by Chuck Dixon
Lee Hammond lowered his scopes. It was over. The rest had stopped watching long before him. It was hard to witness. These men had come to kill them. But for all that, this fate felt extreme. This world, this time, stripped everything down to kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. A realization that was as raw as it was cold. And all the more resonant for their own narrow escape in the crocodilian swamp. It brought the Rangers no satisfaction to see their enemies die this way.
Byrus leaned on the railing, watching the scene of horror now distant in their wake.
“Tartarii,” he said in a whisper.
“Better them than us,” Lee said.
“I’ve seen enough. This isn’t fun anymore,” Jimbo said. “So, how do we get home?” Chaz said.
Henning Bohrs sank into the bottle-green water. It was as warm as a drawn bath.
He shed his vest and weaponry and stroked for the surface. Below him, he could see dark shapes drifting past. Enormous shapes.
Bohrs broke the surface, hands reaching for a bit of detritus floating there. He clawed for purchase, feet kicking. It was the body of a man he knew as Torst. Or part of his body, a torso snapped in half at the waistline, ropes of guts trailing in the chop. He kicked away, frantic to get away from the man-turned-bait.
Other voices could be heard. Men crying out in rage or terror or agony. Hoarse voices coming from sources out of sight over the top of green swells. One man could be heard cursing God in Serbian.
A broad fin cut the surface, and Bohrs rose on the swell it created. A long, shiny body coursed close by, a reddish eye turning to lock on him. A tail raised a wavelet as the beast changed tack to bring its jaws to bear on this new temptation. The merc dropped under the water, turning toward the mosasaur now coming about to aim its long snout his way. His fingers found the silver bracelet on his wrist. He tore his eyes, stinging with salt, from the advancing monster to tab the controls on the device.
Bohrs would die one day. But not here. Not now.
The saurian powered forward to snap its jaws closed on empty water where there had been a wriggling morsel a half-second before. Its prey was gone, leaving only an icy spray of bubbles behind. The lost morsel forgotten, the great beast turned toward other shapes still paddling above.
33
A Plan Comes Together
“These were not my men. These were not my orders.” Jason Taan sat at the end of the chart table, regarding the men standing before him. He was defiant; his lips pressed white with contained anger.
“Did you have some sort of security protocol set-up in advance? A fail-safe?” Lee Hammond asked.
“There were contingencies, of course. I am a man of some value. Attacks and abduction are always a danger.”
“Maybe he snuck something by us. Found a way to reach out to his people,” Boats said.
“You reviewed the video I made before sending it off. Did I blink my eyes to send a message in code? Perhaps I used mental telepathy.”
“You don’t exactly fill us with trust, Taan,” Lee said.
“I could just as easily have been killed as you. Why would I wish for a direct confrontation? And have you asked yourself how these men traveled to this time and to this place? If I had that capability, I would not have needed to contract you.” Taan’s grip on his ire was slipping. He spat the last words.
Morris Tauber said, “Contracted? Nice. That’s what you call it when you drugged me and smuggled me to Shanghai?” He took a step toward Taan.
“Slow down, Doc. He’s right about one thing. His outfit can’t travel through time.”
“It’s Harnesh,” Taan said.
“What’s your connection to him?” Lee said.
“Harnesh? Neil Harnesh? The Indian billionaire?”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s a rival. A competitor. Dr. Tauber can tell you; I only learned about your damned device when security officers of mine bought a stolen database from a hacker. I was looking for a leg up in oil transshipment. Instead, we found records of this mad experiment.”
“And we’re all here because of your hobby,” Lee said.
“Yes. Treasure hunting. Antiquities. Should have taken up something safer, I suppose,” Taan said.
“Like porno,” Boats put in.
Lee took a seat at the table across from Taan. He poured them both a mug of coffee from a carafe. He tilted a flask into his and offered Taan the same. The billionaire waved him away, taking up the mug and sipping.
“So, Harnesh played his hand. It won’t be the last time. You understand that he wants all of us dead now, right?” Lee said.
Taan nodded.
“Whatever’s going on back in The Now, he’s taken over your operations. He’s filled the void you left. Could that happen? Would Beijing allow that?”
“A hostile takeover. A lethal takeover. I have made a study of Sir Neal. Knowing the man is knowing his next move. He would take over my holdings through an intermediary. The loyalty of my subordinates has a price. Especially with me absent. Through threats or greed, it would be a simple enough thing for a man like Harnesh to run my interests through a puppet. The Central Committee could be kept in the dark. Or bought.”
“Harnesh isn’t going to sit still. He’ll keep sending more teams against us. Next time it might be a gunship,” Lee said.
“Or a helo or three. We’d have no defense against an air strike,” Boats said.
“We have no exit path, guys,” Morris said. “Harnesh holds the gate, our only way back.”
“That can change,” Jimbo spoke for the first time. “We find a way or make one.”
“Who said that?” Lee said.
“Hannibal.”
“Cool. Love The A-Team,” Boats said.
Being a former SEAL with ten years in the Navy, Boats was the natural choice to lead the op.
“We have to be a ways over the horizon when we drop,” he told the Rangers. “The last thing we need is more of those drones fucking up our day. We raft in close, go the rest of the way under water. That means strong swimmers only. Geteye’s going as my number two. He’s never been a SEAL, but I can vouch that the man’s half-fish. Since I’ve never rolled out with any of you guys, I’m gonna need your word on how good you are in the water.”
“I used to lifeguard. Two summers,” Lee said. “At the YMCA or open ocean?” Boats said.
“Cotton Bayou on the Shoals.”
“You swim for real or just chase pussy?”
“Top of my class at five hundred yard three-style.”
“Ever dive?”
“Scuba dived a few times. Antigua. Trinidad. Barrier Reefs. I can hack. I wouldn’t bullshit you, sailor.”
“I’ll take Hammond, then. Anyone else? No heroes. I know you can fight, but I need swimmers,” Boats said.
“Raised in a desert,” Jimbo said.
“I don’t float so good,” Chaz said.
“I won a swimming medal at summer camp,” Bat said.
“When was this?” Boats said.
“I was ten.”
“Mazel tov. No girls this trip. Anyone else?”
Shan raised a hand.
“You swim, buddy?” Boats said.
“Special Naval Operations, PLAN.”
“Ever been on a diving op, Shan?”
“Gulf of Aden. 2010.”
“Killed a few pirates, huh?”
“They do not take Chinese ships anymore.”
Boats laughed. Shan allowed himself a fleeting smile.
“Welcome along. That’s my team,” the SEAL said.
34
To the Gulf
“We are marching.”
Samuel woke Dwayne shortly after dawn. He sat up from the cot assigned him in one of the log bunkhouses. He held his fingers to his temples, his skull feeling too small for his brain. The world was tinged in red. Every pulse beat was like twin hammers in his ears.
All around, men were gathering weapons and pulling on boots. Dwayne marveled at their con
stitution. These guys partied hard until late into the night. They drained barrels of the skunkiest ale Dwayne had ever smelled or tasted before switching to a stronger drink that was like vodka but not clear. There were oaths taken and prayers to the gods and more than one fist fight. The last thing he recalled was stumbling over bodies on the longhouse floor to reach his cot.
“Marching?” he said.
“The portents are good. The seers found promising omens in the entrails of this morning’s sacrifice,” Samuel said.
“Please tell me it wasn’t a human sacrifice.”
“A goat. That smell is it roasting for breakfast.”
Dwayne’s stomach clenched at the greasy odor that permeated the bunkhouse. He shoved Samuel aside and made it outside where he knelt in the dirt to heave his guts up. The ale was skunkier coming up. Some men leaned on muskets and snorted at him.
Samuel joined him, carrying Dwayne’s sneakers.
“We’re going with them,” he said. “Now?”
“Njarl says that you are lucky for him.”
“Nuh-jarl? Is that the guy with one eye?”
“Njarl Hadradi. He claims your arrival is an omen. A good one. These men prize luck above everything else. They want you by their side.”
“What the hell did I do to impress this crowd?”
“You sang a song to them.”
“Shit. No.”
“I think it was ABBA.”
“Shit. That movie. Caroline’s watched it like a hundred times.”
“You got very drunk.”
“No shit.”
One-Eye’s, Njarl’s, voice boomed as he approached along the muddy lane between the cabins and tents. He was in a chainmail shirt and leather choker. A bandolier of paper cartridges across his chest. A brace of pistols in his sash. A helmet with a snarling face mask under his arm. A two-handed sword slung on his back.
“Mamma Mia!” he roared and clapped the Ranger on the back. Dwayne staggered under the blow. He couldn’t believe that he’d stepped over this man’s snoring body only a few hours before. Njarl looked hale and hardy and ready to slay a dragon.
“Yeah. Ja. Thanks for the invitation.” Dwayne tried to work up some enthusiasm. The best he could do was a weak smile.
Njarl spoke some more to Samuel and him. Dwayne couldn’t follow any of it. The big bastard strode off, shouting to some men loading goods into a two-wheeled cart.
“We go to lay siege to Nadikakahaana,” Samuel said. “It’s a Mughal fortress at the mouth of the Mississippi. Roughly where you’d think of as New Orleans.”
“I’m guessing we’re not walking there,” Dwayne said. “We’ll be joining the fleet to sail across the Gulf.”
“That’s just great. A boat ride too,” Dwayne said before puking again.
A half-day’s march brought them to the coastline and a sheltered harbor. Dwayne was allowed to ride at the head of the column with Njarl and his housecarls. They rode ponies ahead of a thousand troops on foot followed by a baggage train of ox-drawn carts, mules, and camels. Along with the Norsemen marched near-naked locals carrying bundles of spears.
Cooler air blew in off the sea under a cloudless sky. Dwayne’s head was clearing. The sun felt good on his skin. He was surprised to find that he was getting hungry. He found himself enjoying the bizarre experience of joining an army that never was in a war that could never be. Riding a horse to a battle with men in armor carrying antiquated weapons. The smell of leather and sweat and the calls of warriors in foreign voices. It wasn’t his cause or his battle, but he began to feel the familiar thrill of anticipation.
He had to remind himself again that he didn’t belong here.
No dog in this hunt.
“We don’t really have a choice in this, right?” Dwayne said. He was riding alongside Samuel on a painted pony. He turned against the high cantle to look back at the dense cloud of dust rising behind them from the van.
“Remember that I’m not the only one who will be looking for you here, Dwayne,” Samuel said.
“Safety in numbers?”
“Something like that. Were we to desert, Njarl would take it as a slight. Or a betrayal.”
“And we don’t need more enemies. You think Harnesh’s guys will find us here?”
“This campaign is reaching something of a chokepoint,” Samuel said. “The Northmen and their allies are all joining in this siege. Armies are on the march from all over the Yucatan. More will join us at sea from ports in what you know as Cuba and Florida. This is a historical turning point here.”
“The guys looking for me will be drawn here too.”
“They could already be among us.”
They arrived at a bay set back in the protection of a curved peninsula. Dwayne guessed it was Vera Cruz.
Along the sandy beaches and across the dunes was spread a city of colorful tents surrounded by earthworks lined with spikes. Embrasures were dug in the sand for long-barreled cannons pointed at the sea. Banners flew from poles. Horns sounded at their approach.
Ships were at anchor on the dappled gray water. There were sleek shallow-draft vessels lined with oars that resembled Viking longboats except for the lateen-rigged sails hung from triple masts. Hundreds of barges lay moored with huge, bell-shaped brass mortars housed inside and protected by high iron-plated hulls. Dominating the armada were five dreadnaughts with three gun decks each and hundreds of cannon behind ports on either side. These ships had broad decks and square-rigged sails with raised quarterdecks trimmed in brass. They resembled English ships of the line from the age of sail with the addition of decorative shields down either flank, and high prows carved in the shapes of roaring dragons. The other difference was long sweeps drawn inward to an oar deck just above the water line.
