Текст книги "The Kill Switch"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“Apologies for the ugly scenery,” Misha called. “This is a Lukoil station—propane, I believe. Those metal funnels are burp valves. Sad. Before Lukoil bought the land, there was a fishing village here named Saray. Known for very good sturgeon. No more.”
The group wandered around the dock area, which forked in several directions, all of which seemed to head inland toward the ghost town of Saray.
“Tucker, come look at this!” Utkin called somewhere to his right.
With Kane at his heels, Tucker followed the boardwalk to where the other two men were standing beside a section of submerged gas pipe. He noted the water roiling there. He plunged his hand into the marsh and slid his palm over the pipe’s slimy surface until he found what he was looking for—an open control valve. He continued probing until his fingers touched a short length of chain. Dangling at the end was a padlock. Its hasp had been cut in half.
Sabotage.
“Go!” he yelled to the others. “Back to the sub!”
“What is it?” Utkin asked. “What—?”
He stiff-armed Utkin away. “Get Bukolov to the sub!”
Still kneeling, Tucker hollered to the sub, “Misha!”
“What is it?”
“A gas leak! Get under way!”
Tucker fought back the questions filling his head—like who, how, and when—and drew his gun. He searched the water and spotted a thumb-thick section of a pine branch floating nearby. He snatched it with his free hand and crammed it into the mouth of the leaking valve, like a cork in a bottle. The bubbling gas slowed to a sputter.
An ominous thumping echoed over the swamp, seeming to come from every direction at once.
Helicopter rotors.
Tucker burst to his feet and ran. Kane kept to his side.
Backlit by the setting sun, Misha was slipping through the sub’s conning tower hatch. The others had already made it aboard. Misha paused when he spotted Tucker’s flight.
Tucker waved his arm. “Go, go!”
Misha hollered back. “A cannery! Four miles downstream! I will wait!”
He vanished below, yanking the hatch.
Behind the Olga, a helicopter appeared across the river, streaking over the surface. It swooped over the sub, banked hard, then slowed to a hover above the marsh. It was a civilian chopper, not a Havoc assault bird. It seemed General Kharzin’s influence and reach had limits this far from his home territory.
The helo’s side door opened, and a slim figure appeared, carrying a fiery red stick in one hand. Leaning out, a long tail of blond hair whipped in the rotor wash.
Tucker’s heart clenched into a tight fist.
Felice Nilsson.
Back from the dead.
From fifty yards away, he raised his pistol and fired. The bullet struck the fuselage beside Felice’s head. She jerked back out of sight, but it was too late. As if moving in slow motion, the flaming flare dropped from her hand and spun downward.
Tucker swung away and took off at a sprint, Kane at his heels.
Somewhere behind he heard a whoosh, followed a split second later by a muffled explosion. Without looking, Tucker knew what was happening. The closely packed marsh grass had trapped the heavier-than-air propane as it leaked from the sabotaged pipe, creating a ground-hugging blanket of gas.
The flare had ignited it.
Orange-blue flames swirled through the swamp grass, chasing him. Heat seared his back. They reached an intersection and dodged left toward the river where the sub should have been. But it was already gone, sunk away.
The flames caught up with him, outpacing them, surging beneath the boardwalk. Fire spurted between the planks.
The end of the dock loomed ahead.
Tucker put his head down, covered the last few steps to the end of the boardwalk, then jumped. Kane brushed against him as they sailed through the air together—then a wall of fire erupted in front of them.
23
March 16, 8:18 P.M.
The Volga River, Russia
At the last moment, Tucker reached out and curled his arm around Kane’s neck. Together, they plunged through the fire and into the river. While Kane had trained for sudden immersion, his core instinct would be to surface immediately. Cruel though it sounded, Tucker needed to prevent this.
As their plunging momentum slowed, Tucker stuck out his arm, his fingers grasping until he found a clump of roots. He clenched tight and pulled them both toward the mud. Under his other arm, Kane’s body was rock hard with tension, but he did not struggle.
Tucker craned his neck backward and watched the worst of the fire blow out on the surface. The blanket of propane had quickly exhausted itself, but the swamp grass continued to burn. In his blurred vision, the flaming stalks along the marsh edges appeared like so many orange torches against the darkening sky.
One problem down, one big one to go.
Felice and the helicopter were still out there. He knew the Swede was too stubborn to assume the flames had done her work.
