Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Dewey climbed the stairs to the top floor. Quietly, he twisted the door handle and opened the steel door.

He entered quickly, gun raised, sweeping the muzzle of the Desert Eagle .50 AE across the air as his eyes scanned for movement. The room was large, mostly empty, except for tables, a few chairs, and computers.

Then he registered the corpse on the ground. It was the man he’d seen in front of the safe house. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing, his chest was drenched in red.

Dewey moved into the room. He held the gun out in front, searching corner to corner, but the room was empty. Cloud was gone.

*   *   *

Cloud waited several minutes, listening for the sound of doors opening and closing as Andreas ascended. When he heard the door to the third floor open, then close, then heard the faint pounding of footsteps climbing to the fourth floor, he ran across the garage to the wall nearest the exit. A steel box was bolted to the wall. He opened it, then took out his cell phone and trained its light on the inside of the box. There were four red switches. Their purpose was simple: they controlled the fire doors to each floor.

In one fluid motion, Cloud flipped all four switches. Even from the basement, he heard the faint slamming of steel from the floors above as the dead bolts locked the fire doors on each floor.

He went to his motorcycle, pulled on the helmet, and raised the kickstand. He turned the ignition key. The Ducati roared to life. He juiced it once. The sound of raw power exploded across the windowless basement. Cloud flipped on the lights, then scorched out of the building into the rainy night.

*   *   *

The silence was interrupted by the sound of metal slamming into metal, like a hammer striking an anvil.

The unmistakable sound of dead bolts slamming shut.

Dewey walked to the door. It was sealed tight. He pulled his cell from his pocket as he moved back toward the exit. He pressed 1 and held the button down, speed-dialing Malnikov.

“Do you have him?” asked Malnikov.

“He’s not here,” said Dewey. “And I’m locked in.”

“I’ll be right up—”

Malnikov’s words were interrupted by a high-pitched squealing noise: the unmistakable screech of rubber ripping too fast against tar.

Dewey ran to the window and looked to the street below. Through the rain, he saw the orange of a motorcycle breaking from the building’s basement.

“He went out a side entrance,” said Dewey. “You need to move. Go up a block, then left. Follow him.”

“I’m on it.”

Dewey watched as Cloud sped up a side street into the rain-crossed darkness. A few seconds later, the red Ferrari burst around the corner after him.

*   *   *

“Are you sure he got it?” asked Calibrisi, referring to Igor’s last message.

“Yes, I’m sure. He also read it.”

Calibrisi glanced at Polk.

“Any ideas?” asked Calibrisi.

“It’s time to sacrifice our queen,” said Polk.

Calibrisi nodded.

“Tell Igor to offer up Katya,” said Calibrisi, picking up the phone. “Control, get Derek Chalmers on the line.”

*   *   *

Chalmers was seated in front of the fireplace when his cell rang. Despite the fact that it was July, the temperature in Scotland, aided by the rainstorm, remained in the fifties, and so he’d built a fire. Katya was downstairs. After two six-hour sessions, Chalmers was allowing her to sleep for a few hours, though the truth was, he didn’t think there was much more to find.

“Chalmers.”

“It’s Hector.”

“Hello, Hector.”

“We found him. He wants to do a deal.”

Chalmers stood up.

“Hector, I don’t need to tell you the criticality of not being played,” said Chalmers.

“No, you don’t. But I’m going to offer him something in exchange for the bomb.”

The door to the basement suddenly opened. Katya slowly popped her head out. She smiled at Chalmers.

“I’ll have her ready,” said Chalmers. “One question though: What happens after he tells you where the bomb is?”

Calibrisi was silent. Both men knew the answer. The moment the bomb was stopped, Cloud would die, and it would likely be a strike from a drone high in the sky. The collateral damage would destroy anyone within fifty feet of Cloud.

“Don’t you get played either,” said Calibrisi. “It’s unavoidable. I’ll let you know what he says, but in the meantime, I’d get airborne.”

“And go where?”

“Set a course for Moscow. I’ll have the secretary of state arrange the permissions.”

“Does Russia know about the bomb?”

“No. As far as they’re concerned, we’re simply returning their ballerina.”

“At this point, why not tell them?” asked Chalmers.

“Because I’m not a hundred percent sure they’d want to stop the bomb.”

*   *   *

Dewey searched for another way out of the room. In the far corner was another door, but it too was bolted shut. He tried to kick open each of the doors, but it was futile. He was trapped.

