by James Phelan
“Just say it, Mishka!” Ivanovich boomed.
“Well … we have reports that suggest the site has been wiped off the map.”
Ivanovich looked incredulous. “Don’t be a fool, man. It may have been attacked, yes—but wiped from the map? Impossible.”
Mishka could not match his commander’s gaze as he accompanied him out of the room.
65
IRAN
Sefreid used the satellite telephone in the cockpit of the Gulfstream to call New York, where an anxious Tasman Wallace quickly came to the phone.
“Richard. You have time for the full rundown now?” Wallace asked.
“Yes, Dr Wallace. Again, sorry for the brevity of the call before, things have been hectic,” Sefreid said as he settled into the comfortable pilot’s chair.
“I can only imagine. Although you have left me hanging on what became of the site. And have you heard from Fox and Gammaldi?” Wallace asked with paternal concern.
“No word yet, but we’ll head back to the research centre once we’re done here,” Sefreid replied. “As for the theterium site, it’s damn hard to believe, but the explosion was nuclear.”
“Nuclear?”
“Yep,” Sefreid said. “We heard the initial hit, which was the Tomahawk strike, followed minutes later by a tactical-sized blast that was probably no more than ten kilotons.”
Wallace was silent on the other end of the telephone connection. Then, “I’ll find out what I can about that,” he said thoughtfully.
“Aside from those on our boat, and Fox and Al speeding from the scene, I believe it’s impossible that anyone else could have escaped the blast zone,” Sefreid admitted.
“So we are the only witnesses on the ground— aside from the surviving EU members,” Wallace stated.
“And one marine—Beasley’s brother.”
“Pardon?”
“Ben Beasley’s brother was assigned to Scot’s marines unit recently, on an investigation assignment for JAG,” Sefreid explained. “Apparently, he was building a case on the unit for a whole heap of hell.”
“And now he’s alive and well there with you?”
“Yes, he’s with Ben now. They seem to get along famously,” Sefreid said.
“Then we have to assume he knows a little about us?” Wallace said.
“More than the EU team, who aren’t displaying any interest.”
“Well, bring him home with you and I’ll get his military records. I dare say he’ll be listed as KIA by the Pentagon, written off as another Iraq casualty, so he may like the option of a new vocation,” Wallace said confidently.
“Will do,” Sefreid replied.
“I’m sorry about John Ridge,” Wallace added after a pause. “I know you were close. Just remember what he died for. A damn good job was done all round…” Wallace paused again and Sefreid heard a knock in the background.
“Really?” he heard Wallace say before he returned to the phone.
“We’ve just had a message from Gunther in Iran,” Wallace said disbelievingly. “Lachlan and Al have just commandeered his jet and are en route to Italy.”
“What the hell are they doing going back there?” Sefreid asked.
“Apparently, they said something about saving millions of lives.”
Sefreid thought for a moment. “I’ll be damned… they’re going after the Dragon controls!”
66
ITALY
Gammaldi landed the Lear jet in hair-raising fashion, over-running the end of the farmhouse’s runway so that the aircraft’s chrome nose ended up pushing against the tin wall of the motorbike garage, which squealed and bent in protest. Fox’s knuckles were chalk white as he squeezed the armrests of the seat.
“Told you so,” Gammaldi said as he casually unclasped his seatbelt and looked through the windscreen to assess the damage.
“So much for not a scratch,” Fox said. He peered out the cockpit window to see if the farmhouse had been restocked with more guards in the last twenty-four hours. Evidently it hadn’t.
“That was your assurance, not mine,” Gammaldi said as he shut the aircraft down and moved into the cabin.
“You got us here in one piece—that was the only assurance I was after,” Fox replied with a grin.
The two men loaded and readied the SOCOM pistols they had acquired from the marines they’d removed from the Roadrunner. The Heckler & Koch pistols were custom-made for Special Operations Command, and chambered for the awesome power of the .45 APC round.
“Now we just have to figure out how we get to the island,” Gammaldi said as they moved out of the craft and into the still dark early morning.
“Elementary, my friend, elementary.” Fox ran over to the nearby hangar. “Go to the guard box to the right of the Lear,” he called out. “There’s a surprise for you on the roof.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fox and Gammaldi were on the timber jetty at the lagoon’s edge.
“Ain’t she beautiful,” Fox proclaimed as he clambered down into the raft. He had constructed it using the emergency inflatable life raft from the Lear jet, crudely attaching a working outboard motor from those stacked in the aircraft hangar. A plastic oar from the life raft was tied to the side of the engine and extended into the water—Fox hoped it would steer the craft by turning the motor around on its makeshift attachment.
“Beautiful, she ain’t,” Gammaldi said. “I just hope it stays together long enough so we can storm the island stronghold and save the world.”
“Do you have to be so morbid all the time?” Fox asked. “You know you have a tendency to jinx things.”
“Okay, I won’t comment on the state of these then.” Gammaldi held up the two AK-47s Fox had thrown onto the guardhouse roof during the earlier rescue.
“Don’t tell me they’re not loaded,” Fox said with dread as he set the outboard in motion. Satisfied it was well fastened, they set off at full throttle.