Tucker worked his way deeper into the swamplands bordering the river, pulling himself from one clump of roots to another. When his lungs could take no more, he let go and bobbed to the surface.
He immediately heard the thump of rotors back at the dock.
Felice continued to hunt for them, a hawk in the sky.
As he and Kane gulped air, the swamp grass crackled and smoked. Cinders hissed on the water’s surface. Tucker looked at Kane. The shepherd’s eyes were huge, darting left and right. Kane’s animal instincts were screaming Fire! Get away! But his trust in Tucker and his training were holding him in place.
Tucker hugged his partner and whispered in his ear, “We’re okay, we’re okay . . . easy . . . hold on . . .”
The words themselves didn’t matter. It was Tucker’s tone and closeness that made the difference. They were together. The tension eased slightly from the shepherd’s body.
Around them, the fire began dwindling as it devoured the dry tops of the marsh grass, filling the cove with smoke.
Tucker released Kane, and they half paddled, half crawled through the water, heading still deeper into the swamp, aiming for shore. Though it burned his lungs and stung his eyes, he did his best to hide their passage under the thick pall of smoke.
As they drifted into the shallows, the water was only a foot or so deep. The grasses here were greener, still smoldering. Warning bells went off in his head. Though the smoking grass provided cover, it could also serve as a beacon. Their passage risked nudging aside stalks, causing the smoky columns to shift.
From the hovering helicopter, Felice would certainly spot the irregularity.
Slowly, Tucker lowered himself to his belly and wriggled deeper into the mud. He kept Kane close.
Now, wait.
It didn’t take long. With the sun setting, the helicopter crisscrossed the marshes, stirring up the smoke. It finally settled into a gliding hover over the marshy cove. He spotted the shape of the chopper through the pall.
If he could see the helicopter . . .
Not a twitch, Tucker told himself. You’re part of the swamp . . . you’re mud.
After what felt like hours, the chopper finally moved on as dusk settled. Slowly, the thump of the rotors faded away. Still Tucker didn’t move. With the sun down, the temperature dropped rapidly. The cold of the water seeped into his bones. He set his jaw against it.
Wait . . .
As he’d expected, the helicopter returned a few minutes later. Ever the hunter, Felice had hoped her quarry would have taken the invitation to bolt, but Tucker knew better.
There came a sharp crack of a rifle shot. Tucker flinched. His first fear was that Felice had spotted them, but he knew immediately this wasn’t the case.
Felice wouldn’t have missed.
She was trying to flush them out.
Crack!
Another shot, this one closer and somewhere to their left.
Tucker eased his hand over a few inches and laid his palm on Kane’s paw. The shepherd tensed, then relaxed. If Tucker remained calm, so would Kane.
Crack! Crack!
The shots were even closer still. The feeling of utter helplessness was maddening. The shots were coming at irregular intervals now, moving ever closer to their position. Tucker closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. His survival was now down to dumb luck: the random squeeze of a trigger, a pilot’s hand on the chopper’s cyclic control, the vagaries of the wind.
Crack!
This shot was to the right.
Felice had finally passed them.
Afraid to jinx their luck, Tucker held his breath until the next shot came—again to their right, even farther out.
After another agonizing five minutes, the helicopter banked away, and the thump of its rotors slowly faded.
Fearing another return, Tucker remained in the cold water for ten more minutes. By now his limbs were trembling from the cold, his teeth chattering. Night had fully fallen. Above, the sky was clear and sprinkled with stars.
Tucker sat up and rolled onto his hands and knees. He patted Kane on the rump and together they began crawling toward shore.
Once on dry land, they set off south, hugging the shoreline where there were trees for cover and veering inland when there were none, ever wary of the helicopter’s return.
As he hiked, Tucker considered the implications of the ambush. How had Felice found them? The most likely suspect was Misha. He had had time to sell them out during their brief stay at the headquarters of Wild Volga Tours, as well as during the sub’s voyage via radio. But for that matter, any of the others—Utkin, Anya, even Bukolov—had access during one or another of their recharging stops. Any of them could have used the sub’s radio. He hated to believe it, but he also couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility that one of his companions was a traitor.
Once again he was letting himself slip into a wilderness of mirrors, where everyone and no one was suspect. But he did have one last ace up his sleeve. Only he and Ruth Harper knew the endgame of their evacuation scheme. All anyone else knew was that the sub’s destination was the Caspian Sea.
