“Go on,” the chief said. “Try it.”
Francis turned and darted to his right. He made it to the wheelhouse and jumped for the rail. He was half way up when a hand seized his left ankle and pulled him back down. Francis hit the deck on his right shoulder and tried to roll away, but the chief was too quick. He grabbed Francis’s ankle with both hands and began to pull him across the deck toward the rail. Francis kicked out with his free foot, stunned at the sheer strength of the man.
When they reached the rail, the chief let go with one hand and bent down to grab Francis’s other foot. Francis pulled it back, planted both hands on the deck and brought the heel of his boot into the side of the chief’s face. He had to do it three times before the hand around his ankle let go and the chief stood up to avoid the next kick. He put a hand to his ear and looked down at the tips of his fingers. Francis saw the top of his ear had split open.
The chief let out a howl of rage and sprang forward. Francis found himself scrambling back across the deck on all fours. The chief reached down to grab his neck but Francis ducked and the chief got a handful of his jacket instead. The chief pulled back hard, but Francis managed to get his arms out and climb back to his feet.
Francis ran for the wheelhouse and this time he made it. He closed the rolling door behind him and latched it shut. The chief came bounding over the rail a second later and ran for the open door on the other side. The moment he stepped into the doorway Francis pushed the left throttle back and spun the wheel. The chief stumbled back and disappeared over the rail of the wheelhouse as the boat listed heavily to starboard and began to turn.
Francis shut off the engine and scrambled for something he could use as a weapon. All he found was a small gutting knife on top of a pile of maps in one of the drawers below the broken radio. He pushed it into his boot and slowly approached the open door. “Hey big guy, why don’t you try that again?”
There was no reply. Francis approached the rail and looked down. There was no sign of the chief. He scanned the sky briefly looking for the helicopter, but that too seemed to have disappeared. Not quite daring to believe the chief had fallen overboard, Francis circled the wheelhouse, slowly scanning the deck for any sign of movement. “What’s the matter, chief? You decide you’re not –”
Francis caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. A moment later something clattered to the deck below him and rolled to a stop. He flung himself to the deck and covered the back of his head with both hands. When nothing happened, he slowly raised his head to look around, and that was when he saw him.
The chief was standing behind the twin machine guns mounted to the deck toward the front of the boat with both hands on the grips. Francis barely had time to get to his knees before both barrels erupted in a burst of flame. Francis was showered in broken glass as he scrambled to reach the back of the wheelhouse. One of the bullets ricocheted off the window frame and passed so close to the back of his head it shaved the hair off in a neat little line. Another grazed the back of his calf, and a third tore off the heel of his left boot.
The chief was shouting something Francis couldn’t make out. He crawled beneath the rail and lowered himself down to the deck. Several bubbles appeared in the thin steel bulkhead of the wheelhouse as the rounds hit the back of the wall inside. A moment later they began to smoke as the paint around them melted.
Francis ran for the back of the boat, climbed over the rail and jumped into the icy water. He made his way along the side of the hull intending to reach the bow, but when he looked up he saw the chief lean over the rail and spot him. He had removed one of the machine guns from the mount and was swinging the heavy weapon over the side. Francis drew in a deep breath and dived. He heard the muffled sound of the gun as several bullets hit the water behind him, leaving little streams of bubbles in their wake. Francis stayed where he was until the firing stopped then resurfaced where he had been. He heard the chief running across the deck to the other side and carried on toward the front of the boat. He could feel his limbs stiffen as his extremities began to shut down from the drop in temperature.
The bow curved up sharply, making it impossible for the chief to see him, much less lean over and shoot him. But the advantage was moot.
“Checkmate!” the chief shouted. “Looks like your luck finally ran out, you meddling shit.”
The chief was standing somewhere above him on the bow, clearly as aware of Francis’s predicament as he was.
“Show yourself and I’ll make it dignified,” the chief said. “It’s the least I can do for a fellow soldier.”
Francis tried to say something but found he was shivering too much to do anything but stutter.
“Perhaps you’d like your little bitch in there with you,” the chief said, clearly amused by the situation. “But you’ll have to make up your mind soon. I have a feeling your new friends might be on their way.”
Francis had decided his only chance would be to return to the stern and try to get back on board when the motor suddenly roared to life and the boat began to move forward. He reached up to grab the steel ring welded to the hull above him, but his fingers slipped and he found himself being pushed aside as the boat began to accelerate. When he was halfway to the stern he managed to grab a length of rope hanging over the side. He prepared to let go and dive as soon as he saw the chief lean over the rail, but there was no sign of him.
There was a sudden burst of fire again and Francis raised his head above the edge of the deck just in time to see Richelle duck behind the exhaust vent on the stern deck. Her hands were bound behind her back. The chief was standing outside the wheelhouse firing down at the deck in a wide arc. Richelle spotted Francis and her eyes widened. Francis held up a hand and patted the air to tell her to stay where she was. The chief bounded over the rail and landed on both feet, the heavy machine gun still in his hands.
