Выбрать главу

The big blond Russian man lifted the missile launch tube out of Afua’s hands and started his training with the phrase, “This is the front, and this is the back.” The training got a little more difficult as the arms dealer proceeded to show Afua Diambu how to arm and fire the weapon. Considering how much Afua already knew about all types of deadly weapons, it wasn’t difficult to learn. Put a giant bullet into a giant gun and pull a giant trigger. Nothing to it.

Sea of Japan — Aboard the Hail Nucleus

From the backseat of the helicopter, Lt. Commander Foster Nolan saw a ship appear on the horizon. As the Seahawk drew within two miles of the Hail Nucleus, backlit by the moonlit sky, the 80,000-ton deadweight cargo vessel looked massive. If not for all the strange cylindrical containers stacked on the ship’s deck like white logs, Nolan thought it resembled a large aircraft carrier like the one he had lifted off from an hour ago.

The lieutenant commander made a note to ask the pilots what those containers held, but his question was answered before the helicopter touched down on the ship’s hydraulic elevator. Staring out the window, and having discarded the blanket the young girl had given him, Nolan saw a symbol clearly stenciled on each containment storage container representing radiation hazard.

The chopper’s thick rubber wheels touched down onto the ship’s hard metal surface and the aircraft came to a stop. Nolan watched patiently as the pilots flipped switches and powered down the big helicopter. The young copilot began reading off a post-flight checklist with the pilot. The large rotor blades above their heads spun slower and slower until the carbon fiber behemoths sagged under their own weight. Before the last revolution had completed, the ship’s massive hydraulic elevator began descending, taking the chopper and its occupants deep within the bowels of the ship. Nolan looked up and saw some sort of door, or metal plate on a thick track being drawn across the opening where they had just landed.

The elevator emitted a high-pitched whine, and the big metal door up top made a metallic bang and then everything became very quiet. Lights inside the ship’s hangar snapped on, flooding the cavernous room with white light. Nolan remained quiet as he watched the pilots complete the last few items on their checklist. Once the final switches had been flipped and the gauges checked, the young girl opened her door on the Sikorsky Seahawk, stepped out and then pulled open the side door for her passenger.

Instinctively, the lieutenant commander placed his hand on his Beretta, its butt end sticking out of a holster on his chest rig. The girl saw him make the move but didn’t react in any manner.

She asked in a tired voice, “Are you going to use that?”

Nolan didn’t know how to respond, so his captor told him, “Good, then leave it alone, or it will be taken away from you. Let’s go,” she said nodding her head toward the other end of the hangar.

The lieutenant commander stepped out of the helicopter and his boots made squishy sounds, as saltwater squeezed out of them onto the painted metal floor. By now, the pilot had exited the aircraft and had walked around to join them. Nolan couldn’t believe the ages of the pilot and copilot. If the girl was no more than 14 years of age, then the male pilot couldn’t be any older than 16, at most. The young man had high school acne, and he looked like he wasn’t old enough to drive a car, let alone pilot a combat helicopter.

Doing his best to balance both tension and relief, tension won with his uncontrolled outburst.

Nolan blurted, “What is this place? Who are you guys? Where are we going?” The psychological imbalance was caused by the unknown factors. But the relief was the thought his captors might be in a hurry so they didn’t miss school recess. He didn’t feel he was in any danger from this pair of Jr. Pilots, so he allowed his hand to fall away from his Beretta and drop to his side.

The pilot and copilot walked through the aircraft hangar, and the lieutenant commander fell in behind them. As they walked, he rubbed the back of his neck. Now that the adrenaline of the ejection and rescue was wearing off, he was beginning to feel pain emanating from various parts of his body. His back was tweaked and, although the dull ache at the base of his neck was tolerable, it hurt more than his back.

As the trio walked toward the end of the hangar, being a man who had loved aircraft his entire life, Nolan found himself quietly admiring the half-dozen helicopters parked in a straight line. Many of the machines were military in design, but looked as though they had been customized for business purposes. Like the Sikorsky Seahawk that had plucked him out of the sea, the choppers had few basic design features which made them amenable for sea rescue. The helicopters didn’t appear to be parked in any order. Nolan recognized the first helicopter they walked past as an AgustaWestland AW101 VVIP. It was a very high-end, twenty million-dollar beauty that, depending on the configuration, could transport up to thirty passengers. And sitting next the AW101 was an immaculate Eurocopter EC 175. It was a passenger-friendly, eight million-dollar jewel. He was accustomed to seeing expensive aircrafts, but not like these. These were privately owned and cost more money than he would ever see in a lifetime. Or maybe even a hundred lifetimes.

The kids ahead of him were now walking faster. He noticed a Sikorsky S-76C. The base model of the chopper was commonly known as the Black Hawk, but this version was white instead of black, and it appeared to have leather seats. A Bell 525 Relentless was the next aircraft they passed. It was the top-of-the-line of the Bell business choppers, and Nolan guessed someone would have to lay down a cool fifteen million dollars to take it home. Before they had reached the thick white bulkhead door, they also passed a Sikorsky S-92 VIP Configuration as well as a little Bell 412.

“Do you guys think you spent enough on your helicopters?” Nolan asked the kids. They ignored the jet pilot. The boy spun open the door handle, pulled open the heavy door and then stepped through the oval opening. The girl followed without even looking back to see if the lieutenant commander had followed. Nolan turned and looked at the hangar and its opulent helicopters one last time before turning to step through the doorway.

The group went down one flight of stairs and began walking down a long hallway that had the words DECK 3 imprinted on the wall every fifty feet. They stopped in front of a door that read Conference Room. The girl opened the door and gestured with a wave of her hand for the lieutenant commander to go inside. He did, and he was somewhat alarmed when the door immediately closed. The kids had not accompanied him. However, the room was not empty.

Two men and one woman sat at a banana-shaped, stainless-steel table. Both men looked about the same age, in their early forties, but one was larger than the other. Nolan’s mind turned to threat assessment. Part of that process was to analyze the physical features of those within the room. Since everyone was sitting down, it was impossible to determine the height of the men. However, one of the men was wider in the shoulders and appeared more muscular than the other. Nolan estimated the larger man’s weight at approximately 220 pounds and the other guy at 175 pounds. The larger of the two men wore a green polo shirt. The other man wore a blue T-shirt with a sentence printed on it, “No, I will not fix your computer.” Much like the kids who had plucked Nolan from the ocean, neither of the men appeared to be military.

No one in the room made any attempt to stand, so Nolan shifted his gaze to the woman. His brain had to change gears, because the woman was strikingly beautiful. She was beautiful in the wreck your car into a telephone pole because she was standing on a street corner beautiful. He noticed her red hair, high cheekbones, perfect nose, strong chin, white skin and green eyes currently scrutinizing him. She was wearing a black blouse that showed a small glimpse of cleavage.