Callsign: Deep Blue - Book 1 (A Tom Duncan - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  Oh yes, he thought. I am completely involved now.

  He went out of the tent and filled a small plastic resealable bag with snow and chunks of ice he carved out of the frozen ground with the retractable spikes on his boots. When the bag was full, he used a roll of neon green duct-tape to strap it to his aching shoulder and pulled his environment suit on over the improvised ice pack. He thought dark and grim thoughts the whole time. He wanted answers. He wanted names. He wanted to see someone bleed…

  After Curtis and Eva were just finished dressing and Quinn had come back into the tent, Eva heard the sound.

  “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  “Helicopter.” Quinn frowned as he went back out again.

  The other two followed him out and scanned the skies for the distant thumping sound. Snow was beginning to fall again. They were close to the river they had just escaped, and as Quinn searched the sky for a helicopter, he realized they were completely hemmed in on all sides by the dusty brown hills and brilliant blue and white snow covered mountains. They were in a valley, and they were sitting ducks if the chopper wasn’t friendly. He was about to suggest they try to find some cover somewhere, but it was too late.

  The twin-turbine Bell 214 helicopter came screaming over a low range of hills and into the valley. It was the regularly scheduled ARGO supply helicopter that was supposed to stop by the Sunnydale camp. The logo on the side of the white fuselage simply said ARGO with a stylized mountaineering ice ax underlining the acronym. But it was a day early, and it was moving way too fast.

  “Crap on toast!” Johnson clearly understood the implications of the helicopter’s untimely arrival.

  They were all running in different directions when the angry sputtering blizzard of gunfire began. The line of fire ripped right through their tent, and the spot where they had all been standing just seconds before. Quinn recognized the sound. It was the almost leisurely cycle of an AK-47 assault rifle. The chopper blazed past on its first attack run, and Quinn caught a glimpse of both the unfamiliar Chinese pilot and the gunman in the open side cargo door with the Russian-designed weapon. Quinn continued his sprint back toward the river, hoping the helicopter would follow him.

  Eva had changed her path to catch up with Curtis, and the two of them scrambled frantically for the cover of some small rocks and boulders. The helicopter had turned and was coming in fast and low, straight toward Quinn, since Johnson and Eva were now crouched down and out of sight. The rifle burst to life again, and a series of what looked like fountains of snow erupted straight up out of the ground, as bullets swept in a line toward Quinn. Just as the line of fire was about to rip him in half, he leapt up and sideways, landing hard in the snow, on his already injured shoulder. He swore, rolled, and sprinted in the other direction, back toward their camp. The helicopter banked sharply, and came at Quinn again. This time as the line of fire raked near to Quinn, he leapt into the air and performed an excellent back flip, landing in the snow on his stomach. The bullets grazed by close enough for him to smell the scorched air in their trail. He was getting tired and knew he had to do something about the shooter first.

  As the helicopter raced skyward to perform another twisting banking maneuver, Quinn sprinted for all he was worth toward the frozen river, and dove head first into a slide across the ice. When he hit the other bank, he scooped up a rock the size of a melon, rolled, got to his feet, and stood perfectly still on the ice with an angry, defiant look on his face. The rock, held slightly behind his thigh, was concealed from the view of the approaching helicopter.

  Quinn made no move and the approaching helicopter slowed. He could see the shooter replacing the curved magazine on the rifle, and chambering the first round. The helicopter slowed to a crawl, hovering over the frozen river, and turning broadside toward Quinn, so the open cargo door faced him head-on. The Chinese rifleman just looked slightly puzzled. Quinn didn’t move. He just breathed in slowly, readying himself for the task ahead. Curtis and Eva looked on in frightened silence from their hiding place.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Curtis asked.

  When it happened, it was like a slow motion scene from a fast-paced Hong Kong action movie. Curtis could swear that both Quinn and the Chinese shooter moved in perfect unison like gun-fighters in the Old West. The shooter had switched to single-fire, leveled the rifle and fired a round in one fluid motion. Quinn sprung into the air horizontally, and launched his rock with his injured right arm. The bullet grazed Quinn’s shoulder as he was in mid-leap. The plastic sack of snow and ice sprayed outwards away from Quinn’s body, as did a small arcing spurt of blood. About a fraction of a second later, the rock smashed into the shooter’s face, which burst in a geyser of twinkling maroon droplets. The man’s body pitched forward, rifle and all, plunged downwards, crashed through the frozen surface of the river just a couple of feet below the helicopter, and disappeared from view completely. Quinn crashed into a crumpled heap in the snow on the bank, and Curtis came rushing toward him. Eva remained behind and watched as the confused helicopter pilot suddenly banked the craft hard and raced away from the scene. At first, it looked as if the man would completely retreat, but then the vehicle turned again, and launched forward as if fired from a large slingshot, only this time it was coming in at a steep bank, as if the pilot hoped to slice Quinn and Johnson to pieces with the rotor blades.

