by James Phelan
Gammaldi turned on his side and faced up, but he couldn’t see a thing through his eyes any more. As strong arms hefted him out of the water his body went limp.
Fox barely recognised the man before him, even though they’d been friends since high school.
“Need a lift, mate?” he asked.
Gammaldi collapsed into the embrace of his old friend, laughing with relief through chattering teeth.
35
WASHINGTON
McCorkell ran through The Ellipse to the Constitution Gardens, where he met his jogging partner at the Washington Monument. The pair were of similar fitness levels and managed to easily keep in step along the five-kilometre run. A Secret Service man ran thirty metres behind his principal, talking with the other man’s bodyguard.
“They found the theterium this morning,” McCorkell said quietly, his breath fogging in the early morning cold. “A huge deposit—45.5 East, 37 North—found mostly in a cave and close to the surface,” he added, then paused as they passed a group of corporate joggers being egged on by a personal trainer.
“So where does that leave you?” his companion asked.
“I’ve yet to speak to the President, but we have two likely options: a quick extraction followed by the destruction of the site; or just the latter, if Fullop has his way—which I’m quietly counting on.” McCorkell picked up the pace as they always did on passing the halfway mark.
“How will they extract the theterium?” the other man asked with interest.
“A specialist army engineering outfit, backed by a black-ops marines unit—how exactly I don’t know, nor the method of incursion, but the deadline’s ticking closer.”
“How soon could they be on the ground?” the man asked in a worried tone.
“Within the next twenty-four hours—logistically no sooner, and certainly strategically not much later,” McCorkell said, passing on information that he knew would result in the deaths of some of his countrymen.
“Any movements towards the objective by the Chechens?”
“No. We assume they are waiting for the deadline in around forty hours’ time—but they have a force ready to deploy directly to the site from the Iraqi border.” McCorkell was labouring for breath now.
“They were the hundred or so troops spotted yesterday?” The other man breathed easier, as he was mostly listening.
“Yeah. Hopefully everyone can be in and out in time to miss them. Do you still think you can succeed?”
The pair slowed down for the last part of the jog towards the mall, where they had agreed to stop for a drink and general chat about life for the benefit of anyone listening in. McCorkell was sure his Secret Service agent had been ordered to do so: his running partner was a person of interest to the United States Government.
The other man took his time before replying. “Yes, I think we can get there first.”
He was confident, a trait McCorkell had always known in him, and it instilled a degree of hope. Even though the National Security Advisor was committing treason, he felt comfortable in the knowledge of how the information would be used.
The pair slowed to a stop and stretched, before walking into a small, well-heated coffee shop open for the early morning trade. The owner smiled on recognising the men and served them their usual.
36
GROZNY
Farrell and Antinov walked in the main doors of the hospital and introduced themselves at reception. The clerk checked in the appointment books and confirmed that the men had a booking to assess the boilers in the basement. It had been made the day before by Russian Intelligence.
“We have some service men waiting with a van outside. Is there a service entry to this section of the basement?” Antinov asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk, handing back the City Works identity cards the men had produced. “At the east side of the hospital, door…” The clerk had to check a laminated map on the desk.
Three, Farrell recalled in his head.
“Door three,” finished the clerk with an efficient smile.
“Thank you. We will leave a service report here when we are done,” Farrell said as they walked away.
“Oh, sir?” the clerk called after them as they neared the door. “Don’t mind the soldiers guarding the service areas.”
“Yes, thank you, comrade,” Antinov said. They knew exactly how many soldiers were guarding the hospital.
Door three was the only service door on the east side of the hospital in good repair. It was also the only door guarded by a pair of soldiers. The van pulled up and Antinov jumped out to greet them.
“Comrade Milovich, City Works,” he said, presenting his identity card.
“Yes, we have been notified of your arrival,” one of the guards said, motioning to a wooden box on the brick wall that contained an old telephone.
“We’re here to inspect and service the boilers,” Antinov said as Farrell, Jenkins and his Russian counterpart, with their overalls and toolkits, joined him.
“No problem,” the second guard said, and opened the door for the City Works men. Antinov led the way through the door and down the stairs, the pair in overalls close behind him, once their toolboxes had been inspected.
That was easy, thought Farrell as he went to pass through the doors. He was stopped by the outstretched arm of one of the guards.
“Why do you need a camera?” asked the guard. Farrell glanced down at the Polaroid hanging around his neck and shifted the large roll of boiler plans under his arm. “Oh, to take photos of the state of the boilers,” Farrell said innocently. “A necessity since we are personally liable these days if our work is faulty.”
The guard thought for a moment, then gave a shrug and let Farrell pass.
37
THE WHITE HOUSE
The President entered the Situation Room at 0800 hours to find McCorkell and Secretary of Defence Larter in conversation.