If Felice wanted to ambush them again, she’d have to work hard for it.
10:37 P.M.
From the edge of a copse of trees across a broad starlit meadow, Tucker spied a plank-sided building the size of an aircraft hangar along the bank of the Volga. He recalled Misha’s last words.
A cannery! Four miles downstream! I will wait!
“What do you think?” Tucker whispered to Kane. “Look like a cannery to you?”
His partner simply stared up at him.
Tucker nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
They took a cautious approach, circling west through the trees to bring them within a few hundred yards. He discovered a narrow canal that cut from the river toward the structure. There was little water this time of the year, and its concrete sides were crumbling. Tucker dropped down into it and used the chunks of fallen rock and other debris as stepping-stones as he followed the canal and closed the remaining distance to the cannery building.
As he drew abreast of the exterior wall, he noted a lone, rusted crane looming over the canal, its hooked cable drooping like the line from a giant’s fishing pole. The air smelled faintly of rotting fish.
He found stone steps leading out of the canal and took them. Crouched near the top, he scanned the area. Aside from the croaking of frogs and the buzz of cicadas, all was quiet. From Kane’s relaxed posture, the shepherd’s keen senses weren’t discerning anything more.
He grabbed a few pebbles off the top step and tossed one against the cannery’s wall. It plinked against the wood. Still, nothing moved.
Had Misha and the others made it here? Or had they come and gone?
Tucker tossed another pebble, then a third.
From somewhere inside the building came a scuffing sound—a footstep on concrete. Kane heard it, too, his body instantly going alert. Tucker prepared to send the shepherd scouting in the dark—but then a door creaked open and a lone figure leaned out.
“Tucker?” came Misha’s voice.
Tucker didn’t respond.
“Tucker, is that you?” Misha repeated.
Taking a chance, he stood up and walked over. Kane followed, stalking stiffly, sensing Tucker’s anxiety.
Misha sagged with relief. “Good to see you, my friend.”
Despite the cordiality of the greeting, Tucker could hear the tightness in the other’s voice. It was not surprising, considering the man had narrowly escaped being roasted alive in his own sub. Still, Tucker kept a wary stance, not sure how much he could trust Misha.
“You made it,” the man said, eyeing him up and down.
“A little crisp along the edges but I’m okay.” Tucker glanced inside and saw that the dark cannery appeared empty. “Are the others waiting at the sub?”
“Da.”
“How’s the Olga?”
“All is good. We dove before the explosion.”
“They didn’t shoot at you?”
“No.”
“Your radio is operational?”
“Of course. Wait.” He shook a finger at Tucker. “I see what you are really asking, my friend. You wonder how did they find us, da? You think I might have betrayed you.”
Tucker shrugged. “Would you be any less suspicious?”
“Probably not.” Misha’s eyes stared hard into Tucker’s own. “But I did not do such a thing. If I had known someone was going to firebomb my sub, I would have declined your generous offer to pilot the Olga. I have many other employees I don’t particularly like, such as my lazy brother-in-law. But I took your money and came. And I take contracts seriously. We shook hands.”
Tucker believed him. Mostly. But only time would tell.
“How can I prove this to you?” Misha asked.
“By proving how good of an actor you can be.”
24
March 16, 11:13 P.M.
The Volga River, Russia
Misha had docked the Olga at the still-flooded mouth of the canal. Only the conning tower jutted above the surface, camouflaged in a nest of branches he’d cut from neighboring trees.
With Kane at his side, Tucker followed Misha into the shallows and up into the sub.
“You’re alive!” Anya cried as he climbed down.
Utkin and Bukolov shook his hand vigorously, pumping his arm up and down, both smiling with an enthusiasm that seemed genuine.
“If everyone’s done celebrating,” Misha growled, “it’s time we talk.”
Tucker turned to him. “About what?”
“You lied to me. You told me there would be no danger—that no one was chasing you. I’ve had enough! I am turning around. I will return you safely to Volgograd and tell no one about this, but this voyage is over!”
Tucker took a step forward. “We had a deal.”
“Not anymore.”
He pulled the Magnum from his pocket and leveled it at Misha’s chest.
Anya cried, “Tucker, don’t.”
“You’re taking us the rest of the way.”
“Shoot me,” Misha said with a shrug. “And you’ll be stranded here. Middle of nowhere. You think you can drive the Olga? Think you know the Volga? You will die in her mud!”
The two combatants glared at each other for a long ten seconds before Tucker lowered his gun and pocketed it. “The bastard is right.”
Anya cried, “We cannot go back to Volgograd. Tucker, tell him!”
Bukolov chimed in. “This is lunacy.”
“It’s a setback,” Tucker said, keeping his voice strained. “I’ll call and arrange another means out of Volgograd.” His next words were for Misha, full of menace. “If anyone is waiting for us in Volgograd, I’ll put the first bullet in your head. Do we understand each other?”
“We do,” replied Misha and headed for his cockpit. “Now everyone sit down so I can get under way.”
As Misha eased the sub back toward the main channel, Tucker gathered the others at the rear. He kept his voice low. “Like I said, this is a setback, nothing more.”
Bukolov groaned. “I will never leave this country alive. My discovery will die with me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll contact my friends at our next stop. Everyone try to get some sleep.” He glanced back toward Misha. “I’m going to keep working on him, try to get him to change his mind.”
Once the others settled to the bench, despondent and defeated, Tucker stoop-walked forward and ducked tightly next to Misha. The cockpit was cast in darkness, save the orange glow of Misha’s instrument panels. Beyond the windscreen, the dark waters of the Volga swept and churned.
Tucker posted Kane two yards behind him, blocking anyone from coming forward.
“How did I do?” Misha whispered.
“An award-winning performance,” replied Tucker. “Are you sure they won’t notice that we’re not heading north toward Volgograd?”
Misha pointed at the sub’s windscreen, beyond which the Volga churned darkly. “How could they tell?”
True. Even Tucker was lost.
Tucker leaned forward, peering out. “How do you navigate through this sludge, especially at night?”
Misha reached above his head, pulled a sheaf of laminated paper from a cubbyhole, and handed it to Tucker. “Nautical chart of the Volga. You see the red squares along the shore? Those have been our stops so far. But usually I navigate by dead reckoning. Most of the Volga is in here.” He tapped his skull. “Like a woman’s body in the dark, I know her every curve and imperfection. Still, when I am a mile or so from a stop, I always broach the surface just enough for the sub’s antenna to get a GPS fix.”
“And how long do you think it will take us to reach Astrakhan?” Their destination lay within the Volga delta, where the river emptied into the Caspian Sea.
“We should reach the city by tomorrow afternoon, but I suspect you’d like me to stay submerged until nightfall.”
“I would.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
“And let’s limit any more pit stops along the way to no longer than five minutes.”
“I agree. But sometime in the morning, I’ll need to dock for one more thirty-minute solar charge of the batteries in order to reach Astrakhan.”
“Understood.”
Tucker remained quiet for a moment, then said, “I hate to ask this, but, Misha, I need one more favor from you. Until we reach Astrakhan, no more radio communication.”
Misha shrugged, clearly understanding the necessity. He reached up, unscrewed the head of the gooseneck microphone, and handed it to Tucker with a smile.
“I will now be free of my wife’s nagging for a peaceful twenty-four hours.”
March 17, 6:04 A.M.
The next morning, it was showtime again.
They had sailed southward for seven hours, for as long as they could manage before needing a pit stop. Misha found another quiet dark cove and put in.
Tucker ordered everyone to disembark, including Misha, who put on another display of feigned outrage.
“You disabled the radio. What do you expect me to do here by myself?”
“You could leave us. So get moving.”
“Fine, fine . . .”
Everyone climbed out. While there was no dock, Misha had partially grounded the sub on a shallow sandbar. Having to wade through several inches of water in the predawn chill drew grumbled complaints as the group sought private spots amid the shrubs lining the bank.
Misha hung back with Tucker as he kept watch and whispered. “Are any of them good at astronomy?” He jerked a thumb toward the star-studded sky.
Tucker hadn’t considered this. He didn’t know if any of the group was adept at celestial navigation, but it probably didn’t matter.
“Keep an eye on things,” Tucker said to Misha and led Kane off to their own private spot. Once done, he stayed crouched in hiding and dialed Sigma’s headquarters.
When Harper answered, Tucker passed on a fast request, risking only a few words. “I need a discreet airstrip near Astrakhan. I’ll call back.”
