“He doesn’t deserve it,” Boucher said. “He’s a sham. You know that, right?”
Duncan nodded. “But he served a purpose, albeit unknowingly.”
“A pawn?”
Duncan smiled. “Exactly.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
Severodvinsk, Russia
THE DOCKS WERE quiet. For that, Rook was thankful. His host seemed far less excited. Burdened by the weight of his sister’s death, Maksim Dashkov was not in a cooperative mood. The old, red-nosed fisherman was built like the great Siberian brown bear, but he had a heart similar to his sister’s. He had openly wept for her in front of Rook, and had asked about the state of her cabin, how she survived the winters, and if she was happy. He expressed regret over having not seen her since the death of her husband, and told of hard winters and small hauls.
The pair stood on the old wooden fisherman’s dock. The sub yard sat about a mile away. Rook could see a docked Borei class submarine, probably rotating crews and getting resupplied. A patrol boat with a large mounted machine gun cruised back and forth, ever watchful.
Dashkov breathed into his hands. “Hard times have forced me to take on less than noble jobs in the past. And I assume that’s why Galya sent you to me.” He made a point of looking back at the security boat. Rook had been watching it a little too keenly.
“I’d like to avoid conflicts if possible, yes.”
“As would I,” Dashkov said. “Which is why I cannot do what you ask.”
Rook had explained, without going into detail, that he needed a quick and quiet trip out of Russia, destination Norway.
Rook frowned. “Why not?”
The large man sighed. “My ship has already been chartered.”
Rook knew he was asking a lot. It was clear that Dashkov and much of the city were hurting for money. He could promise to have money sent, but that’s all it was, a promise. Without money up front he was asking for a free ride.
Dashkov turned away and looked out at the gray ocean. “You seem like a good man, I’m sorry.”
“Put me to work, then,” Rook said. “Pass me off as a member of the crew.”
“I can’t afford a crew.”
“Does your charter know this?”
“No, but—”
Rook stood in front of Dashkov. “What are you afraid of?”
Dashkov took out a cigarette and lit it, sucking in the tobacco smoke and letting it out slowly. “These men, they are not like you. They are not good people.”
There was more to it than that. Rook waited.
“Sometimes I see things and look the other way. Understand?”
Rook did understand. The Chess Team had to do the same on occasion to serve the greater good. Deals with drug dealers, warlords, and gunrunners weren’t uncommon when fighting a greater enemy. “Then I will look the other way, too.”
After another long drag, Dashkov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He started to walk away.
Rook took his arm and spun him around. His patience was gone. If it took the blunt truth to make this man help him, so be it. “Hey,” he said, his voice full of mirth. Rook pulled up his shirt revealing a swath of bandages with red polka dots of blood staining them. He pulled up the bandages revealing a splash of bruised skin and several small holes sewed up with thread. “Your sister saved my life.”
Dashkov leaned in and looked at the wounds. “She used thread?”
“She did the best she could with what she had.”
“She always did.” Dashkov looked moved, but not convinced.
“I haven’t told you how she died.”
Dashkov lost his taste for tobacco and flicked the cigarette into the ocean. “I haven’t asked.”
“She died protecting me. Took the bullet meant for me and four more on top of it.” Rook made sure the man’s eyes were trained on his. “Her last wish in this life is that you would help me.”
After a deep sigh, the old fisherman asked, “Who shot her?”
It was Rook’s turn to glance at the patrol boat. Dashkov understood and gave a nod. “I will drop you off at the first port in Norway. It is not a place I would spend any time, but it is the best I can do. You will act as my first mate and will feign illness. Understood?”
“Don’t worry,” Rook said. “I can follow orders.”
Dashkov squinted at him. “I’m sure.”
An hour later Dashkov and Rook boarded his fishing boat, the Songbird. As he led Rook belowdecks, Dashkov whispered a reminder. “Remember. Do not react to what you see. Do not speak to these men. I am simply introducing you so that they are not caught off guard by your presence. If these men do not like the way you sneeze they are liable to throw us both overboard.”
Rook nodded, steeling himself for the worst—a shipment of weapons, drugs, or other contraband. But when they entered the cargo hold where the two passengers and their package spent most of their time, Rook was decidedly unprepared for what he saw. His eyes arced around the space, taking everything in. Then he turned his eyes to the floor, careful to not meet the harsh stares of the two men.
As Dashkov explained who Rook was and what he would be doing, Rook thought about the two men. They had the distinct look of old KGB agents—thick skin; cold, deep-set eyes; and battle scars to boot. They were killers for certain. But it was the third person in the room who had fully captured his attention. The woman, perhaps in her early thirties, sat bound and gagged in a metal chair. A gash over her eye dripped blood over her face. The wound was straight and thin, delivered by a razor blade.
As the two men grunted in acknowledgment of Dashkov’s explanation, Rook chanced a look up. The woman caught his eyes. She silently pleaded with him for help, but he glanced away quickly. In that moment when their eyes met, there was a flicker of recognition, but he couldn’t place it. Something about her was familiar, yet he knew he’d never seen her before in his life.
