“Three little words…” Queen began.
Rook chuckled, thinking of the words stamped on the front casing of the Claymore. “Front toward enemy.”
“Target confirmed,” Knight’s voice came over the radio.
“You have visual?” Deep Blue asked, before Queen could do the same.
“Affirmative,” Knight said. “I’m bugging out while everyone is distracted by the blast and heading for you guys.”
Queen turned to Bishop. “Light it up.”
Bishop stepped over to the fourth bush on the hill. A camouflage net, similar to his own ghillie suit, covered the ground, forming the artificial bush. He pulled it back, revealing an AGS-40 Balkan automatic grenade launcher. For this mission, the team had been equipped with primarily Russian armaments, with the exception of Rook’s mines. Each member of the team had SR-3 Vikhr machine guns, but Bishop had decided to bring a little something extra. The Balkan was a tripod-mounted beast that looked like a forward slung cannon, with a giant green side drum that held a chain of caseless 40 mm grenades. He opened fire now on the facility down in the valley. The launcher had a maximum effective range of over 8000 feet, and he was well within that distance.
“Better run, Knight,” Bishop said calmly. With each pull of the trigger, another grenade was fired down the valley, creating a deep plunk noise. The weapon had a firing rate of 400 rounds a minute, but Bishop was shooting leisurely, targeting the guard towers first, then the center of the concrete building. Plumes of orange flame and thick black smoke erupted from the chemical weapons factory, as grenade after grenade exploded in the distance. Soon it was impossible to even see the former facility through all the smoke.
When they heard weapons fire down the slope in front of them, Rook sprayed down the hill with his Vikhr. The few soldiers down the slope ran in all directions without focus, as soon as they realized they were under fire. Then Bishop angled the Balkan down the hill at them, and sent off a few rounds for good measure. He watched as four of the ill-trained soldiers went airborne, grenades detonating all around them, ending lives in an eruption of fire and soil.
“I almost feel sorry for them,” Bishop said.
Queen stepped up next to him, firing down the hill with single shots, eliminating anything that moved. “Fuck ‘em. Play with chemical weapons, you get burned.”
Rook stopped firing, sensing the battle was pretty much done. They would need to hustle a few miles to the south and get to the sea, before reinforcements were called to the area. “I think their real mistake was shooting at you. Must be one of the quickest ways to get dead.”
“Aww, hon, you know how to flatter a girl,” Queen said with a grin.
“You know it,” Rook said and turned to help Bishop pack up the Balkan and their supplies.
“Knight, where are you?” Queen asked.
“I’m already on the other side of you guys. I’ll try to provide cover as you make for the boat.”
“Copy that. We’re moving.” With that, Queen turned and began to run for the shore. Rook hefted a supply pack and followed her. Bishop collapsed the tripod, and lifted the still warm barrel of the Balkan over his shoulder, then followed them at a jog.
“Queen, the jet will be providing your distraction in twenty minutes. You better hustle.” Deep Blue was referring to a stolen Chinese jet they had acquired that would be firing rockets five miles east of them. With the chemical weapons facility so close to the Chinese border, the plan had always been to implicate the Chinese in the attack, and to focus the North Korean forces toward the border, while the team slipped out to sea on a Zodiac inflatable, to rendezvous with their submarine they’d dubbed the Kraken. Once safely out in international waters, the sub would surface and the team would be collected with a vertical take off and landing (VTOL) troop transport, the team had rechristened Crescent II. The plane would take them back to New Hampshire at supersonic speeds, while the submarine would move on to the next hotspot.
“Copy. Twenty minutes.” As she said it, a small group of soldiers came up over the rise in front of her. “Better make that twenty-five.”
SIX
King stretched his lower back as he stood in the immigration line next to his sister. He was still getting used to the idea after all these months that he had another sister. He had grown up with his American sister, Julie, who had joined the service and died in a plane crash. But after he discovered that his parents had led double lives as Russian spies, he had met Asya, a sister he never knew. She had been raised in Russia, but had been aware of him.
His emotions were mixed about Asya. She was wonderful, and he was learning to love her as a sister, but she also brought up painful memories for him over the death of Julie, and the betrayal he felt over his parents’ deception. Each time he thought he had learned all there was to know about Peter and Lynn Machtchenko, the more they felt like strangers. But through all his feelings of hurt over their keeping secrets from him, his thoughts quickly came back to the fact that they were being held by Alexander Diotrephes. The circular train of thoughts, from Asya to Julie, to their parents, and back to Alexander, made it easy for King to keep his mind off his bizarre family tree and on business. Asya, with equal parts determination and typical Russian stoicism, seemed fine with that nature to their relationship. She had been thrilled when he had told her of his engagement to Sara, but within minutes, she was back to business, discussing this latest lead with him.
After a Maltese official in uniform, who looked no older than seventeen, stamped their passports, King turned to Asya and handed her a thick wad of US hundred dollar bills. “Why don’t you get us some Euros, and I’ll go talk to the guy at the information desk.”
She took the money without a word and strode over to an HSBC bank counter.
King walked toward the front of the airport arrivals area. He had no baggage to collect, just the small carry-on North Face duffel bag he carried. Near the front of the hall, he found the circular information counter, with one man seated behind it. The man had a square jaw and a hard look to him. King pegged the man as British immediately, even before he spoke.
“Can I help you, sir?”
King approached the counter. No other passengers were in the area, most still back collecting their bags from the conveyor-belt carousels.
“I was wondering if you could tell me how many tourists Malta gets in a year,” King said with a grin.
“One point two million a year,” the man replied immediately.
“I was hoping for something closer to five,” King replied, sounding disappointed.
The man stood and slid a small cardboard box across the counter toward King, on top of which he placed a tourist map. As he pointed to the map, he said, “I think you’ll find nine is a better number.”
King thanked the man, took the box and the map, and turned to walk toward Asya, who was just returning from the exchange counter.
“I have money,” she told him.
“I have something better. Let’s go get a car.”
They quickly arranged for a rental car, dissuading the attendant of his notion that they would need a driver. Once they reached the privacy of their rental car, King opened the box, and removed two MP-443 Grach pistols. He recognized these as the modern Russian 9mm sidearm. They were more commonly called Yarygins. He handed one to Asya, and she quickly chambered a round from the seventeen in the magazine. He did the same. Then he chuckled.
“What is funny?” Asya asked him.