Precipice: V Plague Book 9 (26 page)

Colonel
Grushkin was seated in the Hind, sheltering from the weather.  His foul
mood had progressively gotten worse as the evening wore on into night and his
troops still hadn’t found the American.  To top it off he had a splitting
headache that no amount of non-narcotic pain killer was touching.  The
medic had warned him that he had a severe concussion to go along with the head
wound that took over a hundred stitches to close.

Where was
the man hiding?  Grushkin had been carefully monitoring the progress of
the searching patrols and wasn’t happy that with over three fourths of the
town’s buildings checked off the list the man was still successfully
hiding.  Doubt began to creep in to his thoughts as he watched the four
women handcuffed to the braided steel winch cable.

They were
soaked and shivering and looked absolutely miserable.  All except for the
pretty Mexican that Buzinsky had shot in the leg.  She was unconscious,
her full body weight held up by her wrist.  He had considered going out
there and using his knife to make them scream and cry out for the Major, but
didn’t want to perform to an empty theatre.  He didn’t think the man was
close enough to see or hear what was happening, which negated the point in
doing it in the first place.

What if he’d
managed to slip away?  Was even now moving farther and farther away from
the town.  But he didn’t see how that was possible.  His men had
tracked him into town.  Found the crashed American military vehicle that
had struck a large cow, and soon after had found the only vehicle in the entire
area that had a hot engine. 

They
couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes behind him and between the
helicopters and ground troops there had been no opportunity for him to
escape.  That only left the possibility that he’d found a good hiding
place somewhere in the town.  They would eventually find him, or flush him
out with the messages his men were broadcasting.

“Comrade
Colonel,” Major Buzinsky, acting as his aide, appeared at the open side door,
hair plastered to his head by the steady rain, and held out a blocky satellite
phone.  “General Kozlov for you, sir.”

Grushkin took
a deep breath, steeling himself to report that he had still not succeeded in
capturing the American.

“Colonel
Grushkin speaking,” he said into the phone, waving the Major away.

“What is
your report, Colonel?”  Kozlov was always one to get straight to business.

“We are
closing in on him, sir.  I expect to have him before sunrise,” Grushkin
gave the only answer that wouldn’t have resulted in orders for his arrest being
immediately issued. 

“Fuck your
mother, Grushkin,” Kozlov roared over the phone.  “Tell me what is really
happening.  It is not just your balls that will be cut off and fed to
Comrade Barinov’s dogs if you fail.  Mine will be first on the menu.”

“I am sorry,
Comrade General,” Grushkin said, then proceeded to explain in detail the events
of the past several hours.

“Have you
begun applying pressure to his wife to get him to show himself?”  Kozlov
asked.

“Not yet,
sir.  No.  I am holding her in the middle of a very large
field.  The entire area is covered by sniper teams.  He is not close
enough to see or hear, of that I am certain.  If I begin working on her it
will be of no use if he is not aware, and may shorten the time in which she is
useful.”

There was
silence on the phone as Kozlov digested what he had been told.  He was no
fan of torture, especially on a woman as leverage to control her husband, but
just because he wasn’t a fan didn’t mean he wouldn’t order it done to complete
his mission.  But the Colonel was correct.  Hurting the woman when
her husband wasn’t aware of what was being done was pointless and ran the risk
of losing the asset prematurely.

“Very well,
Colonel.  I am going to gather some men and board a flight.  Expect
me in four hours.  And… for both our sakes it would be best if you have
found him by the time I arrive.”

The General
broke the connection, leaving Grushkin fuming.  He wasn’t angry at
Kozlov.  The man was simply doing what any commander would do in this
situation.  If your underlings aren’t having success and your very life
depends on a positive outcome, you get your ass into the field and take
control.  No, Grushkin wasn’t mad at the General.  He was furious
with the American Major.

Unreasonably
so, he realized, but that didn’t change the fact that if the man didn’t make a
mistake and get captured in the next few hours, Colonel Grushkin might very
well not see the sunrise.  Standing, he dropped the phone on the seat he
had been occupying and climbed down from the dry cabin.

The rain was
cold, a stiff breeze from the northwest driving it into his face as he slowly walked
down the line of captive women.  He was cold, even in his greatcoat. 
They were dressed much lighter, shivering so violently the cable they were
cuffed to was shaking.  Ignoring Irina, he stopped in front of Rachel,
reaching out and lifting her chin to look into her eyes.  Wet, stringy
hair hung across her face and her teeth were chattering.

“How do I
find him?”  He asked gently.

“L-l-l-l-look
behind you,” Rachel stuttered out as violent shivers racked her body.

