadn’t noticed that someone was hiding behind one of the big metal tubs. They’d snuck up behind him. Now three more Black Cobras stepped into the room, weapons trained upon him. Then three more. Suddenly, there were seven terrorists in the room—all dressed in black.
“Why are you still holding the gun?” This from the vermin holding his own gun to the back of Chuck’s neck.
“I was hoping to use it,” Chuck said, “but I didn’t see you back there.”
“Release the gun.”
Chuck did so.
The thug said, “I heard you’re Chuck Brandt. Is that true?”
“Never heard the name before.”
The thug pulled a photo out of his pocket and compared it with Chuck’s face. “It’s him.”
A couple of others moved closer, never lowering their guns. “He don’t look tough now,” one said. “He never had to face real Black Cobras before.”
The first thug kicked Chuck in the side of the head. Within seconds, three more cowards joined the fray just as a pack of wolves attacked all at once as soon as they knew their prey was outnumbered and unarmed.
When they stopped, Chuck was curled up on the floor like a fetus. He was hurting all over, but pain was an old companion who came and went like the weather. She told him he was still alive. She betrayed him. She educated him and taunted him. He smiled.
“Get him up. General Lazar wants to see him. He’ll also see how we kicked the shit out of him. And Brandt’s supposed to be some kind of legend. Look at him now. I wiped the floor with him.”
They helped him to his feet and pushed him along.
“Brandt, you overrated fraud,” a man behind him said. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance. Now I’m gonna kill you.” Chuck recognized the voice of the coward to whom he’d shown mercy and let run away.
“Like hell you are. He’s all mine,” another said.
“Shut up,” one said. “It’s up to Lazar.”
Chuck was led out on the freezing cold flight deck where a hundred Black Cobras were gathered, listening to a man who was yelling at them. They stood in a big circle around their leader. The circle parted, and they backed away as Chuck and his minders approached. As they stepped back, Chuck saw the man in the center of the circle.
And the man saw Chuck.
CHAPTER 33
Thirty minutes till WMD attack
Nobody searched Stuart’s hiding place, the stripped-out green room with a metal desk and shelves. Minutes passed while he tried for the fortieth time to make a call with his SatPhone. He was having trouble getting a connection, but finally did. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
He creaked open the door slightly and was about to step out when he saw movement through the crack.
A man had just turned the corner. He was not a typical Black Cobra killer, though. He wore an orange vest over a gray jumpsuit. His hardhat and a tool belt gave him the look of an engineer.
Stuart waited until he was just about to pass his door. Then he stepped out into the hallway.
“Get in here.”
The man obeyed, but once in the room, he went for a gun under his orange vest. Stuart gunned him down.
The sound of him crumpling to the floor was a soft thud.
The door was kicked open. Stuart found himself looking over his shoulder at a Black Cobra with an AK-47 pointed at him.
“You wanna die?” the terrorist screamed. “Now’s your chance!”
He stepped into the room, his assault rifle aimed at Stuart’s back. Three more killers followed him in. One of them slammed the gunstock into the back of Stuart’s neck, and he hit the floor.
CHAPTER 34
Twenty-five minutes till WMD attack
On the flight deck, a hundred Black Cobras were standing in a big circle, two rows deep, their faces protected from the cold by black balaclava face masks. They all stood in rigid attention. With gloved hands, they all held their rifles in exactly the same way—submachine guns across their chests at an angle with the stocks at their right waist, the barrels and bayonets just below their left shoulders.
Chuck was led into the middle of the circle of terrorists. His face began to feel numb from the freezing cold.
Lazar was there, inspecting his fighters. He looked like a figure in a comic book. He was short, stout man in the uniform of a Russian general. Medals covered the breasts of his jacket two layers deep. It looked like he’d accomplished in ten years what other generals failed to do in forty. Gold tassels decorated his hat. Gold stars rode on his shoulders. He turned on Chuck, his eyes alive with furious excitement.
He said, “Take a look around, Brandt. You’re watching history unfold before your very eyes.”
Chuck saw a lot of cargo containers, illuminated snow falling by exterior deck lights. He saw a vague image of the distant supertanker. He saw the Southern Ocean stretching into the distant fog.
