The Valhalla Prophecy

by Andy McDermott

  Berkeley looked on, horrified. “What happened?”

  Hoyt leapt into the cabin. “Chase grabbed a gun and started shooting,” he lied before turning his attention back to the pilot. “Go on, go! Take off! Get the—”

  He ducked as bullets hit the fuselage, aluminum splinters spraying around the cabin. Berkeley shrieked, the men outside diving flat. The mercenary leader didn’t need to look to know who was shooting at him. “Chase,” he growled, before yelling: “Kill him!”

  Eddie hurriedly took cover against the front of the truck as the mercs from the EC175 shot back. Bullets tore through sheet metal with harsh clanks, the four-by-four’s windows shattering. But he knew the front wheel and engine block would protect him; the 5.7mm bullets of the P90s were designed to penetrate flesh and body armor, not thick steel and cast iron.

  The gunmen closer to him were a bigger concern. The survivors had regrouped. Fear of the sniper was keeping them down, but a glance warned Eddie they were now moving through the camp to hunt down the remaining expedition members. He spotted Nina and Tova in the firelight, sheltering by another vehicle. “Nina! They’re coming toward you!” he shouted. He was about to shoot at the approaching mercenaries when one of them zeroed in on the sound of his voice and opened fire, forcing him to jerk back.

  Another whipcrack, and a scream. The sniper was still finding targets. The other mercs scrambled into cover.

  One hunkered down behind the pickup holding the submersible. He pressed against its flank and edged forward to get line of sight on his targets.

  He spotted Nina and Tova, who were moving in a crouch toward the lake in response to Eddie’s shout. His P90 came up, glowing crosshairs lining up on the redhead as his finger curled around the trigger—

  The pickup jolted against him as he fired. The shot missed Nina’s head by inches, smacking into the truck behind her. She yelped and threw herself back.

  The mercenary cursed. It felt as though someone was moving around the pickup bed, causing the vehicle to rock on its suspension. He raised his gun to kill the interloper—

  A gleaming steel claw clamped around the P90’s barrel and squeezed.

  The mercenary flinched in surprise, instinctively pulling the trigger—and his gun exploded as the bullet hit the crushed metal, the blowback of trapped gases ripping the weapon apart. He fell onto his back, screeching as red-hot shrapnel sizzled in his arm and chest.

  In the shelter, Matt worked the remote controls to open the submersible’s claw and drop what was left of the ruptured P90. He had switched on the ROV’s cameras to get a view of what was happening outside, and spotted the gunman taking aim at Nina just in time to extend one of the manipulator arms, rocking the pickup. “Too bloody close,” he gasped.

  Nina stayed low, not willing to risk moving into the open again. Beside her, Tova had closed her eyes, whispering fearfully in Swedish. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” said Nina, trying to reassure her companion—and herself. She crawled to the back of the truck, looking over the diving gear propped against its tailgate for any movement beyond the nearby fire.

  One of the mercenaries stared straight back at her.

  She gasped and hurriedly retreated—as a bullet hit the ground in front of her, sending up a spray of snow. Tova screamed, curling into a tight ball against the side of the truck. Nina heard the crump of footsteps in the snow. The mercenary was coming for them.

  The fear returned. She had nowhere to go, no weapons …

  No. She did have a weapon. Knowledge, of what was in the tank leaning against the truck.

  She lunged forward again and knocked the cylinder over, twisting the valve at its head fully open. A shrieking jet of compressed gas blasted out—and the crackling campfire suddenly became an inferno.

  The high oxygen content of the nitrox fanned the flames enormously, as if she had thrown a can of gasoline on the fire—and the force of the gas jet itself blew them outward from the blazing pile of wood like a flamethrower. Before the mercenary could bring up his gun, the fireball had swallowed him.

  Nina cringed back from the wave of heat. For a moment all she could hear was the piercing hiss of the nitrox cylinder and the roar of flames, drowning out even the noise of the helicopters—then a horrific scream rose above all else. Completely shrouded in fire, the mercenary ran blindly past her toward the lake.

