by Alex Lukeman
A warning shot from the 76mm passed overhead. Klaxons sounded and a harsh voice in Russian came through the ship's speakers. The crew ran to their stations. The gun turrets rotated toward the oncoming ship.
The Ob River was wide like the Mississippi, with plenty of room to maneuver. The engines went to full power. The boat heeled over to port and headed for the middle of the river. Nick grabbed the rail to keep his balance. Another round whistled past. The ship's guns fired. Then the boat swung back and headed straight at the other ship.
Nick had never been in a naval battle. He'd never wanted to be in one. He felt helpless, at the mercy of the unseen Captain. He ran forward and watched as the two ships drew near on what looked like a collision course.
Ronnie and Lamont came up beside him.
"Jesus," Lamont said. "Like playing chicken with the Iranians in the Gulf."
Svetljak class boats mounted two torpedo tubes. Two white trails shot from the bow of their ship and bored in a straight line toward the other ship as it began to turn. The 76mm gun boomed. The shell struck behind them on the superstructure. The blast knocked the three of them down. Something tore into Nick's back. Their ship veered away.
The torpedoes ripped into the hull of the attacking boat and detonated in a burst of flame and light. A gigantic spout of water rose in the air. The vessel shuddered and slowed and began to go down by the bow as water poured into the breach.
Nick had time to realize he'd been hit before he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Three days later they were back in Virginia.
Shrapnel had torn a chunk out of Nick's back by his right shoulder. Six inches to the left and it would have taken his head off. A Russian naval doctor had stitched him up. Vysotsky had gotten them to Chelyabinsk and out of Russia.
Nick's arm was in a sling to discourage him from using it. He'd need some rehab once the stitches healed, but aside from a new scar, he'd been lucky. He was on painkillers. He liked the relief. He didn't like the side effects.
"I wonder how Korov will deal with Vysotsky." Nick tried to get comfortable in the chair. "You were right about him."
"I'm sure the Major will think of something," Harker said.
"He's been promoted to Colonel."
"Oh? That's smart on Vysotsky's part."
"I've said it before. It's too bad Korov isn't one of ours."
"What are we going to do about Foxworth?" Ronnie asked. "We still have him to deal with."
"Where is Foxworth now?" Nick asked her. He rubbed his face. The pills made it feel numb.
"Holed up in London. He's gotten paranoid since you hit him in Italy. When he comes out he's surrounded by bodyguards. He's got a new chief of security who used to work for the Bulgarian secret police."
"Guess we made him nervous," Ronnie said.
"Do we have any idea what he's planning?" Selena asked.
She's looking better, Nick thought. She's recovering. A small piece of his guilt dissolved.
"No. I want everyone to stay alert in case he comes after us again. He'll piece together what happened in Russia. Foxworth seems to take these things personally."
"We have to take him out," Nick said.
"You can't just kill him."
"Why not?"
"You know why not." Harker looked at him.
"No, I don't. Because it's not politically correct?"
"Because we don't assassinate people. Not since the 70s."
"You don't believe that."
"I have to believe that. For the most part, it's true. The Project acts outside the bounds all the time, but we have the evidence we need to act. Rules of engagement. We have to draw a line somewhere, otherwise we're just like Foxworth."
"Foxworth is an evil son of a bitch and he has to be stopped."
"There's a burden of proof we have to meet."
"You don't think Foxworth meets that? As I recall, the burden of proof is that someone has to have taken violent action against us or represent a 'continuing and persistent, imminent threat' to the country. Foxworth is persistent as hell."
Harker said nothing.
"Director, I don't think legality is the issue anymore. He built a super weapon that could have targeted the White House. He was going to attack us. You didn't see that thing in the pyramid. It was beyond belief. He doesn't seem to care if he starts the next world war and he's going crazy with a brain tumor. What more do you need? He's a direct threat. Talk to Rice. Convince him."
"I already talked to him. Rice agrees with you. He thinks Foxworth is worse than Bin Laden. But it's not the same kind of situation. We're talking about a respected public figure. There's no outward knowledge of what he's done. Rice can't make an official finding. Unofficially, the White House would be happy if Foxworth was no longer an issue."
Nick's ear itched. He scratched it. "So do we go for him or not?"
She tapped her pen on her desk. "We do. Everyone is vulnerable, even people like him. But if anything goes wrong, there's no extraction, no backup. We'll be on our own."
"What else is new?" Ronnie said.
That evening Nick and Selena went to a restaurant near DuPont Circle. His eyes swept the room as they sat down, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The bulge under the jacket. The drink left untouched. Sunglasses in the middle of the night. Someone looking quickly away. The unguarded stare.
That took care of the amateurs. Professionals were harder to spot, but everyone made a mistake sooner or later. Harker had said everyone was vulnerable and that included himself and Selena. It wasn't like the movies. If you made a mistake, someone died.
He wasn't over feeling guilty about Mexico. He felt awkward with her. The food came. Selena toyed with her silverware.
"I was thinking about the meeting this morning. Do you think it's right?" she said.
"What?"
