by Greig Beck
Perspiration gathered on his forehead, and he was conscious of Millinov breathing heavily beside him. He tried to ignore the other’s presence and concentrate on the strange small glowing thing instead.
He stared at the video screen; the cylinder itself was hidden behind many feet of lead shielding. They were taking no chances now. The effects of brief exposure to the contents of the device appeared to be negligible, perhaps even beneficial — it had seemed to act like some sort of energizer on the body. But after just a few minutes lesions crusted and dried, and spread quickly until every bit of moisture had been leeched from the body — not just from the cells of the flesh, but right down at the molecular level. They were, in effect, super freeze-dried.
Over twenty men and women, who had first been involved in opening the device, were now just bagged contents in a containment freezer awaiting transport to the abandoned Kyshtym mines. They, like the thousands of other radioactive, biological or chemical mistakes made over the decades by brilliant Soviet scientific and military minds, would be hidden below the surface in a labyrinth that rivaled a vast city, beneath miles of dark, cold stone.
Khamid paused over the pulsing, luminescent disk, noting that the silver dollar-sized object seemed to be floating inside the cylinder rather than wired or welded into place. He brought one of the robotic hands around and grasped it, tugging gently — nothing happened. Whatever held the thing in place was not going to give up its prize so easily. He needed to use the other hand. He angled the camera lens around before wedging it into position, ignoring the other contents or mechanisms within the cylinder — primarily several dozen globes, like silken softballs. He expected these would be analyzed at a later date.
Using both of the robotic hands, and a significant amount of pressure, he managed to free the small disk. He lifted it — it was light, and beautifully made. Khamid compressed his lips in concentration as he maneuvered the object out of the cylinder and into the isolation chamber’s stronger light.
He carefully drew the robotic arms back from the cylinder and into the work area in the front of the chamber — a long steel bench with cutting equipment, probes and a myriad of testing devices was awaiting their glowing subject. He set the object down and amplified the image. Under magnification, markings could be made out on its surface — writing perhaps, but none that he had ever encountered, or anyone else, he guessed.
He lifted one of his tools — a diamond drill — and tried to take a scraping. After several minutes, the only damage was to the drill tip — the disk remained unmarked. Whatever had made the symbols upon its surface must have been an extraordinary cutting tool, unlike anything known.
Millinov bumped Khamid’s shoulder as he crowded in even closer, causing him to jerk one of the robotic arms. Khamid closed his eyes and held his breath for a second. He exhaled slowly and then lifted his gaze from the disk to the larger casing. They now believed the refrigerator-sized primary device had been some sort of probe, perhaps knocked off course by a meteor or just fallen out of a prehistoric geosynchronous orbit. Amazingly, when it was found it had still been active… at least until he had decoupled the disk from its internal housing. As soon as Khamid lifted the disk free, the low hum emitted by the object stopped, and its extremely cold internal temperature began to rise.
The humming sound had been run through the Lomonosov’s exascale supercomputer, and the closest association it could make was with a drone of bees that had located a source of pollen. Whether or not the thing had still been sending signals could not yet be determined. If it was a probe, it was either lost or forgotten. But the power source contained in the disk was still fully functioning a thousand centuries later. If it could be understood and harnessed, its value was immeasurable.
Khamid maneuvered the robotic pincer-like fingers and turned the disk over. From beside him Millinov murmured, ‘Easy, easy, Dr. Khamid. This is the president’s most important and precious object — he called it his “glorious future”.’
Khamid winced at the man’s oniony breath and could almost hear his old heart beating excitedly in his chest. But his own hands were steady — a greater purpose had already unfolded in his mind.
‘What do you think it is?’ Millinov still spoke in hushed tones, as if in the presence of a holy relic.
Khamid laid it on the small pressure pad, and together they watched as the figures climbed at only a nano-scale. The thing had nearly no mass, but all the measuring devices — radiation, entropy, voltage — indicated power of massive proportion. Strangely, the thermometer’s reading was negligible, as was the electrolytic sensor’s — the matter, whatever it was, was cool, and extremely dry. The thing seemed to absorb both heat and moisture and store energy in an unknown form.
Khamid snorted softly. ‘What do I think it is? I think, for want of a better term, it’s a battery.’
‘A battery! You young scientists have no imagination — look at the power output, Denichen. A battery, perhaps. But what a battery! It is smaller than the most powerful enriched isotope, but with the energy of an entire reactor. This tiny thing could power a city.’
Khamid nodded and played along with the scientist’s enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps a hundred cities, and it’s already been burning for a thousand centuries. This energy device is from a technology far in advance of our own. Inform the president immediately — he’ll want to see this himself. Perhaps we can run a test for him.’
‘Yes, yes of course, a test. We can do that.’ Millinov, although the senior scientist, nodded vigorously, perhaps delighted at the opportunity to bring good news to his leader at last. He scurried from the room.
Khamid waited for him to go, and then used the pincers to grasp the object once more and place it in a purpose-built, squat, lead canister. The inch-thick casing was also molded into a thermal ceramic coat — it would be damned heavy, and lead didn’t fully attenuate all types of radiation, but it would hopefully provide him with enough shielding… and enough time. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Yes, run to your master, Dr. Millinov — and when you get back, I won’t be here. Explain that to your dear Little Wolf.’
He used the robotic claws to place the lid onto the plate-like canister, and then twist it into a locked position. He then passed the canister through a series of airlocks leading to the laboratory. He stuffed it into a backpack, grunting as he slung it over his shoulder. At the door he turned briefly; the containment room was in muted light, with most of the illumination coming from the myriad sensors and data displays. The only one that caught his eye was the thermal monitor of the cylinder — it had already climbed to room temperature.
Khamid turned back to the door and opened it a crack, checking the corridor. He only needed to dash a hundred paces to the service elevator that would take him down to the car park. He often went home for lunch, so passing through security at this time of day would not be unusual. He gambled on Millinov taking his time with Volkov, as usual, wanting to drag out his brilliant accomplishments for as long as he could. By the time the scientist returned, Khamid would be miles away. He adjusted the crushing weight on his back.
This is for my family, he thought as he darted from the door, running hunched over to the elevator.
In the few seconds after he was gone, the temperature went up another few degrees, and a bead of moisture appeared on one of the globes within the strange, coffin-like object.
CHAPTER 4
Alex Hunter sat in the rear of the black stealth chopper and cleared his mind. The swift, sixty-five-foot machine carried a modified rotor design that suppressed the distinctive percussive noise. To anyone below, it would have been indistinguishable from a breeze in the Chechen treetops. They came in fast, low and lethally silent — a ghost ship with deadly cargo.
Alex pulled on his gloves — night black and woven through with enough armor plating and Kevlar thread to allow a man to punch a hole through a door. The gloves were made from the same fabric as his suit, which changed from black to gunmetal
gray before his eyes. They now matched the helicopter’s cabin. He flexed his hand — it was termed active camouflage, the latest adaptive technology that allowed objects to blend into their surroundings by use of micro-panels capable of altering their appearance, color and reflective properties. The suit didn’t provide great thermal concealment, but if they were in snow, they’d appear white, in trees, green… and in amongst the freezing Chechen countryside or urban zones, it would move, change and dapple to provide as much camouflage as necessary.
He sat back, his fist starting a slow beat on his knee. He loved this part: everything was locked and loaded, and you were committed — everything out of your hands now — buckled up and waiting for the fun to start.
Like the suit he wore, his team’s profile was also invisible. They were HAWCs — the real best of the best — Hotzone All-Forces Warfare Commandos. Above average physically and mentally, each one had years of field experience. There were no pictures of them, no glowing articles in the press, no medals pinned on their chests by a corpulent senator. Their group existed more as a break-glass strategy, buried somewhere in a secure military database.
HAWCs didn’t volunteer or apply for the job; they were chosen. Each man and woman had a unique psychology that totally disregarded the physical self or even acknowledged a sense of mortality. In another field they may have been sent for psychoanalysis or discharged, but in the HAWCs they were prepped and then launched.
Each HAWC with him in the chopper was multiskilled, and usually with certain specializations — explosives, electronics, sniper skills, knife-work. When an imperative mission was deemed politically, militarily or plain humanly impossible, they went in.
Like Alex Hunter, everyone who sat with him in the chopper had been drawn from the Rangers, Green Berets, SEALs or DELTA Force. Alex had been a HAWC now for three years, and he was a damned good one.
This mission team, called Valkeryn, had a thirst for adrenalin only extreme combat could satisfy. Their missions were top secret, and no friend, family member — not even his girl, Angie — could ever know about them.
Former girl. The dark and brutal world he inhabited had never touched her, and never would. But he missed her — when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the strands of her long brown hair, carrying the scent of green apples.
Focus, Romeo! He could hear the old warhorse’s voice in his head: Hammerson. Alex could imagine the Major now — crew cut and jutting jaw — staring into his face with an expression hard enough to crack granite. The man seemed to have a knack of zeroing in on him personally. Always checking he was fully briefed, had the latest kit or training. He’d probably resent it, if he thought the Hammer was ever wrong.
On this mission, Bronson was at point. Alex knew he would be given his own team soon… probably next mission. He knew his stuff; he’d done his time. He guessed that was why the Hammer was staying on his case: simple preparation — stress-testing the machine.
He could deal with it. He could deal with anything. In the HAWCs they had one clear rule — we are right, and they are wrong. It simplified a lot of things up front.
A single red light went on in the darkened cabin — seven minutes out. There were three lights. The next one would tell them they were two minutes out. The third meant it was time for the HAWCs to fly.
He ran his hands quickly over his suit, checking everything was secured and in place as his mind ran over the mission brief one more time.
Dropping in for takeaway was how Hammerson put it. They’d drop in, retrieve a double package — a man and an object — simple. Just a small thing about a heavy Russian military presence, and that they could expect the Federal Security Services, the successor to the KGB, to have deployed numerous death squads of Spetsnaz GRU to make things interesting.
Alex got to his feet, pulled his rifle from the rack and slung it over his shoulder. For this mission, he and most of the team had chosen a Colt ACR, basically a heavily modified M16A2. He liked its weight, optical sighting and hydraulic buffering system to remove recoil — it was tough, reliable and accurate. He reached around and pulled hard on the short barrel — secure — it needed to be. When they left the chopper, it would be traveling at speed. You didn’t step out, or shimmy down a rope; you dove and rolled. The big bird just kept on going.
He smiled. The Russian ground forces were basically underpaid, enthusiastic young men, most with very old weaponry. The HAWCs would avoid them and only engage if absolutely necessary. After all, it was like shooting fish in a barrel, a waste of good ammunition. But the GRU, they were different; they were good — hi-tech psychopaths.
Good, he thought. Nothing like a real fight… and he liked to fight. Alex looked at the team. They all did.
Glancing down along the line of men and women in camouflage uniforms, tight against physiques that looked as if they had been cut from some sort of dark indestructible stone, he saw the same self-confidence, bordering on arrogance, on all their faces.
‘Get off me.’ It was Johnson, older than Alex by a few years, and ex-Delta Force. He’d been dozing, and woke to find a cigarette sticking from his ear. His heavy lidded eyes couldn’t hide a formidable intellect, and his bull-like neck suggested all the power needed to back it up. He screwed up the cigarette and tossed it back at the man next to him.
Jack Kolchek laughed out loud. ‘Oh yeah, blame me… peace offering?’ He grinned and offered Johnson the same brand of cigarette. He batted it away, and Kolchek shrugged, tucking them in his pocket. He was a former SEAL like Alex, and the funniest man he had ever met. The guy could make you laugh even when the bullets were flying.
