Endwar: The Hunted

by David Michaels

  “We’re assuming the main vault is located in the old Multi Commodities Centre.”

  “Yeah, it’s there,” said Hussein. “Almas Tower. There are a lot of other ones, too. It’s easy to get confused.”

  “Exactly how much gold?”

  “That I don’t know. Chopra?”

  Chopra spoke through his teeth. “Hussein, our country needs us. We cannot go along with this anymore.”

  “I’m ordering you. You work for me. You do what I say. I’m the sheikh. Tell her.”

  Chopra took a deep breath.

  The Snow Maiden drew her silenced pistol and jammed it into his bicep. “This will hurt.”

  “Chopra, you stupid old man, tell her!” cried Hussein.

  After a few more breaths, Chopra lowered his head in defeat. He was too weak, too fearful of the pain. He was a coward, and he cursed himself for that.

  Her voice came through a hiss. “Tell me about the gold.”

  “Tell her!” Hussein cried again.

  Chopra answered, but he would not face her. “There are between five hundred and seven hundred gold bars.”

  “How much do they weigh?”

  “A lot. Four hundred troy ounces each.”

  “In kilos?”

  “About twelve each or twenty-seven pounds each. Heavy. There’s silver there as well. Each bar is worth nearly half a million U.S. dollars.”

  “So we’ll obviously need trucks. Heavy moving equipment.”

  He glowered at her. “Obviously. And you’ll need friends to move all that gold, friends you’re willing to keep alive and not throw away like garbage.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Why did you kill her? She seemed like a sweet woman. An innocent. And you just shot her.”

  “You want to know why I killed her? Because I was starting to like her. Now tell me about the security system.”

  “Go on the Web. I’m sure you can learn all you need to know ...”

  She jabbed the pistol deeper into his arm.

  “It’s the usual. Very complex biometrics: iris patterns, fingerprints, facial readers, blood vessel authentication, and blood flow sensors, all combined with traditional password protection and token codes. The live fingerprint authentication alone includes four biological markers of pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and the capillary patterns in the skin to verify fingerprints by analyzing ridges of the print as well as the depth of the valleys between the ridges.”

  “I’ve bypassed those systems.”

  “Not these. You can’t make a photocopy of someone’s thumb and use it. Or even a gel copy. These are quite literally the best in the world.”

  “Which is where you come in.”

  “Well, you should know the Al Maktoum family wouldn’t simply rely on those measures alone. The sheikh was an eccentric.” Chopra smiled darkly.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you should expect the unexpected.”

  “No, I’ll expect you to get us inside.”

  Even as he’d spoken, Chopra was already formulating a ruse, but he could not put forth the plan without the young sheikh’s help—and therein was his greatest challenge.

  “He’ll get us in,” said Hussein. “And I’ll get you the data on the oil reserves, but only if you get me something to eat.”

  “So you’ll give away your nation’s assets—all for one meal.”

  The boy shrugged. “Half the gold and one meal. I’m starving.”

  “I’ve already ordered,” said the Snow Maiden. “And new clothes will be here shortly. You’ll both shower and change.”

  “What you’re attempting is quite huge,” said Chopra. “And have you considered the radiation? Exposure has been limited to less than eight hours without full NBC suits.”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

  “I don’t know. I ask. You never answer. Why don’t you tell me? Are you terrorists?”

  She chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Then what is your purpose?”

  “Well, that’s philosophical, isn’t it?”

  Chopra stiffened. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  “Then you can just listen,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “When I was a little girl, my father told my brothers and me a story about an old woman who lived in our town, and she was tired and old and couldn’t afford to eat, so she would go into the market and steal some bread or soup, or people would give her a handout. She got caught stealing some potatoes one day, and they hauled her off to jail. And my father never saw her again.”

  The Snow Maiden just sat there, staring through him, reliving the moment.