It was an invasion fleet. It would carry tens of thousands of men and mounts across the Gulf to the shoals of Louisiana. According to Samuel, this was a major push to take the Mississippi Delta from the Mughals. That would allow the Northmen to own the seaward access of what they called Sturslaange Elv, Big Serpent River. From there, they could deny the Mughal forts of supplies as well as sending their shallow draft creeking ships upriver on raids that would break the decades-long stalemate.
An eerily similar strategy to the one employed by the Union army during the War Between the States. Dwayne had gone through a phase of reading books about the Civil War. Played right, Grant’s grand strategy could be just as successful for the Vikings.
“Do they succeed?” Dwayne said. “What do you mean?” Samuel said.
“This army. Do they win the day? Take the city?”
“It is a long siege. In the end, they win. It takes the next fifty years, but the Northmen will dominate the continent from sea to sea.”
“Good to know we’re on the winning side.”
“This is not your fight. Nor mine.”
“Just wanted to know how the movie ends,” Dwayne said.
They rode down the sandy slope into the bowl of the harbor at a gallop, horns blaring and men shouting a welcome.
35
Hostile Water
After three tries and the tweaking of multiple algorithms, Morris Tauber opened a mission-optimal field into The Now. A post-midnight arrival in the Gulf of Chiriqui thirty miles to the north of Isla de Coiba off the Pacific coast of Panama. Boats ran the Zodiac’s Evinrudes at half speed to reduce noise. The lights of cargo craft dotted the horizon far to the west; the shipping lane of heavy carriers coming to and from the Canal Zone. To the east, the coastline was invisible under the haze of torrential rain that washed away the stars. The glow of anvil lightning pulsed at the heart of a vast front of dark clouds.
By the time the raft came to a stop, a hammering rain was falling. The chop whipped up to high white caps under a punishing wind. A tropical storm was building to its full fury.
“This is good!” Boats shouted to be heard over the thunder rolling above them. “Good luck for us!”
Gripping a side of the bobbing Zodia
c, Lee wondered what bad luck looked like. But he understood. The storm would provide cover for their approach. Despite the howling winds and rain, he was running with sweat under the neoprene wetsuit. He’d be happier when they got into the cooler water. Boats held a waterproof pad out to him. Isla Jicarina was five miles south of their position. The floating platform they sought was a mile or so west of the islet’s southern tip. Or so they hoped. A drone recon was risky and probably impossible in this weather.
“What now? We go?” Lee called out.
“We go. Gear up.” Boats undid bungees and handed tanks to the others. They strapped up, put on flippers, swim gloves, and buoyancy compensation vests before slipping on their masks. Then the tanks went on. Waterproof weapons packs were buckled on last. Boats moved from one man to the other, pulling straps snug and making sure the seal around the face-masks was tight, and mouthpieces and lines were firmly in place and untangled. Last minute checks of regulators and gauges before Geteye was the first to drop over the side.
Lee and Shan managed to lift a tubular sea scooter from the shifting deck and slide it over the nacelle to Geteye floating alongside. Gripping the control handles, the Ethiopian was lying atop the diver propulsion vehicle like a surfer awaiting the next curler. Shan was next, and Boats and Lee levered his DPV into the water to him. Lee slipped into the water, dragging his scooter after him with the SEAL’s help.
The other three rode the surface, rising and falling on the swells, watching Boats undo the cocks on the Zodiac. The raft began taking on water in a rush and was soon down, flooded and pulled under the chop by the weight of the outboards. The SEAL kicked clear as the raft sank, propelling his DPV under his own power to join the others. The prow of the raft slid under the water at the bottom of a trough. They kicked toward one another, keeping each other in sight on the heaving sea. The storm current was strong and trying hard to separate them.
