Текст книги "Splinter Cell (2004)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Cyprus. It's a beautiful place, but it's rife with tension. Back in 1963 some British officer drew a green line across the island's map when violence broke out between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots. The United Nations tried to keep the peace along what has since been referred to as–surprise–the "Green Line." Then, in 1974, the Greek government attempted a coup, and the Turks responded by invading and occupying the area north of the Green Line. Today, the United Nations recognizes only the Greek Cypriot side, the Republic of Cyprus. The so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is not recognized by any nation other than Turkey. It's a situation that has provoked a great deal of mistrust and conflict ever since.

Britain maintains important military bases in the southern portion of the island. In fact, the British Sovereign Base Areas cover about three percent of the island's land. The Royal Air Force occupies the Western Sovereign Base Area in the Episkopi Garrison and the Akrotiri airfield. I'm over on the eastern side, in the Dhekelia Garrison. Because Cyprus was once a British crown colony, these areas remained under the UK's jurisdiction when the Treaty of Establishment created the independent Republic of Cyprus in 1960.

The army presence at Dhekelia consists of sixty-two Cyprus Support Squadron Royal Engineers and sixteen Flight Army Air Corps (equipped with Gazelle helicopters). There are also a variety of supporting arms such as the Royal Logistics Corps, Royal Army Medical Corps, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, Royal Military Police and others located in both Sovereign Base Areas. Dhekelia, also known as a "cantonment," is home to a total British population of just over 2,000 people.

It seems to me to be a fairly cushy assignment for the Brit soldiers. Dhekelia is on the northern shore of the wide sweeping Larnaca Bay and is situated some 15km northeast of the important coastal town of Larnaca and 20km west of Ayia Napa, the premier tourist resort for the club music scene in the Eastern Mediterranean. Dhekelia Cantonment has an abundance of sporting and recreational facilities, with the emphasis, naturally, on water sports. When I arrived by military transport, I could see some die-hard skiers in the bay getting in some last-minute thrills before sunset.

Captain Peter Martin, a proper British soldier in his thirties, escorts me to the mess, where I am fed a fine meal of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. A good Western meal would hit the spot and I'm starving. Captain Martin sits and briefs me on his orders and how he plans to proceed in helping me.

"I'm to take you out in a boat after nightfall," he says. "We'll sail around Cape Pyle and Cape Gkreko and then turn north up the coast. After three miles or so I'll stop and let you out. You'll swim another half-mile or so underwater to the Famagusta harbor, where you'll go ashore and make your way to the shopping mall site. Once you're out of the boat, we have no knowledge of your being anywhere near Cyprus. You'll have to make your way back across the border by sea. I'll give you my mobile number. When you're ashore I'll come and collect you. If I don't hear from you, then I'll have to assume that you've either found another way off the island or that you're dead. Is that clear?"

"Clear and very blunt," I answer.

"We'll fit you with some SCUBA gear. We can't give you the best stuff; we need that for our own men. It will be spare equipment, fairly old, but I assure you that it's in good working condition. If you're able to bring it back, we would appreciate it. If not, don't worry about it."

"Thank you for that," I say, swallowing my last bite of chicken. "As long as the tanks are full."

"I guarantee that you'll have the same quality air that we do," the captain says, smiling.

"What do you know about the shopping mall? Surely you've done some recon on the site?" I ask.

"We have indeed and I can honestly tell you that it looks completely legit. They've been working on it for three years, and not once have we seen anything remotely suspicious."

I have nothing to say to that. I find it difficult to believe that Tarighian is really building a shopping mall for Turkish Cypriots when he devotes the rest of his energy financing the Shadows' directives to kill and maim as many non-Muslims as they can.

After dinner Captain Martin takes me to the army's diving club, which overlooks gorgeous Larnaca Bay. I ask the captain if Cyprus is good for tourism, and he tells me that it's a fabulous vacation spot. When the Greek and Turkish Cypriots behave themselves, Cyprus is a fantastic island paradise.

"Actually the Turkish side of the island is even prettier," he says. "Mostly Turks and people from other Muslim countries visit the north. Everyone else comes to the south."

