Meltdown

by Chuck Holton

  “Gun!”

  Mary jumped to her feet and caught a glimpse of the blond man’s bejeweled fist clutching a huge .44-caliber pistol. She felt the fire explode from the barrel.

  The round missed her, but the deafening roar was almost as bad as being shot. She grabbed the edge of the table and drove the heel of her stiletto into his groin. He gasped and dropped the gun, clutching himself.

  Maybe these shoes aren’t so useless after all.

  Sweeney had his arm around the neck of the longhaired thug and looked to be trying to pull his head right off. John kicked Ponytail Man in the knee and grabbed his arm as he produced his own silver-plated automatic pistol, which spat flame and shattered a nearby window as the man’s legs buckled.

  “Go!” John shouted. “Get out of here!”

  Mary turned to grab Olenka and stopped at the sight of Lychenko. He was still seated. His head lolled to one side. Blood covered the wall.

  She’d seen enough. Mary snatched Olenka’s arm. “Get up!” The terrified girl complied, and they made for the door.

  John was already up and shoving his way through the screaming throng like a rhinoceros, yelling for her to follow. Everyone was trying to get out at once. She couldn’t see Sweeney. Pulling Olenka behind her, she grabbed John’s sleeve. “Wait! We can’t leave Bobby!”

  “He’s coming! Just go!”

  Another shot rang out. A tsunami of panicked humanity headed for the exit, and there was no going back.

  They surged through the luxurious entry salon, then shouldered their way down the gangplank and into the crisp night air. Only when they reached the street was she able to stop and look around. No Sweeney.

  Please, no!

  John stopped too, panting. “You stay here. I’ll go find him.”

  She grabbed John’s arm again. “Coop, no! You can’t go back in there!”

  Rip ran up to them, breathing hard. “What happened in there? Where’s Bobby?”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. The emotions on John’s face were darker than the night sky. “Rubio, you get to the car with the girls. I’m going to find him.”

  Mary grabbed his arm. “No, you’re not. Look.” She nodded toward the door. A dozen black-suited security guards had locked down the entrance to the ship. Each brandished a boxy metal machine pistol.

  “Uzis,” Rip muttered.

  “Casino security,” Olenka said, her eyes wide.

  John shook his head, eyes smoldering. “Never leave a fallen comrade. I’m going to find him.”

  Before Mary could stop him again, the tall team sergeant disappeared into the crowd.

  Sweeney struggled to the surface of the water and swallowed a mouthful of the most disgusting liquid he’d ever tasted. This was turning out to be a really bad day.

  It got even worse when a fusillade of bullets smacked the dark river around him. He sucked in a ragged breath and submerged again, then swam blindly toward the sound of the shooting, hoping his assailants would expect him to do the opposite. When he bumped into slimy metal, he’d found what he was looking for—the hull of the floating casino.

  If I get under them, they won’t be able to see me.

  The men above were leaning out the shattered window that seconds earlier had served as his exit from the boat.

  Sweeney came slowly to the surface and exhaled, feeling the weight of the ridiculous suit as he trod the frigid water, trying to breathe. He suddenly remembered how much he hated swimming.

  The shooting had stopped—though he couldn’t be sure if they had left or were just switching magazines. Either way, I’ve got to get out of here quick. Nobody said anything about swimming.

  He started a breaststroke for the bow of the boat, then swam faster when he heard the sirens.

  How much are they paying me for this?

  From his current position he could see several smaller craft tied up to the long wooden boardwalk that ran along the water’s edge. The closest was a midsized cruising yacht. He sucked in another ragged breath and pushed off the prow of the casino ship and aimed for the rudder of the cruiser.

  When his lungs were ready to burst, he floated to the surface, half expecting another hail of lead. Instead, the sirens had gotten louder, and a quick look behind him convinced Sweeney that his assailants had decided it was time to leave.