Grushkin
didn’t take the bait, recognizing the defiance in the woman’s eyes despite her
deteriorating physical condition.  Smiling, he stroked a finger across her
cheek before removing his hand.

“You are his
wife.  No?”

Despite
Buzinsky’s bluff, there wasn’t a photo of Katie in John’s file.  There
were references to her past with the CIA, but somehow a picture had never been
added to the record.  Grushkin had called contacts in both the SVR and
GRU, having them pull Katie’s file, but again there was no photo in
either.  If she had ever worked on the CIA’s Russia desk there most
certainly would have been, but there had been too many American agents spread
across the world to warrant the effort to photograph every single one of
them. 

Moving on,
he stopped in front of Martinez who remained unconscious.  He looked at
her briefly, taking a moment to reach out and check the pulse in her
neck.  When his fingers touched her flesh she whipped her head around and
clamped her teeth down onto his hand.  With a roar of pain, he tried to
yank his hand out of her mouth, but she bit down as hard as she could, jerking
her head from side to side.

Grushkin
began hitting her head with his free hand, trying to break free, but Martinez
held on.  Responding to the Colonel’s shout of pain, two soldiers ran up,
one of them raising his rifle to shoot.

“Nyet!” 
He screamed at the man, drew his pistol and began clubbing Martinez across the
head.

The pain was
incredible and he hit her hard.  Finally, his hand came free as he pulled
backwards, stumbling and falling onto the rain soaked grass.  He stared at
his hand in shock, dropping the pistol and cradling it with his other. 
His index and middle finger were missing, blood pouring from the ragged stumps.

Martinez had
straightened, taking the pressure off her bruised wrist.  Blood coated her
lips and chin, quickly being washed away by the rain.  When Grushkin
looked up she spit his fingers out of her mouth to splash onto the ground
between them. 

“Don’t
fucking touch me, puto!”  She smiled, showing her blood stained teeth.

With a
bellow of rage, Grushkin leapt to his feet and launched himself at the small
woman.  He rained blows from his good hand onto her head and face,
switching to her body when he felt her nose break.  He pounded on her ribs
and stomach.  Sent sharp punches into her kidneys.

“You fucking
motherless whore,” he screamed as he kept assaulting her.

Katie,
Rachel and Irina were all screaming at him, begging him to stop.  Katie
slid her cuffs along the cable to reach Martinez, Rachel following suit when she
saw what the other woman was doing.  Both were roughly grabbed by the two
soldiers before they could get close enough to place themselves between
Martinez and the mad man.  She finally cried out in pain when he began
kicking the bullet wound in her thigh.

 Over
the past half hour activity on the docks had died down to almost nothing. 
Crawford had watched what was obviously a changing of the guard, then lights
were dimmed and most of the Russian sailors disappeared below decks.  That
left a few men on the deck of each ship and a small roving patrol on the
docks.  The work gang that had been throwing dead infected into the water
was done for the night.  Several shots rang out from beyond the farthest
ship and the Colonel mused they’d be busy in the morning.

He waited
another hour to give the sentries standing static posts time to get bored and
start letting their minds drift.  The patrol had taken shelter from the
rain under a small tree, the men smoking and talking quietly. 
Occasionally one of them would step out and look around for infected.  If
he spotted one he’d take his time aiming and shoot it from where he stood.

The Colonel
was ready to go.  The mines and spools of wire were in a pack securely
strapped to his chest.  Swim fins he’d taken from a sporting goods store
were hanging from his belt.  Goggles were on his head, pushed up off his
eyes for the moment.  The patrol did their check of the area, one of the
soldiers scanning directly in the Colonel’s direction.  Not seeing any
infected, he huddled back under the tree.

Crawford
moved as soon as the man turned back to his cigarette.  He dashed across a
narrow service road and to the top of a ladder that descended the side of the
tall pier to the water below.  Swinging onto the rungs, he climbed down
into the inky darkness, wishing there had been some night vision at the
Armory.  Pausing halfway to the surface of the water he removed one boot
and sock at a time, stuffing them into the pack with the mines. 

Continuing
on, he carefully lowered himself into the cold water.  Holding tight to
the ladder with one hand, he removed the flippers from his belt and got them on
his feet.  Next he rinsed the inside of the goggles in seawater to prevent
them from fogging, then slipped them on and pushed off from the ladder.

His first
stop would be Peter the Great.  The ship that had looked so big from shore
now appeared twice as large.  And it was still a hundred yards away. 
Focusing on managing the weight strapped to his body, Crawford began kicking,
careful to keep his feet deep enough to not cause a splash that might be heard
by one of the sentries.

