Pandora's Curse

by Du Brul, Jack

  Like an enraged insect, a Hughs 500 helicopter painted olive drab hovered above the hurtling van, its skids no more than fifty feet from the vehicle’s roof. A sniper with a Barrett .50 caliber rifle sat in the open door, his clothes rippled by the wind, his eye screwed to the weapon’s enormous scope.

  Mercer slammed on the Volvo’s emergency brake and slipped the car into a skid that completely blocked the two-lane road. Even the sturdiest four-wheel-drive SUV couldn’t penetrate more than five feet into the moss-covered lava fields. Rath was caught between the helo and the car. Throwing open his door, Mercer pulled the H&K and watched the van approach over the sights. He pulled the trigger, intentionally aiming low. He couldn’t risk the driver or a stray shot ricocheting in the cab.

  It was one thing for Dieter to risk his life on a race track, another thing entirely facing the winking eye of an automatic 9mm. It was a game of chicken that he wouldn’t play. Braking so the van’s back end broke loose, he spun into the driveway of the generating plant and accelerated away.

  Mercer knew from his tour of the facility a couple years ago that this was the only way in or out of the complex. As long as he could disable the van, the Pandora box was trapped. He dove back into the Volvo, willed the transmission into gear and tore after the fleeing vehicle. Ira jammed a fresh magazine into Mercer’s MP-5. The van continued past the turnoff for the power station and drove toward the newly constructed Blue Lagoon spa. The Hughs 500 flashed over the car, nose down and menacing.

  The spa’s modern glass-and-steel building was set back from the empty parking lot. It was reached by a meandering foot path cut into the lava, a narrow trail flanked by ten-foot walls of tortured stone. Dieter careened through the lot and shot down the footpath, sparks flying whenever the fenders scraped rock. With Mercer still several hundred yards behind them and unable to communicate with the chopper, the maneuver bought them a few minutes to hustle their hostages from the van. They had no choice but to leave the golden box in the rear.

  One of Rath’s gunmen waited in the van, his machine pistol able to cover the entire trail. When they followed, Mercer and his men would run headlong into a scathing ambush.

  Rath blew apart one of the spa’s glass doors with his pistol and rushed in, confident that his men had Peretti, Farquar, and the Dalai Lama well covered. Ahead was a cavernous room bisected by a reception counter. Beyond was a waiting area with a twenty-foot glass wall overlooking the steaming waters of the artificial lagoon. In the weak light of the encroaching dawn, the water had a peculiar shade of milky blue, a combination of silica and bacteria that gave it curative powers and the unholy stench of sulfur.

  With an eye for urban street fighting, Rath positioned his men to best cover the entrance in case Mercer’s team made it past the gunner in the van. He also scouted out his escape route for when Mercer was dead. The building echoed with the reverberations of chopper blades just a few feet above the roof.

  When he reached the parking lot and saw the spa’s canyon-like entry path, Mercer instinctively knew where Rath had gone. He braked hard at the beginning of the trail, blocking it with the body of the Volvo to trap the van. Hyped on adrenaline until his veins burned, he never considered waiting for reinforcements from the military base at Keflavik.

  “They’ll be waiting for us to follow,” Ira said.

  “We’ll flank ’em,” Mercer grunted. “You two climb up the left side of the path, and I’ll go right. We’ll stop when we’re above the van.”

  The lava on this part of the Reykjanes Peninsula had been laid down in A.D. 1226, and despite Iceland’s scouring winds it had not yet succumbed to the polishing effects of erosion. Clambering up the wall on one side of the path was like climbing a mound of broken glass. A mistimed lunge for a knuckle of stone resulted in a bleeding gash on Mercer’s knee and what felt like four fingerprints being abraded off his left hand. Slowed by his injuries, he made his ascent and started off for the building he could see nestled in an excavated bowl of rock. The lagoon behind it simmered like an aquamarine cauldron. Watching for a guard atop the lava and keeping one eye out for anyone lurking in the shadowy trail below, Mercer scrambled along the rim of the path until the van was directly below him. He looked through the multiple windows fronting the spa but saw nothing in the darkness within. The helicopter’s downblast blew a freezing gale across his naked scalp.