As the chief passed him, Francis lowered himself down into the water. The boat was now moving at full speed again and he found himself skimming along the surface, barely able to hold on. A quick glance back told him they were now headed back out to sea. When he raised his head over the deck again the chief was standing in front of Richelle. Francis pulled himself up over the rail and untied the end of the rope. He wound a short length of it around both hands and stepped forward.
Francis didn’t know if it was something the chief saw in her eyes, or just his intuition, but he suddenly spun around and raised the barrel of the machine gun. Richelle tried to rush him from behind. Without even looking around, the chief reached back with his free hand and pushed her so hard she went flying into the rail and almost over it. The chief nodded his head to the side, motioning for Francis to join her. “Well isn’t this nice? The two of you reunited one last time. I had intended to use her to weed out her bitch of a sister, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Francis helped Richelle to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
But Richelle didn’t seem to hear him. She was looking at the chief.
“You’re a dead man, Brendan. Even if you make it ashore, Titov will find you and tear every limb from your body.”
The chief threw back his head and laughed. “You put too much faith in that Russian lapdog of yours. I look forward to meeting him again. If I’m lucky, he’ll put up more of a fight than this sorry excuse.”
Francis was visibly shaking now.
“Look at him,” the chief said. “He’s half the man you are, Richelle.”
“Stop talking and get it over with, you fucking spineless piece of shit,” Richelle said.
She was too preoccupied with her own rage to notice Francis reach over and put an arm around her waist. The chief raised the machine gun then stopped, frowning.
Francis was clutching the rail behind him and looking over the chief’s shoulder. The chief turned just in time to see the Callisto break the surface dead ahead of them. Francis pulled Richelle over the rail and into the water only seconds before the patrol boat slammed
into the hull of the submarine. The chief darted for the side of the boat, but it was too late. The smaller vessel practically disintegrated on impact. The chief was thrown into the wall of the wheelhouse like a Louisville Slugger at a fastball. His dying scream was drowned out in a cacophony of twisting metal and splintering wood.
By the time Francis and Richelle surfaced, what little remained of the boat was already sinking beneath the waves in a smoking ruin. They saw Williams raise his head above the edge of the observation platform and mouth what could only have been a series of incredulous obscenities to someone behind him. Francis raised a hand and waved. A moment later he saw Williams climbing down the side of the conning tower with several men in tow. As they neared the submarine, Francis saw that one of them was Yoshi.
Two of the crew lowered a rope ladder down to the water. Francis helped Richelle up first. When he reached the top himself Williams extended a hand and raised him to his feet.
“I’ve got to give it to you,” Francis said, his teeth clattering. “Your timing couldn’t have been better.”
“Thank him,” Williams said, nodding at Yoshi. “It was his harebrained idea. I thought he was going to get you both killed.”
Francis turned to Richelle, who was now shivering too. “We’ve got to stop doing this.”
Chapter 86
Aurora
Friday 28 July 2006
1600 EEST
For Francis, the next two days passed in a kind of euphoric haze. Part of it was almost certainly the absence of something to run from, but mostly it was the place itself.
Both Mitch and Sarah had been waiting for them on the dock when the Callisto arrived. What impressed Francis most about the young computer whiz from DC was the way he appeared to be taking the whole affair in his stride, as if being kidnapped and brought to the island sanctuary of a secret organization was an everyday occurrence. That Mitch had apparently also found the time to strike up a relationship with a beautiful young woman made it that much more spectacular.
Mitch and Sarah had shown him to his quarters, a modern and spacious apartment down the hall from Mitch’s own that had apparently never been occupied. Despite his absolute conviction that sleep under the circumstances would be impossible, Francis managed an uninterrupted twelve hours, and probably could have slept for another six if his chaperones hadn’t called to say they would be by to take him to dinner as soon as he was showered and dressed.
And so Francis had found himself enjoying a beautifully prepared meal of steak and chips on the outside veranda of One Eyed Jack’s. Sarah had listened in polite silence as Mitch and Francis compared notes on their respective roles in the debacle that had started with a not-so-simple misunderstanding and ended in the deaths of over two dozen people, if the raiding party at Utska was added to the tally.
Erik had arrived as they were getting up to leave and informed them that Richelle was on her way back with Titov and would arrive the next day. In the meantime, perhaps Francis would like to see the museum or take in a movie.
Sitting down to watch a film when you were essentially living one, struck Francis as both odd and strangely unappealing. But he had agreed to see the museum and had been as stupefied as Mitch to learn that Origin was real.
While Mitch had interpreted the ship’s size in terms of a rush hour commute through his home town, Francis found himself thinking of his early soldiering days and the twelve-mile marches they had been required to complete twice a year in under three hours. The idea that an object could be constructed on such a scale was mind-boggling.
That had been yesterday. Now, standing in the kitchen of the apartment (Sarah had insisted it was his, but Francis couldn’t quite bring himself to see it that way), he found himself turning to the long-term future for the first time he could remember.
