The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller)

by Attard, Ryan

  Astrid’s eyes flashed with irritation for the briefest of moments. “Time is not a luxury we can afford.”

  “You’re gonna have to afford it if you want me to find where your golden pyramids are,” Nick shot back.

  All the while, he heard a constant chopping noise in the distance. Nick had assumed it was a police helicopter and did not notice until the sound got so loud, it seemed like the chopper was right on top of them.

  Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and Nick saw a pillar of water explode very close to the boathouse. He felt the entire barge shift, and he snatched the book away from the spilling coffee.

  “What was that?” Astrid demanded. Nick ignored him and peered out of the window.

  It was a sleek black helicopter with no markings and no identification numbers. The windshield was completely tinted, making it impossible to see the pilot, but Nick was sure whoever it was, they were highly trained. This was clearly a military helicopter, armed with a pair of machine-guns and at least six heat-seeking missiles.

  Locksmith barged in, pushing past Nick with a rocket launcher propped up on his shoulder. “Got us a bloody big bird,” he said, aiming his weapon at the chopper. “Hit the decks.”

  Nick dropped face down, just in time to see a trail of fire erupting from the back end of the RPG.

  Chapter 26

  As he ducked under a burst of flames, Nick was certain of two things.

  One, that his hair was singed and smelled horribly.

  Two, that nothing could possibly withstand the power of that rocket as it shot for the black helicopter.

  He was right on only one account.

  Locksmith had missed and the chopper veered its rear upwards, getting into position before opening fire. Bullets canvased the entire boathouse. Locksmith managed to get off another shot, but the stream of bullets caught the RPG mid-flight, and there was an explosion followed by a dust cloud. Nick’s teeth jarred as the impact shook the boat. Enemy gunfire tore at the hull, with a few bullets flying about as they ricocheted around.

  From his position, Nick looked up towards Locksmith who stood still against the hail of fire. He made a gurgling noise and dropped the now-useless rocket launcher. Locksmith fell face forwards on the deck, very still. Nick crawled next to him, calling out his name. When he reached him, he rolled the man around and immediately regretted it. Locksmith’s face was a bloody mess, reduced to a pulp by gunfire.

  The helicopter opened up a second burst of fire, this one more precise. Nick dove headfirst for the rocket launcher and rolled. A stray bullet bounced off the boat’s metallic surface and whizzed by Nick’s leg, slicing his left calf muscle. It was not a deep wound, but it made walking uncomfortable. The pilot ceased fire, giving Nick the opportunity to stand up. The enemy fired again, but Nick was already halfway through the door. The archaeologist lifted the rocket launcher, a thick barrel of high-density plastic, carbon and steel, against his chest. The circular shape deflected a total of three bullets, keeping them from ending Nick’s life and giving him time to hide behind the steel door.

  Bullets punched the door violently, and Nick wasn’t sure how long it would hold.

  “Who is shooting?”

  Astrid’s face was still on the computer screen, peering forwards as if he could see what was beyond the frame. Nick grabbed the red book and clasped it shut. The lock was much smoother after Locksmith’s handiwork, although Nick suspected he would still have a hard time picking it open. No matter, he couldn’t risk the pages being destroyed.

  “The freakin’ cavalry, that’s who,” Nick yelled in response. “My guess would be Uncle Sam.”

  Astrid frowned. “Americans?” He slammed his fist on the desk, shaking the camera. “Did you double cross me, Solomon?”

  Nick didn’t slam his hands on the table or throw things. Instead he grabbed the computer with such force that the plastic edges of the screen started to warble.

  “Double cross you?” His voice rose with every syllable. “You’re sitting comfortably, sipping Mojitos in your damned Espana, and I’m here where the bullets are gonna land.” He picked up the book. “That’s it. No one is getting this until I get some answers.”

  “Solomon-” Astrid began. He was cut off when Nick slapped the laptop shut and flung it violently towards the window. He meant to throw it out into the water, but missed and hit the steel frame, where the device shattered, littering the cabin with bits of silicon chips and components.