  But there was no water there to extinguish the flames, only ice. He threw himself onto the surface, skidding for a few feet before coming to a stop, writhing and shrieking in helpless agony. The sight was so shocking that those on the shore could do nothing except stare—until the heat of the man’s burning clothes and skin weakened a stress line in the ice. The mercenary abruptly vanished with an icy splash as if some lake monster had dragged him under, leaving wafts of steam swirling in the cold air.

  “Jesus!” Nina gasped. “Fire and ice—paging Robert Frost!”

  Matt was also watching the grisly spectacle on his monitor, rotating Nelson’s camera pod to track the running man to his doom—until something rose to obstruct the image.

  Despite his injuries, the mercenary behind the pickup was not out of the fight. The exploding gun had shredded and scorched his sleeve, his wounded hand dripping with blood … but being ambidextrous was apparently one of his talents, as he raised the other to yank a savage-looking knife from a sheath.

  Matt swung the robotic arm again, but the man easily jinked past the metal limb. Face contorted with rage, he advanced on the shelter. “Aw, hell,” gulped the tubby engineer as he followed him with the ROV’s cameras, only to realize too late where he was going. The man on the screen lashed out at the canvas flaps—and the knife ripped through the real ones. “Aw, hell!”

  He stumbled back into the corner of the little tent as the injured gunman pushed his way inside. “Try to kill me with a fucking robot?” the mercenary snarled. He raised the knife. “Let’s see how tough you are when you’re facing me for real!” He stepped closer—

  “Matt!” Eddie’s voice, close by. “Down!”

  Matt dropped—and bullets puckered the fabric wall above him. The mercenary spun back, arms flailing as rounds tore into his upper body.

  Matt released a shuddering breath of relief. “Thanks, mate,” he called out.

  “No problem” came the reply.

  “How did you know I’d ducked?”

  “I didn’t, I just hoped you had.”

  “Oh.” The Australian blanched.

  Eddie allowed himself a small smile—he had seen Matt’s silhouette against the canvas in the glow of the heater—before becoming deadly serious once more. He shifted position to look back at Hoyt’s helicopter. The EC175 was almost at takeoff revolutions, kicking up a stinging vortex of snow and ice crystals. The mercenaries from it had spread out, but were no longer advancing. Instead they were holding position in whatever cover they could find on the frozen shore, hiding from the sniper—while protecting Hoyt and his prize. Even Eddie’s brief glance was enough to draw fire, forcing him back as more bullets hit the truck.

  The second helicopter was still squatting on the ground, waiting for its passengers. “Nina!” he shouted over the racket. “How many more of them are there?”

  “I don’t know!” she yelled back. “Only one or two, I think!”

  One or two too many. The only thing keeping them at bay was the threat of the sniper—and the fact that the helicopter carrying the runestone hadn’t come under attack suggested to Eddie that their unseen guardian was on the move. It wouldn’t take the mercenaries long to realize the same thing.

  He checked the P90 again. About a quarter of its bullets were left, twelve or thirteen rounds. He would have to make them count …

  The Eurocopter finally left the ground, engines straining under the extra weight of the stone slab. Even so, it would be beyond the submachine gun’s effective range in under thirty seconds.

  Now or never—

  Eddie dived out of cover, throwing himself flat and bringing up th
e P90 to blaze away at the ascending helicopter on full auto.

  The bullets found their target. One of the aircraft’s windows cracked as an armor-piercing round tore through it, another shot visibly sparking as it struck the solid block of the engine beneath the thin aluminum fuselage. He couldn’t see the results of the other impacts in the darkness, but he could tell from nothing more than the feel of the gun’s recoil that they were tightly grouped—most, if not all, had hit.

  But they had done nothing.

  The chopper was still climbing, tipping into forward flight as it ascended. No smoke, no sprays of oil or hydraulic fluid. He hadn’t hit anything critical. And now he was out of bullets, exposed on the ground as the mercenaries moved—

  They weren’t coming for him. Instead, they ran for the second helicopter, using the encampment and vehicles for cover against the sniper. Eddie scrambled back behind the truck. The P90 was empty. The dead mercenaries had dropped their weapons, but he would be exposed to their comrades’ fire if he tried to retrieve one.

