by Chris Allen
“Well, I’m here to assist the Brigadier,” Davenport said, remaining in English. “He doesn’t speak Russian.”
“But you do and very well. Why is that, colonel?”
“I expect for the same reasons that your English is so good.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Zolnerowich. “I suspect we have crossed paths over the years.”
“It’s possible,” Davenport replied noncommittally. There was no humor in their exchange; they were appraising each other, chipping away at decades of ice. “Perhaps during a visit to Berlin – after the wall came down, of course?”
Zolnerowich finally turned to face Davenport, offering a grimace verging on a smile. “No, colonel. I think we both know it was long before that.”
Davenport remained silent.
“You see, it interests me that – among all my comrades here – you found it necessary to come and talk to me. Why? Because you recognized me. Now, the only way that you would be able to recognize me is if we had frequented similar circles and, in our line of business, those circles are very small. Yes?”
Davenport only smiled.
“You see, I also know who you are, comrade Colonel Davenport, and I know that you have not always worn the insignia of the Army Legal Services. In fact, I believe you are much more at home here with the Parachute Regiment and perhaps even more so in Hereford with your Special Air Service, than you are in the Ministry of Defence. Am I right?”
“I’m sure you have me mistaken for someone else, colonel,” Davenport replied. “I’m afraid I’ve only ever been a pencil pusher; never one for the field, as they say. Besides, the MOD does have its charms.”
Zolnerowich laughed and patted Davenport on the back. “You see, comrade. That is exactly why I know it must be you. Despite all this pretense of friendship, your first instinct is caution. Why should you suddenly trust a man who has been your enemy these many years? Why indeed. We are warriors, you and I. We know what it is to stand on the frontline and shed blood. War is in our hearts and in our bones. That cannot be changed with just the stroke of a pen or pulling down a wall.”
Captain Collins had concluded his briefing and was leading the group toward an area where an explosive demolition display by the pioneers was set to occur. Zolnerowich and Davenport walked slowly, a short distance behind all the others.
“This whole thing,” Zolnerowich continued, waving his hand toward the group. “This treaty. Expecting us all to suddenly be friends and walk away from a lifetime of confrontation, of … anticipation of total war. It is a farce.”
“I take it you’re not a fan of Mr. Gorbachev’s legacy, then?” Davenport replied, barely able to believe the Russian’s candor. It was as if he had been waiting for the opportunity to vent away from Mother Russia. “His reforms have been almost universally embraced, at least here in the West they have. Glasnost. Perestroika. The Commonwealth of Independent States.”
Zolnerowich gave Davenport a withering look. It was just a flash but it was the same gun-barrel eyes with which Davenport had become so familiar all those years ago.
“Etot kozel rasvalil stranu! That goat Gorbachev has torn our country apart. Don’t hang your Western dreams of the future on glasnost or perestroika, colonel. These things have destroyed us. Destroyed Russia. And they will destroy you, too, comrade, believe me. When the world begins to fall apart and borders are redrawn based on ethnicity and religion, not nationality, then you will see. For us the first dominoes fell in the Baltic Republics and the Caucasus, foolishly cutting themselves away from the coattails of Russia. And in a whisper of time, everything was gone. But they are mistaken if they think that it is the end of it. The disintegration of Yugoslavia should be a lesson to us all. The Serbs, Slovenes, Croats, Kosovar Albanians, Bosniaks; once Tito was gone it was inevitable. People must be controlled, ruled with strength and power, comrade. If they are not, there is nothing but fucking chaos and carnage. The West condemned us for Afghanistan. You funded and armed the Dushman – the Mujahideen – to kill our helicopters and our tanks. You laughed when the goat ordered our withdrawal. But one day, colonel, you’ll wish you left us alone to finish the job. Mark my words.”
“You don’t believe we can all make this global renaissance work then?”
“Anyone who does is a fool. Fortunately, there are still some of us who believe in true sacrifice; putting one’s country before oneself. You are a soldier, you know that.” Zolnerowich turned to face Davenport directly. His eyes locked on Davenport’s to emphasize his point. “In twenty years, we will be reclaiming every inch of Russian soil back from the separatists and the West will thank us for it.”