  Still carrying the book, Nick tried to come up with a plan to save his own skin and maybe that of the others on board as well. He could distinctively hear two sets of gunfire now, the familiar roar of machine-gun fire from to the helicopter and a faint popping sound from a pair of handguns. Nick knew that Circuits was steering, so that meant that the Italian duo were retaliating with firearms, although he had the sneaking suspicion they knew next to nothing about guns. A handgun’s bullet would never reach a target as high as a helicopter, but even if it did, it had neither the kinetic energy nor penetrating power to do anything, save bounce off the reinforced chassis of the helicopter.

  The boat slowed down. There was another hail of gunfire followed by complete silence.

  Circuits walked in, a revolver at his side. “What are you doing with that?” he asked. His voice was more nasal than usual and Nick remembered that his broken nose was still healing.

  Nick took a tentative step forwards and put the book down. “Why aren’t we moving?”

  Circuits smiled and pointed his revolver at Nick. There was a chilling click as he pulled back the hammer.

  “Give me the book and get on your knees,” he ordered.

  Nick glared at him, carful not to make any sudden moves. “What are you exactly? CIA?”

  “NSA,” Circuits replied.

  Nick’s heart skipped a beat. He expected the NSA to send an agent, but not this guy. He just didn’t fit, especially after what he did last night. If he was a spy, he wasn’t following orders. Not unless-

  “How much did he pay you?” Nick asked.

  Circuits grinned. “Figured it out, huh? Guess they weren’t lying about you being smart.”

  “What about your others?” Nick asked bitterly. “And the pilot?”

  “The Italians were hired by European intelligence,” Circuits replied, “liaisons to Astrid for a piece of the action. Locksmith was a former Australian Intelligence officer, and responsible for over fifty large scale heists. This was his pardon.” He extracted a two-way radio. “As for the pilot, he’s an army boy, on an errand on behalf of the Stars and Stripes. I told them I found WMD material here, and you know how touchy our government is about that. Now, get on your knees.”

  Nick put the book down and complied, all the while glaring at Circuits. The renegade spy hovered the barrel of his Smith and Wesson revolver inches from Nick’s forehead and bent down slowly to pick up the book.

  One of the basic principles of Japanese culture is sitting, or rather kneeling, for a social gathering. As such, when martial arts like Judo, Jujitsu, and Aikido were still being developed, there was as much emphasis on defending one’s self from a kneeling position as there was from a standing position. The techniques were not quite as elaborate as those taught by modern Brazilian Jujitsu and Wrestling, but the concepts were easy enough to understand. Seiza-waza they were called, and were nowadays considered obsolete. But there were some circumstances where they were still applicable. Like, for instance, when Circuits forced Nick on his knees, and bent over to pick up the ledger.

  Nick’s hands were a blur as he slapped the gun away. A shot went off into the hull. Circuits was already off-balance, and a kick from Solomon to his knees sent him painfully into the ground. Another shot went off, but Nick put his weight on Circuits’s arm, locking the gun past his head. Another bullet shattered a light.

  Nick’s leg shot over Circuits’s head and kicked him in the face before pulling him close for an arm-bar lock. He snapped his hips upwards against Circuits’s elbow and
pulled, breaking the arm. Circuits screamed in pain and dropped the gun. Nick snatched the weapon by the barrel and pistol-whipped Circuits in the face. He fell over immediately, and Nick didn’t care enough to check if he was still alive.

  The pilot’s hesitation saved Nick’s life. The helicopter was still hovering over the barge, while Nick and Circuits were fighting, and the pilot was left waiting for instructions. It gave Nick time to form a plan and gather supplies. It was only a few seconds, but in this situation, every little bit counted.

  Exactly thirty seconds later Nick saw the helicopter lock its weapons on the boathouse again.

  Nick bolted into the wheelhouse and steered the boat forwards, just as a shower of lead fell on it. He jammed the accelerator lever with a piece of wood, giving him time to go to the kitchen.