"That we can decide someone is so much of a threat that we act as judge and jury. Execute him. Without a trial."
No one was within earshot. "You mean our British friend. You know what I think."
"Even Charles Manson got a trial."
"Manson didn't have the power to buy judges and prosecutors or have control over what the public reads in the paper."
"But it just brings us down to his level."
Nick set his fork down. "Where are you going with this? You know what he represents. If this was 1933 and you had a chance to kill Hitler, would you take it?"
Selena took a bite of her steak.
"Foxworth is the enemy. Not just our enemy, everyone's. He's a psychopath. He'll do anything to get what he wants."
"Still."
"We can debate the morality of it but Foxworth isn't concerned with the morality of what he does."
"That's exactly what I mean. If we act in a way that's immoral it makes us no better than he is."
"I think morality is on our side. We have a moral duty to protect ourselves and our country."
"Someone else will take his place."
"Yes. But it will take AEON time to recover. They'll be in confusion, their plans disrupted. People will live who would otherwise die. I think it's justifiable. Putting down Foxworth might give us time to break up AEON for good."
"You talk about him as if he's a dangerous animal."
"He is. Though that's a little rough on the animals."
"Is everything so black and white for you?"
"Damn it, Selena. You know me better than that. What's bugging you?"
She took her time answering. She drank some wine and set the glass down before she spoke.
"Honestly? I guess it's my own morality I'm questioning."
"You feel bad about what you do? What we do?"
"I'd be lying if I said no. I thought I'd come to terms with it, but this has brought it all up again. It's not like I think about it all the time. I know it's necessary, that people like Foxworth have to be eliminated. I just wish we weren't the ones who had to do it."
"Somebody has to.
We're part of the immune system for the human race. We try and stop the cancers out there. Foxworth is a cancer."
Selena looked down at her steak, blood red on her plate.
"I don't think I'm hungry anymore." She looked at him. "You could have been killed."
"Yeah. But I wasn't."
"But you could have been." She pushed the plate away. "I think we need to back off a little."
A headache started.
"What do you mean?"
"I have to think about it, where this is going. I need some distance. After everything that's happened the last few months." She stopped. "After I got shot. Then you almost get killed."
She drank some wine. "I have to think about it," she said again.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The face of AEON's representative from Brazil filled the teleconference screen in Foxworth's London office. Don Julio Silva was apologetic. His voice oozed with false sincerity. Foxworth listened and controlled his rage. He knew what was coming. The pack had turned on its leader.
"Malcolm, most unfortunately these last adventures have failed, at great expense to the organization. It has brought unwanted attention." Don Julio paused. "We are appreciative of the guidance you have provided these past years. However, we all feel it best if you step down from the Chair."
"All of you?"
Don Julio's face hardened, "Yes, Malcolm. All of us. Out of respect, it has been decided to tell you of our decision rather than simply terminate your position."
Transitions of leadership within AEON were always terminal, but the illusion of civility had to be maintained. There was tradition to be considered. Don Julio was giving him time to set his affairs in order and make his arrangements. Perhaps even arrange his own death in a comfortable manner of his choosing. Socrates and his cup. Otherwise, death was likely to be neither comfortable nor convenient.
"I see," Foxworth said. His face betrayed nothing.
"I knew you'd understand," Don Julio said. "For what it is worth, Malcolm, I truly regret the necessity of this decision. And now I am afraid I must say goodbye."
The screen went blank. Foxworth stared at it for a few seconds, then picked up a heavy cut crystal ashtray and threw it at the monitor. It exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.
He understood, all right. Weak, ambitious minions grasping for power. People without his vision, his sense of destiny. Cautious, small minds unwilling to take risks and speed the day of AEON's supremacy. They were about to find out what a mistake they had made. If they could be swayed to betrayal by a few setbacks, they deserved to die. Malcolm had prepared for this day. His head throbbed with sudden pain. His hand began trembling. He stuffed it in his pocket.
He activated the intercom on his desk.
"Mandy, get Dragonov in here. After him, Morel."
A few minutes later Foxworth's new chief of security knocked on the door frame. Foxworth beckoned him in.
"You sent for me, sir?"
"Increase security to level one immediately. There will be attempts on my life."
"Yes, sir."
"I have a difficult assignment for you. It will require you to make use of your old contacts and I want you to handle it personally. There is a high element of risk involved."
Valentin Dragonov had been a senior sergeant in the Bulgarian secret police before he'd been recruited. He was intelligent and totally ruthless. His contacts included the faceless men who still ran the interrogation cells of Eastern Europe and the old Soviet Union. Dragonov liked women. He liked money. Foxworth had provided both, in generous amounts. The Bulgarian was perfect for what Foxworth had in mind.
Foxworth took a folder from his desk and handed it across. It contained the photographs, names and locations of the other members of AEON's inner circle. With Ogorov gone, there were seven.
"Open the folder."
Dragonov did as he was told. The first page showed a picture of Don Julio Silva and listed his locations, habits and vulnerabilities.