The idea of staying made him uneasy. But Francis thought that had more to do with his mindset than anything else. Eight years of living in the shadows under a myriad of assumed names had simply made the idea of staying anywhere for too long both impractical and dangerous.
But this place was different, of course. Here everyone was living in the shadows. If you really thought about it, it was almost too good to be true. But unlike Mitch, for whom the question of staying hadn’t really been a question at all, with or without the added attraction of Sarah, Francis was a different animal altogether. To a man like Francis Moore, even something as incredible as Origin and all it implied had surprisingly little impact on his view of the world, which in many ways was more similar to the late chief’s than those of Richelle and her colleagues. A lot of it came down to his own experience with the way the world actually turned and the deep sense of cynicism this had cast over his once guileless ideals. But he also understood something that he suspected few of the people who had dedicated their lives to Aurora and its mission did; namely that much of what they wanted to fix was broken for a reason and it had little to do with resources or technology.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Mitch.
“Hey, Francis.”
“Hey, yourself. What’s up?”
“Can I come in?” Mitch asked.
“Of course.”
Mitch stood looking over the apartment for a moment and nodded appreciatively, “Nice digs. Want to trade up? I got the nineteen twenties suite. Not really my bag.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Francis said. “Besides, I kind of got the impression you might not be living alone for long.”
Mitch smiled. “She told you?”
“Actually, it was her father who told me. He’ll probably never bring himself to say it, but Erik thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”
“Really? You think so?”
“I know so. Although I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Mitch said. “She’s one hell of a girl, you know.”
“It’s nice to see you’ve landed on your feet here, Mitch. I’m happy for you.”
Mitch nodded absentmindedly at this, then took a deep breath, steeled himself and said, “You should stay.”
“I should?”
“I know you and I aren’t in the same boat, despite appearances. I also know that if our roles had been reversed, I’d be dead now and you – well, who knows. My point is, this place might not be your version of heaven, but you have to admit it has a lot more to offer than whatever might be waiting for you out there.”
Francis nodded, “I suppose.”
“So?” Mitch asked.
“So I’m just…” Francis began, then trailed off.
“Worried something like this might happen again?” Mitch suggested. “That someone will find this place and come charging in, guns blazing? Don’t you see, that’s just it? That’s why we need you here. Tell me, you think you could escape the fallout if something like that really did happen? I probably don’t need to tell you this, but if this place fell into the hands of our government, or the Russians or Chinese, we can all kiss our asses goodbye. Could you live with yourself knowing you might have been able to help prevent it?”
Francis said nothing for a long time. When he finally raised his head to look at Mitch there was no humor on his face. “Is Titov back?”
“Yes. He and Richelle arrived about an hour ago.”
“Have you talked to him?” Francis asked.
“Yeah, we had a little chat. Why?”
“What happened with Fairchild?”
“Exactly what you said would happen. He agreed to the terms.”
“And Weaver?” Francis asked.
“Weaver’s dead,” Mitch said.
Francis looked taken aback. “He is?”
“Fairchild’s no idiot,” Mitch said. “If anything, I’d say he was probably grateful. His views on Princip couldn’t have been that different from yours if he was willing to get rid of Weaver.”
Francis considered this for a moment and said, “And the people in New York?”
“Dead,” Mitch
said. “Titov found the van Jack took using the on-board GPS tracker.”
Francis nodded thoughtfully and said, “I want to ask you something, Mitch. And this is deadly serious.”
“Go on,” Mitch said.
“Do you think these people realize what would have happened if Brendan had succeeded? I mean, do you think they’ve really thought it through?”
Instead of answering, Mitch held up the small book he had been holding, opened it and began to read. “If I am certain of anything, it is that this discovery must never be exposed to anyone whose motives are not altruistic beyond question. To allow it would be to open the gates of hell itself and invite upon the world a future in which all that is good, all that is decent and worth living for, would eventually burn at the hands of those who see power and control as the only virtues, and hold all else in contempt. I do not know if what must be done can be achieved against such odds, only that I must try. For what other hope is there?”
Mitch closed the book and looked at Francis. “This is the diary Peter Bershadsky kept until the day he was killed. He wrote that in a hotel room in Stockholm in 1985. At that time he was the only living person aware of Origin. I think that answers the question, don’t you?”
“I guess,” Francis said.
“And I’ll tell you something that no one else around here will,” Mitch said. “These guys need you more than you need them. Titov might talk tough, and I have no doubt he’s as loyal as they come, and Richelle is clearly too proud to beg, but that’s the truth. And I think you know it.”
“I do?”
“Come on, Francis, who are we kidding? These guys may have the money, and I have no doubt they have the best of intentions, but you didn’t ask me if I thought they understood the implications of what they’re doing here because you thought they were dumb, did you?”
“I didn’t say I think they’re dumb,” Francis said. “I just think they’re –”
“Naïve?” Mitch said.
“Maybe.”
“And who better to pull the wool from their eyes than a man who knows what they’re getting into?”
Origin - Season One Page 39