CHAPTER 1
Superyacht Gemini, due south of Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, United States of America
2015
Alex Morgan cast an appraising eye out over the pristine tranquility of the Pacific Ocean and wondered, not for the first time, how in any version of his life he could possibly have ended up here. In every direction he could see out to the far horizon without even a cloud in sight and only the slightest breath of wind. A seamless transition in cyan between sea and sky conjured the idea of being cocooned within the very center of paradise. He guessed it was a genuine feeling of serenity that he was experiencing. How long it would last he couldn’t say, but for now it felt right and he was running with it. He pushed a hand through his thick mop of brown hair, realizing he was way past due for a haircut, and then began stroking the beard he’d been growing for the past couple of months. A very rare thing indeed, he thought; he hadn’t had one since the desert. Standing only in a pair of swimmers and sporting a pair of well-worn Ray-Ban tortoise shell Wayfarers, Morgan breathed in deeply, sipped more black coffee and allowed himself the opportunity to thoroughly enjoy the stillness of this particular moment.
His shift wasn’t for another hour, but the idea of staying in his lower-deck crew-quarters cabin didn’t appeal, despite a standing order direct from the owner that the hired help were supposed to be invisible at all times unless they were doing something they were being paid for. Yeah, right. Morgan wasn’t really one to abide by rules imposed by assholes and at this stage, based on the arrogance alone, Zolner definitely qualified. He was going to enjoy his coffee in peace and outside.
Despite his nautical ancestry apparently dating as far back as Sir Henry Morgan, Alex Morgan had never had much interest in boats – or the sea, for that matter. He considered himself more of a landlubber at heart, although he was dive qualified and had turned out to be quite good at it under the expert tutelage of his late friend, former US Navy SEAL Dave Sutherland. In a strange, roundabout sort of way, he decided he could blame Dave for his current situation. After all, if not for the diving experience he’d gained with Sutherland, he never would have got this job. Good old Dave. Bastard. It had been Sutherland who’d really got him interested, dragging him around the world on numerous dive quests when they’d been on breaks between missions for Intrepid. There’d been a lot of water under the bridge since his last mission. Dismantling the human trafficking empire established by Darja Voloshyn, aka the Night Witch, had come at a hefty price, most significant of which was Dave’s murder in Hong Kong. Morgan himself had even come close to death in Belize not long after. Over most of the past year he had been through the hell of both personal and professional reconstruction as he dealt with the fallout. It all seemed like a lifetime ago, someone else’s lifetime rather than his own.
Shutting down any deeper introspection, Morgan tossed the last mouthful of coffee over the side and, turning his back on the sea, gazed up at the stacked, multiple decks of the Gemini that disappeared beyond view into the blue sky above him.
The Superyacht Gemini was in every way a super yacht. Almost 300 feet long and 3000 tons, it had a master suite with 360-degree views and luxury that would rival the Royal Suite at the Ritz. Below that were a dozen staterooms, crew rooms, bars, dining areas, three tenders for ship-to-shore transfers, wave runners, a dive deck – everything. Wit
h a top speed of 18 knots, cruising at 15 knots, she’d been built by Derecktor in the US and was in a category reserved for the most prestigious private yachts in the world. Even with the fleeting exposure to the A-list standards of luxury he’d enjoyed with Charly Fleming, Morgan had never experienced anything on this scale. The past month he’d been aboard, he’d seen extremes of indulgence he’d never thought possible, or even thought morally defensible. But within the circles frequented by his employer extravagance was the norm, in fact it was expected. Meanwhile the minions, like Morgan, were required to remain below decks and only emerge as and when required. Of course, in fairness, it was slightly different for the security detail.
“Hey, new guy. You’re eager.” It was Norland, former US Army, who was also security detail 2IC. Morgan liked him.
“Me, eager? Nah. Just getting ready to take over in—” Morgan checked his trusted Tag Heuer “—thirty minutes. You must be ready for a kip. I can take over early if you like.”
