by Kari Nichols
“I do not know. They were housed in an old barracks and then transferred to a helicopter. That captain, he said there is a problem with the submarine. Mr. Godin refused to wait for it to be serviced,” Drachov shrugged.
Tank sipped his vodka. “Can you get me on the submarine so I can look around?”
“Da. It is not guarded, now that everyone has left.” Drachov checked his watch and stood. “We must go now, before the guard change. They won’t be in the docking bay for another ten minutes. We must hurry, so no one sees you.”
Tank shot the last of his vodka and followed Drachov out the door. He walked back past the front entrance and on toward the west side of the building. Taking a hallway to the right, Drachov stopped before a large double door. Checking the hallway to confirm that they were alone, he opened the door and led Tank into the cavernous bay.
Directly ahead of them, on the left, was a row of boats with a gas station at the far end, near the closed bay doors. On the right was an Akula-class submarine with a suspended dock leading to the conning tower. In between was a whole lot of open water.
Drachov led him over to the sub and helped him open the hatch. Tank descended first, his Glock held in his right hand as he stepped down the ladder. Drachov was right behind him.
“I came here while they were still unloading the passengers. They had converted the junior ratings’ bunks into a jail and kept the prisoners chained to the wall. Sergei Godin used one of the larger staterooms for his office and personal quarters.”
“The Russian navy didn’t question this sub being used by a civilian?”
“This submarine doesn’t exist, as far as the navy is concerned. It is Akula-class. Twenty such submarines were planned and, as far as the rest of the world knows, fifteen were completed and five were canceled. What they don’t know is that those five believed to be cancelled were constructed, but when the cost became too much for the government, they sold them off to private buyers.”
Jesus! Privately owned hunter-killer submarines? Only the Russians would allow a private citizen to own such a machine. Gun up, Tank led the way forward. He’d check every square inch of the deserted boat. Somewhere on this giant tub of metal he had to find a scrap of evidence to their new location, God willing.
Jimmy parked the truck behind some scrub brush ten miles to the south of the naval base. Regular patrols would not venture ten miles from their base. Keeping his gear light, just a dry-sac for his Walther PPK and his NV goggles, he headed out at a steady eight miles an hour.
He had barely broken a sweat by the time he reached the edge of the bay. Fishing his goggles out of his sac he trained them on the doors to the large docking bay. There was no movement aside from a two-man patrol heading around to the front of the building.
Jimmy watched for another fifteen minutes before the guards returned. He continued to watch for another hour before he slipped into the water. Coming up for air only once, he swam abreast of the docking bay doors. They didn’t close tight to the ground, allowing the water levels inside the building to remain at height with the water outside. Boats could slip in and out of the docking bay without having to wait while the levels were balanced.
Swimming down, Jimmy grabbed hold of the edge of the door and pulled himself inside. Surfacing, he saw the submarine off to his left and a number of smaller boats docked to the wharf on the right. Two gas pumps sat at the very end of the wharf, nearest the docking bay doors. Searching the wharf, Jimmy spotted the console at the far end of the nine hundred-foot cavern. That’s where he’d find the levers and buttons that would allow the bay doors to be opened and closed.
Checking his dive watch, Jimmy figured that Tank was either still meeting with his friend, or he was already inside the submarine. If Warp and his crew were still on the submarine, he figured there would be a lot more activity outside of it.
Jimmy had just turned to swim for the boats tied to the wharf when the doors at the far end of the docking bay slammed open. He watched as a group of soldiers hustled in and headed straight for the submarine. Hauling his ass into the back of the first boat, he pulled his Walther and aimed it at the gas pumps. Tank would need all the heads up he could get.
***
Okhotsk, Russia
Simon lowered his binoculars and made a few notes in his book. His fingers were stiff from the cold. His extreme weather gloves were having a difficult time fending off frostbite. Exposed skin would lose sensation in less than ten minutes. He was covered from head to toe. A neoprene balaclava hugged his head. Goggles protected his eyes from the gusting winds. Still, he could feel the cold in his bones. The heat of the South Pacific and the cooler temperature north of Japan had thinned his blood. He wanted to be gone from this place, but he had to eliminate it as a functioning base of operations first.
The construction crew was working overtime, running three 8-hour shifts to get the job complete. As near as he could tell, the job wasn’t even halfway toward completion. A shell of a building sat perched on the side of a mountain. The back wall had been completed, but the remainder sat exposed to the harsh weather.
Those elements were wreaking havoc with Simon’s cover. He had been forced to abandon his surveillance twice now, to stave off hypothermia. This far north, Russia didn’t see much in the way of migration of her people. In fact, the only inhabitants were those working on the building stuck up against the mountainside.
Godin had left plans behind for two complexes and Simon hadn’t been able to determine which one he had run off to. Forced to observe both of them, he’d opted to start with the more accessible of the two. Construction, according to the financial breakdown that had been included with the plans, showed that this complex had been in progress for close to six months. The second complex, located inside Severny Island in the near-Arctic, had seen construction for well over a year.