  Determined to survive his predicament, Nick sprung into action, his plan clear in his mind. He emptied four water bottles, each holding about two liters, and filled them with rolled up balls of tin foil. He had seen this party trick done before—all he had to do was modify it a bit.

  He opened two bottles of red wine, leftovers from the Italian pair, and emptied their contents into a large bowl. He put the four bottles in with the bowl and carried it down to the engine room. Nick placed the contraption next to the generator and tore out a few wires, leaving them dangerously close to the sloshing wine. Once he was fairly certain he wouldn’t blow himself up, Nick left.

  Contrary to popular belief, shooting a gun into a gas tank will not create an explosion and a fireball. Lead is not incendiary. It does, however, poke a hole and spill out the contents of said tank.

  Nick extracted the Smith and Wesson he took from Circuits and emptied the four remaining bullets into the gas tank beneath the stove, filling the boat with a pungent smell.

  Finally, he opened the emergency supply case and found what he was looking for: a miniature SCUBA tank, the kind that only lasts for two minutes, and used only for emergencies. Nick shrugged off his leather jacket, found a pair of scissors, and winced as he tore open the lining. It was real leather and, as the book’s red cover had proven, also a good insulator against water. He wrapped the red book inside the jacket and sealed it shut with medical tape. Lastly, he taped the whole thing to his torso.

  The entire operation took no more than a minute, but Nick had even less time than that to execute his plan.

  A petrol tanker, one that Nick had his eye on this whole time, came into view, and Nick began counting down from twenty. He veered the boat sideways, parallel to the tanker, and ran off to the engine room. They were in open sea now, where swerving was a lot easier without the narrow restrictions of the canals. Nick began pouring toilet cleaner into the four bottles full of tinfoil and ran upwards to get his emergency air tank.

  Ten seconds.

  Bullets trailed the boat as it veered from side to side. The barge left a smoke trail, due to the severe damage that was done to it. It was a wonder the thing worked at all.

  Five seconds.

  The tinfoil bottles began to hiss and expand. Suddenly, there were four explosions which sent wine all over the engine room. The cocktail of flammable substances coated the wires as they let out a single, miniature spark, and triggered a chain reaction.

  The wine caught on fire, and soon, the engine room was ablaze. The gas from the ruptured tanks met the flames, and exploded, coating the entire boathouse in fire. Before the fire reached the wheelhouse, Nick swerved into the tanker as the helicopter shot a missile.

  Nick knew that he had to time it perfectly. If he was submerged during the explosion, the water would rupture his internal organs, killing him in seconds. If, on the other hand, he remained on the barge, he would quite literally go up in flames.

  So, right before the flaming barge met the heat-seeking missile and the tanker, Nick vaulted over the railing, and into the air.

  The resulting collision had the desired effect. The gargantuan explosion as the petrol tanker, the flaming boat and the missile collided, sent out a massive shockwave, upsetting the helicopter’s flight. A massive fire ball erupted seconds later, forcing the helicopter to veer sharply to the left. The mass release of thermal air unbalanced it just enough for the pilot to struggle for control and miss the tiny human figure being thrown across the surface of the water.

  Chapter 27

  Nick was shot ten feet forwards before violently breaking the water’s surface. He felt his gut twisting and fought desperately not to cry out in pain. As he hit the water, his right shoulder popped and immediately went numb.

  It was at that precipice, when his body was in pain and water rushed at him so violently it almost knocked away his precious air supply, that Nick felt himself entering a trance. He was like the water surrounding him: calm, cool, and adaptable.

  They say that with the power of the mind, people can do things well beyond human comprehension. Muscles work harder, reactions are faster, senses become enhanced, and with the proper training, some could even meditate themselves into a coma. What Nick required was not superior intellect, but full control over his mind and body.

