Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  “Thank you, Major.”

  “Arm all of the missiles, and then sound the alarm to abandon ship Lieutenant.” Taylor picked up the mike to address the crew, “Attention. This is Commander Taylor. In a moment you will hear the alarm to abandon ship. I want every member of crew to make sure they are armed before leaving Sea Predator. Good luck and may God be with you.”

  Deborah Armstrong grasped Taylor’s arm. “The Mini Predator jet boat; we can still get away and make the Finnish naval base!”

  Taylor shook his head sadly. He had been at sea far too long; he knew the dangers, accepted the dangers; “Only a miracle would even allow you to reach that section of the hull, and then the chances of escaping...”

  Armstrong, closely followed by St. Vincent and Greenwood, the Ferran & Cardini tech officers, fled the bridge, boots stomping metal grilles, pushing past panicked seamen who were also trying to get off of the stricken vessel.

  Sea Predatorsuddenly lurched sideways as the starboard hull, now completely filled with water, disappeared beneath the water. The crew were thrown like dolls; bodies smashed into screens and bulkheads and sparks showered the steel decking. Taylor hit the wall with incredible force and lay still, staring into the unseeing eyes of his second-in-command. The man had broken his neck and his limbs were now in some bizarre contortion.

  Water was pouring in; sirens wailed; blue lights were flashing all around, and the only thing that Taylor could think about was his wife Sarah and their two young sons Aaron and James playing happily in the garden.

  The water was cold around him, sloshing over his legs, a heavy and suddenly powerful swirling, remorseless. He was unable to move, the jagged piece of steel protruding out of his torso, pinning him against the mesh grille of the deck. Sparks showered him but he did not flinch. And then the power surged as the pre-programmed missiles were launched one after the other from their silos on the back of the stealth ship. Moments later, all power failed and only darkness prevailed.

  More groans began, as if the Sea Predatorwere a dying animal in immense pain; Taylor was barely conscious, but he could feel and sensethe sea - powerful and without compassion - rushing hungrily throughout his vessel.

  Those final moments, in the pitch black, with ice cold water shocking his system into an uncontrollable spasm - those final moments were the most intense moments of Commander John Taylor’s life. He dreamed of Sarah and the boys and how they would mourn at his grave side. Tears ran down over his cheeks. How did that ship find them - and why did they lose sight of it. What the fuck was it?

  * * * Deborah Armstrong strapped herself in at the controls of the Mini Predator; both St. Vincent and Greenwood were dead. Explosions erupted throughout the vessel, the steel grille of the gangway had become a writhing mass of metal flipping St. Vincent off of his feet, high into the air, and down onto a split steel girder, the razor sharp edges cutting him in half at the waist, his entire blood supply flushed from his torn flesh in the blink of an eye. Greenwood had been alongside his colleague as they were running to the Mini Predator, and had been thrown head first down a stairwell as an explosion had erupted directly above them. His neck snapped as easily as a twig under foot. Armstrong had been left dangling over an abyss as she watched the two Ferran & Cardini tech-officers disappear under a few feet of ice cold water. It was a miracle that she had made the docking area in the centre of the cavernous hull, an even bigger miracle that the Mini Predator was still intact and all of its controls still functioning and fully active.

  As the Sea Predator was in the last throes of death, the fast nuclear powered Mini Predator was ejected from the docking station and spat out from between the twin hulls at high speed, foam spewing from its quad-exhausts. Armstrong, tasting blood from the wound to her forehead, watched in horror on the craft’s monitors as the stealth boat went under the water and sank to the bottom of the Barents Sea. Tears rolled down over her cheeks, streaking the blood there, and she armed the mini-predators weapons systems with a nervous glance over her shoulder.

  Something very bad was happening. Something so incredibly bad that she did not understand or comprehend.

  She increased the Mini Predator’s speed, skimming the water at a high rate of knots and navigating using sensors alone; outside the carbon-fibre hull the sea was an uncompromising and deathly black.

  She glanced down at the radar monitor; squinting, she realised her worst nightmare. Something was tracking the Mini Predator - even though the stealth-mode was engaged.