“Oh, they’re loaded. I even found an extra pair of magazines in the guardhouse,” Gammaldi replied. “But I doubt these antiques have ever been cleaned.”
“Great,” was all Fox said as he steered for the first channel marker.
At the first hint of sunrise, President Ivanovich’s sixteen-metre motor yacht was loaded with his personal effects ready for departure.
The bulk of the security force had left an hour prior, destined for a point in the Adriatic Sea where the two vessels would meet to travel in tandem to a secure location in South America.
In the room adjoining the master bedroom on the yacht, Popov had worked through the night to set up the firing controls for the Dragon coilgun. They were wired into their own generator on deck, and he had connected the satellite dish on the stern deck, muscled from the island by a gang of burly guards. Tied to a chair in the corner sat a woman prisoner whom Popov had selected as his reward.
Ivanovich strode onto the deck with Orakov and Mishka in tow. “Let’s get out of here,” he ordered and the crew untied the yacht and set the engines forward.
As Fox and Gammaldi drifted along the northwest coast of the island on a reconnaissance sweep, they observed the yacht preparing to sail, and three men boarding it. Fox had committed to memory the face of one man on the first flight to Italy to rescue Gammaldi—that of Sergei Ivanovich. Behind him was a man Gammaldi remembered well: Orakov.
“Well, at least we don’t have to storm Alcatraz,” Gammaldi said.
“Yeah, now we have to chase, board and disable the controls of a vessel ten times the size of ours,” Fox said.
“You’re convinced the firing controls are on board the yacht now?”
“I don’t think that satellite dish is there just to pick up the Super Bowl,” Fox said. “And if you figure these guys have recently found out their invasion of Iran is unnecessary, they’ll not only be pissed, but on the move fast.”
“Heading underground?”
“I’m sure they have no oth
er option,” Fox said. “Until they gain another foothold of power through mass terrorism somewhere else.”
“Like using a loaded gun in space to intimidate any nation on Earth,” Gammaldi added.
“Exactly,” Fox said. He gave the outboard more throttle and chased after the yacht.
“Do we have a plan?” Gammaldi asked hopefully.
Fox just smiled.
For ten minutes, the small rubber craft managed to follow the motor yacht with relative ease. Fox took a wide arc to come around to the east of the yacht when it suddenly sped up another few knots.
“Have they seen us?” Gammaldi asked, alarmed.
“I don’t think so. We’d surely know it if they did,” Fox replied. He again applied full throttle to the outboard, the ungainly rubber boat protesting at the speed, the engine billowing blue smoke. The pair had to position their bodies with skill to keep the vessel steady.
“They must have been warming the engine. It’s going to be now or never,” Fox said with slight unease.
“Ready when you are, mate.”
Gammaldi opened fire first: a short controlled burst that splintered the side edging of the yacht, followed by another that peppered the roof of the pilothouse.
In response, the yacht veered to starboard, away from the threat. Figures could be seen scurrying about the decks.
“That got their attention,” Gammaldi said as he took over control of the ungainly vessel.
“Yep,” Fox said as he sighted his AK-47 and waited, finger poised on the trigger.
Within a few seconds, a powerful spotlight came to life and probed the waters in the direction of the gunfire—just as Fox had anticipated. With two shots from Fox’s AK-47 they were in darkness again. Fox felled the guard manning the now-defunct spotlight with another bullet, correcting his aim to account for the crooked sights of the old assault rifle.
“I do like evening the odds where possible,” he said.
He resumed the controls and zigzagged the craft in the water, losing some forward speed but avoiding the cacophony of automatic fire that lashed wildly in the water about them. The darkness that hid their craft would not last long as the first hues of light were spreading across the sky.
“This just might work,” Gammaldi said as the yacht started to round the famous glassworks island of Murano north of Venice.
“If they don’t shoot us out of the water by the time we get close enough to board,” Fox replied. He let rip with a full burst of AK-47 fire, emptying his thirty-round magazine.
The yacht sped around the island without slowing, breaking into clear water to pass the cemetery island of San Michele, then heading straight for the rising buildings of picturesque Venice and its famous canals.
The leading edge of the sun broke the horizon behind the chase, revealing the ungainly craft in pursuit of the yacht to the half-dozen guards on board toting assault rifles.
“Look out!” Fox warned as he turned the craft hard, almost capsizing them in the process.
Several bullets found their mark, shredding sections of the inflated rubber craft. The life raft just managed to stay together.
As Fox brought the craft back around, Gammaldi fired his AK-47 on fully automatic. Not many of his shots hit the yacht as it disappeared into the canal system.
“Shit! We’re too far behind to catch them now,” he said resignedly.
“Don’t count us out of the race yet,” Fox said as he steered for a canal to the left of the one their quarry had taken. “Navigating through the city is going to limit their speed. We can still catch them.”
“I’ll hold my breath,” Gammaldi said.
They entered the canal, the three-and four-storey buildings either side forming canyon-like walls that echoed their full-throttle outboard motor, much to the voiced annoyance of the locals awakened by it. A bend followed, where Fox bounced the craft off the side of a garbage barge; water filled their little craft, forcing Gammaldi to bail it out quickly. The spraying water soon had them soaked through, their craft becoming airborne as it sped over the wake of other traffic.
