“You better be there when this is all over, Mere,” he said. “I love you.”
-34-
Columns of golden light illuminated specks floating in the murky water. Here, the translucent aquamarine splendor of the Adriatic gave way to the oily waters of the port. Flotsam from wrecked vessels bobbed in a cluttered mess. Dom pulled himself past the debris and through a forest of tall sea grass waving in the tide. He checked his pressure gauge.
Almost out.
Behind him trailed the rest of Alpha team. Bubbles streamed from their regulators. Their small tanks would be nearing empty, too. Ahead of them, a huge shape emerged from the screen of floating silt.
The Sahand.
Dom had judged their entry point into the water well. Any farther from the port and they wouldn’t have had enough air and would’ve been forced to surface, eliminating any stealth advantage they’d gained by diving. Any closer and they increased their chances of being spotted when they first dove into the water. That was of course assuming the FGL hadn’t already seen them with the Titan making its rounds.
Meredith’s voice came over the comms. “O’Neil’s riling up a squad of Skulls. He’s got about eight of them around his finger. Now we’re just working on convincing them to head up the mountain instead of toward the Titan.”
Dom would’ve responded, but he had no way to communicate underwater. They’d taken the bare necessity of diving equipment for this mission, and that meant the regulator masks without comms units. He turned to the rest of the crew as they congregated around him, each maintaining neutral buoyancy. He signaled to each of them to ensure they were okay then pointed up. They surfaced together, their bodies pressed close to the curving hull of the Sahand.
Gentle waves rolled against them, making them bob. Dom was thankful the Sahand was in the protected waters of the pier rather than the open Adriatic Sea. Trying to do this in aggressive waves would be exponentially more difficult.
“Miguel, do your thing,” Dom said. He clasped Miguel’s shoulder to hold him in place.
Miguel reached around his pack and pulled out the carbon fiber ultralight assault ladder. He unfolded the ten-meter rods. Glenn kicked his feet, swam over to Miguel, and treaded water, helping to hold the other Hunter in place.
“Kind of like the claw game at the arcade,” Jenna said. “Only backwards.”
“I was always great at that game.” Miguel steadied the rods. At one end was a tactical hook. A lightweight Kevlar fabric ladder hung from it. “Won my girl a big pink teddy bear from the arcade when I was thirteen.”
The rod shook, its movements exaggerated by every tremor in Miguel’s muscles. He pushed himself out of the water, kicking hard, and secured the hook around the nearest gunwale.
“What did I tell you?” Miguel said as he began his ascent.
Dom went up next, followed by Jenna and Glenn. When they reached the deck, they pressed themselves close to the bulkheads. A few crew members rushed between hatches, but the cargo hold had already been shut.
“Looks like they finished loading the nukes,” Dom said. “We’ve got to move fast.”
He considered their next course of action. They were currently at the stern of the ship, near the vertical launch silos with the ship-to-land missiles. If the warheads were on the Sahand, the crew would be loading them onto the missiles there. That was supposed to be Bravo’s job, but that plan had gone to shit. If Dom could stop them before the missiles were armed, it would save them all a load of trouble. Disarm the warheads, get them off the ship, and call in an airstrike. Didn’t matter if the Air Force couldn’t make it over for another few hours or even a day or more; at least the missiles would be disarmed.
“We’re going for the missiles first,” he said. “If we can stop them from being armed, then we can wash our hands of this. We’ll be doing what we do best: getting in and out quickly and quietly.”
On Dom’s smartwatch, he pulled up the schematics they had for the Sahand. Intel on the ship was limited. What they did have wasn’t much more than blueprints from a contractor’s proposal, but it was better than nothing.
“Should have access to the vertical launch facilities down there,” Dom said, pointing to a hatch on the portside. “Miguel, take point.”
“Aye, Chief,” Miguel said, creeping toward the corner of the bulkhead. He peered around it. “Clear.”