Captain Martin gives me a single tank, an MK2Plus regulator, a Glide 500 buoyancy compensator device, a Smart-Pro wrist computer, Twin Speed adjustable fins, a standard weight belt, and a frameless face mask. Everything fits nicely over my uniform, which will keep me warm enough, but I'll have to fasten the Osprey on my chest. Martin also gives me a small Diver Propulsion Device–a portable hand-held mechanism that propels a diver by dragging him through the water. This saves the diver's strength. I'm ready to go, but first I need to check in with Lambert.

I try my implant first. "Colonel, are you there?"

"I'm here, Sam. I take it you're in Cyprus?"

"Roger that. Everything's proceeding according to plan. They're treating me well."

"Glad to hear it."

"What have you found out about Sarah, Colonel?"

"Sam, we're doing everything we can to find her. Listen to me, now. You've got to let us handle this. There's still a good forty-eight hours or more before they expect you to be in Jerusalem. We have a lead on a suspect, and we're following up on that."

This is good news. "Who is it?"

"Sam, it's a bit premature–"

"Goddamn it, Colonel, this is my daughterwe're talking about." Needless to say, I'm a little pissed off. "If you want me to keep my mind off her and on this job here, then you'd better tell me everything you know."

"Right, Sam. I'm sorry. There's this boyfriend. Do you know about him?"

I have to think to remember his name. "A boy from Israel, isn't he?"

"Yes. Name of Eli Horowitz."

"That's him. Yeah, I remember Sarah mentioning him. What about him? Is hethe suspect?"

"She made plans to meet up with him in Jerusalem. We checked him out, and we learned that he was deported from the U.S. last year for an expired student visa. And for being on a terrorist watch list."

"Oh, shit," I say. I don't care who hears me.

"We're trying to find him as we speak. We've got people in Jerusalem hunting him down right now."

"What about Sarah's friend? The one she went with to Israel . . . what's her name? Rivka."

I hear Lambert sigh. When he does this, I know I'm not going to like what he has to say. "Sam, Rivka Cohen's dead. She was found in an alley in East Jerusalem, strangled to death."

"Oh, for God's sake, Colonel!" I'm losing my mind here. I want to pick up something and smash it to pieces. "I can't be here, Colonel. I've got to go to Israel now."

"Sam, you don't have the resources that we do. Believe me, we're in a better position to find Sarah than you are."

"It's methey want, Colonel. My daughter is just the bait."

"That's exactly why I can't let you go yet. Please, Sam. You have a job to do there, and we need you to do it. I know this sounds horrible, but you've got to forget about her for now."

I suck in a breath and say, "All right, Colonel. I'll do your little errand tonight, but come tomorrow morning I'm going to Israel–no matter where I am or what I'm doing. I'm picking up and leaving this fucking island, and I'm going to find my daughter. Do I make myself clear?"

I can't believe I just spoke to my commanding officer that way. But then again, I don't hold a military rank. Colonel Lambert is really just my supervisorand I'm his employee. It's not the same thing.

"I understand, Sam," Lambert says. "I don't blame you."

That calms me down a bit. "Thanks, Colonel. Sorry. I, er, got a little carried away."

"Don't worry about it. Just do what you have to do tonight and let us know what you find out."

We sign off and I look out the window at the bay. The sunset casts a bloodred spill over the choppy surface, and I wonder if that means anything.

At ten o'clock, well after dark, we board what's called a Rigid Raider–a fast patrol craft with a fiberglass reinforced plastic hull and a single 140-horsepower outboard motor. It's normally used to patrol harbors and inland waterways. The thing holds about eight or nine guys, and the captain tells me there's an even larger version of the Rigid Raider that holds up to twenty men. On this particular voyage a pilot and a private join the captain and me. From what I can tell, they know nothing about my mission. I imagine they're just following the captain's orders.

The pilot keeps the speed down so as not to attract too much attention. It's not uncommon to see these patrol boats at all times of the day or night, but I figure they think it's best that we keep a low profile. The boat moves along past Cape Pyle and then around the easternmost tip, Cape Gkreko. The water seems choppier here, and the captain tells me that there are strong currents on this side of the island. He wants to get me as close as possible to the Green Line because it's going to be a strenuous swim.

I can see the lights of Famagusta from here. The captain tells me to get ready and he helps me with the BCD and tank. The pilot turns off all the lights on the boat and cuts the engine down to a quiet putter.

"This is your stop," the captain says. He holds out his hand and I shake it.

"Thanks for everything," I say.

