Threshold

by Jeremy Robinson

  But there was no time to think about Duncan. He’d figure out the problem without his help. Fiona, on the other hand, needed King, and needed him now. He stepped past Knight and headed for the waiting Hummer.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Location Unknown

  THE BACK WALL of the cell was cold and filled Fiona with a chill that pocked her skin with goose bumps. Despite the cold, she did not move. She didn’t have the energy and the cool stone helped reduce her rising body temperature. The hyperglycemia, now unchecked, exaggerated the effects of the second threat to her life—dehydration.

  Her throat stung to the point where every swallow was agony. As there was no saliva in her mouth to swallow, she tried her hardest to avoid the natural reflex. Her lips were swollen and cracking. Her dry skin felt like old fabric, and the itch was maddening. But most disturbing to Fiona were the changes going on inside her body.

  Her heart occasionally palpitated. She pictured it struggling to pump sludge through her body. Her breath seemed to never fully appease her body’s need for oxygen. She figured her drying lungs couldn’t absorb as much. And her stomach … Despite being empty she felt a rising urge to vomit. She expected she would only dry heave, but dreaded the pain it would bring her contracting throat and cracked lips.

  She closed her eyes, fought off a wave of nausea, and focused on what she’d learned in the hours since the woman had been shot. There were now four men in the space beyond her cell. Alpha, Adam, Cainan, and Mahaleel. Based on their conversations, it was Cainan who had brought her here. And it was Adam’s wet voice she’d heard earlier speaking in uncanny unison with Alpha.

  They had discussions about genetics, of which she only understood bits and pieces. They spoke of ancient languages and the power they contained. The powers of creation. The future world remade.

  She had listened to Alpha instruct the others on how to use the ancient tongue. She heard countless phrases, and tried to remember what she was hearing, but it wasn’t possible. So she focused on the one she thought would be most useful, the one spoken casually by all when the services of the conjured stone monsters were no longer needed.

  But her body was failing and unless she could call forth a spring from the stone, she would soon die. But that was just as well. If she were dead they couldn’t experiment on her. They couldn’t control her. They couldn’t have her kill her father. Death was preferable, so she laid back, closed her eyes, and accepted it.

  Darkness closed in around her vision. A faint ringing grew louder, then faded. She felt each beat of her heart, slowing. In the absolute darkness that followed, she heard a voice.

  The voice of the devil.

  Calling her back.

  The words came as a whisper, pulling her from unconsciousness, from death. Her eyes opened. A large bald man knelt above her, his lips moving. She couldn’t read his lips, but knew he must be speaking the ancient language she’d heard before because her body was responding to it. She felt herself growing stronger. The pain eased. Her thoughts cleared.

  And then a canteen of water was offered.

  She took it and drank. At first the cool liquid stung her throat, but it was unnaturally absorbed into her body. With the canteen drained, Fiona stood to her feet feeling fully replenished. She had been on the brink of death, but Alpha had pulled her back.

  He’d saved her.

  “Praise be to Alpha,” she said, then knelt at his feet.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C.

  FOR THE FIRST time in a very long time, Duncan felt at peace. Some people experienced this feeling after quitting a stressful job, or breaking up with an overbearing partner. In every case the emotion experienced is the same: freedom.

  “I can’t believe we did this,” Boucher said, staring at the flat-screen TV. The pair had holed up in the situation room because they couldn’t be seen together. Not now. Not for a very long time. To the rest of the world they were political enemies.

  After watching Marrs call the press conference, Boucher had snuck back to the White House to watch the fireworks start.

  Duncan looked at his CIA chief. “We did what needed to be done. It will all work out for the best.”

  There was no arguing that. Duncan had thought of everything. And the world would be better off for it.

  The last part of the plan required no paperwork. No signatures. No trail.

  Black ops were like that sometimes.

  And the Chess Team would become the blackest of all black ops. Their operating budget would be lessened, but still substantial and one hundred percent under the table. They would lose their all-access pass to military support, but they could operate with total anonymity and freedom. No red tape. No political repercussions. They would retain a flight crew from the Nightstalkers, two stealth Blackhawks, the Crescent, and a handpicked staff of scientists, weapons experts, and intelligence operatives. The former Manifold Alpha facility hidden beneath a mountain in New Hampshire’s White Mountain region would become their base of operations.

  And no one, not even the future president of the United States, would know they existed. Outside of the expanded Chess Team, just Boucher and Keasling would know the truth.

  Only one task remained unfinished. Duncan needed to assume his role as Deep Blue, permanently, and step down from his position as commander in chief. And for that to happen, Marrs had to fulfill his end of the deal.

  Boucher switched on the wall-mounted TV and sat down on one of the couches. The press conference was just getting under way. The crowds from the recent rallies were all there cheering. And at first they were as fervent as ever. Even more so when Marrs launched into his claims. But when he offered his proof in the form of authentic documents and the future testimony of Dominick Boucher, the crowd fell silent. The reality of Duncan failing so miserably set in hard and took the wind out of their sails. Even Marrs looked sad.