The others filed behind. Off in the distance, the Titan still roared, its voice rumbling over the deck. If the FGL was alarmed by the Titan’s actions, they certainly weren’t acting like it. Dom wondered if the Titan acted up often or if the FGL already knew the Hunters were here. Toward the shore, he could see crowds of Skulls swarming the ruins of Dubrovnik.
Be safe out there, Mere.
“Hatch is locked,” Miguel reported. He opened a compartment on his prosthetic arm and placed two wires against an RFID pad. “Huntress, you there? We could use a little magic.”
“Copy,” Samantha replied over the comms.
The lock clicked, and the hatch opened inward. The sounds of voices echoed from below.
“I hear Russian and Farsi,” Glenn said, leaning in to listen. “Sounds like they’re arguing about something.”
“Are the missiles armed?” Dom asked.
“Can’t tell,” Glenn said. “They’re cursing at each other. Not really helpful.”
“Then let’s use the distraction.” Dom signaled Miguel to move forward.
They plunged into the harsh, artificial lighting below deck. A rush of air raced through overhead ventilation ducts and a jungle of pipes and wires. It looked like the paneled walls of the bulkheads hadn’t yet been put in place. Maybe the FGL had absconded with the ship before it had even been finished. Either way, it appeared the missile launchers had been completed, and the FGL must’ve thought they were at least functional. Right now, that was the most important part of the ship to Dom.
A corridor gave way to a catwalk. The voices below that catwalk were louder, erupting into yells. Dom couldn’t understand the words, but he understood the sentiments being expressed.
“They are pissed,” Miguel whispered.
Then there was another sound beneath the chorus of voices. It was the unmistakable clatter of talons and the rattle of bony plates. At first, Dom pictured a gaggle of Skulls forcing their way into the ship. But reality was far worse.
“Hybrids,” Dom whispered. “Careful.”
They slunk to where the catwalk stretched highest over the open space. Miguel made it to the overlook first. His eyes widened, and his mouth made an O shape. Dom joined him. Below them, surrounding the huge upright missiles, a gaggle of crew members squared off. Between them were empty crates and neglected tools.
“Looks like they already loaded the warheads,” Jenna whispered.
But even with their job finished, there was clearly something that had been left unresolved. On one side of the room, the Iranians waved rifles and yelled. They faced the Hybrids, who had formed a perimeter around the missiles. At the center of the group, one of the Hybrids held an Iranian up by his neck. The man’s hands were clamped tight around the Hybrid’s wrists. A stream of red trickled over the Hybrid’s claws.
“Jesus, I thought they were on the same side,” Miguel muttered.
“I think the Iranians thought that, too,” Glenn said. “But they’re telling the Hybrids to leave. That the Hybrids aren’t supposed to be here. I think that’s what’s causing the conflict.”
One of the Iranians stepped forward. Instead of saying anything, he pointed his rifle at the Hybrid holding the other soldier hostage and fired. The deafening report of the gunshot in the enclosed space slammed into Dom’s eardrums. The Hybrid collapsed. Blood poured from its nasal cavity. The Iranian he’d been holding clutched his throat and gasped for breath. Every other Hybrid and Iranian soldier froze briefly.
Then everything went to hell. Gunfire split the air, and Hybrids charged the Iranians. Frantic voices cried out between agonized yells. Blood spla
shed over the deck. Bullets sparked against the bulkhead.
Dom had expected to run into resistance on the ship. But he hadn’t expected this.
“There’s no way we’re getting down there now,” Jenna said.
“To the bridge,” Dom said.
Maybe they could take advantage of the chaos. In fact, the civil war here could make their job that much easier. As they started out the hatch, the clatter of footsteps exploded just outside. It sounded like another handful of soldiers. Eventually the Hunters would be forced to fight these bastards. But Dom didn’t want to blow their cover yet.
“Other way!” he ordered in a trenchant voice.
They rushed over the catwalk, ducking low to avoid being spotted. Dom prayed the Hybrids and soldiers below were too distracted with killing each other to notice the covert operatives in their midst. Dom lingered near the hatch just long enough to see a group of Iranians lean over the catwalk the Hunters had just left and spray lead into the Hybrids below.