“Thanks, bro, but no thanks. You know what the bossman is like – if you’re paid for twelve hours, you do twelve hours. Whether he’s around or not.”
“I keep hearing that. Where is he now?”
Norland pointed off the stern. There was a shotline tethered to the Gemini that disappeared below the surface and out of sight, reaching all the way down to the bottom, close to the wreck.
“Early dive. He wants to take some more footage of that fucking plane.”
“The Helldiver, right?”
Norland nodded. “You’ve probably guessed, he’s got a real thing about them. Tracks wrecks all over the world; doesn’t care what condition they’re in either. If there’s a Helldiver to be found, he’ll be there. That’s why we’ve spent weeks out here trying to find this one and why we spent a shitload of time in and out of Indonesian waters last year, just because he heard a rumor there was a Helldiver wreck down there. He didn’t find it the first time around but he found it on the return trip. He’s obsessed with the fucking things; something to do with his first wreck dive when he was a young guy.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Apparently he just liked that ‘Helldiver’ was kinda like his name, you know, the H-D, Hedeon. Now he uses the name ‘Helldiver’ as a sort of personal brand. Kinda like Madonna!” They laughed. “Anyways, when you’ve got as much money as he does, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
Morgan turned back to the water. “What time did he go out?”
“About forty-five minutes ago, give or take.”
Morgan checked his watch. He knew their employer, Hedeon Zolner, was renowned for being a damn good diver. He also knew that the Helldiver wreck Zolner was so curious about was submerged under fifty feet of water, hence their current position. With the tanks they were using, and an average consumption rate of around five gallons per hour, at fifty feet he would have around fifty minutes of dive time. “He’s right on the limits of his air already. He should be coming up. Anyone go out with him?”
“Shit, no. He hates that, bro. Only dives alone when he’s searching for those wrecks. He doesn’t like the distraction of us ‘incompetent assholes,’ or so he says.”
“Well, incompetent or not, we can’t do much for him from up here while he’s down there. Anything could happen to him and we wouldn’t have a clue. He should be up by now.”
A panicked call stopped everything.
“Help! Somebody, quickly. Sharks! Oh my God. Hedeon is still out there!”
Morgan’s eyes locked onto the source of the commotion, the very top deck of the Gemini, the owner’s deck. He could see Zolner’s wife, Kristina, an auburn-haired, brown-eyed, over-indulged heiress, draping herself over the balustrade, waving her arms around to summon the attention of the minions. He followed her gesticulating and line of sight out to the suddenly energized waters above the Helldiver. He could see a definite surge of surface activity along with the fin or two that had drawn her concern.
“Fuck me,” said Morgan. “Grab a rifle.”
Norland disappeared as Morgan sprinted back to the dive room to grab his gear – Tusa face mask, Mares X-Stream fins and HUB Avantgarde integrated buoyancy compensator, weight, and regulator system. In no time he was back at the platform pulling on his dive booties.
As Norland returned with the rifle – a .308 Browning BAR Mark II Safari – Morgan kitted up, managing a quick look in the general direction of the sharks. He estimated that there was probably half-a-dozen of them in the immediate vicinity. It was impossible to tell how big or what type they were but their sudden appearance just off the Gemini’s stern and clear interest in whatever was going on beneath the surface suggested a top-end predator. In these waters that meant they were most likely tiger sharks. He hoped not.
“Deal with those if you can, without hitting us,” he yelled at Norland, pointing toward the sharks. “I’ll get Zolner.” Without another word he pulled on his fins, slipped the mask down over his eyes, clamped the regulator mouthpiece between his teeth and dropped into the water.
The explosion of bubbles evaporated as the cool water grabbed him, dragging him down into the uncertainty of the deep blue-green water. He cleared his ears, then twisted around and kicked off, reaching for the shotline. Finding it was a godsend and keeping himself as close to it as possible, Morgan made the line the center of his universe and swam like hell straight for the ocean floor, his speed in check only to avoid over-pressure in his ears balanced by the need to constantly valsalva during the descent.