"These men are to be eliminated. I understand you will need to make plans, but time is critical. Do it quickly. Each will be alert and each one will be heavily guarded. Plan accordingly. Do you understand?"
Dragonov said. "These are very high profile targets. I will need to recruit. I will need ordnance. All this will be expensive."
"Get what you need. You have a blank check. Hire who you want. Make sure there are no trails back here."
Foxworth took several banded packets of purple 500 Euro notes from a drawer and pushed them across his desk. Dragonov eyed the money.
"This is pocket money for personal expenses. If you need more, tell me. With each success I will give you 200,000 Euros. When all seven assignments have been completed, you will receive an additional 1,000,000 Euros in a Swiss account. I trust this will be satisfactory?"
The large man nodded.
"Good. Don't let me down."
He didn't need to say more. Dragonov had carried his predecessor's body from the library in Italy.
The Bulgarian picked up the money. "I won't fail."
"That's all."
Dragonov left the room. With Silva and the others handled, Foxworth considered what to do about Elizabeth Harker and the Project. She had to be removed, permanently. He considered possibilities, complications. The Project wasn't Langley or NSA, but their security was still formidable.
He'd been saving a unique asset for something special. Foxworth decided this was the time to use it. With the right spin there would be few consequences. No one would trace it back to him. He pictured the result, watched it happen in his mind's eye. It could be done. He smiled to himself.
Morel entered the office with his briefcase full of magic.
It was turning into a good day.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
A freighter flying the Panamanian flag churned across choppy waters fourteen miles off the Virginia coast. The Consuela had been stopped once by the US Coast Guard, a routine inspection that yielded nothing. Her papers were in order. She was bound from Vera Cruz to Norfolk with shipping containers full of furniture consigned to an American chain that specialized in items from third world countries.
The Coast Guard had opened two of the containers and brought on the drug sniffing dogs. The captain of the freighter had given them a friendly wave as they went back to their patrol boat and turned south.
Captain Krushenko was one of Foxworth's finds. Before he'd left the Russian navy he had commanded an Ovod class small missile ship. The Ovod class fielded six P-15 Termit cruise missiles, unreliable weapons with barometric altimeters and erratic guidance systems. The Termits were subsonic, reaching speeds of about 600 MPH.
Krushenko didn't have any of those. He had only one missile, a Chinese CJ-10. Unlike the Termit, the CJ-10 was supersonic, capable of traveling at two and a half times the speed of sound. It lay flat in one of the long cargo containers, surrounded by boxes of wooden trays and salad bowls.
The CJ-10 could be armed with either a nuclear warhead or conventional explosive. This one carried a generous payload of a new high energy explosive more than twice as powerful as the older types. The missile used an accurate inertial guidance system and was difficult to detect. It skimmed above the terrain at 1900 MPH until it reached and destroyed its target. Once launched, the CJ-10 was a lethal, single purpose, suicidal robot.
The distance from the Consuela to the target was approximately a hundred and seventy miles. Krushenko estimated time elapsed between launch and impact at less than twelve minutes. By the time coastal defenses could react it would be too late. That was the beauty of a cruise missile. It hugged the terrain and flew under the radar, with a low profile and high speed. Anti-missile defenses like the American AEGIS system required sufficient notice to be effective. The missile would already be over land before they detected it. There wouldn't be enough time to intercept.
Krushenko didn't know why this particular target had been chosen, but he wasn't curious. He was just doing a job. He figured
he had a better than 50-50 chance of getting to shore once the missile was launched. The risk made the game more exciting. He was being paid accordingly, an extravagant sum.
The sides and top of a false cargo container had been removed, exposing the missile and launcher and a camouflage of boxes around it. Krushenko used a remote control to activate the launcher. The missile lifted into firing position.
The missile employed a cold launch system. Cold launch used pressurized nitrogen to send the missile airborne, eliminating the complex venting systems necessary for a conventional, hot launch. It was the reason the CJ-10 could be concealed in a container and fired from the deck. Once free of the carrier, the solid fuel engine would ignite and send the missile on its way. The electronic brain inside already contained the coordinates for the target.
Krushenko walked in a leisurely way to the side of the freighter and descended a sea ladder to a fast motor launch that would take him to shore and safety. His skeleton crew waited in the boat. The launch pulled away. Krushenko watched the abandoned ship sail steadily on toward Norfolk. When he judged it was far enough away, he took out his remote and triggered one of two switches.
The pressurized nitrogen released with a deadly hiss and sent the missile away from the ship. It rose into the air like an ancient, mythic sea monster. The engine ignited. The missile accelerated, broke through the sound barrier with a crack like thunder and vanished over the horizon.
Krushenko flipped the second switch. Explosions blew out the bottom of the Consuela. The ship lifted out of the water, then settled straight down, all buoyancy gone. The ocean poured over her deck. A moment later the only sign she had ever existed was a frenzied boiling of sea froth and foam on the surface.
The missile was gone. The ship was gone. The target would soon be gone. The motor launch headed for shore. Krushenko lit a cigarette and entered a number on his satellite phone.
In London, Foxworth said, "Yes."
"It's done."