He went to the window and looked out, trying to think of a way out.

Glancing around, he saw cables linking the different computers and screens together. There weren’t many, but perhaps there were enough to lower himself at least another floor, maybe two, and then jump.

He raised the gun, aimed at the window, and fired. The slug tore into the window and made a dull thump, and that was all. He fired again, same spot, same thud. Then again. This time the slug hit the embedded slug and ricocheted. He fired again and again, until the mag was spent.

“Fuck!” he yelled, hurling the gun against the glass.

He called Malnikov.

“Talk fast,” said Malnikov.

“I can’t get out,” said Dewey. “The windows are bulletproof. The doors are bolted shut.”

“Can you get to the roof?”

Dewey looked up.

“Maybe.”

88

IN THE AIR

OVER THE NORTH SEA

One of the pilots looked back from the cockpit.

“There’s an alarm going off in the loo, Derek,” said the pilot.

Chalmers unlatched himself from his seat. He stood up and walked to the rear of the jet. He knocked on the door to the restroom.

“Katya?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

Katya didn’t respond. This time, Chalmers banged harder.

“Katya!”

Both pilots emerged from the cockpit.

“Where’s the key?” barked Chalmers.

One pilot charged to the door and inserted a key. Chalmers tried to push in the door, but it was blocked by Katya’s body. Chalmers slammed his shoulder at the door and was able to stick his head in.

Katya lay unconscious on the floor. Her wrists were exposed and bleeding.

“Get the first-aid kit,” said Chalmers. “We need to land and get her to a hospital.”

Chalmers reached his arm down and moved her body, then pushed the door in. He pulled Katya out, lifted her up, and carried her to one of the leather sofas midcabin and laid her down. She was covered from her chest down in blood. He felt her neck.

“She’s still alive,” he said.

Chalmers shook her shoulders, trying to bring her out of unconsciousness. When that didn’t work, he slapped her hard across the face. Her eyes opened.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I swear.”

“Know what?”

“Where the bomb is going. But I remember. I heard him speaking. It was through the wall.”

“Where?” asked Chalmers, pulling his cell out and dialing Calibrisi.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Then I remembered.”

“Where is it going, Katya?”

“Boston.”

89

THE WHITE HOUSE

Calibrisi and Polk were in the small office down the hall from the Situation Room when Calibrisi’s cell vibrated. It was Chalmers.

“Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi. “Are you in the air?”

“Yes. She gave me a target.”

Calibrisi snapped his fingers, getting Polk’s attention. He put it on speaker.

“Do you believe her?”

“Yes. She tried to commit suicide. I think she’s starting to realize that if she doesn’t help us, she’s complicit, if not legally, then morally.”

“Where’s it going?”

“Boston.”

“Does she have anything more specific?”

“No.”

Polk nodded at Calibrisi, then sprinted out of the office to the Situation Room.

“We’re going to land,” said Chalmers. “She needs medical attention.”

“You’re going to have to patch her up on the plane,” said Calibrisi. “We need to get her to Moscow.”

“She’s going to bleed to death.”

“At this point, we have the name of a city and that’s it. And who knows if it’s even the right city. Until we find that bomb, Katya is the only card we have to play. Please, Derek, get her to Moscow.”

90

SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

Inside the Situation Room, there wasn’t a spare chair or place to stand. The mood was surprisingly calm.

In addition to President Dellenbaugh, most key White House, Pentagon, and intelligence officials were gathered. Anyone not there in person was patched in, their faces adorning plasma screens along the walls.

President Dellenbaugh was seated at the head of the large mahogany conference table. The plasma to Dellenbaugh’s right showed live video from Boston, taken from a satellite in the sky. The Boston waterfront was fully visible. All Coast Guard, FBI, police, and military assets were highlighted in red, including a pair of Navy Aegis destroyers, three Coast Guard cutters, and more than one hundred FBI, Boston Police, and other law enforcement vessels.

Superimposed atop the live satellite image was a bright green grid, which was tied into the Defense Intelligence Agency. They were running the feed against a Milstar satellite and its IONDS platform, which was sweeping over the harbor, searching for signs of tritium, uranium, or plutonium emissions.

All eyes were glued to one of the screens. Bob Schieffer of CBS News was speaking, the volume turned up. Six other screens displayed different TV channels, all of which had the volume down as they continued to show normal programming.

As Schieffer spoke, one by one the other screens cut away from normal programming and went live to special reports, cascading like dominoes down the wall.

Dellenbaugh flashed a look to an aide who controlled the TVs, and the volume from the screen behind him abruptly lowered.

“How are we going to find it?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“We have eight hundred people with Geigers spreading out across the waterfront,” said Kratovil, the director of the FBI. “General Electric is bringing in Geigers from their Pittsfield facility. Siemens emptied their warehouse to fill in the gap. We’re going boat by boat. If the bomb’s there, Mr. President, we’ll find it.”

91

MOSCOW

As his Ferrari ripped west on the freeway, Malnikov hit speed dial.

Stihl, Malnikov’s helicopter pilot, answered.

“Alexei, it’s three thirty in the morning.”

“I don’t have time to talk,” said Malnikov. “You need to pick someone up. He’s outside the city.”

“Where?” asked Stihl.

“Elektrostal. A building at the corner of Vostochnyy and Michurinskiy.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“The S-92?” asked Stihl, referring to Malnikov’s most luxurious helicopter, a Sikorsky S-92 VVIP.

“No,” said Malnikov. “Take the Dauphin.”

“There’s no seating, Alexei. I had it retrofitted for tactical assaults.”

“That’s the idea. Now get going. His name is Dewey.”

*   *   *

Every time Malnikov thought he was getting closer, Cloud seemed to sense it, finding an extra burst of speed at precisely the right moment. He was running the bike recklessly, stabbing left and right, dodging the occasional car or truck, trying to get away.

Malnikov owned six motorcycles. He’d climbed aboard his first when he was only twelve. But the thought of going as fast as Cloud was now going—and in the rain—was unfathomable.

He glanced down at the speedometer: 144 mph.

He couldn’t go any faster, and yet, when he saw the straightaway, he throttled the Ferrari even harder. He watched as the distance between the Ferrari and the Ducati slowly decreased. A quarter mile became a few hundred yards, then only a hundred.

Above the blurry lights of the motorcycle, Moscow’s skyscrapers came into sharp relief, spires of glass and steel illuminated against the dark sky.

As Malnikov came within a dozen feet of the Ducati, Cloud suddenly slowed, then burst right down an exit ramp. Malnikov didn’t see it coming. He hit the brakes, put the car in reverse, then slammed the gas, ripping backward until he was even with the ramp. He jammed the car into forward then shot off the highway.

Again Cloud opened up distance, but Malnikov tasted blood. He trailed Cloud along the river, soon closing the gap. Near the center of Moscow’s business district, Cloud abruptly slashed right, charting a course that led into the crowded warren of steel and glass that constituted Moscow’s skyscrapers.

Malnikov pushed the Ferrari as fast as it would go without skidding out of control. Looking down, he saw the number: 160 mph.

As he brought the Ferrari alongside Cloud, time seemed to freeze. Despite the low primitive growl of the Ferrari, despite the high-pitched roar of the Ducati, despite the rain and the chaos, Malnikov felt nothing but stillness and calm.

*   *   *

Cloud felt the lights on him. He heard the low rumble of the Ferrari; even as wind torched his ears and bended with the Ducati’s roar, he still heard it. He glanced quickly left. It was Malnikov after all.

Cloud saw into the open window. He’d been wrong about the Americans. It hadn’t been their hackers who found him. It had been Malnikov. He overestimated the United States and underestimated the brute who, at that moment, was half a car length back, raising a gun toward him. He heard the loud boom from the gun in the same moment he heard the frame of the Ducati being struck. The next shot would come any second, and so …

In one startling motion, Cloud flexed his right knee out, dived forward and to the right, as if he were trying to dive off the bike, and pushed the left handlebar with every ounce of strength in his body. The bike slashed hard right, the back tire slid but held. He was now alone on a deserted street. In front of him stood Moscow’s newest skyscraper, Evolution Tower, half constructed.

He throttled the Ducati. Now was the time. He had to lose Malnikov now. When he heard the sound of gunfire, he ducked lower and rolled the throttle to its max.

*   *   *

With his left hand, Malnikov lowered the passenger window. He put his hand back on the wheel as, with his right hand, he reached for his gun from the center console.

He came alongside Cloud, raised the gun, then aimed it at Cloud’s head. For several seconds, he held the target in the muzzle. Instinctively, Cloud turned, the black glass of the helmet all Malnikov could see.

Malnikov felt the steel of the trigger. He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in the head of the man who put his father in prison, who stole a hundred million dollars from him, who caused him nothing but embarrassment and anger. But he didn’t fire. Instead, he swept the muzzle lower, aiming for the Ducati’s back tire. Then he pulled the trigger. The slug hit metal, just above the tire, and Cloud banked abruptly right.

Malnikov slammed the brakes. He opened the door and jumped from the car, his gun out in front of him. Cloud was getting away. Malnikov fired, once, twice, and then the third bullet ripped into the motorcycle’s back tire. The bike popped right as Cloud tried to keep it vertical. He weaved sharply left, fighting to slow the Ducati before it tumbled. Then the bike’s front tire jackknifed and the motorcycle collapsed backward, with Cloud still on it, and slid down the Moscow street. Sparks and flames arose from the friction of metal and tar. Cloud’s horrific scream pierced through the noise.

Malnikov sprinted toward the crash. Smoke and flames shot up from the engine, doused only partially by the rain. He ran until he was just a few feet from the smoking wreckage, then slowed, pistol extended in front of him.

On the other side of the badly damaged Ducati, he came to where he knew Cloud now was lying, unconscious, maybe even dead. He stepped past the smoking pile of steel, gun out, muzzle trained, finger on trigger, cocked to fire.

Cloud was gone.

*   *   *

Dewey scoured the ceiling, looking for a way to get to the roof. In the center of the room, at least fifteen feet in the air, was a small hatchway.

He pushed the tables together in a line that ended beneath the hatchway. He went to the far end and sprinted down the line of tables, leaping from the end, into the air, legs and arms kicking, then grabbing the frame of the hatchway. As he dangled from the ceiling, he held himself up with his left hand as he punched at the steel hatchway with his right. It was lodged shut. After several minutes of trying, he dropped to the floor. An involuntary yelp of pain came out as he landed, the drop exacerbating the wound in his leg.

A few minutes later, after catching his breath, he walked to the window, picked up the gun, and put it in his coat pocket. He climbed back onto the table and repeated his run, charging as fast as he could go, then leaping and catching the edge of the hatchway. He pulled the gun from his pocket and smashed it viciously into the steel. This time, after less than a minute, the seam between the hatchway and roof, sealed tight from decades’ worth of rust, cracked. He pushed the square hatchway up and pulled himself onto the roof.

Rain was pouring down in sideways sheets. Dewey sat atop the roof for several minutes, catching his breath. He closed his eyes and allowed the rain to wash over him. He pushed away the thought of Cloud and of Russia. He pushed it away and thought of nothing, knowing that any other thought would bring him back to the harsh reality facing him. He knew that if he sought mental refuge in thoughts of family, it would only remind him of the bomb—the nuclear bomb that was now somewhere close to America’s shores.

*   *   *

Cloud limped toward the base of the skyscraper. Looking back, he saw Malnikov running toward him.

He needed to get to a hospital. But that wasn’t going to happen until he killed Malnikov.

He looked up at Evolution Tower. Its curvilinear half arcs swerved like steel ribbons, as if they’d been interwoven and then hung a thousand feet in the sky. Even half constructed, it was stunning. He’d admired it before, from afar. Now it represented his only hope of escape.

The building was ablaze with lights from cranes and scaffolding and, from within, bright halogen lights for the crews of workers who, at this hour, were not there.

Cloud pushed open the steel chain-link fence. He dragged his right leg, using his right hand to help pull it. He limped through the base of the tower, between stacks of steel girders, past massive construction trucks, huge piles of cement to be mixed into concrete, cranes, and other materials.

He looked up. Wind made the top of the structure move. The skyscraper appeared as if it might simply fall over on him.

He heard a clang from the chain-link fence. He didn’t bother glancing back.

Cloud’s eyes moved to the ground. For the first time, he realized he had on only one shoe. His right foot was exposed and covered in blood. He couldn’t see some of his toes. He registered a raw sensation on his right side. Most of his pant leg had been scraped away in the crash. The sight of his injuries sent a wave of fear through him. Because he didn’t feel them. Because, left untreated, they would kill him.

If you want to live, you must kill him.

Beyond a pile of lumber, Cloud saw the construction elevator. He limped to it, climbed inside, and slammed the gate shut. He hit a red switch, and the elevator bounced, then started climbing into the tower.