“They’re doing our job for us,” Glenn said.
“Not unless they unload those warheads, they aren’t,” Dom said. He tapped on his smartwatch, and the deck map of the ship reappeared. “We follow this corridor, take a left, then go up a few decks. That’s where we should find the ladders to the bridge.”
They took off at a sprint. The report of rifles chased after them. Between the gunshots, Dom heard the unmistakable ripping sound of a human disemboweled by the claws of a Hybrid. He wished to God he didn’t recognize that noise.
A hatch in front of them flew open. Dom had no time to dive for cover, and neither did the rest of his crew. From the open hatch came a squad of Hybrids. They bore rifles and scowls that complemented the demonic features of their bony masks. Their fury gave way to shock at seeing the Hunters on their ship.
But the shock didn’t last long. With a howl, the lead Hybrid leapt at Dom.
***
Admiral Mokri balled his fist tight enough that his fingers dug into his palms. He didn’t care about the pain. Only about the insolence of the Hybrids. The frantic reports of his crew screaming into the radios set his blood boiling hotter than the sun-drenched sands of the desert.
“All hands are to shoot the Hybrids on sight,” Mokri said. “No questions will be asked. They must be stopped!”
“Yes, sir,” Daftary said, relaying the message to the rest of the human crew from his console.
Other officers were working at their stations on the Sahand’s bridge. As Mokri looked around, they refused to meet his eyes, afraid of both his fury and the shame they must share in having nearly lost control of the ship to those beasts.
“Once those dogs smell spilled blood, they obey no orders. They listen to no words. They only want to feast. They are hardly better than the Skulls or even the Titan.”
“And what should we do about the Titan?” Daftary asked.
Mokri could send the chopper in to investigate whatever had the beast throwing a fit today. But according to the Iranian crew that had been posted on the Sahand before his arrival, the Titan had made a game of chasing any surviving civilians that dared poke their heads up from the rubble of Dubrovnik. Chances were this was yet another such hunt. And if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to keep the chopper and all his loyal crew members close at hand. With the Hybrids in rebellion, he wasn’t sure how long he’d have control of the Sahand—or, for that matter, his life.
Best to have an escape route.
“We focus on the Hybrids,” Mokri said. “And most importantly, we launch those missiles.”
“Targeting now,” Daftary said. “Frankfurt is a lock.”
The lieutenant looked up from his station at Mokri. The admiral had worked beside the lieutenant for long enough to know there was an unspoken question lingering behind his eyes.
Should we lock on to St. Petersburg or Moscow? Do we dare poke the bear?
Mokri wanted control over the FGL. He believed in their mission, but he was losing faith in Spitkovsky. Launching those nukes at Spitkovsky’s stronghold cities would improve his chances of wresting that control from the mad Russian. Spitkovsky’s eagerness to use these monsters as foot soldiers was threatening Mokri’s mission’s success. The man that could happily employ the hotheaded Hybrids with no discipline did not deserve a seat at the leadership table of the FGL.
Mokri thought of his wife and children, supposedly safe in Moscow. Spitkovsky had thought far ahead. They were hostages, ensuring Mokri remained a faithful servant.
Spitkovsky expected Mokri to act like a dog, fearful of getting the switch if he did not behave. But if this was how he was to be treated, then had Iran’s status in the world truly improved since the FGL’s takeover?
No, they had simply traded the overbearing control of the West for the reign of a more terrible leader. Iran should never have offered their assistance to the FGL. Mokri’s government had been too greedy. Rather than relying on the steady course of diplomatic and political maneuvering, they’d decided to go with what they had thought would be the fast and easy method by inking a secret deal with Spitkovsky to divvy up control over the new world order.
But if the Hybrids were any indication of things to come, Mokri could not let Spitkovsky win. There was no honor behind the man’s words.
For all Mokri knew, Spitkovsky ordered this mutiny. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that the Russian no longer needed the liability of other teammates when Mokri had already accomplished what he’d been ordered to do.