Though he couldn’t see it for that back wall, Simon knew from the plans before him that this complex made extensive use of the inside of the mountain and that the building on the outside was little more than a façade. Blasting had been completed two months earlier and now the crews crawled over the site, adding in the piping, wiring and plumbing.
He’d been observing the comings and goings of all trucks and personnel at the site for three days and not once had he caught sight of Godin. It wasn’t possible for him to enter the mountain complex without being seen. Godin had over two hundred people working on this location. From blasting engineers and geologists, to handymen and carpenters, everyone had a pass-card to enter the facility. Simon considered stealing one for a quick look around, but determined it would be a wasted effort.
Whatever plans Godin had for this complex, it wasn’t his current focus. That meant that whoever he was working with wouldn’t be inside the complex, either. So far, Simon had no idea who the inside man at The Sector was. He figured that if he found Godin’s main base of operations, he would either find that person there, or find enough evidence to point him in the right direction. Simon didn’t give a shit what Godin was up to. There were hundreds of men just as evil, lurking in the world. None of them had ever bothered Simon on a personal level. He would save his bitter resentment and anger for the one who had sent him to die.
Simon waited until night fell before he abandoned his post and began the long trek back to his truck.
Chapter 12
Seoul, South Korea
Tate paced the confines of the hotel room, her adrenaline levels spiked too high to allow for sitting. Reports from the runner Tommy had sent to observe the ruins of the warehouse and the activity around it had suggested that nothing and no one could have survived the blast. Tommy had already wiped the servers of all information they’d stored before Tate had destroyed them, but there was no telling where else – off site – the data had also been stored.
Flicking the curtain across the window, she stared down in amazement at the traffic nightmare that was Seoul. Tate refused to stay in some out of the way, fleabag motel in a dodgy part
of town. They’d taken rooms in the Seoul Plaza Hotel. Their window looked down on twelve lanes of utter madness. Roundabouts carried drivers in alternate directions. Every lane was packed with cars. Small motorcycles and scooters risked death by dodging and weaving in between the cars. Tate watched, shocked, as an elderly man crossed the street. There was no crosswalk to be found. He stepped from the curb onto the road and walked between the cars. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the man made it to the other side, unscathed.
She was still watching the traffic when Tommy called ten minutes later. He informed them that the signals from Vlad had branched off into two directions. The signal for the bombs was heading south and Vlad’s own signal was heading west, potentially for Incheon International Airport.
Gibson packed his gear and headed for the door. “Take the truck and follow those bombs. I’ll keep an eye on Vlad.”
He was gone before Tate could argue.
***
Ura-bay Naval Base, Murmansk, Russia
Tank had scoured the aft compartments from top to bottom and come up empty. Drachov had left him after the first hour. Tank had promised to return to Drachov’s office once he’d completed his search. Making his way down the narrow corridors, he took a quick look inside one berth and found that it had been converted into a makeshift medical room. The nine beds were all occupied.
He walked over to the side of one of the beds and had a careful look at the face of the man lying there. It wasn’t Warp. In fact, it was difficult to tell that the man was human. His face had swollen to twice its normal size. The skin had split in several places, exposing the muscle and bone.
Lifting the sheet from the body, Tank stepped back and placed a hand over his nose. The stench rising up from the bed was stronger than anything he’d smelled before. Though cold in the room, the body was still decomposing at a rapid rate. The skin had blackened in large patches across his arms and chest. The area over his stomach was a soupy, gooey mess. Tank touched the man’s arm and was surprised to feel the warmth there.
Tank looked at the man’s face again and jerked back as the dead man’s eyes opened. He’d been stuffed into the small compartment and left to die, but death hadn’t occurred straight away. The saline bag tied to the underside of the bunk above had long since stopped dripping, but the body hadn’t dehydrated enough to kill him.
How was it that the man could still be alive, but his skin was rotting off of him? What had they done to him?
Turning to the next bunk, Tank saw that this man no longer had any skin on his face. It lay in ragged strips; his scalp had been ripped half off and the muscles of his face and neck were exposed. Flipping the sheet back, Tank saw that decomposition wasn’t as far along with this man as it was with the other.
The muscles had been pumped up to a size beyond normal human capabilities. He could see where the skin had split, incapable of stretching fast enough to accommodate the extra mass. Tank pressed a finger against the man’s arm and jolted back when the skin burst open and the muscle bulged out.
The skin had been a little cooler than the first man, but still too warm for a dead man, unless he’d died in the past few hours. It didn’t make sense that they’d leave these men here to die. Why didn’t they put them out of their misery? He looked back at the first man, wondering if he was still alive. A closer look at the eyes showed no life in them. The eyelids must have lifted from an involuntary muscle spasm.
Who were these men and what had been done to them? He knew enough about Warp’s Sector gig to know these weren’t his men. He searched the doctor’s desk and came up with a notebook that appeared to have been used as a diary. Tank flipped to the first page and saw it was an accounting of the last two years by one Dr. Ilya Sergeyev. He flipped to the last page and read the entry:
We are moving today. They refuse to tell us where we are going, so that we cannot inform our families. I do not want my family to know where I am. If I survive this, I will never speak a word of it to anyone.