  Once Ira and Raeder were across from him and had the building covered, Mercer raised himself slightly to zero in on the rear of the white van and gave the H&K’s trigger a long squeeze. He emptied a clip, careful to direct his fire away from where he thought the van’s fuel tank would be. The crashing shots deafened him, so he didn’t hear the rear door unlatch, but he saw it swing outward. A man in a black Geo-Research jumpsuit oozed slowly to the ground, small eruptions in his uniform leaking blood.

  Gunfire burst from one of the windows a story above his position. Ira and Raeder’s returned fire had no effect on the sniper. A steady stream of rounds continued to explode around Mercer. He had a small measure of shelter behind an outcropping of lava, but the 9mm rounds were quickly eating away at the volcanic stone. He slapped in another clip. Then, rather than run away, as the gunman anticipated, Mercer charged the spa, firing a short burst.

  The gap between Mercer’s hill and the building’s second story was eight feet across, and in the instant before he jumped down, he saw another gunman lurking below him. Unable to stop, Mercer angled slightly and leapt instead for an office window, snapping off a couple rounds at the black glass as he flew. The window was just starting to come apart as he burst through in a shower of glass. He landed atop a cluttered desk, scattering papers and knocking a computer to the floor. He levered himself back to the window, ready to fire at the guard he’d glimpsed below, but the man had vanished.

  He saw Ira and Raeder moving out to find their own access to the building. Mercer took a deep breath, prepared for the lancing pain of a broken rib or two, but other than the dull ache from his impact with the desk, he was all right. He eased out of the office after recharging his half-depleted clip with bullets from a pair of pistol magazines. The interior of the spa was murky and indistinct, filled with shadows that shifted as the sun rose higher.

  At the end of the corridor was a bridge that overlooked the entry foyer and waiting area. Dozens of chairs and tables had been hastily stacked in one corner about halfway across the room. A shape moved behind them. Mercer sighted in and fired off a three-round burst. A hail of return fire pinned him to the bridge. Its glass railings disintegrated in a rain of shards. He had a sudden inspiration. When the autofire ceased, he rolled and fired above the hidden gunman’s redoubt. The twenty-foot wall of glass was divided into huge sections by a steel lattice. He concentrated his aim on the top section above the neo-Nazi and held steady. The inch-thick plate splintered and came crashing down, hundreds of pounds of glass falling to the stone floor, the table, and the gunman. It was Dieter. Caught in the avalanche he had just started to dive out from under the onslaught when a fifty-pound piece of window caught him on the shoulder and severed his arm from his body. Mercer cut off his scream with a shot to the head.

  Movement caught his attention, and he raised his weapon, holding his fire when he recognized Ira and Raeder approaching from the other side of the bridge.

  “Stay down!” Mercer shouted too late.

  The shots came from behind and below them, near the spa’s gift shop. Ira’s quick dive wasn’t enough. His body jerked as two bullets found their mark. The remainder of the short blast pinged off the structural steel in the ceiling. As Raeder provided cover fire, Mercer grabbed Ira’s collar and dragged him to the safety of the corridor. A snaking trail of blood was smeared into the carpet behind him. Mercer rolled him on his back and Ira’s brow beaded with sweat. He’d gone completely white and his breath came in short, choppy slurps. Blood bloomed across his abdomen and looked like a black slick on the inside of one thigh.

  “How bad?” Mercer asked, gently pul
ling up Ira’s shirt.

  “How the hell should I know?” the agent gasped. “I’m not a doctor.”

  Mercer used his sleeve to clear away blood and laughed. The bullet pierced the small flap of skin on Ira’s waist, a clean in and out that left puckered holes but no lasting damage. “Had your wife been a better cook, it would have been worse.”

  The wound in the leg was much more serious. It hadn’t cut the femoral artery, but the gushes of blood that poured from it indicated some other major vessels had been torn. Klaus exchanged more shots with the gunman in the gift shop.

  Mercer used his belt as a crude tourniquet, cinching it as tight as he dared. It would have to be released every twenty minutes or Ira would risk gangrene. If he couldn’t remain conscious to do it, Raeder would have to stay with him.