  He pulled himself around the stern of the yacht, then pushed across to the next boat in line, a smaller craft. Continuing from one boat to the next, he put a hundred yards between himself and the casino before pulling around to where the vessels met the six-foot retaining wall at the shore.

  A boardwalk floated just above the waterline and included a short pier that jutted ten meters out into the river. To his left, a streetlight illuminated a stairway leading up to the street. Anyone who had been in the vicinity was now crowded around the casino a football field’s length to his right, craning to get a look at the action.

  Sweeney floated next to the boardwalk and considered his options. The team had discussed plans for every contingency before leaving the safe house an hour earlier. They had agreed to meet at Olenka’s car, parked two blocks away on a side street, within ten minutes, if they got separated. If that didn’t work, they were to make their way back to the safe house however they could.

  If he hurried, he might still make it to the car. That would be marginally better than trying to hail a taxi in a soaked black suit that now made him look—and smell—like a wet skunk.

  He was just about to pull himself up onto the dock when heavy footsteps sounded close by. Sweeney held his breath and ducked under the floating structure. He looked through the wooden slats and saw a shadow pass in front of the glow of the streetlight.

  He dared not exhale. His heart thumped harder with each successive beat. The sirens had stopped, and the only sound Sweeney could hear now was the rhythmic lapping of water against the dock.

  Then he heard a harsh whisper. “Bobby!”

  John!

  The breath exploded from his lungs. “Coop! That you?” He ducked back out from under the dock to see his team sergeant standing over him.

  “Oh, thank God.” John dropped to one knee and offered Sweeney his hand. “I thought you were a goner, buddy.”

  Sweeney grabbed John’s hand and let him pull him up onto the dock. “That makes two of us.”

  7

  Parishev, in the Dead Zone

  A LIGHT RAIN PATTERED off the wooden shingles on the derelict church. Maxim could feel it dampening the shirt on his back while he knelt outside with his face to the ground. Though his morning prayers would have been drier if he’d stayed inside, he never even considered it. I would not offer prayers to Allah from inside the church of the infidel.

  Besides, it was much cooler out here—and the rain actually felt good on his neck after a long night inside, coaxing as much heat as possible out of their twin propane burners. If the mixture wasn’t prepared in exactly the right way, it would not perform as needed and their entire operation would be a catastrophic failure.

  He preferred a catastrophic success. In fact, there would be no success without the catastrophe.

  Maxim realized he had long since finished praying, and sat up. There was a row of pine trees in front of him—to the east toward Mecca. Behind him lay the remnants of the village. So far, it had served their purposes well.

  He looked down at his scarred hands, calloused from many years of carrying an RPG or AK-47. The two fingers he was missing had nothing to do with battle, though. They had been severed in a motorcycle crash. He’d spent his youth fighting the Russians who massacred his people wholesale. In fact, he could no longer remember a time when he hadn’t been at war.

  But that was the essence of jihad, was it not? To struggle. He never believed he’d live long enough to teach others. But Allah had not seen fit to allow him to die a martyr just yet. Perhaps soon.

  The sound of boots swishing through the tall grass reached his ears. He stood and saw Kyr clomping toward him, carr
ying his AK-47 as if it was a suitcase.

  Maxim sighed. “You must be ready to fire your weapon at all times. It does no good like that. And look around you for once. The enemy won’t be under your feet.”

  The boy looked up with an apathetic stare and did nothing with the weapon. “I have checked the entire village. No one is there.”

  Maxim frowned. “The old man will not stop beating on the door and complaining about his mother. Where is she?”

  Kyr shrugged. “Maybe she is hiding. How should I know? But if that old man still has a mother, she can’t possibly be a threat to us.”

  “Don’t underestimate them, brother. In Kiev I saw an old woman working on a road crew—with a pick, no less.”

  Kyr just shrugged again.

  Maxim continued, “Omar, Ayad, and Khamzad should be finishing the last batch now. Tomorrow is our moment of glory.” He indicated the prayer mat he’d just left. “You should not neglect your prayers, brother. Today, especially.”