I am ashamed of what I have participated in, however unwillingly. As a pathologist, I am ever-curious about the results of death in humans, but this, this is not mere death. This is a living hell. Walking, breathing, but mentally comatose, the rage these men expressed eclipsed all other emotions. When they weren’t exhibiting signs of intense anger they weren’t exhibiting signs of any emotion at all. It was like flipping a light switch: up unleashed a massive fury, and down shut them down completely.
These men were no longer human.
I’ve told the scientists that these men cannot be moved, but they aren’t concerned about that. Leave them here, I’m told. As a doctor, can I abandon my patients? As a Russian, if I do not then I will be killed. That madman Dr. Ho would not come to my aid. These men had already served their purpose in his grand experiments and no longer held a place in his mind. So badly abused and then tossed aside when their duty to their country had been performed.
I must get out of here. I can’t be a part of this anymore. Dr. Ho’s experiments are grotesque, but his overall plan is horrendous. I will take care of these men, these living dead. They will suffer no longer. But that is all I can do. I will find a way to escape while the soldiers are being moved. I fear it won’t be long before Godin allows Dr. Ho to begin his foul tests on them. God help them then.
Tank couldn’t see any visual evidence of how Dr. Sergeyev had ‘taken care’ of the soldiers. He assumed a drug had been administered straight into their IVs to induce a coma and then cause death. It was likely the most humane act they’d experienced since boarding the submarine.
Tucking the book into an inner pocket of his jacket, Tank carried on, searching each of the berths. He could smell it long before he arrived. The offal was pungent. The air reeked of waste and ammonia. No access to toilets had been provided for the men kept here. It took him less than five minutes to determine that there’d been no way for the men to have left a message.
The chains were stretched out to the very limits of a man’s reach. Their feet were kept on the ground, spread a distance of four feet. Their arms were chained to the walls above their heads. They would have been incapable of moving. He was about to leave the cabin when he heard the reverberations from an explosion. Though muffled, it was a sound he knew well. Company was coming.
Deciding he’d worn out his welcome, Tank started to make his way topside. The reverberations had gotten louder and more intense. He could hear two distinct sets of gunfire, coming from opposite ends of the hangar. Jimmy?
He was one deck below main when he heard the sound of boots hitting the deck. Commands floated down, the men were ordered to spread out and secure the intruder. Pleski wanted the man alive for questioning.
Checking the clip in his Glock, Tank raced down the corridor to the weapons supply he’d spotted earlier. One Glock was not enough firepower to get him out of this.
***
Jimmy’s fireball accomplished the job, but it also gained him half the soldiers that had been heading for the submarine. Firing up his boat, he aimed his Walther at the gas tank of the boat that was two ahead of his. His aim true, the boat exploded, giving him enough time to cast off and pull away from the dock.
He managed to take out the boat that had been in front of his, but that left two other boats for the guards to board. Jimmy roared past them, spraying each hull with bullets. He missed the gas tanks, but caught two soldiers in one boat and a third in the other.
Before they could even get their boats untied from the dock, Jimmy was racing around the front of the sub to the far side. Just as he heard the boats powering up behind him, he spotted a crate on the dock.
“Yes!” he crowed, reading the symbols on its’ side. Pulling over, he jumped out of the boat, dragged the crate inside and sped off again. Using one hand to steer, he pulled the lid off the crate. Inside was an assembled rocket launcher with ten ground-to-air rockets.
When he was midway down the length of the sub, he pulled over close to the hu
ll and leaned against the steering wheel, keeping his boat scraping along the side of the sub. Metal screeched in protest. Jimmy grabbed the launcher and loaded a rocket. He flipped up the scope and kept his eye on the bow of the sub. When the first boat had rounded the nose, he launched his rocket. They were coming fast and didn’t notice the contrail until it was too late.
The rocket slammed into the front windshield of their boat and exploded. The boat burst into pieces, the gas tanks exploding into a wall of flame that the second boat tried to veer around. Jimmy had anticipated that move. He launched another rocket and watched as the second boat tried to veer back, but wasn’t quick enough. The rocket slammed into the hull of their boat and exploded.
Jimmy loaded another rocket and slung the shoulder strap across his chest. Turning back to the wheel, he saw that he was about to run out of sub. Pulling away and straightening out his steering, he shot past the end of the sub and looked to his left. What was left of the dock along the far wall was dipping down into the water.
The guards that hadn’t made it to the boats were standing up near the doors, waiting for him. He was out of range of their guns. Turning his boat to aim straight for them, he cut the distance in half, until he was out of their firing range. He pulled the rocket launcher up, aimed and then pulled the trigger.
The rocket shot away and the men split off to either side. The rocket hit another pile of crates that had been stored along the dock, waiting for transport to the secured weapons facility at the far end of the complex. Most of the crates were filled with guns, the ammunition having already been moved to the facility. One of the crates, buried at the bottom and forgotten, was filled with grenades.
When the rocket slammed into the stockpile it exploded with such force that the structural integrity of the wall behind it was compromised. Tremendous cracks started to race up the wall, toward the ceiling of the docking bay. A great groaning commenced as the tons of cement used to create the ceiling of the structure weighed down on the weakened wall supports.