  Armstrong moved as if to lock her weapons - and realised that there was nothing on her scanners on which to lock. Swallowing hard, she switched to manual mode and flicked off the safety on the joy-stick. On either side of the Mini Predatormissiles and torpedoes slotted neatly into place. And then, suddenly, a missile shot out of the darkness and there was an insane explosion of carbon-fibre and titanium and the sea rushed in towards her as she struggled to release the harness that held her fast in the seat. The more she struggled the tighter it became until the water was all around her and she was screaming. An intake of breath and the world descended into total blackness and cold and what was left of the Mini Predator disappeared and spiralled down into the deep of the Barents Sea, lost and dead...

  Chapter 5

  The London evening traffic, as usual, was busy and frenetic; horns blaring, engines spewing out their noxious fumes, lights cutting the darkness into fine slices of white and red, shimmering under the amber street lamps. Cars, lorries, buses and taxis winding their way across the city like giant snakes to all points of the compass. Past imposing landmark buildings standing majestic and towering skyscrapers pointing like metallic fingers towards the heavens. Piccadilly Circus was alive with activity, people from every culture rubbing shoulder to shoulder in this major European city. As the snakes wound on, they would pass deprived run-down areas, where buildings were so derelict that some had been raised by fire, others had windows blown out and now only gaping black-holes existed. Where pavements were littered with rubbish and dog-crap, people trod carefully and did so warily, eyes watching one another with unease, guns and knives concealed under coats.

  The tall man stood on the pavement of the bridge, long black overcoat pulled tightly about him, silk scarf around his neck. His eyes were dark chestnut in colour and brooding, his face freshly shaved hair short and spiky, dampened by the light rain. He pulled hard on the cigarette, one last time, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and then flicked the butt over the edge of the parapet and into the Thames below where it was swept along on the surface by the strong current. He waited for a gap in the heavy traffic and then weaved his way across the road, picking his way between Range Rover Sports, Porsches, Fords and Renaults. Once on the opposite kerb he halted, momentarily, looking west, back up the river towards the Houses of Parliament and the decaying Government that it gave shelter to.

  The chill wind whipped at his face as he scratched the imaginary itch on his right ear, dark eyes glinted under the light of a street lamp. His hand brushed down the side of his long coat, and then he turned and walked briskly off the bridge and down the street, finest handmade Italian leather shoes fell solidly on the pavement. He passed a gathering of tourists who were intently listening to their tour guide, who looked up and stared at him as he passed by. He turned left down the steps that led to the Embankment and the smell of the river.

  The rain fell, cooling his face, making the black overcoat sodden. As he walked, he undid the buttons down the front and made sure that his hand could easily delve inside the jacket he was wearing; underneath to the cold metallicof the Beretta secure in its side-holster.

  Alix Knew.

  Knew, that he was being followed.

  The footsteps were almost inaudible behind him and he increased

  his stride. He blinked, raindrops falling from his eyelashes. When he reached the steps, he sprinted to the top and momentarily paused to get his bearings by a large metal wheelie-bin overflowing with rubbish and stink, turned right
and after a short distance, darted into a narrow alleyway.

  Alix halted, listening, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. He stepped backwards into the dark shadows of a goods entrance and lit a cigarette, hands cupped against the wind and rain. Smoke plumed above him, and as the slim platinum lighter was replaced in his jacket pocket so the Beretta found its way into his grip. He pulled the lethal weapon from its holster and immediately screwed the silencer in place, and then shoved it into an outside pocket of the long black overcoat.

  Still hidden by the gloom - he turned.

  A casual glance back up the alley.

  Nothing.

  Alix stepped out of the shadows and walked on down the alley,

  under metal fire escapes, under heavy drips from a dark and brooding night sky that looked down upon this over populated struggling city with malevolence. In the distance the bright sleazy neon lights of Soho glittered in the rain and Alix felt his smartphone vibrate and buzz, relaying a signal from the Scorpion Unit’s main-frame computer system. The state-of-the-art system that was running a predator detection programme that was locked onto Alix’s data-chip inside the smartphone, and was scanning a fifty metre perimeter around him, had picked up at least four assailants following. He glanced at the screen; “Shit.”