  “Was she put to death?” asked Chopra.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think my father knew, but he never trusted the government after that. And he taught us to be afraid of the police.”

  “Why does this bother you?”

  “Because one day, I’ll be that woman, and they’ll lock me away because I stole some potatoes, and that will be my life.”

  “I’m here to change that young man, to make him recognize that he was not born to live an ordinary life. He will change. It’s never too late.”

  The Snow Maiden just looked at him, as though yearning for change herself.

  Thirty-six hours later, Brent, his team, Thomas Voeckler, and Schoolie rendezvoused with the USS Florida in the Gulf of Oman, fifty miles south of the strait. The small-boat personnel transfer between their cruiser, USS Gettysburg CG-64, and the Virginia-class nuclear submarine took place at 0300. All boarded the nuclear submarine and were issued thermoluminescent dosimeters worn on their belts. The units, about the size of a deck of cards, measured their total radiation dosage while onboard and were worn at all times. This wasn’t the first time Brent had taken a ride aboard one of the JSF Navy’s finest, but Thomas was new to it all, so the others took turns ribbing him over his naïveté and hundred questions.

  They were all given a refresher course in life aboard a submarine, and Brent had been escorted to the captain’s stateroom by the ship’s XO.

  Commander Jonathan Andreas was seated at a fold-out desk, working the touchpad of a small computer. Andreas, who couldn’t be much older than Brent and had salt-and-pepper hair, gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Our lockout trunk is good for nine, so you’ll have to lock out in two evolutions. My SEAL chiefs will provide the training to your newbies. They’ll also deliver all of your heavier gear, including your combat suits, with our wet vehicle. You’ve seen one of the SDVs in action, I assume?”

  Brent nodded. The older-model SEAL Delivery Vehicle was a torpedo-shaped craft that cut through the ocean at six knots and expedited the transfer of a team’s worth of gear. Brent was thankful for the help. Anything they could do to decrease their infiltration time was welcome. Two full evolutions of the lockout trunk was going to slow them down already, and it was his intention to establish an effective web of observation posts in and around Dubai before the Snow Maiden arrived. It all sounded excellent in theory. It always did.

  The lockout drills were performed quickly, with each group standing inside the trunk in rising water, exiting the submarine, and reentering. There was some concern over Thomas’s ability to remain calm, but the Splinter Cell went through the motions quite admirably. Afterward, Brent congratulated the man and said his brother would have been proud. Thomas agreed.

  Lakota brushed past Brent in the confined passageway outside his stateroom and asked if he’d ever had sex onboard a submarine.

  He stood there, dumbfounded, speechless, shocked even ...

  And then just as quickly, she sang, “Kidding ...” and started away.

  “That’s sexual harassment,” he said.

  She glanced back salaciously. “So?”

  “I could write you up for that.”

  “Before or after?”

  She rounded the corner, gone.
/>   “Damn,” he muttered. If insubordination didn’t get him busted out of the Army, temptation like that would.

  “Captain?” called the ship’s XO. “We have Major Dennison for you. She’s got updated intelligence on your target. If you’ll follow me ...”

  “Does it sound good?” Brent asked.

  “There’s a lot of activity at your infiltration point. And there’s been some Russian sub movement. We might even have a shadow. You boys come with a lot of baggage.”

  “Yeah. It is what it is.”

  The meeting with Patti was canceled, and that same morning a private jet belonging to the Ganjin flew the Snow Maiden, Hussein, and Chopra from Geneva to Fujairah, one of the seven oil-rich emirates that made up the old United Arab Emirates. Fujairah was located on the Gulf of Oman, about an hour’s car ride directly east of Dubai. They were put up in the Hilton Fujairah Resort, where they were to remain until Patti called and was ready with the trucks and team that would head west.

  Without notice, a knock came at the door. The Snow Maiden drew her weapon, asked who it was. Room service. She checked the peephole.