  “He doesn’t deserve it,” Boucher said. “He’s a sham. You know that, right?”

  Duncan nodded. “But he served a purpose, albeit unknowingly.”

  “A pawn?”

  Duncan smiled. “Exactly.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Severodvinsk, Russia

  THE DOCKS WERE quiet. For that, Rook was thankful. His host seemed far less excited. Burdened by the weight of his sister’s death, Maksim Dashkov was not in a cooperative mood. The old, red-nosed fisherman was built like the great Siberian brown bear, but he had a heart similar to his sister’s. He had openly wept for her in front of Rook, and had asked about the state of her cabin, how she survived the winters, and if she was happy. He expressed regret over having not seen her since the death of her husband, and told of hard winters and small hauls.

  The pair stood on the old wooden fisherman’s dock. The sub yard sat about a mile away. Rook could see a docked Borei class submarine, probably rotating crews and getting resupplied. A patrol boat with a large mounted machine gun cruised back and forth, ever watchful.

  Dashkov breathed into his hands. “Hard times have forced me to take on less than noble jobs in the past. And I assume that’s why Galya sent you to me.” He made a point of looking back at the security boat. Rook had been watching it a little too keenly.

  “I’d like to avoid conflicts if possible, yes.”

  “As would I,” Dashkov said. “Which is why I cannot do what you ask.”

  Rook had explained, without going into detail, that he needed a quick and quiet trip out of Russia, destination Norway.

  Rook frowned. “Why not?”

  The large man sighed. “My ship has already been chartered.”

  Rook knew he was asking a lot. It was clear that Dashkov and much of the city were hurting for money. He could promise to have money sent, but that’s all it was, a promise. Without money up front he was asking for a free ride.

  Dashkov turned away and looked out at the gray ocean. “You seem like a good man, I’m sorry.”

  “Put me to work, then,” Rook said. “Pass me off as
a member of the crew.”

  “I can’t afford a crew.”

  “Does your charter know this?”

  “No, but—”

  Rook stood in front of Dashkov. “What are you afraid of?”

  Dashkov took out a cigarette and lit it, sucking in the tobacco smoke and letting it out slowly. “These men, they are not like you. They are not good people.”

  There was more to it than that. Rook waited.

  “Sometimes I see things and look the other way. Understand?”

  Rook did understand. The Chess Team had to do the same on occasion to serve the greater good. Deals with drug dealers, warlords, and gunrunners weren’t uncommon when fighting a greater enemy. “Then I will look the other way, too.”

  After another long drag, Dashkov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He started to walk away.

  Rook took his arm and spun him around. His patience was gone. If it took the blunt truth to make this man help him, so be it. “Hey,” he said, his voice full of mirth. Rook pulled up his shirt revealing a swath of bandages with red polka dots of blood staining them. He pulled up the bandages revealing a splash of bruised skin and several small holes sewed up with thread. “Your sister saved my life.”

  Dashkov leaned in and looked at the wounds. “She used thread?”

  “She did the best she could with what she had.”

  “She always did.” Dashkov looked moved, but not convinced.

  “I haven’t told you how she died.”

  Dashkov lost his taste for tobacco and flicked the cigarette into the ocean. “I haven’t asked.”

  “She died protecting me. Took the bullet meant for me and four more on top of it.” Rook made sure the man’s eyes were trained on his. “Her last wish in this life is that you would help me.”

  After a deep sigh, the old fisherman asked, “Who shot her?”

  It was Rook’s turn to glance at the patrol boat. Dashkov understood and gave a nod. “I will drop you off at the first port in Norway. It is not a place I would spend any time, but it is the best I can do. You will act as my first mate and will feign illness. Understood?”

  “Don’t worry,” Rook said. “I can follow orders.”

  Dashkov squinted at him. “I’m sure.”

  An hour later Dashkov and Rook boarded his fishing boat, the Songbird. As he led Rook belowdecks, Dashkov whispered a reminder. “Remember. Do not react to what you see. Do not speak to these men. I am simply introducing you so that they are not caught off guard by your presence. If these men do not like the way you sneeze they are liable to throw us both overboard.”

  Rook nodded, steeling himself for the worst—a shipment of weapons, drugs, or other contraband. But when they entered the cargo hold where the two passengers and their package spent most of their time, Rook was decidedly unprepared for what he saw. His eyes arced around the space, taking everything in. Then he turned his eyes to the floor, careful to not meet the harsh stares of the two men.

  As Dashkov explained who Rook was and what he would be doing, Rook thought about the two men. They had the distinct look of old KGB agents—thick skin; cold, deep-set eyes; and battle scars to boot. They were killers for certain. But it was the third person in the room who had fully captured his attention. The woman, perhaps in her early thirties, sat bound and gagged in a metal chair. A gash over her eye dripped blood over her face. The wound was straight and thin, delivered by a razor blade.