He followed Dashkov to the deck and then to the pilot house. He wanted to apologize to the man in advance, but stayed quiet. Speaking his mind would only upset him and Rook needed to maintain the status quo until they were far out to sea.
Once they were on the high seas, they were at the mercy of Mother Nature. Anything could happen.
Anything.
It was normally impossible to predict what that might be, but Rook knew exactly what was going to happen. Dashkov be damned, he could not look the other way.
Not this time.
SEVENTY-SIX
Pontus, Turkey
WITH NO TIME to prebreath for a HALO jump during the short flight from Iraq to Turkey, the team would attempt a new kind of drop. The Crescent, flying at thirty thousand feet, would descend rapidly. Its stealth technology made it practically invisible to radar and other detection methods, but to the naked eye, the black croissant-shaped plane was easy to spot. So its insertion into Turkey’s airspace needed to be done quickly. Upon reaching five thousand feet, the Crescent would pull up, beginning a strenuous downward arc before going vertical again and dumping the team from its backside three thousand feet from the surface.
King, Queen, Knight, Bishop, and Alexander sat at the rear of the jet’s cargo hold, waiting for the drop to begin. Each was dressed in black special ops gear with night vision goggles, XM-25 assault rifles, an assortment of grenades, and blocks of C4—enough to bring down the mountain, which King was prepared to do in order to stop Ridley and save Fiona.
Knight left his seat and squatted in front of the others. He held an eight-by-ten touch-screen tablet. “Latest satellite imagery confirms our target.”
The screen showed a bird’s-eye view of a mountain range.
“This was taken a month ago.” Knight placed a thumb and index finger over a portion of the screen and opened them. The image zoomed in on a slope. Rising up the slope was a pale zigzag pattern. “The lines you see cutting across the mountain are switchback trails. But what we’re interested in is over here.” Knight zoomed in on an area above the switchbacks. The featur
eless dark stone appeared insignificant.
“Here’s the most recent image, taken ten minutes ago.” Knight tapped an icon in the upper left corner of the screen. The image updated, revealing the same image with different lighting and a shadow of a cloud toward the bottom. But the change in the dark stone was what interested them. Evidence of serious digging could be seen in the light-colored debris spread out in a fan shape.
King followed the trail back to the mountain wall. There was no entrance, just a wall of stone. “They sealed the mountain closed behind them.”
“We’ll never get through that without announcing our presence,” Queen said.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Knight said. “So I had them take thermal shots. Take a look.” He switched the image again. This time, the topographical photo switched to shades of light blue.
“What are we looking for?” Bishop asked.
“Cool spots,” Knight said. “There are three of them.” He pointed to three purple spots on the image. “Here, here, and here.”
“Vents,” Alexander said.
“Why are they purple?” King asked. “The ambient temperature underground is fifty-five degrees. The temperature in the mountains of Turkey in the early summer are what?”
“Weather report said sixty-five,” Queen said.
“So the vents should have appeared as dark blue spots. Not purple.” King placed his fingers on the tablet and zoomed in on one of the purple vents. “So what is heating up the inside of this mountain?”
“Descent beginning in two minutes,” the pilot’s voice said over the intercom. “Better strap in and get ready for a ride.”
“At any rate,” Knight said, “those vents are our way in.” He shut down the tablet and placed it in a wall-mounted locker. He took his seat and strapped in as the pilot gave a one-minute warning.
Their seats had been relocated from the side of the cargo bay and bolted in its center facing the doors. When the Crescent reached its vertical position, the team would unbuckle one at a time and fall out into the open air.
“Here we go, folks,” the pilot said.
The Crescent dipped forward quickly. There was no moment of weightlessness that people experienced with airplane zero G simulations. Instead, intense pressure pushed against their chests as the Crescent quickly reached its top speed of Mach 2, and then surpassed it. With gravity helping the plane’s return to earth, it reached Mach 2.5 and covered the distance in ten seconds.
But the real g-force struck when the Crescent began its ascent. As the plane leveled out and continued pulling up, the seat belt straps pulled tight, crushing the air from their lungs.
As the pressure reached its apex, when each and every member of the team was seeing colors dancing in their vision, the row of seats tilted forward. King knew what it meant. The fresh bolts were coming loose. He tried to speak, but the pressure was still too great.
The Crescent continued its ascent, heading toward a vertical position. As it reached the seventy percent mark, the pressure lessened and King shouted an order into his throat mic. “Open the bay doors now!”
“We’re not yet at a vertical position sir, the draft could throw us off,” the pilot said.
The bolts gave again, tilting the group forward. If they tore free, the team would be flung against the back doors at incredible speed. King had no doubt only Bishop and Alexander would survive the impact.
“The chairs are about to break loose!” King shouted. “Open the doors now!”
The red light above the door immediately turned green and a loud grinding filled the cabin. The doors opened quickly. Wind pounded over them. If not for the goggles over their eyes, seeing would have been impossible.
King felt a slow tilting of the chair as the bolts slid from the floor. Gravity, wind, and g-forces were working against them. With the bay doors open halfway King could see the Turkish mountains shrinking away beneath them.
“Fifteen seconds,” the pilot said.
