by James Phelan
“How’s the family?” Farrell asked as Jenkins and his counterpart got to know each other.
“They are well, thank you. Although my daughter is starting to worry me,” Antinov replied as he ate his breakfast sausages. Farrell ate, too, and noted in his mind the courtesy the Russians had displayed at waiting until they arrived.
“How old are they now?” he asked as he demolished his sausages ravenously. He hadn’t eaten properly since lunch the day before.
“Natalia just turned sixteen and Joshua is nine. It wouldn’t be so bad but she has a crush on one of the stars of our local hockey team, a boy of twenty who seems to display similar affections,” Antinov said as he sipped his coffee. Farrell noticed the white knuckles on his friend’s hands as he unconsciously squeezed the mug in frustration.
“I’d be glad to have my boys pay him a visit when we return to Moscow,” Farrell said. This made Antinov chuckle.
“Thank you, Comrade Farrell, but that will not be necessary.” He paused to shovel a forkful of browned onions into his mouth. “I have arranged similar plans myself. I have been waiting for the opportunity to be out of town. How you say, an alibi?” Antinov said the word in English.
It was Farrell’s turn to laugh, nodding his head at how the world worked.
31
THE WHITE HOUSE
McCorkell sat at the head of the table in the Situation Room. The high-backed leather chair was reserved for the President, who was sound asleep in his bedroom upstairs. McCorkell had no need to wake him yet as exact plans had to be made first with the new data; then he would present these to the President for an absolute decision.
McCorkell watched as Paul Kopec from the National Reconnaissance Office inserted a CD into a computer on a side table. The young man was clearly overawed by the occasion and an army staff aide came to his assistance. With a few clicks of the computer’s mouse, Kopec had the close-up shot of the theterium area beamed in great clarity by a digital projector.
McCorkell was amazed at how expansive the area of theterium was and wondered how deep it would be. It was a much larger amount than they had all been expecting, which certainly upped the ante on the decision-making process.
“Sir, the area you see highlighted is the theterium,” Kopec said, indicating with a red laser pointer. “However, it does not all lie exposed on the surface. In fact, very little of it does. Because this image is picking up the heat signature, think of it as being like an X-ray of the site.
“Now, when I overlay a standard photographic image on top of this one…” Kopec made some adjustments on the computer, “we can see exactly where it is exposed.”
McCorkell looked closely at the projected image, which showed the superimposed shape of the theterium in its surroundings. It was highlighted on the black and white photograph as a soft orange colour, brighter in the areas where it lay exposed on the desert surrounds.
“What’s that dark patch in the centre?” McCorkell asked, just as the doors to the Situation Room opened.
First to enter was Admiral Donald Vanzet, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, followed by his personal aide. McCorkell allowed himself a smile as Kopec gaped at the sight of the admiral, before quickly recovering his composure.
“That, sir, is the mouth of a large cave, with a smaller one here,” Kopec said, tracing over the two openings with his laser pointer.
“Morning, Bill,” Admiral Vanzet said as he took his seat and helped himself to the pot of coffee on the table. McCorkell was always amazed by how fresh the man appeared at any time of day or night, no matter what stress load.
“Admiral, this is Paul Kopec from the NRO, running through the findings,” McCorkell told Vanzet. The JCS Chairman was one of the few military minds whose views McCorkell respected as God’s honest truth.
“I hope I haven’t missed too much. Please continue,” said Vanzet as he took in the image projected before him.
“Thank you, sir. I was saying, these dark sections in the centre of the image are the openings of two caves. How deep they run we cannot tell, but we would assume that the bigger of the two allows access to the theterium.”
Kopec paused to look at some notes he had scribbled on his hand.
“To the west of the caves we have a campsite with a few tent-like structures that, as of two hours ago, hold only three people. You can just make out two here…” Kopec again used his laser pointer. “Both armed men walking a perimeter line, as evident from the footprints here. The other figure is in the larger of the tents. There are three vehicles at the site: a tanker truck and two standard four-by-fours.” Kopec pointed out the vehicles and concluded his report.
“I imagine you have checked the surrounding area for a larger force?” Vanzet asked of Kopec.
“Yes, sir, the closest other people to the site are civilians in the town of Maragheh over a hundred kilometres to the northeast, along the bank of Lake Urmia. This is an extremely remote area of Iran.”
“Thank you, Paul, we are grateful for your team’s efforts on this,” said McCorkell by way of ending the presentation.
“Get me a visual link to Major Scot on the Carl Vinson,” Vanzet said to his personal aide once Kopec had left.
“It’s a much greater deposit than we thought possible,” McCorkell said to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who was in the process of lighting a cigar—something which was against White House protocol in staff areas, yet rarely ever observed by such people.
“It is much larger than our estimates,” Vanzet admitted, “and could potentially create hundreds or possibly thousands of projectiles. And that use aside, who knows what other weapon systems could be developed if we researched the possibilities held within this theterium.”
“It’s settled then. We must get our hands on it before the Chechens,” McCorkell stated matter-of-factly as the double doors of the Situation Room were pushed open.
