“Now that’s what I call terminal hacking!”
Uzi mini sub-machine pistols blasted.
Dillon sprinted, head low, as the Assassin, who had screamed
— no, emptied a full magazine in his direction. Dillon raced into the corridor with bullets kicking up sparks behind him and bounced from the wall, groaning long and low to himself as his battered body seemed to gather up energy from somewhere deep within him. Spurred on by the thought of Alix’s dirty-bomb, Dillon sprinted as if his life depended on it.
Which it did.
Dillon stumbledmadly down the corridor in pursuit of a way out onto the deck. His alter-personality rose up through his sub-conscious to taunt him… “You really are slow and weak, old man. You’ll never get off this tub in time, you know. But I can get you off, Dillon. I have the strength you could never dream of — come on, Dillon, you’ll never do this without me…” “Fuck off,” snarled Dillon.
He stumbled forward, rebounding from wall to wall. His aching muscles felt like they were tearing with every jolt, making him want to cry out with each step forward. He halted; fell to his knees, his breathing laboured, the broken ribs, causing severe pain down his right side.
“ You’re dying Dillon, and the clock is tick-tocking. Alix has done his job well, Vince is up there waiting for you with Tatiana, the blades of the Apache spinning. You have, roughly one minute and thirty-five seconds to get off this fucking death-ship.”
Dillon steadied his breathing and stood up again.
Bullets kicked up sparks from the floor behind him. He pushed on at a weary pace, stumbling, as the large catamaran was assaulted in succession by Alix’s smaller explosive devices, shaking the very structure of the vessel as it made for deeper water outside of the harbour.
His boots thudded dully on the metal walkways, upstairs, and to the door that had allowed him entry. He wrenched the lever over and heaved it open.
More bullets came at him, striking sparks from the door’s metal surround; Dillon dropped to one knee, the Glock kicking in his hand. Ramus was dead and Kirill was jumping ship like a rat, into a waiting black helicopter as rain pounded all around him.
Dillon stepped up and out into the wind and lashing rain. And looked around, dazed.
The skies were filled with thick black smoke billowing up from the ravaged decks of the catamaran. The surviving JetRanger helicopter was fleeing and Dillon could just make out the Apache, blades spinning, and hovering twenty feet above the deck. Vince’s outline was visible inside the cockpit, with Tatiana sitting next to him. The helicopter’s forward machine cannons flashed as they spat out their lethal payload at each and every Assassin that came through the hatchway leading out onto the starboard side deck. As Dillon stood, mouth agape, an Assassin cut in half not more than ten feet away from him — closely followed by another who met with a similar end.
Dillon started to sprint towards the Apache, all pain suddenly forgotten. Vince spotted him and opened fire on a small group of Assassins who were trying to cut him off, but who were mowed down instantly by the large calibre rounds. More bullets whizzed around him. Dillon growled, glaring at the helicopter up ahead. It jumped around in the sky and Dillon could see Tatiana’s face looking down at him.
Dillon stayed low and sprinted for the Apache.
Two Assassins ran at him. The Glock’s bullets knocked both of them from their feet, smashing through skin, bone and matter as their faces were pulverised. Dillon did not even break stride. As he reached the hovering helicopter, it was with despair that he saw the bullet riddled fuselage.
Vince brought the Apache down until he was hovering no more than twelve inches above the deck. Dillon clambered up and dropped into the cockpit. As he slipped into the co-pilot’s seat next to Vince he noticed alarms were sounding and lights were flashing,
The Apache’s engines faltered under the increase of power required to lift the attack helicopter up into the air.
“I don’t believe it!” Dillon growled.
Dillon took the controls, flicked a number of override switches and the twin engines burst into life again and the helicopter lifted quickly into a thunderous sky. It vibrated alarmingly, its engines howling. All around was a chaos of gunfire, flames and explosions; wind and rain streamed in through the cockpits shattered side-screen.
As the Apache veered to the right, Dillon spotted Kirill’s small black helicopter in the distance. His stare locked on to the small black dot that was heading out low over the waves and he then circled a broad arc and gaining height momentarily to observe the stealth ship’s demise.
Dillon powered the Apache forward.
The attack helicopter dived, howling towards Kirill’s small black machine. Dillon armed the machine cannons, Vince and Tatiana tightened their seat harnesses, and then fired a short burst to make sure the guns were operating properly. Kirill had to die…
Lights flashed and a warning siren sounded on the console in front of him.
They had a fuel leak; he glanced at the levels and noted with despair that avgas was streaming from the Apache’s fuselage. Dillon forced the helicopter on regardless.
Kirill saw him coming and banked his own machine aggressively, on-board machine guns opening fire. Bullets whizzed past to left and right, and scored a line up one flank of the Apache. Still Dillon urged the aircraft forward and something, some inner sense made him veer hard to the left as Kirill came at them head-on. Dillon fired the forward guns, as the small black machine went into a high wide sweep, sparks clearly visible as bullets struck the metal landing skids.
Machine guns hammered again.
Dillon suddenly realised there were two small black helicopters on his tail; he realised they must have been flanking Kirill, protecting this man who was their master.
The Apache took more hits.
“The fuel…” Dillon muttered, as avgas spray streamed away behind the battered helicopter.
The Apache lifted rapidly, gaining on Kirill’s fast black machine as it made its way back towards the catamaran. And then everything happened at once.
There was a low, deep sound. And then the world seemed to shake.
The catamaran staggered, as if tripped, as the dirty-bomb that Alix had planted detonated. There was a weird underwater roar; a foaming cauldron erupted and light and fire danced beneath the sea, spreading out like tentacles of some giant octopus. The catamaran lifted and a rending, tearing and screaming sound of stressed steel ripped the airwaves — huge cracks appeared down both flanks of the stealth ship, the amidships of both hulls dipping and the prows rearing up into the sky on a gush of suddenly boiling water. The massive groaning structure thrashing around in the last throws of its life.
Foam and flames burst into the sky, like a geyser spraying skywards.
Bullets zipped past Dillon, and he launched the Apache down and under Kirill’s machine. He rolled to the left and then right, before lifting the nose, reducing power, and firing the forward machine cannons.
Kirill’s face held an expression of disbelief as the bullets ripped up through the fuselage and into his body. One of the bullets drove itself up into the Professor’s groin and erupted through the back of his neck in a shower, spattering against the headlining of the cockpit. With the second burst of gun fire, Dillon hit the fuel tanks and Kirill’s helicopter exploded into a spinning fireball, free-falling towards the nearby stricken catamaran, which was sliding beneath the water, settling below the waves like a dying dinosaur.
Tatiana tapped Dillon on the shoulder, making him aware of their unwanted aerial entourage and banked the helicopter in a wide circle, the two marauders following suit. Then he suddenly spun the aircraft and opened fire with the machine cannons.