But they didn’t have fifteen seconds. The chairs were about to break loose, and with the doors now open sixty percent, there was barely enough room to fit. “Duck your head and pull in your legs,” King shouted to the team.
The bolts gave way all at once. As the team fell, they followed King’s orders, ducking their heads and bringing their knees up to their chests. Forty-five hundred feet above the earth, the Chess Team shot out from the back of the Crescent still strapped into a row of chairs like a bunch of teenagers at a carnival death drop.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Babel
PUSHED AND PULLED by high winds, the row of seats spun madly as it carried the team toward the rocky mountain slope below. They had just seconds to separate and deploy their parachutes. King, who was sitting in the middle of the five man team, shouted his orders.
“Bishop, Alexander, go!”
Both men heard him clearly in their ears. They unbuckled from their seats and rolled away. Seconds later they pulled their chutes and the bench rocketed past them.
Only seconds remained.
“Queen, Knight, go!”
Both were ready, pushing from their seats and pulling their chutes once far enough away. They shot above the bench, and King. With only fifteen hundred feet left, King unbuckled from the bench and shoved off it with his feet. He yanked his cord. As his fall slowed with a sudden yank from his opening chute, he watched the bench finish its fall. It smashed on the mountainside. An explosion of small parts burst from the bench as it folded in over itself.
King cringed. He had no idea what kind of surveillance or security the site had, but they had undoubtedly just announced their skyward approach. He readied himself for an attack, but none came. In fact, the barren mountainside was as quiet and empty as it had been before. The only difference was that it was now rushing toward him.
King bent his knees as he struck, and rolled with the impact. But he was headed downslope and the cool air descending the mountain caught his parachute, dragging him down the steep grade. He spun himself around and planted his boots on the ground. He shot to his feet and dug in, grabbing the lines of his parachute and reeling them in. With the billowing fabric under control, he quickly bunched it up, found a crag in the rocks, and stuffed it in.
He turned back to find the others above him, hiding their chutes as well. With the vent a hundred yards above them, he started up the hill at a run. The others joined him and stopped when they reached the vent.
It was a three-foot hole in the earth, concealed by brush. It descended into darkness, but a tiny speck of light could be seen at the bottom.
“Depth?” King asked.
Knight aimed a laser range finder down the hole. “Two hundred feet.”
“Measure out one-ninety and throw it in,” King said to Bishop, who was uncoiling a large spool of titanium cable.
Bishop lowered the cable into the hole, watching as the spool’s digital readout scrolled toward two hundred feet. He stopped the cable at one hundred ninety and placed the spool on the ground. Using what looked like a miniature staple gun, he fired five titanium staples into the mountainside. Their long barbed tips could support three hundred pounds each. But Bishop didn’t want to risk their lives on what the staples were supposed to do. He fired five more and stepped back. “Good to go.”
King clipped a stop descender onto the line. Its squeeze trigger would allow him to slow his descent by loosening his grip. The counterintuitive function of the device was hard to get used to, but once mastered, it worked without flaw. Of course, that was when rappelling down a cliff face feetfirst. King was descending a vertical stone pipe—head first. He wrapped his feet around the line to keep himself from flipping over and slid into the tunnel. Hidden from the light of day, he reached up and pulled his night vision goggles over his eyes.
The tunnel shot straight down as far as he could see. With wiggle room on either side and a clear shot down, King squeezed his stop descender and plummeted down the hole. The others followed, one by one, spacin
g out their drops every twenty seconds.
The air grew warmer as King dropped down the pit. And the light ahead grew brighter; so much so that he had to reach up and remove his night vision goggles. Something was down there, he just hoped he wouldn’t find himself dangling above a pit of lava, or a firing squad.
As King approached the bottom of the hole he eased up on his grip and began slowing. The yellow tip of the line’s end was thirty feet below. If he didn’t stop by the time he reached it, he’d fall to the floor below.
Before he expected, King was out of the vent, dangling over a large orb-shaped room. He quickly scanned the space for danger; finding none, he zipped down the line to the stone floor. The others followed him quickly, leaving their descenders clipped to the dangling line. Should anyone find it, their presence would be detected. But they weren’t planning on remaining covert for much longer.
As King approached the room’s only exit and a tall hallway beyond, he saw the light source ahead and paused. A sphere of light, the size of a small plum, floated eight feet above the floor. There was no bulb that he could see and no line dropping down to the light.
Alexander joined him. “This is very bad.”
They entered the room slowly, unable to take their eyes off the light. King motioned to Bishop and Knight. “Take point.” As the pair moved to the far end of the hallway, King stopped beneath the light. He held his bare hand up to it. The heat was searing up close, but dissipated quickly. He shook his head in amazement. This small sphere was lighting and heating several large rooms beneath a mountain.
Queen crouched next to him and picked up a handful of sand from the hallway floor.
“What are you doing?” King whispered as she stood.
“When you got close to it, your hair stood on end,” she replied.
“A static charge?”
Queen answered by throwing the sand to the side of sphere. The sand farthest from the light fell away. The sand closest fell into the light, sucked in by an invisible force. And the sand in between floated as though in orbit around a star. “Not static. Gravity.”
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