by Jack Murphy
“Now lift your shirt up!”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Just do it!”
Toby lifted his shirt, exposing his sizable belly to the elements.
“Now do the truffle shuffle!”
“The what?”
“Knock it the fuck off,” Deckard said from behind Rochenoire.
With a sigh, the former SEAL told Toby he could put his clothes back on. Zipping his jacket up, the engineer waddled over to the mercenaries.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked with a scowl.
“Had to check for an S-vest,” Rochenoire told him.
“S-vest?”
“Suicide vest.”
“You mean like explosives?”
“Yup.”
“Damn, man, they never got me. I was hiding in the rocks by the shore when they came. Killed four of our employees. The rest of us ran for our lives.”
“Where are they?”
“Inside. There are three of us left.”
“And the boat?”
“They took it and continued east.”
“You still have comms?” Deckard interjected.
“Yeah, I already sent out a distress signal. The Canadian Navy is sending someone. They warned us that you were probably going to show up.”
“True, and the Canadian Army is already here.”
Barry stepped forward and shook his countryman’s hand.
“I’m sorry about what happened here today. It is unacceptable and I promise that we will bring those responsible to justice.”
“One way or the other,” Deckard said under his breath.
Barry glared at him.
* * *
“We've been laying thousands of kilometers of fiber,” Toby explained. “It took a long time to map out the bottom of the ocean at first, but with the Arctic Ocean no longer frozen solid all year round, we will finally be able to connect New York, London, and Tokyo with high-speed fiber optic communications, with a lot less fiber than if we had to cross the Pacific and Atlantic oceans.”
The electrical engineer was getting carried away talking about his work, seemingly oblivious to everything that had happened in recent hours.
“Our cable ship toots along at just two kilometers an hour, and the fiber is slowly unwound from giant spools on the deck of the ship,” the engineer paused. “Or at least it was until those Chinese and Russian dudes stole it.”
“Let’s take this one thing at a time, dude,” Deckard replied. “First things first, we need to find a way to get off this rock and track them down.”
“If I can get some connectivity, I’ll reach back to CANSOFCOM and see what assets are in the area,” Barry said, stepping into the fiber optic station behind Deckard.
“Good idea. I’ll hit up my people as well.”
“I’ll take you to our comms center,” Toby said to the Canadian warrant officer.
“Lead the way.”
While the Canadians went to the other room, Deckard turned his attention to another engineer who worked at the fiber optic station. She was in her fifties, with shoulder-length straw-colored hair held back in a ponytail.
“Is this facility private sector or government funded?” Deckard asked.
“It’s a joint venture between several governments and corporations. We’re with Deep Fiber Incorporated and handle the laying of the physical cables along the sea bed.”
“Gotcha.”
“I’m Linda, by the way,” she said, attempting a smile and holding out her hand.
“Oh, sorry. I’m a bit distracted. I’m Deckard.”
“No worries. I guess we all are after losing Gus, Tony, and the others.”
“Those responsible are going to pay for their crimes,” Deckard assured her. “We just need to source some transportation off of Ellesmere Island and catch up with them.”
“What kind of transport?”
“Sister, I could care less as long as it can move my men and equipment. Even better if it is fast enough to catch up with these bastards sooner rather than later. We have a ship, but it will take a few days for it to circle around from the other side of the island.”
The female engineer paused, staring off into space for a moment.
“Linda?”
She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but the words didn’t come out.
“Linda?”
* * *
“Deckard,” Barry looked over his shoulder as he heard the mercenary walk into the comms room. “My command is having F16s scrambled on a search and destroy mission for that cable-laying trawler.”
“Linda just got off the phone as well. We have transportation arriving for us within the hour.”
“Within the hour? They told me they didn’t have anything available in the area.”
“Commercial, not military.”
“What?”
“If you’re done, I need to jump on the line. Can you do VTC?” Deckard asked, turning toward Toby.
“Yeah, we do it all the time with our HQ in Ottawa.”
Barry stood and Deckard took his seat, then dialed up SCOPE back in Tampa, Florida.
The four-man think tank immediately appeared on screen.
“Holy shit,” Craig answered. “We were starting to worry.”
“Let’s cut the shit. I don’t have a lot of time.”
Deckard quickly brought the think tank up to speed on the events of the last 48 hours, revealing that they had transportation inbound.
“Listen, Deckard, they can’t have gotten far in that trawler. We’ll mobilize NSA and NRO assets to start searching for them. Some of these platforms are starting to become available now that things are finally quieting down CONUS,” Will informed him.
“Let me know. In the meantime, I have something else I need to run by you. This mission just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“What is it?”
Explaining in depth what happened the previous night, he gave Pat’s account of the lone Chinese super soldier.
“Pat is one of the meanest guys you never want to encounter in a dark alley, but he got taken apart. He described his attacker as having superhuman speed and agility, saw him jump like ten feet straight up into the air.”