  As the two men grunted in acknowledgment of Dashkov’s explanation, Rook chanced a look up. The woman caught his eyes. She silently pleaded with him for help, but he glanced away quickly. In that moment when their eyes met, there was a flicker of recognition, but he couldn’t place it. Something about her was familiar, yet he knew he’d never seen her before in his life.

  He followed Dashkov to the deck and then to the pilot house. He wanted to apologize to the man in advance, but stayed quiet. Speaking his mind would only upset him and Rook needed to maintain the status quo until they were far out to sea.

  Once they were on the high seas, they were at the mercy of Mother Nature. Anything could happen.

  Anything.

  It was normally impossible to predict what that might be, but Rook knew exactly what was going to happen. Dashkov be damned, he could not look the other way.

  Not this time.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Pontus, Turkey

  WITH NO TIME to prebreath for a HALO jump during the short flight from Iraq to Turkey, the team would attempt a new kind of drop. The Crescent, flying at thirty thousand feet, would descend rapidly. Its stealth technology made it practically invisible to radar and other detection methods, but to the naked eye, the black croissant-shaped plane was easy to spot. So its insertion into Turkey’s airspace needed to be done quickly. Upon reaching five thousand feet, the Crescent would pull up, beginning a strenuous downward arc before going vertical again and dumping the team from its backside three thousand feet from the surface.

  King, Queen, Knight, Bishop, and Alexander sat at the rear of the jet’s cargo hold, waiting for the drop to begin. Each was dressed in black special ops gear with night vision goggles, XM-25 assault rifles, an assortment of grenades, and blocks of C4—enough to bring down the mountain, which King was prepared to do in order to stop Ridley and save Fiona.

  Knight left his seat and squatted in front of the others. He held an eight-by-ten touch-screen tablet. “Latest satellite imagery confirms our target.”

  The screen showed a bird’s-eye view of a mountain range.

  “This was taken a month ago.” Knight placed a thumb and index finger over a portion of the screen and opened them. The image zoomed in on a slope. Rising up the slope was a pale zigzag pattern. “The lines you see cutting across the mountain are switchback trails. But what we’re interested in is over here.” Knight zoomed in on an area above the switchbacks. The featureless dark stone appeared insignificant.

  “Here’s the most recent image, taken ten minutes ago.” Knight tapped an icon in the upper left corner of the screen. The image updated, revealing the same image with different lighting and a shadow of a cloud toward the bottom. But the change in the dark stone was what interested them. Evidence of serious digging could be seen in the light-colored debris spread out in a fan shape.

  King followed the trail back to the mountain wall. There was no entrance, just a wall of stone. “They sealed the mountain closed behind them.”

  “We’ll never get through that without announcing our presence,” Queen said.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Knight said. “So I had them take thermal shots. Take a look.” He switched the image again. This time, the topographical photo switched to shades of light blue.

  “What are we looking for?” Bishop asked.

  “Cool spots,” Knight said. “There are three of them.” He pointed to three purple spots on the image. “Here, here, and here.”

  “Vents,” Alexander said.

  “Why are they purple?” King asked. “The ambient temperature underground is fifty-five degrees. The temperature in the mountains of Turkey in the early summer are what?”

  “Weather report said sixty-five,” Queen said.

  “So the vents should have appeared as dark blue spots. Not purple.” King placed his fingers on the tablet and zoomed in on one of the purple vents. “So what is heating up the inside of this mountain?”

  “Descent beginning in two minutes,” the pilot’s voice said over the intercom. “Better strap in and get ready for a ride.”

  “At any rate,” Knight said, “those vents are our way in.” He shut down the tablet and placed it in a wall-mounted locker. He took his seat and strapped in as the pilot gave a one-minute warning.

  Their seats had been relocated from the side of the cargo bay and bolted in its center facing the doors. When the Crescent reached its vertical position, the team would unbuckle one at a time and fall out into the open air.

  “Here we go, folks,” the pilot said.<
br />
  The Crescent dipped forward quickly. There was no moment of weightlessness that people experienced with airplane zero G simulations. Instead, intense pressure pushed against their chests as the Crescent quickly reached its top speed of Mach 2, and then surpassed it. With gravity helping the plane’s return to earth, it reached Mach 2.5 and covered the distance in ten seconds.

  But the real g-force struck when the Crescent began its ascent. As the plane leveled out and continued pulling up, the seat belt straps pulled tight, crushing the air from their lungs.

  As the pressure reached its apex, when each and every member of the team was seeing colors dancing in their vision, the row of seats tilted forward. King knew what it meant. The fresh bolts were coming loose. He tried to speak, but the pressure was still too great.

  The Crescent continued its ascent, heading toward a vertical position. As it reached the seventy percent mark, the pressure lessened and King shouted an order into his throat mic. “Open the bay doors now!”

  “We’re not yet at a vertical position sir, the draft could throw us off,” the pilot said.

  The bolts gave again, tilting the group forward. If they tore free, the team would be flung against the back doors at incredible speed. King had no doubt only Bishop and Alexander would survive the impact.

  “The chairs are about to break loose!” King shouted. “Open the doors now!”