  Somebody wanted him bad...

  Alix increased his pace again, flicking the cigarette aside and taking a right, down another narrow alleyway. He moved quickly with the minimum of effort, his eyes moved up, checking, scanning and adjusting. He reached the end and moved out into a quiet side street, and singled out a parked BMW, silver with blacked out windows, almost new and standing out from the other city-scarred vehicles. He crouched behind it, sighting the Beretta down the side of the highly polished bodywork, using the door mirror to steady his aim.

  Four - maybe five...

  Damn it, thought Alix. Who was it after him? Was it an organisation, or, was it a terrorist group?

  Either way - he was in the shit and the gravest danger... If it was a terrorist group after him, taking them out would have to be quick - and would not be that easy - even though he was better trained and he had the benefit of surprise.

  Or maybe it was just a just random gang, heavily armed and out looking for an easy target to rob? If it was the latter - then the problem would be erased in a matter of a few seconds.

  Or maybe it was a rogue government dept...

  The rain continued to fall.

  Alix waited...

  A noise, firstly from the darkened doorway of a nearby shop on the opposite side of the road. The second, much louder from the alley, alerted him. He turned, eyes still watching the entrance to the alley, some twenty metres away. The noises were too loud to be made by these secret followers. There was no element of stealth...

  A group of five or six big eastern European men appeared from out of the alley, wearing the latest designer label suits and shoes. Their gazes turned towards Alix, who was by now casually leaning against their Silver BMW X5. Their faces took on a hardened expression of annoyance and anger.

  They came out of the alley and while still walking towards Alix, one of them shouted. “Get the fuck off of my car.” He had a heavy accent reminiscent of a heavy weight boxer having gone several rounds.

  “Chill out, mate. I’m not doing any harm.” Alix smiled easily.

  The response was anything but chilled - a fusillade of bullets screamed and slammed into the side of the BMW, and Alix hit the ground hard, rolled over once and fired the Beretta from under the vehicle. The first man who had spoken; went down with a shattered knee, the bullet had gone right through his knee cap - blood started to ooze down his leg as he was hit by a second round to the groin

  - he went down hard onto the ground screaming in agony. There were shouts, the other men produced small Uzi machine pistols and a small scale war ensued with the BMW X5 taking the full force of the frenzied fire-fight.

  “Bastards...”

  Alix backed away from the vehicle and into one of the shop doorways, back-kicked, the heavy looking door with as much force as he could muster, and spun into total darkness.

  Screams and the thwack of bullets ripping through flesh followed him as he continued to fire the Beretta at his pursuers.

  One of the followers had got so close behind him, that blood had spattered across the back of Alix’s overcoat from the bullet that had ripped his throat open.

  Alix ran, dodging display stands and mannequins that loomed suddenly from the gloom. The Beretta felt heavy in his hand now as he moved through to the back of the building. He glanced down at the smartphone in his other hand, the screen displayed four followers, had logged their exact position on the grid and was now plotting Alix’s escape route for him...

  A thought crossed his mind - perhaps one of the local gangs would hear the gun-fight and come running to take out these mysterious Assassins?

  No. He should assume the worst scenario; that the four left would follow; and that all four were heavily armed and under orders to seek and destroy their target - him.

  He burst out through the back door and into an alleyway. Long powerful legs pushing him forward until he came to a solid metal door that must have led out into the street on the other side, and which had a digital lock securing it. His only chance was a fire escape directly above him. Pulling down a steel first-stage ladder he took the metal plates two at a time up to the first floor; pulled the lower section up after him and continued up towards the roof of the five storey building. At the fourth floor he looked back down into the alley - there was no one following - he entered the building through a window and found himself standing in a brightly lit hallway. Residential apartments over the ground floor shops. He ran on, producing a small silent chemical detonated death grenade from his pocket, which he tossed over the edge of the stairwell. If the four men had not pursued him into the ally, it was only because they had known it to lead nowhere. This meant that they were still inside the building, and most likely closing in on him from below.