“Morning, boys,” he said jovially and sat at the head of the table. He shifted a little upon noticing his leather seat was already warm.
“Mr President,” they replied in unison.
“I hear we found the theterium. Well done all round,” the President said as he sipped a fresh coffee set in front of him.
McCorkell frowned at Larter, who returned a slight shrug. Fullop, McCorkell thought; the President’s predictable political lap dog had already gotten to his ear and stolen the National Security Advisor’s thunder. He wondered what sort of spin the Chief of Staff had put on the situation.
“Yes, sir, the deposit was much more extensive than we had estimated,” McCorkell said.
“Obviously we have the option to … how can I say this…” The President searched for non-incriminating words. “To remove the site, perhaps in the process averting the pending conflict between Chechnya and Iran.”
“That is correct, Mr President,” Larter allowed, “but the advice from the Joint Chiefs is unanimous. We have over a day and a half, with the resourcers in transit, to obtain some theterium for ourselves before we have to commit to a destructive course.”
“So it’s the view of your people that we should obtain the theterium for our own purposes?” the President asked.
“That is our position, yes, sir.” Larter looked over to McCorkell for support.
“And what say you, Bill?” the President asked.
“Sir, we don’t know what sort of potential uses this theterium may hold, but we have to ask ourselves: is it worth the risk? I mean, sending American troops into Iran poses all sorts of problems, as I’m sure has been pointed out to you already.” McCorkell added the last at the expense of Fullop. “And for the purpose of obtaining material for a new weapon of mass destruction.”
“Hmph.” The President sat in thought a moment. “Peter, can you guarantee the incursion force could excavate and leave the area in time?”
“Mr President,” Larter said, with wha
t McCorkell pegged as a nervous smile, “you know the capabilities of the resourcers as well as I, and the marines unit is made up of some of the toughest fighting personnel we have—but nothing is guaranteed in warfare—”
The President cut him off by pounding his fist on the table. “Damn it! What’s the success rate on this one? Because if it’s a shade less than one hundred per cent, we’re not doing it.” His cheeks flushed. “We’ve lost enough boys in uniform in the Middle East already. Failure this time is not an option.”
Silence.
“Is there enough time to have these marines get in and out and still leave time to wipe the site?” McCorkell asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes, sir, there is.” Larter’s reply was directed to the President. “How much they extract depends on time and methods of transport used, but they should be able to obtain a worthwhile amount.” He looked down at a printed estimate of the extraction process on the desk as he spoke. “Under the circumstances, I think we’d be missing a huge opportunity by not attempting a mining op.”
“All right. Go in for the damned element, leaving enough time to eliminate the site, and make that destruction damn well known to the Chechens afterwards.” The President got up and moved towards the doors. He paused there, casting a look of trust at his advisors. “With any luck, a conflict in Iran can be avoided, with us scientifically profiting from the whole ordeal. I have to give a press conference now. I’ll leave the floor to you, gentlemen.”
“Just to be clear, Mr President, you are green-lighting a United States military incursion into Iran?” McCorkell said, not wanting to be party to any blame should things go wrong.
The President knew the game all too well.
“I think we’re all clear on what needs to be done, Bill, Peter,” and he exited the Situation Room, leaving the responsibility and accountability of the mission to his Defence men.
“Bastard,” Larter muttered.
38
GROZNY
In the basement of the hospital, the four Special Forces men went about their subterfuge task.
Farrell crouched down, ostensibly to take photos of the boilers, but focusing instead on the pair of uniformed Chechen soldiers guarding the coal storeroom’s doors. Beyond those doors lay their objective: the Dragon controls. Jenkins and the Russian set their toolboxes on the ground, while Antinov scanned the room for cameras and alarms.
Satisfied there were neither, Antinov and Farrell made their move.
“Excuse me, can we inspect through there?” Antinov asked one of the guards while Farrell moved close to the other.
“It’s strictly off limits beyond these doors,” the guard told Antinov.
“Do you know the penalty for interfering with high-ranking city engineers, soldier?” Antinov prodded as he moved within reach of the guard.
“Strictly off limits!” the guard enforced, raising his assault rifle loosely in his hands and pointing it at Antinov.
In the blink of an eye, the Russian Special Forces leader twisted the rifle from the guard’s hands and knocked him across the head with it. In the same instant, Farrell disarmed his quarry and head-butted him in the face, smashing the guard’s nose, and following up with a chop to the man’s neck.
Jenkins and his Russian counterpart dragged the unconscious guards to the back of the boilers where they tied them up together and gagged them with thick cloth tape. Antinov and Farrell screwed silencers into the pistols each had concealed in the small of his back and pushed through the doors.
Inside the control room, two soldiers stood up quickly from a game of backgammon. Antinov put a nine-millimetre slug between each man’s eyes with his huge Soviet automatic.