Then they came upon the Grand Canal. And collided with Ivanovich’s yacht.
Fox jammed the end of the makeshift rudder under his arm and held his craft against the side of the yacht as he unleashed a torrent of fire at the deck. Gammaldi quickly joined in.
“Take the rudder!” Fox ordered.
He grabbed hold of the railing at shoulder-level and hoisted himself up, instantly finding himself in a rolling fistfight with a guard. After a minute Fox had the upper hand, and was aided by Gammaldi, who literally picked the incapacitated guard up off the deck and threw him overboard into the water of Venice’s main canal.
A water bus of early-morning commuters droned by, the passengers staring agape at the unfolding drama.
A few shots came at Fox and Gammaldi from the pilothouse, but in vain. They took cover to rise again and empty their AK-47s until the wounded guards fell silent.
“You get control of the yacht and heave-to somewhere. I’ll go below,” Fox said and disappeared before his friend could object.
Gammaldi waited by a timber door leading into the side of the pilothouse. He glanced through the glass: two crewmen were busy steering the yacht to safety, despite the ruckus outside. The man at the rudder wheel motioned for his comrade to go outside and check on the situation. Gammaldi waited out of sight as the man picked up an AK-47 and made for the door.
Fox bounded through the open stern hatch, lost his footing on the wet stairs and landed on his backside a rung from the floor. Bullets sprayed above his head—where he would have been standing. He returned fire, the .45 calibre SOCOM booming twice in the confines of the space below, and felled his attacker—a man with a rat-like beard.
Fox got to his feet and began searching the cabins.
The crewman stepped out onto the narrow side deck, leading with his assault rifle. Gammaldi waited until the man was clear of the doorway and out of sight from his comrade before making his move.
Grabbing the muzzle of the AK-47 with his left hand, Gammaldi swung a powerful uppercut at the crewman with his right, hitting the startled Chechen square under the chin with as much force as his rock-like fist and thick arm could muster. With a grunt, the man went overboard headfirst.
There were four doors leading off the companion-way: two on his left, one to the right and another at the stern. Fox kicked in the closest door to find two women cowering in a corner of the master bedroom. They were strikingly beautiful and stared wide-eyed at the figure in desert fatigues stained with blood and grime, soaked to the bone from the canal water and brandishing a mean-looking pistol.
Fox looked about the room, bowed goodbye, and closed the door to continue his search.
Gammaldi spun into the doorway of the pilothouse, holding his pistol straight ahead with both hands. “Hi there!” he said to the crewman at the controls, who nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise.
“You have three seconds to exit that door behind you,” Gammaldi said casually.
The man nodded, then paused, looking over Gammaldi’s shoulder. He smiled.
Fox kicked open the opposing door to the bedroom and found his objective—a control panel with a pale, sickly looking man not much older than himself standing in front of it.
“Don’t come any closer!” the man said in a wavering voice. Then his eyes opened in recognition. He had seen this man before. A man he’d left for dead …
“You!” Popov cried in disbelief. “You … how…?”
Fox looked at the man with a questioning frown. He certainly hadn’t seen him before, but he made the connection anyway. “Let me guess. You’ve been to Christmas Island?” he said as he stepped into the room.
“Don’t come any closer!” the man said again. His hand was on a key in the control panel. To one side it read ‘Fire’; to the other, ‘Reset.’
Without delay Fox sighted his SOCOM pistol and fire
d. The heavy round transformed the man’s outstretched hand to a bloody pulp, but he’d managed to turn the key anyway. A red light blinked above the ‘Fire’ sign.
As Gammaldi turned he was smashed in the face with the butt of an assault rifle.
He managed to move with the blow, which lessened its impact, but failed to save him from being knocked to the ground.
“We meet again,” Orakov said as he sank the stock of his rifle into Gammaldi’s stomach.
The crewman laughed maliciously and continued his navigation of the Grand Canal, forced to steer around a group of gondolas looking for early-morning fares.
As the man screamed in pain, Fox was knocked to the ground from behind by a heavy blow to the head.
He was on all fours and saw legs rush past him, then heard a struggle, presumably between the man at the controls and Fox’s attacker. He used the distraction to roll onto his side and blindly fire his pistol in quick succession, hitting his attacker in the leg as another heavy blow struck his shoulder.
Gammaldi clenched his stomach, the force of the blow lessened by his Kevlar flak jacket. As Orakov moved around to attack from another angle, Gammaldi struck out with his leg and managed to trip the Russian over.
Orakov controlled his fall to land with all his weight atop the prone man, digging his elbow into Gammaldi’s sternum. Gammaldi was stunned breathless, causing the watching crewman to laugh again.
Fox rose groggily to his feet and raised his SOCOM pistol again at Ivanovich, whom he now recognised. Ivanovich had dropped the fire extinguisher he’d been using as a club and was clutching at his wound.
“Sergei Ivanovich,” Fox said. “President Terrorist of Shitsville.” He rested a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. On the control panel, a digital clock was counting down: