Zero Hour Page 22

  “Why would they be doing that?”

  Joe considered several possibilities but put the thought aside when he saw a gaggle of the Russian commandos coming down the passageway. “No idea,” he said. “But let’s get in that chow line before those guys do.”

  Turning quickly, he ducked into the mess hall. Hayley lingered just behind him, keeping an eye on the hallway.

  Stepping to the buffet, Joe inhaled deeply. He loved Vietnamese food, the spices and all the vegetables. The ship’s cook had whipped up a pretty good spread. It almost seemed a shame to ruin it.

  “They’re coming,” Hayley whispered.

  Joe nodded, smiled at the chef, and began to load up his plate with heaping piles of everything on the menu. It was enough food for him and two others.

  As the cook stared at him in wonder, Joe rubbed his stomach. “Nothing works up an appetite like being shipwrecked in frigid waters and then being kidnapped by your would-be rescuers.”

  The cook’s face remained blank. Joe guessed English was not one of his languages. He put his hands together and bowed slightly. “Kam ung,” he said, thank you being one of the few phrases he knew in Vietnamese.

  The cook smiled, his smooth face genuine and true. In a way, the Rama’s crew were as much prisoners of the situation as the Orion’s survivors.

  Hayley sidled up to him, and began filling her own plate. “It’s now or never,” she said.

  Joe pointed behind the cook to a wok that was smoking and starting to catch fire. As the cook turned around and went to put it out, Joe slipped a pouch from his sleeve as neatly as any magician. With a quick swish of his arm, he sprinkled the contents across everything in the buffet line. When the pouch was empty, he drew his hand back and stuffed it in his pocket.

  As the Russians came in, they eyed Joe and Hayley for a moment and then moved to the head of the line. However odd they found the situation, they seemed more interested in feeding themselves than starting a confrontation they would catch hell for later.

  Joe and Hayley sat down in the corner, trying not to watch as the commandos all but inhaled generous helpings of the tainted food.

  • • •

  EIGHT HOURS LATER, Kurt found himself on the bridge, staring at photos of Heard Island and wondering if the jig was up.

  About fifteen miles long and ten miles wide, the island was roughly almond shaped and tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. A thin tail of land called Elephant Spit jutted out to the east like a breakwater, and a small blob called Laurens Peninsula clung to its northwest corner connected by a narrow isthmus.

  In profile, Heard Island was obviously volcanic. The central peak, named Big Ben, towered nine thousand feet above the sea in a classic conical shape. It was actually one of the highest peaks in Australian territory, higher than anything on the continent itself.

  A satellite view showed glaciers spreading out from Big Ben like the spokes of a wheel. They followed the steep grades down to the ocean in every direction, calving icebergs where they met the water. White chunks of ice, many larger than the MV Rama, encircled the island like pilot fish around the head of a great shark.

  As Kurt studied the photos, Kirov and Gregorovich stood quietly, looking smug and very pleased with themselves. They were more than happy to show Kurt everything they’d discovered.

  “Do you have any infrared shots?” Kurt asked.

  Gregorovich slid a new series of photos across the table toward him.

  These shots, taken by the Russian drones, showed seals and penguins and colonies of nesting birds. The next photo depicted a series of distinct heat sources grouped on the southeast coast of the island. A spot called Winston Lagoon.

  “The first group of targets are thermal vents of some kind,” Gregorovich explained. “They could be naturally occurring and linked to the volcano or they could be man-made, indicating underground activity. The other images are unequivocal. They’re men on snowmobiles. Whoever they were, they disappeared into holes in the ground moments after these shots were taken.”

  Kurt studied the location of the snowmobile photos. “Just inland from Winston Lagoon,” he said. “A good place to shelter. But I don’t see any ships there.”

  “So they were dropped off,” Gregorovich said. “This is Thero’s way. His lab in Yagishiri was underground. His experiments involve delving deep into the Earth. Those hatches lead to Thero’s compound. I’m sure of it.”

  Kurt didn’t doubt it. But nor did he doubt that Thero would be prepared for an assault. “Do you think they heard your drones?”

  “The men we spotted showed no sense of alarm,” Gregorovich said. “Our drones are nearly silent, and almost invisible to the naked eye.”

  Kurt nodded. The Rama was still over the horizon and making only enough steam to hold station in the current. “Did you scan for radar sources?”

  Gregorovich nodded. “No emissions. It seems they’re relying on stealth alone to protect them. They don’t know we’re coming.”

  “There are other, more passive ways to detect an enemy’s approach,” Kurt said. “Infrared like your drone used. Visual. He could have motion-detecting cameras or even track you by sound. You head right for him and he’ll take your helicopters out before you hit the beach. And since he’s underground, lobbing a few missiles in his direction won’t do much to him either.”

  “We have no reason to believe Thero possesses antiaircraft weapons,” Kirov sneered.

  “He doesn’t need them,” Kurt said. “He has his death ray. If he spots this ship, he’ll send a massive distortion out to crush it just like he did the Orion. And if he spots your birds in the air, he’ll hit you with another weapon he’s developed. Something they call a flash-draw. He used it on the ASIO. It will shut down every system on your aircraft including the pilot’s nervous system. You’ll all be dead on impact before anyone wakes up.”

  Kurt was talking fast, urgently trying to seize the initiative before they decided they no longer needed him. The Russians stared at him as if he were making it up.

  “You’re just trying to save your neck,” Kirov guessed.

  “Well, I’m rather fond of my neck,” he said. “I’ve become attached to it after all these years.”

  Kirov didn’t seem to appreciate the humor.

  Gregorovich glanced down at the map. “We could hold our current position,” he began. “Take the helicopters out to the north, well beyond visual range, and then swing around behind the island. By coming in from the north side of the island, we’ll be using the central massif to conceal our approach. In that way, we should arrive undetected.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Kirov said. “Now we’re taking orders and tactical advice from our prisoner?”

  Gregorovich ignored him and pointed to a spot on the map near the shoulder of Big Ben. “If we come in over saddle point and set down here on the far side of Big Ben, they shouldn’t be alerted to our presence. From there, it’s no more than seven or eight miles to the Winston Lagoon. Most of it downhill.”

  It was a good plan. And they certainly didn’t need Kurt to pull it off. “Well, there you go,” he said, his hand edging closer to the Makarov in case he’d just outlived his usefulness.

  “Not just us,” Gregorovich replied.

  Kurt narrowed his gaze.

  “We’re taking you and your crew with us.”

  “Gonna be a little tight on those helicopters with so many people and the extra fuel you’ll need for the long circular journey.”

  “As it turns out, a few seats have become available,” Gregorovich said. “Twelve of the commandos have taken ill with a horrendous stomach virus.”

  “So give them some fluids and tell them to quit goldbricking,” Kurt said, hoping no one would actually listen to his advice.

  Gregorovich shook his head. “We’re not going to hike a glacier with men puking their guts out
every five minutes. They’re too dehydrated and weak to be of any use. You and your people will take their place.”

  “Not all of our people are healthy either,” Kurt said. “Four of them are in your sick bay.”

  “Only three,” Kirov corrected. “It seems one of them died during the night. From lingering effects of shock.”

  “All they needed were basic treatments,” Kurt said angrily. “What kind of people are you?”

  “The kind who will draw blood if we need to,” Gregorovich said, taking the conversation back from Kirov and unmistakably referencing their chess game and the altercation that nearly ended in both of their deaths. “The others will get the attention they deserve as long as you cooperate.”

  Kurt stared. “Who do you want to bring?”

  “You, your friend Zavala, and Ms. Anderson.”

  “There’s no reason to bring her at this point,” Kurt said.

  “I don’t need a reason,” Gregorovich said.

  Kurt wondered if the Russian knew this was exactly what he’d hoped for. “Fine,” he said. “But not until I’m sure the others have been treated.”