Farrell rounded up a technician in civilian clothes who was pulling apart a large piece of equipment with a screwdriver. He was of medium height, with short sandy hair and glasses sitting crooked on his face.
“Please don’t hurt me!” the technician begged as Antinov took him by the scruff of the neck.
“If you remain quiet, no harm will come to you,” the Russian said.
Farrell began photographing the equipment, making sure the shots met side by side so nothing was left out, while Jenkins and his partner prepared to set charges around the room.
The explosives were ingenious. Jenkins opened the battered old toolbox and looked in the separate compartments. There was a hammer, several spanners and ratchets, some assorted nuts and bolts, a screwdriver set and a tape measure. Tucked next to the tape measure was a small reel of wire and some snips. The Russian’s toolbox was identical, right down to the wear marks on the hammer’s handle and mismatched spanners. The toolboxes were the latest in plastic explosives disguised as everyday objects. They’d been moulded by expert model makers and tinted to the correct colours.
With care, Jenkins took out the hammer and pushed it into the seam between two huge computer cases. Next the screwdrivers were worked together into one mass and stuck under another control box.
“Why are you the only technician here?” Antinov asked the trembling man, who’d wet his pants and made a puddle around both their feet.
“What do you mean?” the Chechen said, unable to take his eyes from the dead guards on the floor.
“All this equipment—it needs at least several people to work it, no?” Antinov said, noticing Farrell was finishing up his photographs.
“I have been the only one here for three days, since they removed the firing controls,” the man said nervously.
“What?” Antinov gave the trembling technician his full attention.
“Shit!” Farrell suddenly said in English from the other end of the room. “Something is missing here!” he hissed.
Antinov dragged the technician over to where Farrell stood staring into a gaping hole in the top of a large metal box, with loose wires spilling out.
“That was the firing board,” the technician said simply.
“Talk!” Farrell said as Antinov shook the man.
“The controls here were duplicated some time ago. Three days ago, Comrade Popov came and removed the coded firing panel,” the man said, reeking of urine.
“Where are the second controls?” Antinov growled. He shook the man by the lapels, lifting him off his toes.
“I swear I have no idea!” The technician was quivering in terror.
“Then who does?” Farrell could see the technician was holding nothing back. The hot end of Antinov’s silencer against his temple heightened his frantic state.
“I swear I have no idea. I am here merely to dismantle what remains of the controls.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll do that for you,” Jenkins said as he and the other Russian finished their work.
“The controls could be at the farmhouse perhaps!” the technician said, apparently clutching at straws.
“What farmhouse?” Antinov said, pushing his pistol harder against the man’s head.
“About half an hour’s drive north of the city. Popov told us he went there and met with President Ivanovich himself.”
“We’re done,” Jenkins said, looking around at their handiwork.
“That is all you know?” Antinov asked the technician.
“That is all,” he answered, then shouted in a panicked, desperate voice: “Guards!”
Without hesitation, Antinov pulled the trigger and the technician was blown across the room.
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Antinov said to the dead man.
They moved to the door, pausing a moment to see if the technician had been heard. After a minute no one had showed, so they hid their weapons and walked up the stairs to exit via door three.
“Let’s hope the chaps at the farm have better luck,” Farrell said.
39
SPACE
The Dragon was loaded and nearing readiness to fire. With incredible slowness, the pod had docked with the weapon, expelling its canister and leaving behind the theterium s
phere and the larger depleted uranium counterweight.
The solar power of the Dragon had been fully drained during the reloading and the compact nuclear reactor was still working to recharge the immense current in the coil.
But now the seven-day fire-and-recharge cycle was nearly complete. Soon the Dragon would be ready to breathe fire again.
40
ITALY
The zodiac’s small electric motor ran out of life just two hundred metres from the timber jetty at the farmhouse. The little craft had performed well, but now, to their dismay, the occupants found themselves slowly floating away from the jetty as the tide ebbed from the lagoon.
“What’s happening?” Sefreid asked over the headsets. He and Ridge waited on shore with a pair of four-wheeled motorbikes.
“The engine’s cut out,” Fox replied, paddling furiously on one side of the zodiac; Beasley followed suit on the other. The small black plastic oars were agonisingly slow going in the water.
“You’d better hurry. You’ve got company,” Sefreid added.
Fox looked over his shoulder and saw the backlit shadow of a large boat on the horizon. He powered his strokes into the water with added haste.
“Can you swim for it?” Sefreid suggested.
“Not with the injured,” Fox replied through a grunt of exertion.
Ridge pulled off his boots and tossed a greasy loop of rope to his commander. “Hang on to this!” he yelled as he ran and leapt off the jetty, his end of the rope tied to his belt.
Sefreid held onto his end of the rope in wonder, watching as the whippet-framed Ridge swam through the water at speed. It only took a few seconds for him to realise what was happening and he promptly tied the rope onto the back metal grate of his bike.