He hadn’t
gone far when something heavy bumped into his right shoulder.  It was
pitch black on the surface of the water and he nearly panicked, swallowing some
ocean water when the first thing that went through his head was
shark
. 
He lashed out with his hand, coming into contact with something he couldn’t
identify at first, but it wasn’t a shark.  It didn’t even seem to be
alive.  Quickly running his hand over the object he suddenly realized it
was one of the dead infected the Russians had been tossing off the docks.

Ignoring the
corpse, and almost forgetting the thought of being eaten by a shark, he started
swimming again.  As he moved through the water, several more bodies that
bobbed on the surface bumped into him.  Progress was slow as the Colonel
had to focus on managing the dead weight he was carrying as well as remaining
silent.  He had noted the lookouts posted on the ship’s decks weren’t
equipped with night vision, so unless someone turned on a spotlight he would
remain invisible in the dark water.

Eventually
reaching Peter the Great he paused and glanced up.  The hull of the giant
ship soared out of the water, curving out as it went up.  He was
completely hidden from the deck.  Even if a sentry looked directly down
over the rail he would be screened by the curved steel side of the
battlecruiser. 

Carefully he
began making his way towards the stern.  He had arrived near the mid point
of its length and was still going with the assumption the reactor core would be
closer to the back.  This was confirmed after a few minutes of movement
when he reached an area where a gentle current could be felt tugging on his
fins.

But it
wasn’t an ocean current.  Wasn’t flowing horizontally.  It was trying
to pull him under.  He had found the intake for the reactor’s cooling
system.  Even tied up to the dock the reactor was running, generating
power for the ship’s systems.  And if a reactor is running it has to be
cooled, otherwise bad things happen very quickly.

Reaching
into the pack on his chest, Crawford had to pry the two mines apart because
their magnets had found each other.  The wire into the detonator had been
attached before he left shore, so all that was left to do was put the mine in
place.  Taking several deep breaths, he dove and followed the curving hull
in absolute darkness. 

It didn’t
take long to find the large intake, the flow of cold seawater threatening to
suck his body up against the opening.  Pushing the mine forward, the
magnets took over and slammed it against the hull a couple of feet away from
the opening.  Using his hands and finned feet, Crawford walked himself
away from the current then kicked for the surface, wire trailing behind him.

He gulped air
as quietly as he could when his head broke into the clear.  Carefully
kicking, he moved himself away from the constant tug generated by the ship’s
pumps.  Once free of the suction he transitioned back to swimming, staying
in the shelter of the hull’s curve.  At the stern he paid out enough wire
to let it swing deep into the water and not tangle on the gigantic propellers.

Rounding the
turn to reach the opposite side of the ship, Crawford struck out across two
hundred feet of open water to reach the destroyer.  It had looked
diminutive next to the battlecruiser when he was on shore, but when he reached
the hull it no longer seemed small.  Looking up he couldn’t see what he
needed to see, so he swam a few yards back the way he’d just come from.  Now
he was able to spot the pipes and valves that were used for fueling the ship and
swam to a point on the hull right below them.

The Colonel
didn’t know a lot about ships.  He’d been on a few different Navy ships
during his career, even a nuclear sub once, but he was far from a nautical
expert.  Most of his knowledge came from books and movies.  So he was
guessing when he decided the fuel tanks would be low in the hull to help
ballast the ship in rough seas.  Hoping he was right, he dove, again following
the hull by feel as he was completely blind in the inky darkness.

When he
reached a point where the curve seemed to begin transitioning from nearly
vertical, he stopped and attached the second mine.  The first spool was
already on a hook attached to his belt and the second one joined it as he
kicked for the surface.  Breaking through, he turned and headed away from
shore. 

There was a
large, man-made breakwater that protected the harbor.  It jutted into the
water at an angle meant to combat the waves that rolled down from the north
when there was a storm.  He was pretty sure he had enough wire on the
large spools to reach that far.  But he hadn’t even made it past the stern
of Peter the Great when he heard an outboard motor.

With his
ears only inches above the surface the Colonel couldn’t tell where the boat
was, but the sounds were coming closer.  Had he been spotted?  No,
there would have been activity on the ship’s decks.  Lights would be on
and alarms would be sounding.  Someone would probably already be shooting
at him by now.

Turning
back, he struck out for Peter the Great which was closer.  Less worried
about making noise, he swam hard, hoping to reach the hull and fade into the
darkness.  He made it just as an inflatable boat that looked very much
like an American RIB rounded the stern of the destroyer.  Three men were
aboard.  One was driving, one was controlling a spotlight and the third
was behind a pintle mounted machine gun.

“Fuck me
running,” Crawford grumbled.