  He still had to find some way to fight. Hoyt’s men weren’t fleeing. They were going to take off and hunt down the survivors from the air.

  He needed a weapon …

  What he found was far from ideal, but desperation left it as the only option.

  Bent low, he scurried to the truck that had brought the underwater lifting gear. The unused Inflatable Buoyancy Units were still in its rear bed, along with their air cylinders. He hauled one out. A glance toward the Jet Ranger warned him that the last mercenaries were piling aboard—and in the firelight he saw the barrel of a sniper rifle protruding from an open door.

  The same gun that had disabled the expedition’s vehicles was about to be turned on its members.

  He ran for the crane. “Get everyone behind the trucks!” he shouted to Nina. But he knew that would not give them much protection once the chopper was airborne. He only had one chance to stop it—and even that was slim.

  But he had to take it.

  Eddie reached the crane, hitching the IBU to one of the dangling hooks before darting to the winch control and disengaging the brake. He started the motor, then ran back and snatched up the bright orange bag, more of the cable unspooling behind him. He stayed low behind the other vehicles for as long as he could—but knew he would have to cross open ground to reach the helicopter.

  “Hope this fucking cable’s long enough,” he muttered, crouching behind the last four-by-four to draw in a breath … then sprinting for the chopper.

  Ice and grit blasted his face as the Jet Ranger went to full takeoff speed. It rocked on its skids as the rotors took its weight. He arced toward it, coming in from behind.

  The rifle swung at him—

  The Englishman dived to the cold ground and rolled as a bullet ripped through the air above him. Another gunman leaned out, P90 tracking him—and firing. The tail rotor buzzed above Eddie’s head like a circular saw as he scrambled under the helicopter’s rear boom, the vortex pummeling him. The gunfire stopped as the mercenary lost line of sight on his target, but he was already shouting a warning to his comrades on the other side of the cabin.

  More guns came up—

  Eddie slammed open the valve and hurled the IBU through the open door.

  It hit one of the mercenaries hard, the steel cylinder knocking him back—then the tough orange bag snapped open with mousetrap speed as it filled with air.

  One end wedged against the door frame—and the dazed mercenary suddenly found himself being forced back into his seat with a pressure that grew more crushing with every moment.

  The helicopter took off. One of the men on the other side opened fire on the camp, bullets cracking off the vehicles as the archaeological team took shelter behind them.

  A second gunman on Eddie’s side, Silver, leaned out farther and took aim—

  The rapidly swelling air bag shoved him as he fired. The bullet blew a little crater out of the snow mere inches from Eddie’s skull as he rolled again.

  Silver tried to line up another shot—only to realize with horror that he was being squeezed out of the cabin. The other mercenary tried to scream as the pressure on his chest increased, but could only manage a choked gasp.

  The helicopter climbed. Forty feet, fifty, the men still firing at the camp—

  Silver finally lost his grip as the expanding flotation bag drove him through the open door. He plummeted to the ground, shrieking all the way before hitting the frozen earth with a bone-splintering crack.

  The trapped man coughed out a violent spew of red over the shiny orange PVC as a rib broke under the pressure, a jagged shard piercing one of his lungs. One of his companions twisted in his seat to puncture the bag with a burst of gunfire—

  The cable snapped taut.

  The crane truck’s back end jumped upward as the ascending helicopter hauled at it, but the vehicle was too heavy for the already fully laden aircraft to lift. The chopper tipped sharply backward. The pilot battled to regain control, jamming the cyclic stick forward in a panicked attempt to level out.

  It was too late. The Jet Ranger spun back toward the camp, engine howling …

  Nina’s eyes bugged in horror as she realized it was coming straight at her.

