Emerald

by Brian January

  At least he knew which direction to paddle in.

  Then, next to him, an object bobbed to the surface, glinting with bright highlights in the late afternoon sun.

  An ADS helmet!

  Skarda’s heart flip-flopped. Hope flowed into him like a healing drug. Beneath the glossy curve of the helmet he could see April’s long dark hair, obscuring her face as her chin rested on her chest.

  But she wasn’t moving.

  Back-paddling, Skarda maneuvered the raft to her side, rolling off into the water. With trembling fingers he uncoupled the helmet, tossing it aside. She still wasn’t responding. Brushing a length of her hair aside, he saw that the skin of her face had turned a mottled blue. He shoved himself closer, leaning over her as best he could while treading water. Then he tilted her head back, pinching her nose shut and covering her mouth with his, blowing deep breaths into her lungs, over and over and over.

  Moments later she made a sharp choking noise. Her chest heaved. Then her black eyes opened and she jerked her head, looking into his eyes. “Hard to kill,” she said in a croak. A grin split her lips.

  Skarda’s eyes filled with relief and wonder. His heart hammered in his throat. “How did you get out of there?”

  She lifted her manipulator arms. Clasped in each was an inflated aqualung. “I found these in the officers’ quarters,” she said. “I wired a few to my suit, held onto these, and up I came. Now help me get out of this thing. We’ve got a world to save and we’re running out of time!”

  FORTY-NINE

  Ft. Meade

  RACHEL sat down in front of Sanctuary’s desk, crossing her legs, waiting for her boss to acknowledge her presence. She knew this wasn’t a power play on his part—he was just a methodical man who preferred to accomplish one task at a time. So she waited patiently for him to lift his face from his monitor screen.

  Finally he nodded his usual wordless greeting, his graphite-colored eyes regarding her without any sort of emotion.

  “I’ve been running down leads regarding the purchase of the icebreakers through the Danish shipyards,” she said. “It’s a maze of corporations and corporate shells. But I think I’ve got a name: Jonathan Belisarius.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Good question. American. He seems to have arrived out of nowhere with plenty of money. Millions. Owns a castle in the Bavarian Alps.”

  “False identity?”

  “Has to be. But the trail is cold. I’ll keep digging, though.”

  Sanctuary nodded, his warm gray eyes growing cold. “If he’s the one behind this Arctic thing, we’re going to have to stop him before he does it again.”

  FIFTY

  Lubyanka Prison, Moscow

  FROM across a battered steel desk General Fyodor Saltykov glanced up from the laptop screen and eyed Belisarius with cool suspicion.

  “How do I know this hasn’t been faked?” he asked. He was inspecting the footage Jaz shot of the isomer bars in the hold of the Polar Circle. “I don’t know what one of these bars looks like.”

  Belisarius gave him a sour smile. This man was trying to jerk him around and it pissed him off. “We both know you’ve already done your homework, General. That icebreaker was hijacked and sunk.”

  The general lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “This metal needs a laser beam to activate it?”

  “Correct.”

  “And just how do you expect me to do that? Why should we pay your price for something we might not be able to use?”

  Hot blood rose in Belisarius’ veins. He wanted to reach out and strangle this man. Instead, he kept his face calm and leaned forward. “Are you expecting me to believe the Russians don’t have space-based laser weapons?”

  For a few long moments the other man stared at him, his eyes immobile. Then he gave a curt nod. “Give me the exact coordinates of the sunken ship and I will authorize the money transfer to your account.” He stood. “But remember, Mr. Belisarius, Lubyanka might not be a working prison anymore, but there are dungeons below the surface of the street which are kept locked away from public view. I can assure you, you never want to visit them.”

  ___

  Down in the square, Belisarius climbed into the rear of the limo, leaning back with pleasure against the soft leather cushions while the chauffeur hurried around to the driver’s door.

  A greedy smile pulled back his lips.To hedge his bets, he’d given the general false coordinates. But what the arrogant Russian didn’t know was that in a little more than twenty-four hours he would be dead. But by that time the money would have been deposited in his account.

  He felt the limousine surge forward. Opening the intercom link, he instructed the driver to take him the address where the dominatrix lived.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Odessa

  IT took them a little over two hours to make it to Lanzheron Beach, hanging onto the makeshift raft and kicking and paddling towards shore against the current. An hour later Skarda sat on the balcony of the Hotel Otrada, watching the early evening traffic on Uyutnaya Street while he waited for April to finish in the shower.

  Since the Stealth had been lost with the dive ship, he’d replaced it with a new one, and over a plate of vinaigrette salad with shredded beets, sauerkraut, and potatoes, and varenyky dumplings stuffed with mashed potatoes and cheese, he tried to text Candy Man. But here in Crimea he’d been required to switch to satellite reception and the call kept dropping out.