Several members of the think tank looked at each other. Will crossed his arms.
“What is it?” Deckard demanded.
“More rumors, that’s all,” Will said.
“Rumors are quickly becoming facts these days. Rumors about earthquake machines, for example.”
“There are a few competing theories amongst some circles within the intelligence community,” Will replied, his voice coming in a little scratchy over the satellite uplink. “One theory is that the People’s Republic of China is running some kind of super-soldier program.”
“And the other?”
“That the Chinese government is engaging in the largest eugenics project that the world has ever seen—the reshaping of their entire population and the creation of a new man.”
“You mean the one-child policy?”
“It starts there and only gets creepier. In recent Olympic games, we have seen thirteen-year-old Chinese gymnasts do extraordinary things. Impossible things. I’m not talking about just a gold medal performance, I’m talking about athletic moves that have literally never been seen before. Again, there are two theories here.”
“I’m listening.”
“The first is that they are gene doping their athletes. The other is that these kids are grown in a lab.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, this ain’t no Captain America super-serum. Frankly, I think it more likely that they are gene doping, not just athletes, but selected units in the People’s Liberation Army as well.”
“Is that like blood doping?”
“No. Let me put it like this: Some people have abnormal but completely natural abnormalities in their genetics that allow them enhanced performance by comparison to normal people. Most Ol
ympic sprinters have the ACTN3 gene, for instance. Eero Mäntyranta was a Finnish gold medalist skier. It turned out that his entire family had abnormal responses to erythropoietin, meaning he had more oxygen-carrying red blood cells, essentially giving him superhuman endurance. Even you, Deckard, probably have some abnormal genes that have helped you perform in your career field where the average person would fail.
“Now imagine that we were able to play with these genetic characteristics. Using myostatin inhibitors, we could give a normal person superhuman strength. We could make the person, the soldier, faster, even smarter than his genetics allow.”
“How can that be done?”
“A series of injections. The technology has been there for decades, but our Western medical ethics make it impossible for us to further research and experiment with this type of technology. Needless to say, the Chinese have no such restraints.”
“Holy shit.”
“Deckard, the fact that the enemy, this Oculus group you talk about, has put so much on the line, exposed so many tactics and techniques for the first time, demonstrates that they have placed all of their bets on this operation. Maybe they really are planning to explode the Yellowstone caldera, or something equally devastating. Otherwise, their actions don’t make any sense. China has always believed that they should bide their time and build their capabilities, unwilling to face a direct military confrontation with America until the time is right.”
“It seems that the time has arrived,” Deckard said as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his face.
“Stay in touch. We may be able to provide further support on our end. Hopefully we’ll come through with a fresh lead.”
“Start coordinating with the Danes now.”
“Danes?”
“Yeah, Oculus is heading toward Greenland. No idea if that is their destination, but the Danish government will want to know we are in the area. It would only take that trawler about five hours to make it to Greenland, and they already have a three-hour head start.”
“We'll contact Thule Air Base as well.”
“Sounds good,” Deckard replied, his finger hovering over the button to shut down the video teleconference. “I have one more thing to take care of before I leave.”
* * *
Airspace over Greenland
Vampire One-Zero hit the afterburners as Greenland’s snowscape screamed by below him, heading toward an intercept with a Canadian CF-18 fighter. The Danish F-16 banked slightly as the pilot juked the sidestick controller, nudging the aircraft toward the proper intercept trajectory at Mach 2, the g-forces pushing him back in his seat.
“Rabbit Two-Two, this is Vampire One-Zero,” the pilot announced over the radio as he watched the foreign fighter jet move across his radar display. “Be advised, you are now entering sovereign Danish territory. Turn your aircraft around immediately, over.”
“No can do, Vampire,” the Canadian-accented voice came over the Dane’s headset. “Be advised that you are approaching sovereign Canadian territory. Advise that you turn back immediately, over.”
Vampire’s flight helmet bounced off the back of his seat as he sighed inside his oxygen mask. What he wouldn’t give to jump into the fray with Operation Inherent Resolve in Syria or Iraq instead of having dick-measuring contests in the Arctic with supposed NATO allies.
The coast of Greenland was coming up fast, the snow giving way to the icy straits of Kennedy Channel between Greenland and Ellesmere Island. Vampire’s pale blue eyes could already make out Hans Island in the center of the channel. The F-16 fighter pilot had sat in on enough briefings to be sick to death of hearing about the barren outcropping of rocks out in the middle of literally nothing.
The Danish government claimed the island as an extension of Greenland’s landmass. Meanwhile, the Canadians made their own legal claims based on their past use and occupation, studying sea lions and snowflakes, no doubt. Apparently, possession really was nine tenths of the law. With oil and natural gas deposits being discovered in the waters surrounding Hans Island, tensions had only ramped up in recent years.