  Immediately, he ceased his flailing. It would do nothing but make him consume more air and shoot him above the surface where the pilot might spot him. Instead, he stood still, kicking lightly with his legs. He headed for the direction he had chosen before leaping and swam with two legs and one good arm. There was no pain in his damaged shoulder. Pain receptors are nothing more than electrical impulses in the brain; simply shutting off that section momentarily would save his life. The body’s self-preservation instinct was far superior than neural stimulation. His breathing slowed excruciatingly, thereby reducing his heart rate and air consumption.

  He surfaced behind a small dinghy, using it as cover to hide the ripple he made when he broke the water surface. He peered over the dinghy just in time to see the helicopter diminishing in the background. The smoke from the explosion made it difficult to see anything, but Nick stood still for about a minute before attempting to move. Getting on the small boat was awkward and tiring. His good arm ached from all the effort, and pain was starting to seep back in, now that any imminent danger had disappeared.

  He tore the book from his person and sat upright. Pain would soon flood his senses if he didn’t do something about his shoulder. After that, his body would most likely go into shock. A fever would follow shortly.

  Gritting his teeth and trusting in his crude medical assessment, Nick grabbed his biceps and pulled hard. He yelped as a bolt of agony reverberated throughout his entire being. A cold sensation washed over him, followed by warmth. He could move his fingers again, albeit they still felt numb. There was a terrible ache in his shoulder, and Nick could barely lift his arm past his chest. He squeezed his injury with his left hand, feeling for any bumps or holes and found none. That was good news. Once he could get his hands on some painkillers, that should be enough for a recovery.

  He settled down on the dinghy and looked at his surroundings. The boat was minute, with a small motor to power it—a vessel meant to transverse only short distances. Nick had already decided not to stay in Venice any longer, or Italy for that matter. By now, someone must have seen him or a camera would have picked up his activities. He was carrying stolen goods from a museum after all, even if it was a privately owned one.

  He glanced up at the helicopter, but it was now only a faint dot in the distance. Nick’s eyes fell on the oars inside the dinghy and considered rowing towards the vacant commercial trawler a few feet away.

  No, that was a bad idea.

  He had neither the strength nor stamina for it, not after a dislocated shoulder. The noisy motor would have to do and considering the distance, the helicopter pilot was unlikely to hear anything.

  Once on the trawler, he found a first aid kit with some pills. He swallowed the painkillers and set to work on the onboard navigational system, charting a course towards a nearby archipelago—a country heavily dependent on its maritime industry with a low level of co
astal patrol security. It was the perfect place to lie low for a while.

  Nick took his bearings, grabbed the wheel with his good hand, and sailed south.

  ***

  A few hours later, NSA Underground Office

  The secure line rang, prompting the officer to jump in his seat and nearly drop his coffee. That line was reserved only for agents in the field calling in distress. It rarely ever went off, but when it did, the Army usually marched.

  As soon as the officer picked up the phone, Nick Solomon’s voice crackled through.

  “Director Briggs and Agent Excalibur,” he said. “I’ll only talk to them. Tell them I have the red book.” Then, in a lighter tone he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll hold.”

  Less than ten seconds later, Excalibur and Briggs were taking the call on speakerphone in the director’s office.

  “Solomon?” Excalibur asked.

  “S’up.”

  “We thought you were lost.”

  She heard him snort through the line. “Who the hell ordered the air strike?” he asked.

  Briggs frowned. “That was one of our agents on a different assignment. We had no clue of his double-play,” he said. “By the time we got wise to it our pilot had already reported a mission accomplished.”

  There was an apologetic hint to his voice. Excalibur cocked her eyebrow at him. That was as close as Nick was getting to an apology. To a man like Briggs, mistakes like this were part of the process. He didn’t like it, but he had little choice. Collateral damage was always a part of the deal.

  “Where are you now, Solomon?” he asked.

  “We’ve been on this line for more than twelve seconds,” Nick replied. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out already.”

  “Do you have the package?”

  “Oh, come on, is that what we’re calling it now? Package? This isn’t James Bond. Yeah, I got the book.”

  Briggs let out a sigh of relief. “Then, I will arrange for transportation-”