Chuck said, “I’m confused, Lazar. Back in Costa Brava, you explained to me how you were working with the former US president. You were working on a treaty that would allow the United Nations to levy taxes against US mineral production. Then there’s the Amazon. I don’t see how this all fits together with what you’re doing now.”
Lazar shook his head. “That’s easy. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to tow an aircraft carrier to a remote location like this, to secure it, to fuel up and overhaul four ocean-going tugs and an aging supertanker—let alone sail them here? The fuel alone costs a fortune. Then the ships had to be updated and retrofitted to my needs. I had to hire dozens of engineers and pay them double what they’re used to getting elsewhere. At the same time, I have to pay hundreds of Black Cobra revolutionaries and mercenaries. All of this is very expensive. So my Amazon operations covered my expenses.”
Brandt’s gaze swept across the masked faces of a hundred Black Cobras formed into a circle. “You mean a protection racket.”
“That’s right. The cartels know that I was Russia’s youngest general before my downfall. They know that I have an army of fanatical revolutionaries at my command. They know I would use them with tactical genius. They have no choice but to pay me off. Otherwise, I would exterminate them.”
Chuck was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “So you have plenty of cash for current and future operations.”
“I have many businesses, Brandt, but I think you’re stringing me along so that you can stretch out your very short life-expectancy. I want you to know how miserably you have failed despite all your best efforts. You’re like a minnow trying to hold back the current of a great river. It’s hopeless. I give a percentage of my profits to a network of politicians who help me, so I always swim with the current.”
Chuck shook his head. “No American politician would knowingly support a man who was planning to unleash a weapon of mass destruction against innocent people.” He said this without conviction. His words were slightly slurred from his numb cheeks and mouth.
Lazar laughed. “Of course, they would. And the fact that America is my prime target was not a problem either. My servants will be warned to get out of any city under attack. Anyway, you’ve got it all backwards, Brandt. They’ll support me specifically because I will use it against the USA.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. Never forget this, Brandt. Let no disaster go to waste. When calamity hits America, the politicians are going to declare national emergencies all over the place. This will allow them
to free up millions of dollars that will be spent very quickly with very little oversight. These do-gooder politicians will give speech after speech about how they’re looking out for the people. All the while, they’ll be skimming millions. Emergency funds will evaporate like spilled water in Death Valley. Politicians will be drooling while they wait for me to cause another hurricane or set off another volcanic eruption on the scale of Mount St. Helens or Mount Vesuvius. They’ll look forward to massive floods and droughts. One senator from California is already requesting a tsunami that could result in hundreds of thousands of deaths. Americans have always been more than willing to help other countries. So a massive flood in Bangladesh is just as good as one in Mississippi. Either way, Americans will free up millions of dollars for aid.”
A freezing gust of wind blew across the flight deck. The Black Cobras in their black balaclava facemasks barely moved. They held their bayoneted rifles to their chests in rigid discipline.
Chuck said, “Do you have any idea how sick that is?”
Lazar glared at him. “What the hell do you know about it? You’re a dead man, Brandt. You’re a ghost just as sure as I’m the legendary General Lazar.”
“You shouldn’t mess with ghosts.”
“Oh, I’ll mess with you, alright. I’ll make you what you are. I’ll make you dead, but first you’re going to stand by and watch as my greatest hour unfolds right before your defeated eyes. And every moment, you’ll know that you played a critical part in the rise of General Lazar.”
Chuck shook his head. “You win, General. I know your background. I know you’re one of the greatest generals in history. I can only imagine how history would have been changed if you hadn’t been de-railed by political enemies.”
“More dead men,” Lazar said. “They too will die.”
Chuck nodded. “Tell me one thing, General. What difference does it all make?”
He smiled. “Cuzco will be the seat of my New World Authority under the auspices of the Family of Nations, which will replace the corrupt United Nations. Members of the new Family of Nations will hold annual summits there. I will host special guests and my Inner Circle. We will plan the future of the world. We will also hold public debates at the new Family of Nations building in New York City, a building deeded to us in the dead of night by the former president himself. But at Cuzco we will hold our secret meetings. No press will ever be allowed to attend those meetings. That is where the real decisions for the future of the world will be made.”