  “Is he okay?” Raeder asked.

  “Yeah.” Mercer brushed glass from his shoulders. With two guards down, there were two left in addition to Greta and Gunther. The odds had been evening out, but without Ira, Mercer would have to go after them alone. And as long as the Germans had the hostages, he was fighting from an even more severe disadvantage. “I think the two gunmen are going to try to pin us here while the others escape over to the power plant where they can steal a vehicle.”

  “What about the sniper in the helicopter?” Raeder asked as he gathered Ira’s spare clips.

  “Unless they set down, they’ll never risk a shot. The chopper’s too unsteady. Ira, can you handle your own tourniquet?”

  “I can for a while.” He licked his lips. “What’s your plan?”

  “No idea.” Mercer looked around, a haze of gunpowder smoke stinging his nostrils. He could almost feel the two armed men lurking someplace in the elegant building. He finally looked back to Ira. “How about contacting your case officer again? Have him phone Keflavik base so we can get the helicopter down. You need immediate evac and we need some men to secure the Pandora box. Klaus will stay with you until they land and then he can follow me.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “After Rath.”

  “That isn’t the smartest idea you’ve ever had.”

  Mercer laughed. “This coming from a man who just let himself get shot?” His next teasing comment died on his lips. A pistol shot had sounded somewhere below, near where he had seen the signs for the bather’s changing rooms. There was only one reason for a single shot in this kind of situation. For some reason Rath had just put down one of his hostages. Mercer looked first at Ira and then at Klaus Raeder. They too knew what had happened.

  “I’ll be okay,” Ira said, clasping Mercer’s arm. He had a pistol at his side. “Move me into an office and go kill that sick son of a bitch.”

  “Make sure that chopper pilot knows which side we’re on when we get outside,” Mercer said once Ira was safely hidden behind a desk.

  He grabbed up his H&K and took off down the hallway with Klaus Raeder. Several office doors were open, and their windows had a view of the lava-rimmed pool area. From this vantage point they saw figures moving through the swirling mist, dark furtive shapes that lurched from cover to cover. It was obvious that two were going against their will but was impossible to tell which one—the Dalai Lama, Cardinal Peretti, or Tommy Joe Farquar—had been shot in the dressing room. It was also clear that the two remaining gunmen in Rath’s command were with them. The Blue Lagoon spa was clear.

  “There are stairs at the end of the corridor,” Raeder said.

  “Let’s do it.”

  They went down and came out into another hallway. The men’s changing room was behind them and Mercer entered first, his hands tight on the small machine pistol. His ragged breathing reverberated off the tile walls. He swept the dimly lit room quickly, checking behind islands of lockers, before swinging into the adjoining showers and rest room. A body lay against one wall.

  Tommy Joe Farquar’s toupee was missing and his suit had lost its luster, but he was alive, frightened and in pain from the bullet through his shoulder. He screamed when he saw Mercer with the gun, doubtlessly assuming he was with the men who’d kidnapped him and dumped his wife into the sea. Suddenly he choked off his own shouts and stared defiantly. “Philistine! God will smite you down with a vengeance only He can conjure,” he raged in his best preacher’s voice. “You will burn in an unspeakable pit for all eternity, your soul to become food for Satan’s hell hounds.”

  “That’s probably true, Mr. Farquar,” Mercer agreed. “But we’re not with your kidnappers. In fact, we’re the ones who saved your wife.”

  “Lorna?”

  “Is back in Grindavik, where you first made land-fall. She’s going to be fine.”

  “Oh, praise sweet Je-sus.” He tried to raise his arms in supplication, but his wound quickly brought his hands back to his side. He shrieked and turned ashen.

  “Why’d they shoot you?” Mercer asked.

  “I tried to run away.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Raeder snapped impatiently. “We have to go after Gunther.”

  “Mr. Farquar, medical help is on the way. If you can, try to crawl out to the hallway so someone spots you.”