  Kyr’s sulkiness returned. “I don’t even understand the words. Why can’t we pray in our language?”

  “The Qur’an was revealed in Arabic. We speak the word of Allah back to him.”

  “What kind of God isn’t even able to learn a second language?”

  “Hold your tongue, boy! Allah is not mocked.”

  Kyr’s face fell. “I am sorry, brother. You are right, of course. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.

  “Just what?”

  The young man peered out at him from beneath his long bangs but did not speak.

  He didn’t have to. Maxim could see the fear etched on his brother’s face. “You are afraid to die. Is that it?”

  Kyr just shrugged and turned away.

  Maxim smiled and walked to him, sliding his burly arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Think about this, Kyr. When we die, Allah gauges our good actions against our bad ones. If by chance your selfish deeds outweigh those that please him, hope for you is lost. But you know there is one way to be assured of heaven.”

  Kyr nodded. “To die for Allah. I know.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And when you arrive in Paradise, who will be awaiting you there?”

  His brother’s look turned bashful. “Houris.”

  Maxim smiled. “Virgins, yes. All the pleasures your heart could ever hope for. Tell me, brother. What have you here on earth to compare with that?”

  Kyr shrugged.

  “That’s what I thought. Perhaps, when you pray, you can ask for the knowledge of what to do with all those beautiful young ladies when you see them.” Maxim laughed and slapped Kyr on the back. “But don’t think too much about it now, brother. Now is not the time for lustful thinking.”

  Maxim turned and walked toward the church. Pushing the images of dark-eyed virgins from his own mind.

  Now is the time for action.

  San Jose, California

  The mature shade trees lining Post Street in downtown San Jose also just happened to conceal most of the parking lot from the security cameras on the office building next door. The streetlights too—now lighting up the night—were only marginally effective in illuminating the parking lot, also because of the trees. Whoever had compiled the list Edgar held in his hand had certainly done his homework.

  His cell phone chirped. The caller ID said simply, “Anonymous.” Edgar lifted the device to his ear. “This is Gustavo.” The voice that responded sent a chill down his spine. It was the gringo. As before, it was über professional, with just a trace of a European accent that Edgar couldn’t quite place.

  “Now that you have possession of the product,” the gringo said, “how long until it reaches the market?”

  Edgar switched his phone to the other ear and checked his watch. “By sunup you should hear about it on the news.”

  “Very well. It is very important that the objectives be accomplished with a maximum of precision and care. Nothing can go wrong. I want complete redundancy.”

  Edgar’s chest tightened. He didn’t like the suggestion that he might not get the job done, though he knew there were a thousand things that could happen that he couldn’t possibly plan for. But to be tactful, he said, “Precision in matters such as these is easier said than done. There are always risks.”

  “And that is where your expertise comes in.” The intensity of the gringo’s voice rose a notch. “Do the job as instructed and you have nothing to worry about.”

  Edgar knew that was a lie, but he was not the kind to argue. “You will not be disappointed.”

  “I will be waiting for the news.” The line went dead.

  Edgar flipped his phone shut and dropped it into the pocket of the faded blue coveralls he’d picked up at a thrift store that afternoon. He grabbed the tool bag that contained four one-liter glass bottles and a cordless Craftsman Sawzall with an offset blade.

  Stepping out of his Ford Expedition, he surveyed the parking lot in the dim halogen glow. It was hemmed in on three sides by high brick buildings. Between two of them he could just make out the top of another building—this one completely covered in golden glass and lit up like a monument.

  In a way, it was. The golden tower hosted one of the most important rooms in all of Silicon Valley: the Metropolitan Access Exchange-West. The exchange was like a mammoth interchange on the information superhighway, a switching point through which passed up to forty percent of the entire nation’s Internet traffic.

  Some of that traffic might have even belonged to Edgar as he’d researched the site from a truck-stop Internet kiosk that morning. He’d learned that security on the network access point was virtually impenetrable. The vast array of switches was housed in a climate-controlled steel cage. Getting in was out of the question.