  “Un-imaginative fuck,” Quinn shouted. Curtis, who had just arrived as Quinn was getting to his feet, chuckled as he had been thinking the same thing when he saw the pilot dip the blades and launch his new action-movie-inspired attack. The men both dove in opposite directions into the snow to escape the roaring blades, as the craft shot over them.

  “Nice move with the AK. Now what?” Curtis yelled over the roar or the attacking chopper, as they stumbled to their feet in preparation for the next pass.

  “Keep him guessing.”

  Quinn sprinted away from Curtis, and the pilot now found he had to choose a target. He went for Johnson. As soon as Quinn saw, he shifted the direction of his run, back toward Johnson, and the helicopter bearing down on him. Johnson dove laterally into the snow and Quinn came into the pilot’s view long enough to catch the pilot’s eye. The chopper shifted direction wildly. Quinn sprinted again, and then dove to his right into a deep snowdrift as Johnson was again coming into the pilot’s view. The tactic was working. The pilot couldn’t decide who to chase and was getting frustrated. Finally, he decided on Quinn and stuck with him. Quinn knew it wouldn’t take long. The dance between the slicing blades and the running man continued, and Johnson took advantage of his own brief respite to run toward the shredded campsite. He grabbed a climbing rope with an aluminum carabiner attached to it and began swinging it overhead like a lasso. He really didn’t expect it to work, but thought: What the hell?

  Johnson ran toward the battle scene, most of the rope trailing behind him, and a ten-foot long section of it swirling over his head with the weight of the aluminum biner. Eva thought momentarily that he looked like he was trying to become some kind of human helicopter, to battle the maddened pilot of the ARGO supply vehicle. As Quinn once again checked his running in time to dive away from the rotor blades, Johnson reached the distance he needed, and launched his makeshift bolas weapon. The rope sailed through the air, biner first, but as it approached the rotors, they sliced the rope into an array of short lengths, and the flight of the craft wasn’t even affected.

  The craft aimed at Johnson next, and Quinn just managed to escape the horrible blast of the blades. Quinn was up on his feet again and running toward the helicopter as it banked. This time the pilot banked so that the rotor blades were closer to the ground. He knew Quinn would try to leap aside at the last minute, and the pilot planned to yank hard on the control stick as soon as he detected which direction his quarry would turn—which is exactly why Quinn’s plan worked. As the craft almost smashed head on into him, Quinn flung himself backwards onto the ground. He landed on his back with a bone-jarring thump, and
the whirl of the blades was over his face almost instantly. A second later, Quinn reached up.

  Then the world was flying by. He had grabbed the landing strut with both arms and gotten his left leg hooked around it as well. The timing was split second—but it had worked. Quinn was now hitching a free ride, just a few feet off the ground as the helicopter raced ahead and prepared to make its turn for the next attack run. As the craft began to gain altitude for its turn, Quinn released his grip. The ride had landed him on the hard packed snow close to the ruins of the campsite. Johnson saw the unusual stunt and ran a little slower, acting as a lure for the chopper. He suspected Quinn had something up his sleeve. He just hoped it worked and that it worked quickly.

  Johnson and Quinn were in their 30s. Both men were at the peak of human fitness from mountaineering and non-stop training for their climbing trips. But even those in excellent physical shape can only take so much. Johnson was huffing and puffing heavily, as the sustained running and jumping had nearly worn him out. A plume of breath came out of his nose and mouth as he ran. He scanned the ground and found what he was looking for. He lunged downward, scooped up his own good-sized rock, turned, and launched it toward the cockpit of the helicopter as it roared at him. The rock smashed into the Plexiglas and sent out fracture lines, but the pilot of the craft wasn’t fazed. The damage was certainly not enough to be cause for ending the chase.

  The pilot banked once again, and was planning to bring the rotor blades within inches of the ground. He was tiring of the game, and wanted the infidels to die already. As he brought the vehicle up to turn, Quinn was running away from the ruins of the camp and toward the chopper again. But this time his hands were full. In his left, he held the flare gun that had been in his pack, and in his right, he held the twin ice axes connected by the nylon webbing. He brought the flare gun up and fired it at the chopper during its bank. The flare went right into the cargo compartment. The interior burst into flame. There was no big Hollywood-style explosion as Eva had expected, as she watched the craziness from the shelter of her boulder. Just some small flames in the interior of the bird as it raced again at Quinn.

  The pilot was distracted by the flame. Concerned, if not panicked. It was all Quinn had been hoping for. His next trick would be tough and would certainly be harder if the pilot was hell bent on killing him with the blades. Jason Quinn waited as long as he could. The helicopter was coming for him. Slower than it had been perhaps, but the rotor blades would carve him up at any speed. Instead of the bolas-style attack Curtis had used, Quinn just threw the axes straight at the rotor blades, aiming for the motor mount. The blades and the core of the ax shafts were made from one of the hardest substances known to man. If they won’t fuck up the damn blades, then I don’t know what will. He just stood still watching the damage unfold, waiting to see which direction he should dodge to avoid any shrapnel if there would be time. As it turned out, he decided to stand perfectly still.