The threat of the sharks and his reservations over how Zolner might react to his sudden intrusion on the wreck dive dominated his thoughts, but he had to shut all that out and just find his boss. Whatever was happening down there he’d deal with it as it hit him. For all Morgan knew, Zolner was probably fine and already ascending the line, but his gut suggested otherwise and he tended to trust it.
Hedeon Zolner, billionaire, was the son of a former Russian General, Igor Zolnerowich. As a boy, the young Zolnerowich rose through the ranks of the Komsomol, the Young Communist League, later getting noticed when he began exploring business opportunities during the economic reform era of Gorbachev’s glasnost and perestroika in the late 1980s. In the nineties he benefitted extraordinarily under the mass privatization of state assets strategy introduced by Yeltsin. Critics claimed the influence of his father, a respected military figure much in favor with the political elite, saw him ideally situated during the initial privatization process, which, under the second wave known as the loans-for-shares scheme, resulted in the accumulation of vast resources and wealth by a select few who became known as the oligarchs. Consulting Wikipedia, Morgan discovered that he had shortened his name to Zolner in the late nineties when his business interests and public profile began to spill out of Russia and across Europe to England and the United States, an overtly deliberate attempt to distance himself from the association with his father’s name and influence. By 2005 he had very cleverly adopted the unofficial moniker Helldiver almost exclusively. And in a world where major news stories lasted only as long as a Facebook feed, most people were oblivious to the travails of the Russian economy of the 1990s, and many didn’t know that Helldiver, the eccentric businessman who occasionally appeared in the news, was even Russian. Nor did they care. Why would they?
Morgan kicked hard, the X-Stream fins powering him fast along the length of the shotline. Marine life fled in every direction while he selfishly barreled through their water. As he neared the ocean floor he pushed off the line and followed a short course due west through the coral toward the wreck. Butterfly fish, yellow tang, octopus, manta ray, moray eels; they were everywhere, but every one of them made way for the intruder. He kept checking for the sharks but couldn’t make out any in his immediate area. Before he could allow himself the naïveté of feeling lucky, he caught sight of two large bodies passing closely, their size and a flash of their distinctive stripes confirming the species as their tails disappeared into the murk about five yards aw
ay. Their sudden proximity was unsettling. Morgan preferred it when he could see them; watching the speed with which they’d vanished into the darkness and not knowing where they’d vanished to or how quickly they could reappear put Morgan instantly on edge. But he couldn’t be distracted by it. He had to find Zolner. He had to keep his head down and power on.
As the new guy on the security team, Morgan hadn’t even been allowed within arms’ reach of Helldiver, not once. Morgan was very definitely aware that he was on trial only and considered backup, an additional pair of hands just in case. As a result, he’d not been allowed to do any diving with Zolner, and as Norland had said, as far as diving the wreck was concerned, not even the most trusted members of the security team were allowed that privilege.
It didn’t take long before he saw the wreck. He immediately gained speed, pulling his way even faster through the water. First he saw three misshapen blades of the propeller, and then the barely recognizable engine housing. The wings were basically invisible with just the hint of their span discernible. The tail section was completely gone. All that remained was broken, rusted and barnacled metal amid forests of the spectacular, multicolored coral that had reclaimed the shell of the long dead beast, submerged for seventy years.
And there in the midst of it all, grappling desperately with something within the cockpit, was a panic-stricken Hedeon Zolner. He was a big guy, around six-four, heavy set, and despite the fact that he was only fifty-one, his hair was completely white. Down among the depths, the shock of white hair was like a beacon. A stream of blood was billowing from beneath him in thick plumes like black smoke, while circling high above, like vultures readying to swoop on a carcass, were the tiger sharks. There was three of them, all at least twelve feet long, one of them verging on fifteen, most likely a female. Morgan knew there’d be more nearby. Not good. He decided it was time to activate his Freedom7 SharkShield. Switching it on, he powered the last few feet straight for the wreck.