“Like hell the President’s sending American forces into Iran to fight the Russians!” said Tom Fullop, the White House Chief of Staff, his face red with anger. His thinning black curly hair was messier and greasier than usual and it was apparent he had rushed to get to the White House.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and lick some envelopes where you’ll be useful?” Admiral Vanzet said to Fullop, the pair having a long history of arguments.
McCorkell had never become involved in the political dogfights that were commonplace in the city he now lived in. Whilst he had an inherent dislike for Fullop, the Chief of Staff was without a doubt very good at his job, and thus the overall administration benefited. At the end of the day, McCorkell was never one to stand in the way of someone voicing his opinion—especially when that someone had more professional access to the President’s ear than he did—and he took the situation in his stride as an invaluable part of the democratic republic he lived in.
“Tom, the situtation is this: if the Chechens get their hands on this deposit of theterium—” McCorkell motioned over Fullop’s shoulder at the projection “—it will make them a military super-power, able to strike at cities at will and with no warning.”
“I know the consequences,” Fullop interjected, “but putting an incursion force into Iran is unacceptable.”
“Baker’s getting nowhere with the Iranians, so where does that leave us?” McCorkell asked.
The fact that the Secretary of State had been received by Iran at all had given the administration some hope; a chance of the two countries working together to try to broker a peaceful outcome to the escalating situation. However, Baker’s presence had not only added fuel to the fire in Chechnya—President Ivanovich had been openly dismissive of US intervention in the area—but also in Iran, as people screamed for bloody revenge after the destruction of Bandar-e Anzali. The decision had been made not to reveal to Iran the true reason behind Chechnya’s invasion, for fear the Iranians might use whatever theterium there was for themselves. The amount of theterium found by the Warfighter satellit
e confirmed the wisdom of this move.
“What about the anti-sat missile launch today? Won’t that end the situation?” Fullop asked the two men before him.
“Provided we find the Dragon in time, it’s within range of the Pegasus and we destroy it, then yes, it may change the time frame of the attack on Iran— but not for long.” Vanzet spoke to Fullop in a condescendingly clear manner, as if explaining the situation to a child. “The Chechens have gone too far already to back down now. They won’t withdraw their troops unless their objective is totally lost.”
“Well, then, that is our only choice,” Fullop said and headed for the door.
“And how do you suppose that?” Vanzet called, puffing a ring of smoke at the disappearing Chief of Staff. “I really can’t stand that man,” he muttered.
McCorkell did not comment; he was turning facts over in his mind, trying to work out the situation as he saw it. His thoughts were interrupted when one of the military aides in the room announced a visual connection had been made to the Carl Vinson.
The USS Carl Vinson was a Nimitz class of nuclear aircraft carrier and had more combat aircraft and naval assets attached to its group than most countries boasted in their entire military forces. She was currently on station in the Persian Gulf to augment the US military force there, and included several marine vessels.
A large flat-screen television on the wall came to life with a live video image of a man in desert combat fatigues. His hair was shaved short back and sides, common to all marines, and he had a long scar running from his eye to his chin. His eyes were the lightest and most piercing grey McCorkell had ever seen and he had the sense that he was looking at a remorseless killer.
32
VENICE
Gammaldi checked his injuries in the darkness of his cell, massaging the stiffness and bruising out of his joints. Once he was sure there was no one within hearing range outside, he went to the small crevasse between two of the floor’s stone blocks where he had hidden his tool. It was the small metal handle he had prised from the interior of the jet he’d arrived in, and he thanked his foresight at taking it.
He went back to work on the door, chipping away furiously at the brittle old sandstone, stopping every now and then to listen. It was painfully slow going, but Gammaldi had thoughts of the Doctor and Orakov’s hints of his interrogation techniques to urge him on.
The latch of the solid steel door had cut a groove into the stone doorjamb it swung upon. It was this groove that Gammaldi was exploiting. Soon his hands became red and bloody from the improvised tool but he kept on, the urge to escape overpowering any pain. Freedom from his cell was within sight.
Popov was unaware he was being followed—not that he had really checked. It was still dark and he only had a vague idea where he was heading. He saw a channel marker in the distance ahead and recalled from the other time he had taken a boat ride here that there was a similar marker right by the island hideout.
The boat he was in was a restored water taxi, the kind that litter the canals of Venice. Its classic timber hull was beautifully polished and the red leather seats were well loved. The inboard engine was larger than the more modern outboards adorning the stern of speedboats, and produced a deep, satisfying note and a smooth ride.
Initially, Popov had pushed the craft full-throttle to put distance between himself and the attackers at the farmhouse. Now he was advancing slowly, attempting to find his way in the dark. He came to the first set of channel markers, two anchored buoys three hundred metres apart with tall fluorescent tubes. Popov brought his craft up to top speed to enter the shipping lane. He knew the island he was heading for butted up against one side of this lane, but how far he could not quite recall. He was also hesitant as to which way to go, but seeing the dim lights of the city of Venice in the distance jogged his memory.
