by Rob Jones
Scarlet glanced at her watch. “We’re really going to have to do something about that gut of yours. That was over two minutes.”
“I do not have a gut.”
“You tell yourself that.”
The banter was broken by more gunfire, and they dived for cover behind one of the four main support struts. They knew their time was running out. On the far wall Hawke saw the control mechanism for the main entrance to the platform’s topside and knew there was only one play.
“There it is,” he said. “That’s our way to the platform – this must be how people arriving by ship get up top.”
He leaped from the cover of the strut and sprinted as fast as he could toward the control panel. Anticipating a savage volley of defensive fire he wasn’t disappointed when they let rip with their weapons, and he immediately launched himself into a full-speed parkour roll. As he tumbled over on his shoulder against the cold, slippery steel rivets and plates of the platform floor, he heard the bullets from their automatic rifles tracing over his head and pinging off the scaffolding on the east side of the platform.
He came out of the roll running and then dived behind the main strut on the south side. Wasting no time he pulled the lever down and a bright green light on the control panel flickered to life followed by an ear-piercing klaxon as the Seastead’s entrance began to slide slowly open. He noticed that beneath them a bidirectional tidal gate was also opening allowing the sea into the area below the structure.
Still under heavy fire, he returned the same way he had come with a second parkour roll, only this time they were ready and their aim was better. He felt one bullet rip into the sole of his boot halfway through the roll. But then he was back where he started beside Scarlet.
“And that was forty seconds,” Scarlet said with a sigh. “I could have done it in half that time. You really do want me to start calling you Joe Pork, don’t you?”
“Try it,” he said. “If you think Cairo’s the worst I can come up with, think again.”
“Point taken.”
The entrance was now almost fully open and the men began to retreat up the ramp leading to the topside. They were fleeing the incoming danger now racing toward them thanks to Hawke opening the gates. Below, the storm outside powered the yacht into the heart of the Seastead’s docking area on the beat of the raging ocean below its hull. Boats didn’t have brakes, and Hawke knew it was coming in too fast. He winced as the savage pulse of the raging storm powered the boat’s bow into the steel wall at the end of the docking bay.
He guessed the yacht belonged to whoever owned this place, and after Ryan’s tattoo observation on the chopper there was only one intelligent guess as to who that was – the Oracle. The fact he had just trashed his yacht brought a quick smile to his face, but the mission had only just started.
“Come on,” he said. “We have work to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Deep in the substructure on the far side of the platform, Reaper, Lexi, Maria and Ryan were in hot pursuit of Dirk Kruger, Korać, Luk and Kamchatka. The former legionnaire’s eyes were peeled as they moved stealthily through the forest of support struts and pipes. Somewhere down here in this industrial jungle were four of the most dangerous men he had ever met, and now they were cornered animals, trapped on a maniac’s secret ocean base with no chance of escape except a violent and bloody shootout.
“It’s four on four,” Reaper said. “They’re ours for the taking.”
And then he saw them – quick as a flash and then gone again. They had broken into two groups. The South African and the Serb had gone to the north while Mr Luk and Kamchatka had made tracks to the south.
“We need to split up,” he said. “I’ll take Ryan and go after Kruger and Korać. Maria – you go after Luk and Kamchatka.” He turned to Lexi. “I need you to get ready to blow up that refinery.”
“Got it,” Lexi said with a cold smile.
“Move out!” Reaper said,
The Frenchman led Ryan through a cloud of steam emanating from a cooling duct and noticed the young man was sticking close by. To their right he heard one of the men they were hunting slip on something and curse as he stopped himself from falling over.
Reaper yelled at Ryan to get down and the next second he was unloading his mag at the targets. Korać was faster than Kruger, but they were soon tucked down behind one of the support struts and returning fire.
“They’re looking for a way out of here,” Reaper said, dodging a bullet. “And they’re putting their money on a boat moored down in the docking bay.”
More bullets traced around them and Reaper saw Korać was now covering for Kruger as he was trying to descend the scaffold toward the marina below them. “It’s now or never, Ryan!”
*
Maria Kurikova moved stealthily along the perimeter gangway running around the western edge of the Seastead as she moved south in her pursuit of Luk and Kamchatka. Her face was as cold steel as she moved through the sea spray, gun in her hand. The Russian hitman Kamchatka had tried to kill Lexi in Berlin and by the look on her face this was payback time.
Then she saw something and turned.
Without aiming, Kamchatka fired on her from the hip. The muzzle flash produced a cloud of gunsmoke, and then Maria took cover behind the scaffolding.
Luk and Kamchatka now retreated further into the shadows, keeping up a barrage of fire to hold the ECHO member back, but Maria Kurikova was having none of it.
She powered forward with her gun in her hand, keeping low to avoid the bullets tracing overhead, and took cover behind a stack of crates covered in some plastic tarp. More bullets raced overhead, and she knew she had only one magazine to take both of them out. She made a silent prayer and resumed the pursuit.
*
Korać was now crouch-walking backwards using the cowling of an elevator motor for cover. Kruger was further down and on the marina now, making his way to a boat moored on one of the jetties. Thanks to Hawke opening the bidirectional tidal gate all of the boats were now getting smashed about by the sea and the South African was having a hard time finding one that was still seaworthy, never mind trying to get on board one of them.