Next was Samantha ‘Sam’ Stozer, who was shaking her head, but trying hard not to smile. She was ex-British SAS and attractive in a brutal sort of way — blonde hair pulled back tight against her head, clear eyes and a flattened nose she always promised to get fixed one day.
To the rear an enormous man was on his knees with his back turned, head bowed and his hands pressed together. Bruda, built like a human bulldozer with fists that looked like they were designed for tearing apart artillery, rivet by rivet. He had the pleasure of carrying the AA12 rotating shotgun. The squat weapon was a Gatling machine gun that fired shotgun shells — it could push out three hundred twelve-gauge rounds per minute. Bruda liked to call the big gun his front-door key. It opened doors, all right. It also cleared rooms, and would obliterate a squad of bad guys in an instant.
Bruda was the only HAWC Alex had known to wear his heart on his sleeve — in a manner of speaking. Before any mission, he would draw a crucifix in blackout paint on his chest. Then, on his knees with eyes closed, he would say his own private prayer — no one doubted the man’s faith, no one asked him what he prayed for and no one ever poked fun at him either. Bruda was no man of peace.
Last in line was Wild Bill Singer, part Cherokee, and a former Ranger like Hammerson. He was the only one of them with a kid, Arnold. He’d never admit it, but the man now had something valuable to lose — having a child altered his priorities — that’s just the way it was. Alex was hoping he’d retire after this mission. Soon as you had a life to care for other than your own your focus drifted, and then…
The second light came on, and as they got to their feet, a voice as deep and dark as its owner floated up the crowded cabin. ‘Listen up children — quick in and out — just like your first date.’ Bronson, their mission leader, stood holding the metal rail overhead, looking at each of them from under a lowered brow. ‘Mistakes make for dead bodies — not on my watch. Clear?’
In unison they repeated the word.
He grunted and looked again along his team, his eyes stopping at Alex. Bronson inclined his head and Alex nodded back. The man didn’t say much — didn’t have to. He could communicate an idea or command with just the twitch of an eyelid. His large body carried three bullet holes — nothing human could kill him, or at least that was how he’d put it when Alex first met him. Under Hammerson’s instruction, Bronson had been his gui
de and mentor. But this time, Alex was second in command — if Bronson went down, it would be up to him to step in and complete the mission.
They all formed up in a tight line. They’d be dropped a mile out from the town. The conditions outside were close to freezing — patchy snow and ice. The small urban centre should be shut up for the night when they arrived.
Drop in, grab up their packages and pull out. If it all went to plan, they’d be back on the bus and heading home in a few hours. A single night’s work — piece of cake. They’d fall back to a clean zone to the south, and call in a waiting chopper. They’d jog, grab a vehicle, or bobsled there if they had to.
If there was too much chop, or the Russian Air Force paid them a visit, then they’d simply break into two-person teams, and find their own way across the border into Georgia. It’d mean a nice winter holiday living off the land for a while — they’d done it before and could do it again.
But if things really went to shit, and they were encircled, or caught in a firefight and trapped, well… The HAWCs were a deniable unit — they didn’t exist. You didn’t let yourself get taken alive, because there would be no backup. Very few HAWCs would die old men or women, wishing they had led more exciting lives. As Hammerson, a military history fanatic, had said to them many times: come home with your shields or upon them — just like the Spartans. Never be taken alive, because it never ended like it did in the movies where you got slapped around for a while, and then were handed back in a week or two with just a single black eye and a bad hairdo. Alex had seen what man could inflict upon man… He knew he’d fight to the death.
Alex looked over his shoulder and saw Stozer looking at him. He winked at her. She blew him a kiss in return. The woman looked slightly satanic in the dull red glow of the chopper’s interior now that the blackout lights were on. She was pretty cool. I might have to take her up on that one day, he thought. She’d certainly dropped him enough hints.