Dubkin clasped his hands together over his stomach. “Best case scenario for NASA is at least forty-eight hours before they are there.” He grinned. “And we are just across the strait. We can be there long before the Americans.”
Volkov pointed. “Mister Dubkin, I hereby order you to retrieve this film.”
“Yes, sir.” Dubkin gripped his armrests, ready to stand, but waited a moment. “I think we must send our best team, a small one, but one that can endure hardship and still retain speed, stamina, and strike capability. After all, they might encounter strong resistance, maybe even from American Special Forces.”
“Yes, maybe even HAWCs,” Volkov said. He raised a finger and waved it in the air. “Our team must strike like a hurricane and then vanish like the wind. I think it is finally time for us to give the Kurgan a field test. Take charge.”
Dubkin smiled as he stood. “Perfect, comrade president, it shall be as you direct.” He bowed and left, having gotten everything he needed.
CHAPTER 6
The super yacht Manhattan sliced through the warm, azure water off the continental shelf. She was 121 feet from bow to stern, sleek and sporty and from the highly sought after 3700 Fly Series range — there was a waiting list, that is, if you could come up with a spare 80 million and change.
The yacht could accommodate nine guests with four full-sized luxury cabins. She had a salon and dining area with open-plan architecture creating a sensation of endless space. Added to that, large windows on port and starboard allowed all the rooms to be bathed in natural light. She was a little slice of heaven on the high sea.
The retired senator, Robert A. Anderson, owned this particular boat. He and his wife, Gillian, had taken the Manhattan out for a spin, planning to head down to a little restaurant they knew at Coronado in San Diego. They’d stayed in radio contact, up until an hour earlier, when the boat had suddenly gone silent.
Casey Franks’ eyes were unblinking and her mouth set in a grim line as she watched the yacht begin to slow. She stopped rowing the small boat and lifted an arm to wave as the ship’s bow turned toward her. Excitement began to build in her chest.
She felt perspiration run from her scalp down her neck and then form a river along her spine from the weight of the thick wig she wore. In her ear was a small communication plug that also touched her tympanum nerve allowing it to both send and receive covert communications.
She waved as she spoke through her grin. “Two on deck, multiple movement signatures below, numbers unknown. No sign of the senator or his wife.” A device at her feet clicked madly and she reached down to read some figures and then switched it off.
“Rad count is well above background normal — the package has got to be onboard. I am locked and loaded and ready to roll, boss.”
Casey waved again. The CIA, as well as numerous other global intelligence agencies, had been monitoring the movement of the dirty bomb for the last few weeks as it made its way out of Libya and across Italy. But then it had vanished. The USA was one of the few countries that had a radiation net over its borders and coastline, whereby nothing nuclear could be snuck into the country — that was unless it was heavily shielded, as they suspected was the case here.
The Orbiting Space-Based Infrared System, SBIRS, or Sabers, to those who knew about it, could sniff a high radiation signature, but if the bomb was in a lead-lined casing, then you had to be up real close to detect it. Problem with that was, once you eyeballed it, you showed your hand, and had to be prepared for the assholes to detonate it.
All the involved countries were on a heightened alert, and when the senator’s boat went dark, it was suspected a hijacking had taken place. When looking for a large bomb delivery mechanism, air, rail, and sea are top of the list. The Manhattan would make the perfect delivery system.
Casey momentarily glanced toward the invisible shoreline, and thought about the ramifications of the weapon. A dirty bomb detonation at sea, with prevailing winds, would send a cloud of radioactive dust over a coastal city and potentially contaminate a million people.
Combined American intelligence agencies had formulated plans for recovering or neutralizing the bomb, but none could guarantee safe takedown without triggering the device. Added to that, there was no scenario where the senator and his wife came out alive.
In the blink of an eye, Intelligence handballed it to the military, who immediately speared it toward Colonel Jack Hammerson. The commander of the Special Forces arm of the secretive Hotzone All-Warfare Commandos, designate HAWCs, had a mission plan in progress in less than five minutes.
“They’re coming in nice and close to take a look, boss.” Casey flicked strands of blond hair from her eyes, and continued to wave.
Into Lieutenant Casey Frank’s ear came a deep, authoritative voice. “I can see them now. Keep them interested for a few more minutes — mission is go.”
A figure in the water, lying on the sheltered side of her boat sunk down and disappeared into the depths. Casey focused her attention on the approaching vessel. Alex Hunter, the Arcadian, would sink for another twenty feet, and then use long strokes to power toward the Manhattan — he had no air tanks as these would give a telltale bubble trail. It didn’t matter; she knew he would stay down for as long as it took.
Casey grabbed the oars and began to row gently out in front of the luxury yacht, forcing it to stop, and keeping their eyes on her. Her muscular arms and shoulders flexed and rolled with each pull, but were hidden by a cotton shirt. Also hidden was a multitude of tattoos, burns and bullet wounds, plus a ripped frame that was all bulges and sinew. Like all the HAWCs, Casey had honed herself to be a living weapon.
The Manhattan was still over a hundred feet away, and she knew that somewhere between them, Alex Hunter, her HAWC team leader and possibly the greatest soldier she had ever known, was already closing the distance.
Casey’s grin widened as she looked up at the leering faces, and she whispered through her smile.
“Wouldn’t wanna be you assholes in the next few minutes.”
Several men crowded the deck and waved, whistled and called her over.
She nodded, smiling sunnily. “Yeah, sure, I’ll join the party.” She began to row again, flicking the wig’s long hair forward and letting it fall over her face, especially on the side with the deep scar that ran from jaw to cheek and twisted her mouth into a permanent sneer.
Twenty feet down, Alex swum smoothly, reaching forward and pulling the water back along his sides. He only needed a facemask as the distance wasn’t great, and he wanted to be unencumbered when he boarded the Manhattan.
He had memorized the vessel’s schematics, as he knew he needed to move quickly and surely, because the moment he was onboard he’d have mere seconds to make the difference between death of the hostages and perhaps detonation of a dirty nuclear bomb.
Above him the water was a magnificent blue, with the golden sun almost directly overhead. But below, the rays of sunshine penetrated down another few dozen feet before the depths swallowed all light.
Alex’s neck tingled from a sense of danger before he felt the surge of water from below. The fifteen-foot great white shark rolled slightly as it passed underneath him, checking him out with one soulless black eye.