  “Run!” she screamed, grabbing Tova. Matt also burst from the shelter and sprinted for the lake, the other team members scattering as the aircraft plunged toward them …

  Its tail boom crumpled as it hit the ground back-end first; then the main rotor carved into the frozen surface like a monstrous scythe. The blades shattered, ripping away from the hub and sending debris flying in all directions. Nina threw Tova flat as shrapnel whipped over them. The chopper’s shattered carcass tumbled through the camp, disintegrating in flames as it hit a truck. Wreckage mowed Mathias down as he ran. One of the Norwegians was also struck, screaming as a chunk of mangled metal ripped into his leg.

  The helicopter’s remains finally came to rest. Nina raised her head. The truck hit by the aircraft was crumpled like wet cardboard, a trail of fire leading from it to the burning wreck. It didn’t seem possible that anyone aboard could have survived the crash, and she was in no hurry to offer assistance if someone had. “Are you okay?” she asked Tova. The Swede shakily brushed her hair from her face and nodded. “Stay here—I’m going to check on the others.”

  She started back into what was left of the camp. Stunned figures slowly rose in the firelight: Matt, Peder, Mikkel, two of his team. But she didn’t see the one she was most concerned about. Where was Eddie?

  “Nina!” A shout quelled her rising fears. Relieved, she turned to see her husband trudging toward her. “You all right?”

  She ran to Eddie and embraced him. “Oh God! You’re okay, you’re okay!”

  “So are you,” he said, holding her tightly and kissing her. “Jesus. Fucking Hoyt …” He lifted his head. The EC175 was heading rapidly away to the west.

  “And Logan,” said Nina. “That son of a bitch! What the hell is all this about?”

  The question prompted memories, which in turn led to deductions—none of which she liked. She stepped back. “You know something about this,” she said, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. “Who is Hoyt, and how do you know him? And what’s he got to do with the runestone?” He didn’t answer. The veneer cracked. “Dammit, Eddie!” she yelled, fury erupting. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  He looked away. “Because I made a promise,” he said, conflict clear in his voice. “But … he didn’t.”

  “Who?” She followed his gaze—and was startled to see a man approaching across the frozen lake. He was carrying a long rifle. The sniper. “Who is he?” she demanded.

  “He’s someone I met eight years ago. In Vietnam,” Eddie told her, moving to meet the new arrival. Nina followed. As the figure drew closer and was lit by the glow of the fires, she was shocked to see a familiar face.

  It was the leader of the Russians who had tried to kidnap Tova.

  Her shock grew
when the two men came face-to-face … and shook hands. “Oh my God,” she gasped, confused—and suddenly frightened. “That’s why you let him go in Stockholm. And the bomb—he gave it to you, didn’t he? You’re working together!”

  Eddie’s uncharacteristic silence was more unnerving than any reply.

  16

  Vietnam

  “Fuckin’ finally,” Chase muttered as the narrow path he and Natalia had followed since crossing the river joined up with a broader, more well-trodden track.

  “How far are we from your friends?” she asked.

  The Englishman slung the rifle and shifted the Bouncing Betty and its detonator to the crook of his arm, then examined the map. “Less than half a mile. Should only take us about ten minutes to get there.”

  “Good.” Natalia cautiously checked that the track was clear. “Will they still be there?”

  “I bloody hope so.” Chase was confident that Castille would have waited for him, and doubted Sullivan would have let him stay in the jungle alone. He regarded the muddy ground. The track, which headed roughly north–south, had been used by at least one vehicle, the chunky tread pattern of off-road tires standing out in the mud. Since the camp from which he had rescued Natalia was to the south, there was a good chance the four-by-four belonged to their pursuers.

  The prints didn’t have the sharp edges he would have expected if they were recent, though. They were several hours old. He raised his head, listening intently. No engine noises were audible over the jungle chorus.

  “Are we safe?” Natalia asked.

  “Think so. But if you hear anything coming, duck into the bushes.” He turned to head north. “Okay, not far now.”

  They made their way along the track. The sound of the river gradually returned; the rendezvous point was an abandoned building on one of its meanders. Before long, Chase slowed. “What is it?” asked Natalia, nervous.

  He ushered her into the cover of the surrounding vegetation. “I heard voices. We’re nearly there, so it might be my mates … or it might not.”