He watched
them for a few moments as the boat moved along barely above an idle.  The
spotlight was being played up and down the hull of the destroyer at the
waterline.  He should have known the Russians would have more security
than just a few guys on deck.  As he observed he noted the thoroughness of
their inspection.  It wasn’t just a quick pass of the light before moving
on.  The man would check a section of the hull, then reverse course and
check it again, then swing the light across it a third time before moving on to
the next area.

There was no
way he was going to be able to hide from them.  Not without scuba
gear.  They were spending too much time on each area.  He couldn’t
hold his breath that long.  His diseased lungs were already protesting the
time he’d been underwater, and he was fighting to not start coughing. 

With a sigh of
resignation, he slipped a hand into his pack and removed a trigger. 
Treading with his finned feet while he worked, he pulled a long loop from one
of the spools and wrapped it around his wrist so it couldn’t get lost in the
water if he dropped it.  He did the same thing with the other spool, then
used his teeth to break through each thin wire.

Biting on
the ends, he stripped back a few inches of insulation and attached one of the
wires to the stainless steel terminals on the top of the trigger.  Digging
the second one out, he wired it as he watched the patrol finish with the
destroyer and turn to begin checking the much larger battlecruiser.

He thought
about trying to swim around the stern, but dismissed that as a bad idea. 
Was going underneath the hull and coming up on the other side a
possibility?  He had no idea how far into the water the giant ship
sat.  Draft.  He finally remembered the term for it.  His lungs
were burning, threatening to begin spasming.  He couldn’t make the dive.  He
was sure he would drown.  And if he drowned, there’d be no one to detonate
the mines and he would have died for nothing.

“Fuck it,”
he said to himself, making his decision.

Closing his
eyes for a moment he said a short prayer, hoping everything his wife had so
fervently believed was true and that they would be together again very
soon.  Colonel Crawford opened his eyes, lifted the safety gates that
protected each trigger from accidental initiation, and simultaneously pressed
both buttons.

-----

General
Kozlov was settled into his seat on board the Antonov troop transport, several squads
of soldiers crammed into the back, the big plane climbing steeply to clear the
mountains to the east of Seattle.  He looked up when the co-pilot suddenly
appeared in front of him, breathless and looking terrified.

“What is it
now?”  The General asked irritably.

“Peter the
Great, Comrade General,” the man sputtered.  “It has been attacked.”

“Does
Captain Romanov have it under control?” 

“It is
sinking, Comrade General!  And the other ships at the dock are on
fire.”  The man flinched under Kozlov’s gaze.

“
What?
 
Turn us around and get me on the ground.  Quickly!”  He snapped, sending
the young officer dashing back to the cockpit.

Moments
later the plane banked hard to the right and began to rapidly lose altitude,
changing course to return to McChord Air Force Base.

“Have a
helicopter ready to go when we land,” Kozlov barked at his aide.

Ten minutes
later the heavy plane screeched onto the runway, the General unbuckling his
seatbelt and standing up while they were still decelerating.  The pilot
taxied for a brief time then came to a sharp stop.  Kozlov had already
pushed his way through the troops to the back of the plane and slapped the
button to lower the ramp, running out onto it before it was fully down onto the
tarmac.

His aide had
stayed on his heels and they ran to an idling Hind, reflexively ducking their
heads as they came under the spinning rotor even though there was no danger of
it striking them.  The General yanked the door open and climbed aboard,
shouting at the pilot to take off as his aide was still trying to board.

They
streaked north, the conflagration at the docks soon becoming visible. 

“How far are
we?”  Kozlov asked the pilot over the intercom.

“Thirty
kilometers, Comrade General.”  The man answered.

“Thirty
kilometers and we can already see the fire,” Kozlov said under his breath.

The pilot
was pushing the aircraft to its maximum speed and they covered the distance
quickly.  Kozlov’s attention was fixated on the burning ships, his fists
clenched so hard they ached.  He had been assured there were no Americans
left in the city, and he had trusted his staff.  Their incompetence and
his acceptance of their assurances would most likely cost him his life. 
If he was lucky, that’s all it would cost him.  He had a wife and children
back in Russia.

The
helicopter flew over the tall buildings in downtown Seattle before going into
an orbit to provide the best view of the devastation below.  Peter the
Great was listing severely to port, water visible washing across the
deck.  It was apparently sitting on the bottom of the harbor.  The
other four ships were all aflame, and a spreading fuel-oil slick was burning on
the surface of the harbor.

“Comrade
General, the radiation detectors are in alarm,” the pilot said, his voice
startling Kozlov.  “The reactor on Peter the Great must have been
breached.  We are already at exposures well above the minimum safe
threshold.”