Things had gone too far, too fast. He needed to end Spitkovsky’s reign.
There was only one move to make if he wanted to take out the head of the FGL. Launching a weapon that would strike his family as well as the Russian was the last thing Spitkovsky would expect Mokri to do—which meant it was the thing he must do. He prayed to Allah that their deaths would be worth it. At least they would be in Paradise while he tried to fix this living hell for the glory of his countrymen.
“Hold them on reserve,” Mokri said after another moment’s consideration, “but lock on to the alternative targets we discussed.”
Daftary input the commands in his console. Another bridge officer gasped aloud when he saw what those alternative targets were.
“Sir!” the man said. “This cannot be correct.”
Mokri spun on the man. “We are in an active mutiny.” His fingers found his sidearm, and though he did not draw it, he made sure the officer saw. “Are you among the mutineers?”
“No, sir, but—”
“You do not ask questions. Questions are for mutineers.” He tapped his pistol’s handle. “And so are bullets.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer’s gaze returned to his own console.
“Ready the first missile,” Mokri said. “Are our men still in the launch facilities?”
“Yes, sir,” Daftary said. “We sent ten more men there, and at least five of them are still alive.”
Any launch with the men so close to the missile would kill them. They needed to get out of that chamber. He stood no hope of surviving this mess if he lost his crew. But if he waited too long and his men failed, how much time did he have before the Hybrids ransacked the bridge?
Damn them, Mokri thought. May Allah curse them all.
Fresh rounds of gunfire sounded all around the ship. He was glad they were in the Sahand and not stationed on the shore. Spitkovsky had assured him the Hybrids and the Titan would keep the smaller Skulls at bay. A dark thought passed through his mind. He thought he stood a chance of quelling the insurrection here. His crew outnumbered the Hybrids... but if they had a chance, they could control the Skulls. And maybe their influence didn’t extend to just the Skulls, Droolers, and the Goliaths.
“Daftary,” Mokri asked, “what are the odds that the Hybrids can control the Titan?”
-35-
Meredith dove under a table as the roof fell. A ceiling beam slammed into the floor where she had just been. It kicked up a rolling cloud of dust. Roo
f tiles clattered and broke into shrapnel.
Even as the house collapsed, a Drooler lumbered inside. Its belly bulged, and acid dribbled out of its mouth. It threw its spindly arms back and thrust its head forward. The monster’s jaws unlocked, and a gargling rumble escaped its gray lips. The next thing coming out of those lips would be a geyser of brown acid that would eat through anything that stood in its way.
But that never happened.
Instead, a huge taloned foot landed on the Drooler, crushing it. The Titan’s claws curled around what was left of the roof and began peeling it back. The acid seeping around its feet didn’t seem to bother it nearly as much as it would bother Meredith.
“O’Neil, don’t you have those bastard Skulls moving yet?” Meredith asked. “I could use some help here!”
The Titan peered around the house with its remaining eye. The other was a gaping, bloody hole thanks to Andris’s rifle. Meredith aimed at the Titan’s good eye now, but she thought it might be better to stay hidden. Blinding the monster was bound to send it into a frantic, flailing tantrum.
“I’m trying,” O’Neil said, “but it’s not easy to break these Skulls from the Titan’s influence.”
“If you need backup, just say the word,” Andris said. “I am happy to provide a distraction.”
Any distraction by Andris inevitably meant explosives. Explosives meant noise. Noise meant losing their cover.
She breathed slowly, her finger near the trigger guard. Skulls swarmed around the Titan’s feet outside the house. She pressed herself tight against the wall.
Come on, asshole, nothing to see here. Just an ugly old house with no food inside. Move along.
Its gaze swept the debris. The bubbling acid released by the crushed Drooler spread across the floor. Everything it touched dissolved, falling away as a stream of smoke shifted into the air above it. The acid was moving ever closer to Meredith.
Leave, you ugly bastard.
The Tide: Ghost Fleet (Tide Series Book 7) Page 26