  “You can’t leave me.” Tommy Joe raised his good arm. “They may come back.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  They left him without another word, passing out of the building and onto the wooden deck surrounding part of the sulfurous pool. Heat radiated from the surface of the oddly colored water. Raeder followed Mercer around the lagoon, tracking across the deck in the same direction they’d seen Rath lead his prisoners. The uneven terrain separating the spa from the power plant offered a million places for the Germans to lay an ambush. Wary, Mercer stepped off the deck and onto the moonscape, an ounce more pressure on his index finger ready to unleash thirty rounds.

  Fifty yards into the lava field, he burst out from the densest of the steam. The Hughs 500 swept across the plain at him, its rotors beating like thunder, forcing him and Raeder to dive into a craggy hollow. The industrialist landed on Mercer’s back, pressing his face against a knife edge of stone that opened yet another gash, this one deep enough to leave a scar.

  “What is he doing?” Raeder shouted, terrified.

  “He thinks we’re with Rath!”

  The chopper came across again, this time standing off a hundred yards to give the sniper an open line of sight. The Barrett .50 caliber cracked once, and a chunk of rock the size of a basketball blew apart just a few feet from their position. Mercer and Raeder both lunged to their feet and began running, leaping from boulder to boulder, rising and falling with the wrinkled ground. The gun boomed again and this time the bullet passed close enough for Mercer to feel the shock wave.

  “What can we do?”

  “Keep running. Ira’s got to get through to tell him who we are.”

  Another shot went wide as Mercer jinked like a fleeing antelope. Then suddenly his leg folded under him and he fell hard. He heard more than felt something give way in his wrist as he tried to break the headlong tumble. The numbness that climbed his left arm became a stabbing sensation from hand to elbow. And then the pain behind his thigh hit, searing and hot. Yet he could move his foot, could see it rotate as he tested it. Something was wrong. A .50-caliber round should have crucified him to the ground and left him immobile, and yet he struggled to his feet, teetering as a wave of pain washed out of him. He felt for the wound. Amid the mass of blood he felt something gritty.

  Jesus! His femur had been powdered by the shot. He was so deeply in shock he couldn’t feel the full extent of the crippling injury. That was why he could stand. In a minute he knew he’d pass out. He could feel it coming.

  But as he checked his blood-smeared hand, he saw particles of something black. It wasn’t bone fragments. It was bits of rock. He’d been peppered by a ricochet of stone fragments from a round that had hit behind him. The wound was no more than being shot from a half dozen BB guns.

  He sagged, but his relief was short-lived. He’d been concent
rating on his wounds and not the chopper. Mercer had been standing motionless for fifteen seconds, long enough for a good sniper to shoot him many times over. He looked up and stared into the cockpit of the chopper hovering fifty yards away. The sniper had him zeroed.

  At the instant the sniper eased the trigger, the pilot jerked the chopper. The bullet passed harmlessly over Mercer’s head. The sniper glared at the pilot and shouted something, listened for a moment, and then looked over to where Mercer remained standing. He tossed a jaunty, apologetic wave, and the chopper heeled away, flying toward the spa’s open parking lot.

  “What happened?” Raeder emerged from a natural fortification of twisted rock.

  “Ira must have gotten through,” Mercer said, still amazed to be alive.

  “Can you go on?”

  The stinging in his leg was already subsiding as adrenaline overcame the pain. Mercer’s answer came without thought. “Goddamned right I can.”

  They linked up with the pipeline that carried effluent from the generating plant to the spa’s pool and began running. In the distance loomed one of the Svartsengi plant’s many buildings, a two-story concrete structure with small windows that looked like portholes. From it ran countless other pipes in a tangled maze only an engineer could love. Steam drifted across the facility on the quirks of the wind. They raced past the turquoise pond that had been the old Blue Lagoon spa and now acted as the leach field for the mineral-laden water forced to the surface by earth’s tremendous internal pressure.

  Once at the plant, Mercer chanced a look down the central road that bisected the station. There were six principal buildings, and all but the administration center across the road were connected by pipes and conduits of various diameters. It reminded Mercer of a miniature oil refinery. Only this place was spotlessly clean as befitting its environmentally friendly power source. The air crackled with the generation of thirty-two megawatts of electricity, enough power for a town of thirty-two thousand people.