  Pouring a glass of wine for April, he looked up, seeing her enter. Her long dark hair was still damp and she was dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt ordered from the hotel boutique. She looked as refreshed as if she’d just awakened from an eight-hour sleep.

  He pushed a plate towards her as she sat. “Here. I got you some sausages and roast pork.”

  With gusto she attacked the food, pausing to take a sip of wine. “Good,” she said, and went back to eating.

  He held up the Stealth. “No reception on the satellite.”

  She nodded, not looking up. “Try outside.”

  Opening the balcony door, he stepped out onto the terrace. On the first try the signal wavered, but then the call connected. He wrote: “Can you hack into DRO satellites?”

  Half a minute later the answer came back: “dro doesn’t exist—ha! can do but need time. tough password to crack.”

  “I need you to hack in and stop laser firing sequences. Lasers set to fire in thirty-one hours, thirteen minutes.”

  “need time. need to crack firing codes.”

  “That time is all we have.”

  “no prob.”

  Skarda broke the connection.

  Accessing the countdown timer app on the Stealth, he entered the deadline and watched the seconds start to tick away.

  Then he walked back into the suite to see April waiting for him, her black eyes all business. “We get Flinders first, then the fortress,” she said.

  He nodded his agreement, thinking about Candy Man’s response. “’no prob’.”

  On those two words hung the fate of the entire human race.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Washington, D.C.

  RACHEL pushed open the door to Tomilin’s office to find him standing behind his desk, shoving a Makarov PM 9mm pistol into his briefcase.

  She stopped short. For some reason the sight of the weapon surprised her. “I didn’t know you owned a gun,” she said.

  His lips curled in a condescending smile. “I’m a Republican from Texas.”

  Something in his voice chilled her to the bone. Instantly she decided not to sit. In fact, her every impulse was to run.

  But she stayed.

  “I’m reporting directly to you, as you requested,” she said, struggling to keep any trace of emotion from her voice. “I’ve been running down leads on the purchase of the icebreakers. Everything points to a man named Jonathan Belisarius. But the trail isn’t clear—he’s insulated by layers and layers of corporate entities.”

  For a moment, Tomilin hesi
tated, then lowered himself behind the desk, fixing her with his steely stare. She had the distinct impression that she had interrupted something important.

  “If this isn’t a good time for you—“ she started.

  He waved the apology away. “No. Go on.”

  Suddenly she was feeling very uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze. Something was lurking in the depths of his unflinching stare, something that was giving her the creeps. She had the unshakeable impression that he was probing under her clothing, mentally undressing her…

  Shaking the feeling off, she went on. “Unfortunately, the name is all I have to go on. But I’m looking into this man’s background.”

  Tomilin’s face changed. Abruptly he shot to his feet, evidently dismissing her. “I want you to drop the whole thing for now,” he commanded.

  “What—?”

  His smile was thin. “You know how it is. I have to take my orders, too.” He charged around the desk to stand in front of her.

  Too close, she thought. She could feel his warm breath on her face.

  “No one is to know about this. Do you understand? No one.”

  Rachel took a step back. “Except Sanctuary.”

  Tomilin froze. His eyes grew cold and accusing. “You told him? I specifically instructed you to tell no one about this matter.”

  Rachel found herself stammering. “He’s my boss! He has to know!”

  Tomilin glared. “Get out of here. Go home and wait there. I’ll contact you later with instructions.”

  ___

  Darting in and out between cars on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, Rachel gunned her engine, cutting off a Mercedes as she jumped onto the exit marked “NSA Employees Only”. The blare of a horn dopplered away.

  Parking, she raced for the Visitor Control Center, mentally cursing the phalanx of security stops she had to pass through before reaching her office suite. Her feet tapping on the polished floor, she cleared the way into OPS 1, then swiped her card to open the lock of 2W 105.

  She needed to warn Sanctuary about Tomilin, about his anger that she had shared the information about the icebreaker sales. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. She could feel it, sense it, like a wild animal picking up the subliminal scents of a stalking predator. Her heart hammered in her throat.

  Passing the iris scan, she opened Sanctuary’s door, entering the windowless room. On the wall, the big monitor flashed images, its sound turned off.

  Then she let out a muffled scream.

  Sanctuary lay with his head on his desk, the hard edge of his laptop poking a harsh crease into the skin of his cheek. Blood ran down the side of his face from a bullet hole in his temple.

  Clenched in his right hand was a pistol.

  A Makarov PM.