  Two men stood there: one wearing a hotel uniform and pushing a cart that carried food and bags of clothing. The other guy wore a long overcoat and had the dark but graying hair and pale skin of an Eastern European. She guessed he was about fifty.

  She opened the door, keeping her weapon hidden behind her back, and allowed the cart pusher to enter.

  The other man immediately said, “Viktoria, come with me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked, raising her pistol to his forehead. “Maybe you should come with me.”

  “I’m in the room next door. He’ll keep an eye on Chopra and the boy.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A colleague of Patti’s. Lower that weapon. Right now.”

  The Snow Maiden thought a second—he knew who she was, knew about Chopra, and knew Patti. She lowered the gun but remained tense and ready. “Answer my question.”

  “I will. Come on,” he said.

  She followed him to the next room, where inside, seated at the desk near the window, Patti smoked a cigarette and sipped a cup of tea. “Sit down, Viktoria. And please keep your mouth closed and listen.”

  “That would be wise,” added the other man.

  “This is Igany Fedorovich,” Patti began. “He’s director of SinoRus Group oil exploration. They have headquarters on Sakhalin Island. That’s just north of Japan.”

  “And he’s a member of the Ganjin,” added the Snow Maiden.

  “Of course.”

  Fedorovich looked at the Snow Maiden and put a finger across his lips.

  Patti continued, “What I’m about to tell you, very few people in this world have heard. And if they learn that you know who they are, you will be a target.”

  The Snow Maiden smirked; tell her something she didn’t know. Everyone already wanted her dead. Take a number.

  “Ganjin as a concept was born many years ago, back in the 1970s, during the fall of the Communist regime. The movement was the precursor in China toward capitalistic individualism and enabled the beehive mentality of Chinese society to restructure into many hives. The concept also prompted Xu Liangyu and Isaac Eisenstein, two classmates at Harvard, to consider how the concept could be used to gain control of the world’s natural and socioeconomic resources.”

  The Snow Maiden yawned. “Kill me now before this history lesson continues.”

  “Quiet,” snapped Patti. “You need to understand this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re part of it.”

  “I quit. You’re here. You got the old man and the kid, who by the way is a spoiled punk who would sell his own mother to the devil. I’m done. You do the rest. I want to be paid right now.”

  “You’ll do as we say—otherwise, you’ll receive nothing.”

  The Snow Maiden raised her pistol at Patti’s head. “Payment now. Electronically as usual.”

  Ignoring the pistol, Patti forged on: “Liangyu and Eisenstein were joined by myself, Igany here, and Dominico DiNezzo, who’s president of the Vatican Bank and the man who discovered the existence of Mr. Manoj Chopra. We called ourselves the Committee of Five, members of the Ganjin, a network that extends over the entire globe. We’ve influenced this war in ways you can’t imagine, and all for the benefit of the People’s Republic of China, a nation we once believed would win this war and become the world’s only remaining superpower.”

  “So I’ve been working for China.”

  “Indirectly, yes.”

  “What’s wrong, then? I can hear it in your voice.”

  Fedorovich moved in beside Patti. “The committee has split. Patti and I do not agree with the Ganjin’s new direction.”

  “They no longer support China?” asked the Snow Maiden.

  “They’ve linked with the Green Brigade Transnational. They’ve extended their network into South America. They’re being heavily influenced by those factions, and many of our resources within China have turned their backs on us because they will not endorse those relationships. The Chinese have very careful and thoughtful plans to seize control of the Russian Federation, but these South American factions can undermine those plans.”

  “So that’s how Nestes knew who you were,” said the Snow Maiden.

  Patti nodded. “I gave him orders to protect you against attack, but he double-crossed me, then tried to play a different card with you. I’m glad you saw through him.”

  “He just knew too much. So I killed him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what now?”

  “We’re breaking off from the Ganjin. We plan to form a new international health organization. We’re getting out of the business of war and into the business of peace. And Dubai’s gold and oil reserves will help fund our efforts.”