"Thank me when I pick you up in the morning." He doesn't say ifhe picks me up in the morning.

I put on the fins, lower the face mask, secure the SC– 20K on my back, and I'm good to go. I climb over the side while holding on to the ladder, insert the regulator into my mouth, hold on to the DPD, and dive backward into the cold, dark water.

34

THEcaptain was right about the strong currents, but the DPD prevents the swim from becoming a struggle. I forge ahead, allowing the device to pull me along at a speed of roughly a knot per hour. I figure I can climb out of the water near the docks and use the moored boats as cover. I seriously doubt there will be much activity there at this time of night.

The DPD's headlight casts a ghostly glow on the floor, and I can see masses of brightly colored coral shelves and an abundance of fish. Not being much of a fisherman, I can't identify them, but I know none of them are dangerous. Apparently there are no sharks in the Mediterranean, but barracuda have been known to take bites out of swimmers. Moray eels are also nasty creatures that are a must to avoid. At any rate, what I see here would fit nicely inside a restaurant aquarium.

The computer tells me I swam a distance of three-quarters of a mile when I finally see the wooden posts supporting the Famagusta docks. The water is dirtier here as a result of pollution from the dozens of moored boats. I surface with just my face above the water so I can evaluate the situation.

There are boats of all sizes–catamarans, motorboats, sailboats, several small yachts–and a brightly lit boardwalk. I see a lone night watchman in a shed on the boardwalk. The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus flag flies on a tall flagpole that's next to the shed.

This is easy. I swim to the dock and follow the edge to the shore. When I'm able to touch bottom I crawl up, remove my fins, and climb out of the water into the shadows. I avoid the boardwalk altogether and make my way up a concrete slope to level land. This is where I'm most vulnerable to being seen, so I quickly skirt into a grove of trees that abuts the docks. I get lucky and find a water drainage pipe built into the ground where I can store my SCUBA gear. The sky is clear and I don't expect rain, so the stuff should be safe nestled inside the pipe. I strip off the tank, BCD, and other gear and leave it. I retrieve my headset and goggles from my Osprey and I'm ready.

It's a three-mile hike to Famagusta Center. Since I'm keeping to the shadows and avoiding streetlights, it takes me nearly an hour to get there. Now it's nearly three in the morning and I have two, maybe three hours before dawn.

The property is in a clearing outside of Famagusta, just off the main highway. At the moment a wire fence surrounds the grounds. Signs written in Turkish and English read: Keep Out–Construction Hard Hat Area. Other signs proclaim–Famagusta Center, Opening Soon! Vendor Space For Rent! The place is well lit with floodlights, trucks carrying debris periodically leave a loading dock area at the back of the complex, and men in hard hats go in and out of various entrances. That's a clue right there that something's afoot–construction employees normally don't work in the middle of the night. These guys appear to be working feverishly to meet some kind of deadline. Lambert's probably right–Tarighian means to use his weapon as soon as possible.

I'm unable to see an area of the fence that's not covered by the bright lights. I'm beginning to wonder how the hell I'm going to get inside when providence intervenes. A pair of headlights appears on the road near where I'm crouched, and they're headed my way. When it's close enough I see that it's a professional electrical company's van, and there's a lone driver inside. The van passes me, not traveling very fast, so I jump up and toss a rock at it. As the van slows I run behind it and slap the back doors a couple of times, loud enough for the driver to hear me. He slows even more and stops. When he lowers the window, I'm there with the Five-seveN pointing at his nose.

"You're going my way," I say. "Can I have a lift?"

He doesn't understand the words, but he gets the meaning. I keep the gun trained on him, walk around the front of the vehicle, and get in the passenger side. I tell him to drive on as I crouch on the floorboard, my pistol stuck against his potbelly. He's obviously frightened and I tell him to calm down. He nods and proceeds.

We get to the gate, where he stops the van and lowers the window. The guard there asks him something in Turkish and the driver replies, reaching for a clipboard on the passenger seat. He shows the guard the front page on the clipboard, and we're cleared to go through. I take the opportunity to rise and peer through the windshield. I see a parking area where several vendor and construction vehicles are stationed, so I point him over there. As soon as he parks the van and shuts it off, I get in the seat beside him, motion him closer, then conk him on the back of the head.

"Sorry," I say, but he doesn't hear me. I lay him on the floorboard, look to see if anyone is watching, take the keys, and then get out of the van.

There seem to be several public entrances to the building made up of glass doors that are most likely locked at this time. The workers and guards are using the loading dock I saw earlier. This appears to be for a major department store, the biggest vendor in the complex. I want to avoid the heavy traffic areas and find another way in, so I opt for a set of glass doors. I scan the lightpoles for security cameras and see none–but that doesn't mean there aren't any. I'm afraid I have to be a little reckless at this point. I'm running out of time and I want to get in and get out as quickly as possible. So what do I do? I walk out into the light, head for one of the public entrances, and use my lock picks to get inside.

No one sees me that I know of.

I'm inside the building. The lights are off here in a main corridor that passes through the shopping center. Empty storefronts line the sides of the hallway, and I find it odd that none of them are named yet. For a mall that's set to "open" soon, from what I can see there are no real stores inside.

I move toward the central core of the mall, a wide open space that connects three wings and a passage to the unnamed, big department store. Overhead is the huge domed ceiling, and there seems to be a line on the underside dividing it into halves. A few lights are on here, so I hug the walls and try to use natural cover to mask my movements. Then I hear the sound of a motorized vehicle in one of the other dark wings, so I crouch and wait for it to come into view. It turns out to be one of those three-wheeled golf carts like the ones they used at Akdabar Enterprises in Turkey. Two guys dressed in security guard uniforms are inside.

The cart rolls past me, headed for the department store wing. It's now or never, so I make my move. I run and chase the back of the cart, jump onto the back end, and surprise the two guards. Before they can react and say, "Hey!" I slam their heads together. One guy goes out, but the other one must have a hard head. He leaps out of his seat at me, pushing me flat onto the back of the vehicle. It continues to move forward but swerves for a wall. The guard hits me hard in the face, producing a star-filled slate in front of my eyes, but I bring up my knee in a classic Krav Maga below-the-belt crotch crunch. This causes my opponent to freeze with shock and pain.

At that moment the cart crashes into the wall. It's a good thing it wasn't traveling at a very high speed, or it might have attracted some attention. Instead it makes a dull thud, and my happy nemesis flies off me and smashes into the steering wheel. I rise and punch him hard in the jaw and he's out, like his friend.

Neither guard is armed, but I relieve one of them of a security keycard. I imagine it will come in handy at some point.

I creep into the dark department store, which is–surprise, surprise–empty. But on one wall there's a double door that looks like a big elevator. Of course, now I see what this place is. It's not a department store at all but some kind of staging area. Supplies and stuff are brought in through the loading dock and taken to this double door–which I assume is the main entrance to whatever it is that Tarighian's hiding. I start to move toward it, but I hear footsteps in the darkness near the loading dock area. I wait until I see two guards walk out of the shadows and to the double door. One of them inserts a keycard, the doors open, and they go in.

When the doors close, I run across the floor and use the stolen keycard to open them.

I nearly gasp aloud when I see what's on the other side. There's a long ramp sloping to a brightly lit underground level that's full of workers. I leap to the side, out of the doorway, and roll to a position behind a stack of crates. I thinkno one saw me. They're all too busy, like worker bees preparing the nest for the honey harvest. From here, though, I have a better chance to look around and comprehend what I see.

Quite literally, it takes my breath away.

It's a goddamned missile silo. Or something like that. The level I'm on is really a circular, perimeter "balcony" that looks down onto the lower level, much like a rotunda. In the middle of the bottom floor sits a gigantic cannon-like apparatus made of alloy and steel. The base appears to be about a hundred feet square and looks as if it weighs a few tons. Surrounding the base is a massive mechanism of hydraulics that raises and lowers the weapon. The cannon-barrel is about 100 meters long, several meters thick, and sits perpendicular to the ground floor, pointing straight up. The thing probably raises from a deep well in the ground so that it extends the full length into the air.

My God! I suddenly realize what it is! I recognizeit! I remember seeing pictures of the original designs, back when Gerard Bull attempted to develop one of these things for Iraq in the 1980s.

It's a Babylon supergun, complete and ready for use. The shopping mall is nothing but the enclosure for the weapon. When they want to fire it, I imagine the supergun is raised to the ground level, where it sits in that central, empty space beneath the domed ceiling. The two halves of the dome separate, like an observatory, and the barrel extends into the sky as far as it will go.

Incredible! No, it's fucking fantastic! I have to admit I'm impressed. The thing is absolutely beautiful. It's the sleekest, most awesome weapon I've ever seen in my life.

Now I realize what those blueprints were that I saw in Tarighian's office in Turkey. Albert Mertens, Gerard Bull's right-hand man, designed this thing. And it's a jaw-dropping masterpiece.

From what I remember of Bull's original Babylon supergun and what it's able to do, this version looks very similar. I'm guessing here, but I'd say that's a 1000mm gun that utilizes tons of propellant to fire a humongous projectile over a range of up to 1,000 kilometers.

I immediately snap some pictures of it with my OPSAT and then type a text message to Lambert. I tell him what I've found and that I'm going to try and sabotage the thing. At any rate, he needs to get the United Nations, or NATO, or whoever the hell he can persuade to help out, over here as soon as possible and bomb the shitout of the place before Tarighian has a chance to use it. From the looks of all the activity, it's pretty damned close.

Sheesh. Sabotage the thing. How am I going to do that? The only weapons I've got with me are the frag grenades and my SC-20K. That'll be like flicking paper clips at an armored tank.

Maybe the best thing is to set the grenades to go off in a bit, perhaps cause a diversion, and give me time to get the hell out of here. I can only hope Lambert will come through with the big guns. I reach into the Osprey and pull out a grenade, set it to go off in forty-five minutes, and place it out of sight but very near the double doors.

I begin to move slowly around the perimeter of the upper balcony. Whenever I find a good spot, I place another frag grenade and set it to go off simultaneously with the first one. I continue to do this all the way around the balcony, which thankfully is devoid of workers. They're all down below, hurrying like mad to finish whatever they're doing.

When I'm on the opposite side of the balcony from the double doors, I see the bright windows of the control room. It's a bunker built into the floor that's probably made to withstand the supergun's huge recoil. Several men are inside the control room, and I recognize one of them–Namik Basaran, aka Nasir Tarighian, looking out a window at his baby.

I make my way around, placing three more frag grenades, and now I'm ready to disappear. Sarah Burns, darling, here I come. I head for the double doors and prepare to use the keycard to open them–but I hear my OPSAT beep quietly. A message is coming through from Lambert. It reads–

U.N. FORCES ON THEIR WAY. GET OUT NOW!

You don't have to tell me twice, Colonel. I raise the keycard, ready to slip it through the slot, when suddenly the doors open. Four armed guards are standing there, and I'm caught with my thumb up my ass.

One of them sees me–and my strange alien uniform–and shouts. Before they can react, I bolt through them, shoving the two inner guys apart. They fall into the outer guys, knocking them to the floor. I run like a madman as I hear more shouting behind me. A gun fires and a bullet whistles past my head. I begin countermaneuvers of zigzagging and bouncing off the walls like a pinball to make myself less of a target.

Then the alarm sounds. As they say, all hell breaks loose.

I run into one of the wings containing nonexistent stores and head for the exit, the one I came in. When I'm about forty feet from the doors I see two guards on the other side of the glass. I pause long enough to swing the SC-20K off my shoulder, unlock the safety, and blast away, shattering the glass and killing the men. I barge forward like a bull, ready to smash through the remaining shards of glass, but a volley of gunfire behind me forces me to hit the floor. I roll to the wall and try my best to squeeze as close as I can to it, but the bullets are frighteningly near. The rifle's still in my hands, so I let loose a barrage of rounds at my pursuers while lying on my back. I hit two of them, but the others jump for cover. This gives me the seconds I need to jump up and run through the broken glass doors. A shard cuts into my uniform at the shoulder, ripping the outer layer and opening a water tube. I fall to the ground outside the complex, roll, and leap to my feet without breaking the momentum of my progress.

The parking lot is clear. I'm almost free.

I run to the electrical van, pull open the door, and find that my buddy is no longer on the floorboard. What the hell, forget him. I put the key in the ignition and start it up, ready to throw it into reverse and tear out of the parking lot.

The cold metal of a gun barrel presses against the back of my neck.

I look in the rearview mirror and see my old friend the electrician behind me. He says something in Turkish and he doesn't look too happy. I guess I must have hurt his head earlier and it's payback time. I slowly raise my hands and he relieves me of my SC-20K. He then opens the panel door and tosses my gun to the ground just as a dozen of Tarighian's armed guards surround the van.