  The axes didn’t glance off the blades as Quinn feared they might. They plunged right into the rotation of the blades, and ripped one of them right off the mount. The nose of the craft made a sudden dip and slammed straight downward into the frozen ground. The long rotor blades all slammed the ground at the side of the bird, digging deep into the ground before snapping off, one after the other. Naturally, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Again, no huge explosion. No shrapnel. No flying debris. Just a shriek of sound like a car accident and it was over. The craft sat crunched into the ground less than three feet in front of where Quinn stood bleeding and breathing hard.

  ###

  -SAMPLE-

  THE SENTINEL by JEREMY BISHOP

  Available on Kindle: Click here to buy!

  DESCRIPTION:

  In the frigid waters off the Arctic Ocean, north of Greenland, the anti-whaling ship, The Sentinel, and her crew face off against a harpoon ship in search of Humpback whales. When the two ships collide and a suspicious explosion sends both ships to the bottom, the crews take refuge on what they think is a peninsula attached to the mainland, but is actually an island, recently freed from a glacial ice bridge.

  Seeking shelter, the two opposing crews scour the island for resources. Instead, they find Viking artifacts, the preserved remains of an ancient structure and a stone totem warning of horrible creatures buried in the island's caves. Facing violent, frigid storms, a hungry polar bear and the very real possibility that they are stranded without hope of rescue, Jane Harper leads the two crews, who must work together to defend themselves against an ancient evil upon which the modern stories of both zombies and vampires are based upon.

  The original undead are awake and hungry. Beware the Draugar.

  EXCERPT:

  1

  Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I'm supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here's the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world's largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I'm not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.

  So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the Bliksem, one of Greenland's few whaling ships, I'm fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I'm currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.

  Red gore explodes across the Bliksem's gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler's house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.

  Yeah, two dozen.

  I had anger issues.

  Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I'm undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.

  "That's right, you whale killing sons-a-bitches!" I shout, shaking my fist at the Bliksem, which is just a hundred feet away.

  Cheers rise up from the deck crew—aka: my fellow paint bombardiers—standing by my side. There are three men and two women on the deck with me—all at least ten years younger than me. In fact, other than Captain McAfee and his one-man "security" team, an Australian known only as Mr. Jackson, I am the oldest crewmember on board. Much of the young volunteer crew sport dreadlocks, not simply as a fashion statement, but also because fresh water showers are rationed while at sea. As a result, the Sentinel—the anti-whaling ship that's been my home for the past month—smells like it must have when it was an active duty Norwegian whaling ship.

  "Nice shot!" shouts Greg Chase, the scrawny first mate. He's got a big awkward smile on his face, which is covered in patches of facial hair struggling to proclaim him a man. Complimenting his shaggy face is a pair of glasses that sit askew on his nose. The kid—he's twenty three, but I can't help thinking of him as a kid—looks like he should be in his parent's basement playing Dungeons & Dragons, not attacking whaling ships in the Arctic Ocean off the northern coast of Greenland. That said, his brown eyes absolutely gleam with excitement, and he's by far the smartest person on this ship, which makes him a threat. Because if anyone is going to figure out I'm not who I claim to be, it's him.

  So when Chase hands me a second glass jar, I take it with a double flick of my eyebrows that says I'm getting my rocks off, too. Before my first attempt, the other deckhands had loosed a barrage of nearly fifteen paint jars, all of which fell short of the mark. So much so, that the crew of the Bliksem had begun to laugh and mock us with an assortment of hand gestures th
at universally translates to "cocksuckers."

  They're all frowns now. Dressed in thick sweaters and winter caps, some of the Bliksem's crew leans over the rail to see my handiwork. The crimson stain, which looks eerily like blood, covers the ship's name stenciled on the side and runs in red rivulets toward the sea. It's a gruesome sight, which I suppose is the point. A dead and bled whale pulled into port doesn't do much to turn the stomach, but a ship covered in blood from the hunt might not be so kindly received. And the images being captured by the Sentinel's crew will make great PR. Bold? Yes. But effective? I'm not convinced.

  But judging the effectiveness of the Sentinel's tactics isn't why I'm here. My job—my true job as an undercover investigator for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA)—is to observe and record the less noble actions, if any, of the Sentinel and her crew. The allegations leveled against the Sentinel and her captain are sullying the whaling debate and making the anti-whaling community look like zealots. So I'm here to either vindicate them, or expose them as pirates, turn my evidence and testimony over to the international and Greenland authorities and clear the good name of other anti-whaling organizations. On top of that, I'm tasked with the job of recording the effectiveness of the whaler's hunting techniques. Greenland only recently started hunting humpbacks again and their whalers are out of practice. Many whales take a half hour to die—some as long as six hours (experienced whalers can put a whale out of its misery inside of one minute). Given the dual nature of this mission, the WSPA needed someone with both undercover experience and a level head.