  “You already work for the World Health Organization.”

  She closed her eyes. “We are as corrupt and unmanageable as the Ganjin itself.”

  The Snow Maiden shrugged. “Look, this is all very admirable, but I still haven’t been paid.”

  “We’ll offer an additional advance on services rendered,” said Fedorovich. “But what we’re really offering, Viktoria, is something more—a seat as director of intelligence.”

  “You’re going to screw over the Ganjin, and you’re going to use me to do it. And you don’t think they’ll be mad about that?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Patti. “They won’t live long enough to get upset.”

  The Snow Maiden laughed. “This is insane.”

  “Viktoria, this entire operation has been run entirely through me. They have no idea that you’ve located Chopra and are here. I’ve misdirected them from the beginning.”

  She turned away from both of them, feeling a chill run up her spine. “I can’t trust you. Why did I think I could?”

  “We assumed you’d feel this way, which is why we thought we’d make a peace offering.”

  “The money ...”

  “And him,” added Patti.

  The Snow Maiden turned to face Patti. “Him?”

  “Colonel Pavel Doletskaya, a man who loves you more than anything in this world. He’s being held at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida.”

  “I thought you said a peace offering—what are you going to do? Use him to blackmail me into this? Go ahead, kill him! I don’t care! Do it!”

  Fedorovich put a hand on her shoulder. “On the contrary, Viktoria. Within six hours, he’ll be a free man.”

  “Impossible.”

  “We have a sleeper on the inside,” said Patti. “This individual has been a project for many years and is now a high-ranking mole in the Joint Strike Force. Pavel will be at your side very soon.”

  NINETEEN

  USS Florida SSN-805

  Virginia-Class Nuclear Submarine

  Persian Gulf

  Brent and his team were just south of Abu Musa, part of a six-island archipelago ne
ar the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz. Iran had once established a special weapons facility there, but it had been destroyed hours before the nuclear exchange with Saudi Arabia.

  Commander Andreas had suggested they take advantage of the littoral capabilities of his Virginia-class sub. The Persian Gulf had a maximum depth of ninety meters and an average depth of fifty meters. Florida measured 15.85 meters from the bottom of her keel to the tip of her sail, and thus she could get in tight to the coast while using her electronic “big ear” to help Brent with situational awareness.

  Once in position, Brent thanked Andreas and issued orders for his group to begin lockout. The first group left the sub and assisted the SEAL chiefs in their efforts to store the load-out bags aboard the delivery vehicle. Those bags included the combat suits, helmets, weapons, liquid fuel and batteries for the suits, and other communications and intelligence-gathering equipment.

  Brent, Lakota, and four others from the group, including Schoolie and Thomas, entered the lockout chamber in their wet suits, with their Draeger LAR-Vs buckled to their chests. The Draegers were closed-circuit breathing systems sans the telltale bubbles of conventional scuba gear and were standard issue for “black” operations. Even Thomas had taken a course on their operation as part of his Splinter Cell training. Once sealed, the chamber began flooding with cold seawater.

  Dennison’s update regarding the target zone had been brief, and the Snow Maiden had yet to be sighted within the heavily observed five-kilometer perimeter. However, Dennison had once more confirmed that the woman had been in Geneva, as evidenced by the dead operatives in her wake. The major had then turned her attention to Dubai itself, where satellite streams picked up a large militia force. Those well-armed combatants patrolled the streets for eight or so hours at a time, then retreated in boats to the offshore islands, where radiation levels were a bit lower. The patrols were replaced by secondary groups, but for about eight hours each day, usually during nine A.M. to five P.M., the city remained empty.

  Much of Dubai’s infrastructure was still intact following the nuclear exchange between its neighbors, including the Burj Dubai or “Dubai Tower,” once the tallest human-made structure ever built at 2,684 feet before it was supplanted by the Chinese “Tower to the Sun,” completed in 2019.