  But Edgar didn’t need to get in.

  He looked up and down the street to his left, noting a row of boutique shops and a small delicatessen, all of which were dark at this hour. He sauntered around to the opposite side of his SUV and immediately found what he was looking for in the street—the manhole cover.

  Just as his instructions had noted, the cover was bolted shut. Not wanting to waste any time, Edgar pulled the Sawzall from the bag and immediately set to work cutting the bolts. The diamond-tipped blade had been expensive, but it made short work of the galvanized steel fasteners. Within two minutes he was prying the manhole cover open. He kissed the three rings on his left hand and dropped down into the hole.

  Only when he had climbed partway down the metal ladder into the storm drain did he switch on his LED headlamp. The dark concrete passageway was much cleaner than he’d expected—no rats or spiders that he could see. Just a trickle of relatively clear water in the bottom of the tube, which ran roughly east-west.

  Crouched low to keep from scraping his head, Edgar lugged the black tool bag behind him, his shoulders quickly tiring from the weight. I’m too old for this kind of work. His increasingly strained breathing mixed with the sound of his footsteps to echo away down the tunnel. After several minutes, he stopped to rest, sagging against the curved concrete wall.

  An idea formed in his mind, a possibility that might relieve him of some of the heavy lifting this job would obviously require. Though he hadn’t been to the United States in years, he knew people back in Colombia who had contacts here. Perhaps when this job was done, he would make some inquiries.

  He stood and sucked in a great breath of stale air. First he had to successfully check this site off the list.

  Fifty meters farther he found what he was looking for—the grate that led to a subterranean air duct. A low hum sounded through the grate, and even with his gloved hands he could feel the pull of air as an unseen ventilation system sucked stale air from the storm drain.

  Smart. By taking air from underground, the system does not have to work as hard to cool it. Down here the temperature stays constant. A faint smile formed on his lips. The gringos are always so worried about saving energy…

  Yes, the gringos were worried about a lot of things t
hat the rest of the world could not afford. They opposed genetically enhanced food that would increase yields and possibly rid the world of hunger. They outlawed smoking in most places in their own country while allowing cigarette companies to export their deadly product around the world. They didn’t mind if people in other nations died from cheap cigarettes, so long as they got their tax revenue.

  He set the bag down on the floor and produced the Sawzall, using it to make short work of the grate. Then he took out three of the glass bottles and, with great care, slid them through the hole, stacking them like wine bottles in a cellar.

  He brought out a cheap plastic bowl and a bottle of glass-etching solution he’d purchased at a stained-glass supply store on the outskirts of town. After pouring the etching liquid into the bowl, he carefully set the last glass bottle upright in its center. Almost immediately, a wisp of chemically generated smoke appeared as the hydrofluoric acid in the liquid began to eat away at the glass.

  Edgar replaced his tools in the bag and hurried down the pipe the way he had come. The diluted acid solution would take at least four hours to eat through the glass. At which time the liquid explosive would be exposed to air.

  By then he planned to be very far away.

  Stescyna Village, North of Kiev

  Olenka’s blue SUV rolled into the small village just after 2 a.m.

  Because Mary’s internal clock was still on eastern time, she was wide awake. She wondered how the rest of the team had been able to crash out in the back during the two-hour drive north from Kiev. She smiled at Olenka and jerked a thumb toward the sleeping trio behind them. “I wish I could fall asleep so easily.”

  Sweeney lolled, snoring by the window in his sweatpants and T-shirt. John and Rip still wore what they’d had on at the nightclub, as did Mary and Olenka. At Olenka’s urging, they had stopped at the apartment for only a few moments to grab their things before heading out of town.

  “Perhaps it’s their training,” Olenka said.

  Mary huffed. Sure, like the three of them just graduated from sack-out school. She stifled a yawn. “Or maybe they’re just tired. Especially Sweeney, after his swim.”