Malnikov came running into the light, saw the elevator rising, then raised his gun and fired. The slugs struck the steel cage just to Cloud’s right. He ducked into the corner, shielding himself from the fusillade.

*   *   *

Even on a calm night, the all-black, heavily customized Eurocopter EC155 B1 Dauphin was difficult to spot. Its lights could be extinguished completely at the pilot’s discretion and flown via advanced thermal night-vision optics, either in-helmet or imposed on the inside of the chopper’s cockpit glass. Tonight, in the hell of a storm, what was usually difficult to see was nearly impossible.

For Stihl, the elements were nothing. Twelve years in Russian special forces, including more battles in Chechnya than he could count, battles that nobody in the outside world knew about, had forged skills no standard training could match.

When Malnikov told him to create the most lethal helicopter he could, Stihl had spent a week in Marseille, testing what Eurocopter had to offer. He spared no expense outfitting the machine with every technological feature available—and some that weren’t, including flight envelope protection, as well as navigation and weapons systems that could be managed by Stihl through helmet-based optics and exoskeletal motion sensors.

He let the nav system take him to the coordinates Malnikov had provided. A thermal module in the helmet illuminated the building from a mile out. As he swooped in close, a red apparition of heat appeared atop the roof. His passenger.

He hit a button on the controls, bringing up commo. A few moments later, Malnikov’s cell started ringing. As Stihl descended out of the sky toward the roof of the building, he listened to the phone ring half a dozen times. Malnikov didn’t answer.

Stihl brought up more controls, visible inside his helmet shield. He ordered the chopper’s nav to locate the cell by GPS. A second later, he saw the words flicker in green digital letters:

: MOSCOW RUS:

: EVOLUTION TOWER:

*   *   *

A faint electric whine, then the shifting of wind and rain, startled Dewey from his thoughts. He stood up, searching the sky, seeing nothing.

Dewey listened, sensed a change in the wind, then spun around, just as the thunder of the Eurocopter’s rotors exploded behind him, ripping the air. As sudden as a lightning flash, the chopper surged down at Dewey, dropping from the cloaking wall of clouds and water, nearly landing directly on top of him before punching back up a few feet and then settling next to him atop the concrete roof.

Dewey opened the back door and climbed inside the chopper, nodding to the pilot, then slid the door shut. The chopper shot up from the roof, cut left, and then tore away from Elektrostal.

Dewey looked quickly around the cabin. It was bare-bones, stripped down, without any sort of creature comforts. Everything inside the cabin was single function, designed for assault. There was no seating, just open space. The doors on the opposite side looked custom—they could be slid open for maximum assault flexibility.

From the ceiling, steel hooks with polymer cables dangled like coat hangers, there to be attached to body harnesses. The doors on both sides of the cabin could be opened wide. The combination of the harness locks and the doors enabled gunmen in the chopper to engage enemy from the air, at all angles, without fear of falling from the sky, especially useful if the pilot was forced to take sudden, hard-angled evasive measures.

The floor was like sandpaper, good for grip, but could also, with the press of a button, drop out like a trapdoor for low-hover jumps. The back wall was chain-link fence in front of a rack of advanced firearms and other weaponry, lined up on vertical shelves. Dewey scanned and saw all manner of firearms, including RPGs and MANPADs.

He pulled out a drawer underneath. Inside was enough ammunition to start a small war.

The chopper bounced violently in the undulating rain and wind.

Dewey stepped to the cockpit. The pilot’s face was invisible behind a black-visored helmet. There were no lights on the controls.

The pilot’s head turned. He handed Dewey a set of wireless earphones.

“I’m Stihl,” he said in a hard Russian accent. “Hold on, it’s going to be choppy.”

“Where are we going?”

“Alexei is in a building downtown,” said Stihl. “We’ll be there in three minutes.”

“Can you raise Alexei on commo?”

“I’ll try,” said Stihl as the chopper abruptly lurched left, buffeted by a crosswind.

Dewey heard the phone ring, then Malnikov’s voice.

“Where are you?” asked Malnikov.

“We’re in the air,” said Dewey. “What’s the situation?”

“He’s wounded. He escaped into Evolution Tower. I’m in the elevator on my way to find him.”

“Should I land on the roof?”

“There is no roof,” said Malnikov. “It’s half built.”

“You need to wait at the base,” said Stihl. “I’ll be able to pick up his thermal from the air once we get there, then you can move in.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Malnikov. “I’m already there.”