With maritime trade drastically increasing in the Arctic Circle, both countries were speculating that Hans Island would soon become an important maritime choke point for merchant vessels, maybe even rivaling the Panama and Suez canals one day.
But really. Both pilots had better things to do today.
“Rabbit, I’ve been dispatched on a search grid for a vessel potentially violating Danish sovereignty in our waters. Just stay the hell away from Hans Island today, over.”
“They got me on the same mission, Vampire, but you know the rules. Hans is Canadian, over.”
Vampire clenched his eyes shut, fantasizing about activating an air-to-air missile or two.
* * *
“You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”
The blade master looked at the mage wearily.
“You fought honorably and failed. There is no shame in this,” the mage said as he circled the cauldron in the center of the room.
“I’m not quite out of the game yet,” the blade master countered.
“Yes, you are,” the mage said as if he were stating a fact. “This is over. You will never be able to find my men where they are going.”
“Oculus.”
The mage spun around at the mention of the name and faced the young blade master.
“You mean I won’t be able to find Oculus where they are going.”
Flicking his hand dismissively, the mage continued around the cauldron. “It is of no matter.”
“It is of some matter. You directed your minions to leave the communications at this facility running because you wanted to talk to me one more time. You know, the Chinese dudes you have on super-serum.”
“Excuse me?”
“Gene doping. We both know that isn’t natural strength.”
“Ah, so you’ve come in direct contact with them. I am even more impressed.”
“Oh?”
“Impressed that you are still alive. This is why I wanted to talk to you. You’re a survivor, and despite what is coming, I have a feeling that you may survive. You’re strong. Somehow, I know that we will meet again.”
The blade master smiled. “Sooner than you think.”
Chapter 29
Canadian Arctic
Linda cupped her hands above her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting to see better.
“There she is.”
“Holy shit,” Deckard said, he jaw nearly hitting the ground.
Even from a distance, the mass of the craft was overwhelming. It skimmed just above the Arctic Ocean, kicking up a white spray in its wake that shot up above its fuselage.
“That plane is unreal.”
“Technically, it isn’t a plane,” Linda informed him. “It also isn’t a ship or a hovercraft.”
“Well what the hell is it then?”
“An ekranoplan—a completely unique class of transportation craft.”
As it got closer to Ellesmere Island, the mercenaries stared in awe alongside the fiber optic engineers. It seemed to hover just above the water, massive turbine engines propelling it forward on short, stunted wings. The fuselage looked big enough to fit several city buses inside.
“Our benefactor had it built as an experimental craft to serve as a proof of concept,” Linda continued. “He dusted off older Soviet designs used to engineer the so-called Caspian sea monster, hoping it will demonstrate a faster and more efficient means of cargo transport than today’s container ships.”
As the ekranoplan got closer, Deckard could see that it was coasting about 20 feet above the water. Thinking about his experience around military helicopters, it dawned on him. “Ground effects,” he said with a smile. “It is creating a cushion of air under it to float on.”
“Right. The closer the wings are to the water, the less drag it creates. The ekranoplan has to get its start with the turbines until it lifts off the water and air passing under the belly of
the craft creates a bubble of air pressure.”
“Unbelievable.”
Powering down the turbines, the pilot of the ekranoplan set its mass down in the ocean, causing a splash of icy water less than a kilometer away from the fiber optic station. The short wings rotated toward them as the plane turned and began churning through the water toward them.
“Who did you say your benefactor is again?” Deckard asked.
“John Mann. He owns our company, DFI, and a number of other subsidiaries. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“Sorry, I’ve kind of been living outside the mainstream for a while.”
“I bet you have,” Linda said, shooting the mercenary commander a look. “The commercial manned mission to Mars planned for 2030? Powered armor systems for the Department of Defense? Any of this stuff ringing a bell?”
“I’ll have to do some reading.”
“No need, John is on his ekranoplan right now. After talking to him and putting in your request for transport, he sounded excited to meet you guys.”
Deckard frowned.
The noise created by the turbines was overwhelming. A white haze blew across the mercenaries as the ekranoplan spun around on its belly and began backing toward the shore. Deckard held his arms up to shield his face from the snow stinging his face. As the turbines spun down, the ramp lowered. A loadie, wearing a fight suit and heavy parka, stood next to a control panel inside the fuselage, operating the hydraulics until the ramp set down on the rocky shore.
Off the back of the massive aircraft, a figure, flanked by a half dozen-man entourage, emerged. Two looked like bodyguards from their bulk. The others, more like executive assistant types.
“That’s John Mann?” Deckard asked.
“The one and only.”
Mann was in his mid-fifties, with crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, but otherwise looked and moved like a man several decades younger. Clearly he took care of himself. His hair was a mane of white that flowed back and almost down to his shoulders.
Deckard stepped forward and offered his hand. Both bodyguards moved to intercept him, cautious of a stranger decked out in paramilitary gear like a storm trooper on Hoth.