  A smirk appeared on the Russian’s rugged face. “Still protecting your pawns?” he asked. “So be it. They will receive what they need. But for you and I, the time has come. We’ll finish our game tonight right here where you said we’d be: at the very ends of the Earth.”

  NUMA vessel Gemini

  Gamay Trout sat in the darkened room of the Gemini’s ROV control center. She stared at the flickering black-and-white monitor in front of her. Twelve thousand feet below them, one of the ship’s deep-diving ROVs had come across a debris field.

  Broken and mangled wreckage littered the seafloor in a familiar pattern. She had seen dozens like it before as NUMA explored and cataloged various wrecks. Only, this wreck was one of their own.

  “Magnetometer reading peaking,” Paul said from beside her. “She’s got to be close.”

  Paul and Gamay and the Gemini’s captain were crowded into the room along with three other techs. The quarters were tight, and no one wanted to see what they were about to find. Gamay slowed the ROV and tilted the camera upward. A moment later, the red hull plating of the Orion’s keel came into view along with her bent rudder and six-bladed propeller. The ship was lying on her side.

  “That’s her,” the captain said grimly. “Bring the ROV up a hundred feet. Let’s see the big picture.”

  Gamay did as ordered, operating calmly, despite the sick feeling in her stomach.

  The ROV rose above the wreckage to reveal the true extent of the damage. The ship’s keel had been split wide open, like someone cracking a giant egg. Somehow, the two halves remained attached as she sank, but there was so much damage it was hard to make sense of it.

  “No wonder they went down so fast,” Paul said.

  As the ROV drifted on the current, they could see that the breach ran the width of the hull.

  “Never seen a ship holed like that,” the captain said.

  The ship began to drift out of view.

  “Gamay?” Paul said, concerned at seeing her white face.

  She stood up. “Someone else take over, please.”

  As one of the other techs took her seat, she stepped through the crowd and made her way to the aft deck. She pushed the hatch open and welcomed the icy chill of the outside air.

  A deep breath helped ease the feeling that had come over her, but as her gaze fell upon a tarp lashed to the deck, the uncomfortable feeling returned. Under the tarp were three bodies they’d found and pulled from the sea. Crewmen from the Orion who’d drowned or died of hypothermia awaiting rescue. They now lay in bags on the deck. The ship had no cold storage, but the freezing air of the Antarctic waters was the next-best thing.

  She turned away as Paul came out behind her.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. I can’t treat this like some regular investigation. That’s one of our ships down there. These people are our friends.”

  “And we need to know why it went down,” Paul reminded her. “We need to see if there are explosive burns or melted plates. We need to know if they were buckled from a mine or a torpedo or a missile impact, or if the plates were bent outward from some kind of an internal explosion. If the damage came from the outside, then we can rule out Ms. Anderson’s sensor device and activate our own.”

  “I know all that,” she said.

  “But?”

  She sighed. “What if we find Kurt or Joe in there? What if we put the ROV inside the hull and come face-to-face with one of them? Every time we plucked someone out of the sea, I was afraid it would be someone we knew.”

  Paul took her hand. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll have one of the other techs guide the ROV.”

  She knew he was going to say that. She didn’t want that result. She just needed a moment. “Do you suppose there’s any chance they’re alive?”

  Paul hesitated for a moment, then he shook his head. “I don’t see how they could be.”

  She appreciated his honesty. Somehow, admitting it was a probability took the edge off the fear. “All right,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “I guess if I was gone, I’d want them to figure out what happened.”

  “I would too,” Paul said. He opened the door and held it for her. She stepped inside, steeling herself for whatever they might find.

  • • •

  KURT, JOE, AND HAYLEY were given a modicum of winter clothing for the assault: a skintight base layer of wicking material, followed by a heavier thermal layer, and then outer shells of waterproof material. The pants, jackets, and hoods were camouflaged in a pattern of white and light gray. They were given white boots, and white wraps to cover their rifles.