Reaper fired on Korać, but missed. The Serbian commander was as hard-nosed and battle-worn as they came, and barely flinched as the bullet ricocheted off a steel girder a few inches from his head. With a Heckler & Koch MP7 gripped firmly in his hands he spat fire right back at Reaper and Ryan, keeping the bursts short and professional.
“Reap!” Ryan yelled. “Head’s up on Kruger in the marina – he’s getting on a boat!”
Reaper looked through a gap in the platform and saw the South African clambering up onto the bow of a large powerboat rocking violently back and forth on the furthest jetty. The plan was obviously to drive the thing right out of the tidal gate and worry about its range later when he was free of the danger on the Seastead.
Korać had also heard Ryan’s scream, and turned to see his benefactor deserting him. Reaper didn’t need an invitation to take advantage of a mistake like that and took the shot.
He was wide, striking the Serbian in the shoulder and knocking him back to his left. He grunted in pain but there was no scream. He began to move back and flipped over on his stomach to belly crawl his way to the powerboat. “Dirk! Wait for me!”
Kruger ignored him, and began to steer the boat along the marina in the direction of the gates.
Korać cursed him and fired a burst of shots at the boat, but realising he had limited rounds and that killing the enemy was more important than taking Kruger out, he turned the gun back on Reaper and Ryan.
Reaper returned fire and sent the Serb scuttling back into the shadows again, and then glanced at Kruger below. “Bon sang! He’s getting away!”
“No he damn well isn’t!” Ryan said, and leaped from the platform.
Reaper was in shock as he watched the young man plummeting through the air toward the water below, but he had timed it perfectly and landed with a heavy
smack on the bow of the powerboat.
“Ryan!” Reaper yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”
But Ryan couldn’t hear, and all the Frenchman could do was watch as the young man made his way from the bow to the bridge. A moment later he was fighting with Dirk Kruger, hand to hand on the starboard bow while the boat moved through the water with no one at the controls.
Reaper’s focus was brought back by a bullet whistling an inch past his nose. He threw himself down to avoid the next bullet and give himself time to reload his gun. As he smacked the magazine into the grip he heard more rapid firing and pulled himself up to look through a crack to see Korać having one last shot at the man who had betrayed him and left him for dead.
Below, Dirk Kruger and Ryan Bale were now fighting on the stern of the boat, but their struggle was interrupted by the sound of the gunfire aimed at them. They both looked up and saw the Serb pouring fire down on them. Ryan moved first, and went to dive off the boat. Kruger hesitated for a second before following him in an attempt to escape the savage fire of the submachine gun, but then it happened.
And Reaper saw it first.
Korać wasn't aiming for the fighting men but for the gas tank.
And he hit it before either man had abandoned the powerboat.
Reaper yelled. “Non!” but it was too late. The bullets tore into the gas tank and ignited the fuel and a split second later the entire boat was a vicious fireball engulfing both men. Reaper could hardly believe what he had just seen and screamed with rage as the acrid black smoke of the burning wreckage reached his nostrils.
His eyes hurriedly scanned the surface of the water for survivors but there was nothing except fire and smoke. He yelled and spun around, bringing his gun into the aim with Dragan Korać’s stubble-covered face bang-smack in the center of his sights.
The Serb smirked and raised the HK at him, squeezing the trigger, barely able to conceal his delight at the thought of filling the Frenchman full of lead, but instead he got nothing more than the hollow click of dry-firing and realized he had used his ammo destroying the powerboat.
“Please!” he pleaded, dropping the submachine gun and raising his hands.
“A mercenary never begs for his life,” Reaper said. “Only for a quick death.”
And with that he emptied his magazine into the Serbian’s chest, blasting him back into a dead heap that tumbled down the steel steps behind him and landed with a bloody crunch on the marina.
Reaper looked down with disgust as a wave reached up and heaved Korać ’s corpse back into the freezing brine of the sea.
But there was no satisfaction, only the terrible empty feeling of irretrievable loss as he thought about Ryan.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Kim Taylor unleashed a ruthless salvo of bullets from the submachine gun as she fought with everything she had to safeguard the island’s last line of defense. She pushed them back and Eden shut the electric door again. The men who landed in the Black Hawk had made their way to the bunker with terrifying speed.
“We can’t keep them out of here forever,” Kim said. “Any chance your Dad never got your phone call, Alex?”
“He got it… I hope.”
Eden checked the CCTV and frowned. “And now our friends are coming back with explosives. They’re going to blow the door open.”
“Let’s see them try,” Kim said, bringing the submachine gun to her hip once again. “Open the door!”
Eden hit the button and Kim fired more rounds into the corridor, taking out one of the men and causing the others to retreat once again.
“Keep it up, Kim!” Alex shouted. “The cavalry’s here.”