  He pulled the pin on the dull black coloured grenade and tossed it over the edge of the stairwell, Alix heard the metallic click as it hit the tiled floor of the lobby below and bounced once.

  There was a muffled crack, and then a hiss.

  A moment later, a bellow of angry hot air came back up the stairwell, rushing past him like the approach of a fast moving underground train through a tunnel. He didn’t wait around to see if the grenade had created death and carnage: if nothing else, it would make his pursuers much more cautious. His head snapped around to his right at the sound of a group of people, laughing as their party spilled out through the doorway of the flat.

  He started walking towards them, while all the time he was looking around for a way out, and then spotted the doorway to the fire escape stairwell.

  This is good, very good.

  People - they make brilliant cover...

  As dreadful as that might seem.

  He went to move past the revellers, and a young woman grabbed him playfully by the arm in her drunken state, and dragged him inside the flat to dance with her. Alix felt a little out of place wearing the long black overcoat in a room full of scantily clad university students, he removed it and managed to detach himself and decided to leave through a door on the other side of the room. He passed through another door, and into some kind of sparsely furnished smokestinking back living room, which was in desperate need of re-decorating. An untidy mess of dirty dinner plates were stacked on a low coffee table, together with a number of discarded beer cans, errant tangles of partypopper streamers and general mess. The distant music interrupted Alix’s pause for thought. Student’s party? He quickly discarded the overcoat onto a hook on the back of the door he’d just come through, made sure the Beretta was properly holstered and concealed. And went back to the party again.

  What better place to tread water for a bit - and give his pursuers time to get fed up and leave...

  Dim lighting, strobes and the flic
ker of cheap disco-lights in time to the latest girl band music mixed with cigarette smoke and the aroma of Ganja filled the air in the hot stuffy room.

  Alix picked up a can of lager from a table and pulled the tab off, taking a long swallow, while all the time his eyes surveyed the room and the group around the front door. Several girls gyrated into his path, bodies writhing in time to the beat of the music.

  Alix swiftly sidestepped groping hands, glancing behind to see the group at the front door move aside. Hard faced men, battle scarred, cold eyes displaying their utter professionalism, appeared: dark-haired and well dressed in their Italian designer suits.

  Alix stared, lips suddenly dry and the need to leave thumping in his temples.

  Who were thesepeople? Shouted his brain, searching the archives of his mind without success. He did not recognise these pursuers; but then, this information was an irrelevant factor...

  Alix reacted by pushing his way back through the crowd towards the back living room. Bullets tore through the party, plaster and woodwork exploding as they slammed into the walls; Alix rolled, darted through the doorway and into the other room. The soundtrack had changed to one of panic and hysterical screams. He grabbed his black overcoat and ran through another doorway that opened into a small bedroom.

  Trapped! Only a window. He opened it and peered over the edge

  - nothing but fresh-air for two floors and then a flat roof.

  No thought was required. He stepped up to the window sill and jumped.

  He landed heavily, rolled once and crouched on his haunches. Rapid gun-fire rang out from above, and a moment later bullets were screaming past him, slamming into brickwork off to his left. Alix slipped over the edge of the flat roof - released his grip and dropped twenty foot onto a stack of cardboard boxes below. He scrambled out from the crushed stack, and leaped lightly to the ground below.

  Ignoring the shocked looks of passers-by, Alix ran up the street, gun in hand, approaching a man sitting astride a shiny black and red Suzuki Hayabusa sports motorbike. Without time for polite niceties, Alix grabbed the man by the collar of his leather jacket and pulled him backwards on to the wet tarmac, jumped aboard the powerful machine and, with the clutch in, he kicked down. The Suzuki screamed, fumes exploding from the exhaust... The bike’s rear tyre spun furiously in the middle of the street, smoke billowing off the hot rubber as it reluctantly tried to grip the tarmac as Alix accelerated up the street. He kept his head down as bullets hailed down from the small window above, that he had just jumped out of, slamming into the bodywork of passing cars as the Suzuki’s rear wheel attempted to grip the wet tarmac.