  She ran.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Gulf of Mexico

  CANDY MAN hadn’t changed his shirt in 8.4 days. But he didn’t care. He was at the point where he couldn’t smell himself anymore.

  Using a backdoor he’d set up by piggybacking onto a former North Korean DoS attack against U. S. government computer systems, he entered the NSA’s exaflop supercomputer at Fort Meade. On this he had the DRO’s tacit blessing. None of the alphabet soup agencies shared information or trusted each other, so clandestine access was in the agency’s best interests.

  He shoved the end of a Milky Way into his mouth. From the NSA he could gain access into the DRO satellites. It was going to take a bit of work to hack the passwords and codes, even with the cracking program he’d designed himself.

  Ripping off the wrapper of another Milky Way, he set to work.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C.

  SWEAT drenched Rachel’s armpits. Fear clawed at her stomach like a living thing, tearing her apart with its sharp talons. What had happened? There was no way Sanctuary had killed himself. It was Tomilin. It had to be. Or he’d sent some kind of assassin and planted the gun in his hand.

  Her eyes darted around the bedroom of her condo. It wasn’t safe here. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run. Opening her closet door, she yanked down a suitcase and spread it open on the bed, crossing to her dresser to jam it full of clothes. Her plan was to cash out her bank account, jump in her car, and start driving.

  Where, she didn’t know, and she didn’t even care. She just needed to get away. Fast.

  Outside on the street, a car door slammed, the sound deadened by distance. Ordinarily the thud of a car door closing wouldn’t even have penetrated her consciousness, but today…

  Hurrying to the window, she inched the curtain aside, looking down onto the street that bordered Montrose Park. A huge, powerfully-built man in a dark suit was climbing out of the rear of a limo idling at the curb.

  Tomilin’s limo.

  And just before the door swung shut she caught a glimpse of another man inside the car.

  David Charbonnet.

  The huge man headed for the entrance to her building.

  A knot constricted her throat. Snatching up her smartphone, she dialed 911.

  No signal.

  Dashing to the nightstand, she tried the land line.

  It was dead, too.

  Grabbing her purse, Rachel raced out of the bedroom, dodging around the kitchen and running for the hallway door. Pulling it open, she stepped out, jerking her head from side to side. The hallway was empty.

  She let the door close softly behind her, using her key to lock it. Then she hurried down the hallway towards the back stairs, her heart hammering in her chest.

  Yanking open the exit door, she pounded down the steps, grasping at the rail to take them two at a time. She landed with both feet on the first floor landing, seeing another door. For a moment she stopped, her chest heaving. Should she take it? She wasn’t sure what the door opened onto…

  The door burst open. The gigantic man stood framed in the opening, blocking the light, looking at her with startling blue eyes that shone like jewels against his dark skin.

  Pitiless eyes, totally devoid of any kind of humanity.

  Without saying a word he grabbed her by the arm.

  She screamed.

  ___

  Dulles International Airport, Dulles, VA

  The Challenger 600 lifted off the tarmac and rose into the leaden skies over Washington. Inside the cabin, Rachel sat stiff-backed in a leather chair opposite Tomilin, her stomach churning as she looked at his oily smile.

  “Why did you kidnap me?” she asked him.

  He regarded her with a sneer. “I didn’t kidnap you. I saved your life.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” She rose from her seat, pulling out her smartphone. “I’m going to call the police.”

  Tomilin’s barked laugh was slick with arrogance. "The police aren’t going to help you.” From his jacket pocket he pulled out a pistol and casually aimed it in her direction.

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “What are you doing? My God, you’re a United States Senator!”

  Tomilin gave her a condescending smile. “I’d make that a ‘was’, I think.”

  “You killed Sanctuary, didn’t you?”

  “It was necessary. But you’re to blame. You didn’t follow orders.” He gave a dismissive gesture with the pistol. “But it doesn’t matter. In a few hours he’d be dead anyway.”

  Rachel stared. “What are you talking about?”

  A heavy footstep scraped the carpet. She looked up to see the huge man who had grabbed her coming toward them.

  He lowered himself down next to Tomilin and they exchanged a brief discussion in a language that sounded like Russian or Turkish to Rachel’s ears. Her jaw dropped. How did Turner know Russian? Her brain reeled.

  Their conversation ended. The giant man settled back in his seat and stared at her with his laser-like eyes.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded. Information was power. If she could learn something, maybe she could use it to her advantage.

  “This man,” Tomilin said,
“is a member of a group of people who are going to cleanse the world of humanity.”

  ___

  “You’re insane,” Rachel said. For the last ten minutes she’d sat quietly, listening to Tomilin’s explanation of the Atlanteans’ plans. “What’s worse, you’re a traitor to your country and your flag.”