He looked over his shoulder as he entered the waterway and squinted in the darkness. There was nothing but blackness behind him, with the far off lights of the occasional boats and the houses on shore. He looked ahead and powered the antique boat along, hoping as he neared each buoy that he would find the one he was looking for.
Geiger was manning the electric motor on the rubber zodiac. The engine was nowhere near as powerful as the petrol one at Popov’s disposal, but the large battery pack that slotted into place, forming the top half of the engine’s bulk, was capable of lasting just over two hours at medium speed. They were currently running at around two-thirds speed, and an electronic display showed the exact measurements of distance, speed and battery power left. It also counted down the time to the halfway mark of the battery power, so that a point of no return could be monitored. They were a few minutes away from that mark.
“It would be so easy to take him. He has no idea that he’s being followed.” Gibbs was sitting at the bow of the zodiac. She’d taken the scope off her sniper rifle and was using it like a telescope.
“I’ll bet a round of celebratory drinks this guy will lead us to the ‘secret hideout,’” Fox said. He grinned, but he was anxious underneath.
“I’m not one to bet, but I wouldn’t say no to a beer tonight,” Geiger said over the quiet whirr of the electric engine.
“Make mine a Pepsi,” Beasley added, as he had long ago learned alcohol and he did not mix.
“Excellent, sounds like a cheap shout then,” Fox said with a laugh.
“Not so fast, tough guy.” Gibbs turned around from her perch. “I only drink Bollinger. A pre-nineties vintage will be fine.”
They were interrupted by Sefreid’s voice over their headsets, wanting a status report.
33
GROZNY
In the café the four men looked over the several sets of blueprints that were folded into the centre of the Russian’s newspaper. The blueprints detailed the basement of the capital’s main hospital, including a sub-basement that held large boilers. One-third of this level was walled off, labelled as a coal storeroom.
“This room has been redundant for the past twenty years, since the hospital’s heating was linked to the city’s main oil supply, and backed up on site by a gas-fired unit,” Antinov said.
He had already described the workings of the Dragon in great detail, and the two British SAS men had read a sketchy report passed on to them the day before by MI6. The weapon was truly amazing—an engineering masterpiece from the old Soviet superpower. The thought of a nation like Chechnya wielding such power—at the whim of an unpredictable megalomaniac like President Ivanovich—was a nightmare.
“And this is where the controls for the Dragon are…” finished Farrell.
“Yes, locked away for the past twenty years, unknown to all since the collapse of the Union,” Antinov said.
“How could something like this go missing?” Jenkins asked in a frustrated tone.
“The Dragon project was shelved in 1986; the secrecy surrounding it was so tight that only the Politburo members and a few engineers knew of its existence. All of the technicians on the project, including those who installed the controls in the original military facility in the outskirts of this city, knew nothing about what they were working on. It was passed off as a ballistic missile-tracking device. Any with greater knowledge were killed. Only yesterday, through the confessions of two of the surviving Politburo members of the time, did the truth come out. Oh, and the head of the department responsible for such weapons systems at the time was one Sergei Ivanovich.”
Antinov’s own frustration was evident as he spoke—it was a feeling so many ex-Soviets had experienced after their Union’s collapse. The task of socioeconomic reform was hard enough without the immense logistical task of accounting for every piece of the country’s military hardware. And then all those ex-political types taking anything not bolted down …
“You’re sure they haven’t been moved since?” asked Jenkins, the SAS squad’s electronics expert.
“We have confirmation as of thirty-six hours ago. The weapon was
fired from this location.” Antinov tapped his finger on the particular section of the blueprints.
Farrell checked his watch, an expensive Rolex he had acquired from the still-warm corpse of a Muscovite drug lord. “Let’s make a move,” he said and led the men out of the café.
34
VENICE
The island was small, no more than six hundred metres in diameter, its shores high and rocky. The only foliage, bar the tall grasses that grew between the rocks, was the same type of spindly trees Fox’s GSR team had encountered at the farmhouse.
From their positions in the zodiac, the team scanned the rocky shore, concentrating on the stone pier that the wooden speedboat was now moored to. They watched as the figure they had pursued ran from his boat up some ancient stone stairs that eventually led to a low squat stone building.
“Okay. Gibbs, we’ll drop you first—make your way up that rocky side there and find a good vantage point,” Fox ordered. “Geiger and I will take the stairs and enter that structure. Beasley, you keep the boat away from the island, out of sight.”
The team confirmed their tasks and Gibbs was dropped off, soon climbing up over the huge boulders with the agility and speed of a mountain goat. Beasley dropped Fox and Geiger at the pier, then took the little zodiac a few hundred metres offshore, vanishing into the darkness.
Fox crept up the stone stairs, his silenced MP5 leading the way as he hugged the submachine gun into his shoulder and looked down its sights. Geiger was close behind, carrying his larger M16 in much the same fashion.
The stairs were made from single blocks of granite, the run of each worn down by centuries of use. The squat square building revealed itself to be of the same material, just a blank wall at the top of the stairs, not much higher than Fox’s head. Where the stairs ended the same dark stone was used to pave two paths, each leading around opposite corners of the structure.