35

" MR. Fisher," Tarighian says as they march me into the control room. "Is spying on my facility a part of your Interpol report?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," I reply. I know it sounds lame, but I can't think of anything else to say.

I scan the room to see what my opposition consists of. Besides Tarighian and the three guards holding me, I see Farid the bodyguard and Albert Mertens busy at a desk with another man. The odds would be pretty fair if I didn't have my hands tied behind my back. They've also taken my Osprey, my headset and goggles, my weapons, and emptied all my pockets.

If looks could kill, Farid's expression says it all. He's obviously put two and two together and figured out I'm the one who broke his arm. I give him a smile and a wink.

Tarighian looks at me with those cold, brown eyes. "You should have stayed in Lake Van, Mr. Fisher. That's where I thought you ended up."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You know, when I turn you over to my men, they will murder you and videotape it at the same time. They'll up-load the tape on an Islamic Web site and the whole world–and all of America–will see you beheaded. You areAmerican, are you not? You're not Swiss, like you said."

I don't answer.

"I assure you that if I had the time I could make you talk. But I'm in a bit of a hurry. I fear I'll have to expedite your sentence and make sure you're no longer a threat to me before I begin this morning's operation."

"And what might that be?" I ask. I hope to appeal to his ego. "That's an impressive-looking machine out there. What's it do?"

Tarighian's eyes flickered and he moved to the window. "It is lovely, isn't it? I call it the Babylon Phoenix. The Babylon because it's a reimagining of Gerard Bull's supergun that was designed for Iraq in the 1980s, and the Phoenix because it has been reborn from the ashes of its ancestor."

Hearing the mention of his creation, Mertens looks up and smiles at me.

"This is your doing, I gather?" I ask him.

The Belgian ignores me, but Tarighian answers for him. "Yes, Professor Mertens did an excellent job. To my specifications, of course."

"What's your game, Tarighian? What are you going to do?"

Upon hearing his real name, the man smiles at me. "You know who I am. I was afraid of that. Who do you work for, Fisher? The CIA? The FBI?"

"The NSA, not that it matters."

He shrugs. "No, it doesn't matter. You will be dead within the hour." He gestures toward the supergun and says, "The Babylon Phoenix utilizes nine tons of special supergun propellant that can fire a 600 kilogram projectile over a range of approximately 1,000 kilometers."

"That's what Bull's supergun was supposed to be able to do."

"Yes. Alternatively, I could launch a 200-kilogram object into orbit with the assistance of a 2,000-kilogram rocket. The barrel, when fully extended, is 156 meters long with a one-meter bore. The launch tube is 30 centimeters thick at the breech, tapering to 6.5 centimeters at the exit. Like the V-3, the gun is built in segments. Twenty-six six-meter-long sections make up the barrel, totaling 1,510 tons. Added to this are four 220-ton recoil cylinders and the 165-ton breech. The reinforcement around the breech is fifty feet of solid concrete, steel, and rock. From our base here in Cyprus, we can hit any target in the Middle East we wish."

"But it's crazy," I say. "You shoot the thing once and you'll have the entire world on top of you in no time."

"You're right," he answers.

"You only want to fire it once?"

"Yes. Once is all I need."

"And what, may I ask, is your target?"

"I'm afraid you will go to your death not knowing that," Tarighian says.

"Then can you tell me what kind of payload you're firing?"

Tarighian scratches his chin and says, "Why not? I'm using a 600-kilogram MOAB, or as you call it, a Massive Ordnance Airburst Bomb. I think you know what this can accomplish?"

I knew what he was talking about. It's similar to our CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosive. It's an incendiary, advanced cluster bomb carrying ethylene gas that explodes in the air, creating a fireball and explosive wave that spreads quickly over a much greater area than traditional explosives. The aftereffects of the explosion are very similar to those of small nuclear bombs but without the radiation. It's a nasty, deadly device. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction–this is certainly it.

"You're evil," I mutter. Tarighian's eyes flare and he approaches me. He turns his head slightly, as if he's preparing to strike me, but instead he spits a glob of phlegm at me. It hits me in the face and dribbles down my cheek.

"That's what I think of America," he says. He moves away and addresses Mertens. "Begin the calibration. It's time."