Kim turned and looked on the one remaining plasma screen to see several fighter jets screeching across the sky. On their tails were the instantly recognizable skull-and-crossbones of the VFA-103 Strike Fighter Squadron, better known to the world as the Jolly Rogers, assigned to Carrier Air Wing Seven. “When most people ask their Dads for help, Alex, they don’t usually get an aircraft carrier strike group.”
Alex shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? The USS Harry Truman is two hundred miles north so Dad sent these guys down to help, I guess.”
“We owe him,” Eden said, the relief obvious on his face as he closed the door one more time. “Let’s hope they’re not too late.”
*
Captain Jonathan “Poker” White pulled on the stick and raised the nose of his F/A-18F Super Hornet. Instantly he was pulling three Gs as the fighter jet tipped on her starboard side and turned around the small island below. From up here it looked barely inhabitable except for the small complex set in between the two mountains either side of it.
Behind him, Lieutenant Commander Ben “Sleuth” Holmes, the crew commander, was scanning above his head for the Apache. One was still down at sea level but one had climbed higher to evade them.
“Bandit at three o’clock,” Sleuth said. “Angels Two.”
Poker pulled harder and brought the Super Hornet around another forty-five degrees, ascending to two thousand feet. The rogue Apache was in visual range now and Sleuth went to launch one of the missiles.
“Wait a minute,” said Poker. “They got US markings! They’re friendly.”
“Orders are to take them out, Captain,” Commander Holmes said coolly.
“They’re American choppers!”
“We don’t know who’s in ’em or why they’re doing what they’re doing. Our orders are to take them out so they’re out.”
“All right – we’re on the bug,” Poker replied.
In his capacity as the Weapon Systems Officer, or Wizzo, Holmes activated a Skyflash air-to-air missile and fired. It ripped away from the Super Hornet and closed in on the Apache at a terrifying velocity.
The chopper executed an evasive manoeuvre and the missile tore past it with a foot to spare. The helicopter exploited the F18’s faster speed and slowed to a hover forcing the jet to pass over it. Then they fired.
“We have a spike at six o’clock,” Sleuth said, watching the radar.
Poker banked hard to port and the missile missed.
“We’re vaping like a freight train, Sleuth. They’ll be able to see us for miles.”
“Go around.”
Poker flew the F18 in a circuit and the other Apache came into view. It was hovering over the island preparing to fire another missile at the main compound.
Sleuth fired another Skyflash and this time they were luckier. A second later the chopper was a fireball.
They went around once more and now the last surviving Apache was trying to retreat. One Skyflash later it was a shower of burning metal.
“What about the Black Hawk on the beach?”
“Take her out.”
This time the Wizzo selected an AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missile and three seconds later the Black Hawk on the ground was blasted to pieces. Stinking black smoke bloomed up from the paradise below.
“We’re all done here,” Sleuth said. “That’s an RTB. I repeat an RTB.”
“That was no USAF flying that Apache,” Poker said. “He was a total grape.”
“All right, let’s firewall this baby and go home.”
*
Kim Taylor and Richard Eden fought the last of the men back along the corridor and pursued them out of the complex, using their order to retreat to their advantage. On the beach, the men scrambled desperately to get into the Black Hawk, but Eden pushed forward with his machine pistol.
Driven by the instinct to protect the island and everyone on it, he fought fiercer than ever. Using the palms along the backshore for cover, he poured fire on the men as they climbed into the chopper. His bullets struck one man in the back and he tumbled out of the chopper and crashed dead into the sand, but the others were on board and the rotors were powering up to raise the helicopter off the beach and get to safety.
“They’re pretty damn desperate to get out of here!” Kim said.
“Something tells me they don’t want
us to know who they are,” Eden replied, firing again and striking the side of the chopper. He ran forward another twenty yards and aimed at the underside of the machine when it happened.
From her elevated position on the dunes, Kim saw it first. “Rich! Take cover!”
He looked up to see an AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missile racing from one of the Super Hornets toward the fleeing chopper. He turned on his heel and sprinted away from the doomed helicopter as fast as he could, but in his heart he knew no one outruns a missile travelling at over a thousand kilometres per hour.
The chopper spun around and pulled up in a vain attempt to dodge the Maverick but it was like a dairy cow trying to outrun a hyena.
The gigantic explosion blasted the chopper into a fireball and propelled Eden through the air in the terrific heat and flames of its shockwave. Kim gasped as she watched the ECHO leader spinning through the burning chaos and crash down hard on the rocks dividing the berm from the backshore.
In the sky, the three Super Hornets turned in perfect unison to the north, their afterburners roaring as they accelerated and gained altitude for the ride back to the strike group. Far below, Kim Taylor ran through the smoke pouring from the Black Hawk’s wreckage to reach Eden as fast as she could.
When she got to him she thought the worst. He was unconscious and his head was smashed into the rocks. Blood was dripping down over his face from the terrible gash on his temple as she dropped to her knees beside him and cradled his head in her hand.
“What happened?”
She looked over her shoulder and saw Alex pushing her wheelchair as far as it would go.
“It’s Rich,” Kim said. “I’m not sure… he got blasted pretty bad when they blew up the chopper.”
“Oh Jesus…” Alex ran her hands over her face. How much more of this could they endure, she thought.
“We need help, Alex.”