  “How do I look?” Joe asked, fully garbed.

  “Like the abominable snowman’s little brother,” Kurt said.

  “Apparently, they don’t come in my size,” Hayley said, the sleeves of her jacket flopping around well past her hands.

  “Best they could do,” Kurt said, standing and ready to go. He found the uniform stifling in the heat of the ship’s cabin. He hoped it would do the trick out on the ice of the glacier.

  Sliding the Makarov pistol into the holster strapped to his thigh, he stepped toward the hatch, pushed it open, and walked out onto the deck. There, beyond the stacked containers, were two of the ugliest gray helicopters he had ever seen.

  “We’re flying in those contraptions?” Hayley said, looking shocked.

  Sleek was not a word used to describe the Russian-built Kamov Ka-32s, code-named Helix by NATO. They resembled old buses, with rounded corners and three tiny wheels underneath. A double tail looked as if it had been stuck on the back as an afterthought, as if the designers had forgotten to include it in the first place.

  Making them appear even less airworthy was the Russian double-rotor system. Instead of a tail rotor for stability, the Russians had a penchant for using two rotors above the helicopter. They turned opposite each other, stabilizing the gyroscopic forces. The Russians had been using the system for decades, but on the ground, with the rotors drooping under their own weight, the Helix looked like a science project gone awry.

  “I’ve always wondered how those rotors avoid getting tangled up,” Joe said. “This thing’s like a giant eggbeater. The blades really should chop each other off.”

  Kurt shot Joe a look, but it was too late. Hayley was hanging on every word.

  “Come on,” Kurt said, noticing that the wind had picked up and that snow flurries had begun to fall. “We have less than eighteen hours.”

  Gregorovich directed Zavala into one helicopter with Kirov and ordered Kurt and Hayley into the other. He climbed inside with them.

  “How many men do we have?” Kurt asked as the door was buttoned tight and the engines began to wind up.


  “Ten, not counting the pilots,” he said. “You three. Myself, Kirov, and five commandos.”

  Kurt noticed three snowmobiles and piles of rope and climbing equipment in the rear section of the cavernous helicopter. “Are we riding or walking?”

  “Both,” Gregorovich said. “We’ll take the snowmobiles for most of the journey, but near the edge of the glacier the sound of the engines will carry through the cavern. At that point, we’ll go on foot.”

  As if on cue, the whine of the turbines reached a fever pitch, and the howl of the rotors’ downwash began to shake the heavily laden copter. It rocked back and forth for a few seconds and then slowly began to rise. Kurt stared out the window as a crosswind caught them.

  Still rising, they were blown sideways. The pilot corrected just in time to avoid clipping one of the shipping containers. After climbing another thirty feet higher, they peeled away to the port side, accelerating as they passed the bow of the Rama.

  Since they were without headsets, the thundering sound of the rotors made it necessary to shout just to be heard. “Think she’ll be here when we get back?” Kurt yelled, taking one last look at the Rama.

  Gregorovich shrugged. “I really don’t care one way or another.”

  At least three commandos remained behind, not counting those who were sick with food poisoning. Kurt hoped they would honor the uneasy peace, and he figured Captain Winslow and his XO would put up a stiff fight if they didn’t, but there was nothing more Kurt could do to protect them. All that mattered now was completing the mission ahead.

  “So how do you plan to stop him?” Kurt asked.

  “Take his compound by force,” Gregorovich said, and then pointed to a hard-shell suitcase strapped to the back of one snowmobile and marked with the international symbol for radiation. “And then detonate it.”

  “Is that what I think it is?” Hayley asked.

  “Afraid so,” Kurt said.

  She looked greener with each passing second. Kurt figured that sharing a cabin with a nuclear weapon was not going to help her fear of flying. On the other hand, like the Russian assassin he’d now partnered with, Kurt was glad to have a weapon aboard that would leave no doubt.