He hung up and stood. He made a dramatic pantomime of searching for a signal with his phone. He emphasized it by swearing softly under his breath.
Suddenly, Kane let out a low growl.
Tucker turned to find Utkin standing in the bushes ten feet away.
“Phone problem?” the man asked, zipping up his pants.
“Satellite interference.”
Utkin stepped out of the shadows and walked closer. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“Kane. Old habit. How’re you holding up?”
“Tired. Very tired. I don’t think I’m suited for adventure.” Utkin offered a smile, but it came out jaded. It was an expression Tucker had yet to see on the lab assistant’s face.
Utkin shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and took another step toward Tucker.
Kane stood up, shifting between them.
Tucker found his fingers tightening on the butt of the Magnum.
Utkin noted the tension. “After the attack, you suspect all of us, don’t you?”
“Part of the job description.”
“Hmm . . .”
“If you were me, who would you suspect?”
“Any one of us,” Utkin confirmed.
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
“What about Bukolov and Anya? They’re your friends, aren’t they?”
Utkin looked at the ground and kicked a rock. “Maybe I thought so at one time. Not anymore. I was naive or maybe just wishful. How could I expect them to consider a poor fisherman’s son their equal?”
Utkin turned and walked off.
Tucker stared after him.
What the hell just happened?
10:46 A.M.
The midmorning sun blazed down upon a secluded estuary where the sub had parked in the shallows, perfect for recharging the batteries.
While the solar umbrella was spread wide to catch every photon of energy, Tucker stood on the shore with his fellow passengers. “We have thirty minutes,” he said. “Make the best use of it. We’ll be in Volgograd soon and should be ready for anything.”
The others set off amid the stands of bare willows, crowded with crows, who loudly complained at their trespass.
Tucker knelt down beside Kane and whispered, “SCOUT, HERD, ALERT.”
For as long as this break lasted, the shepherd would discreetly circle the area, making sure that none of his sheep wandered off or drifted too close. Kane would bark a warning if there was a problem.
Satisfied, and out of direct sight, he climbed back aboard the Olga and started a thorough search of the group’s belongings. Before reaching Astrakhan, he had to be sure that someone in the group wasn’t leaking their position.
He dug through bags, shook out clothes, flipped through notebooks, everything. With experienced fingers, he probed the seams of pants, shirts, even the soles of shoes. He went so far as to pick through personal items, like thumbing through a bodice-ripper paperback of Anya’s or the boxes of Utkin’s playing cards—one empty, the other full of well-worn cards. He even dug through Bukolov’s pouch of tobacco. As he did so, he felt a twinge of guilt, as if trespassing through the others’ secret vices.
Still, for all his trespassing, he found nothing.
Next, he squeezed into the cockpit and scrutinized the instrument panel. He ran his palms over the console. Nothing anomalous jumped out at him.
He was stumped.
Only one possibility remained. Someone had to have used the sub’s radio to transmit their position and set up that last ambush. How else could word have gotten out? He was glad he had asked Misha to disable the radio before they set off for Astrakhan. With the radio out of commission, their path from here should be unknown to their pursuers.
Tucker checked his watch, knowing he was running out of time. Ending his search, he climbed out of the conning tower and returned to the shore. Tucker whistled, raising more complaints from the nesting crows. He waved everyone back. They climbed aboard as Misha began breaking down and storing the solar array.
Tucker got Kane inside, then dropped back down next to Misha.
“Give me a minute,” he said and walked a couple meters away from the sub.
Pulling out his phone, he dialed Sigma.
Harper came on the line immediately. “That was one hell of a cryptic message you left me,” she said. “Had me worried.”
“I’m in the wilderness, if you get my drift.”
“Been there myself. I take it you don’t want to go straight to the rendezvous as planned?”
Tucker recounted the helicopter attack. “I can’t swear to this, but I suspect Felice let the sub go. Her attack was focused solely on me and Kane.”
“With you gone, the rest would be easy pickings. Plus Bukolov is the prize. They don’t dare risk killing him.”
“Since I took out the sub’s radio, it’s been quiet, but I don’t want to take any more chances. Better to disembark as soon as we’re within sight of Astrakhan.”
“Agreed. I’ve found an aircraft that suits our needs.” She passed on the coordinates. “They’re part of a charter fishing company. They fly clients south into the Volga delta on a regular basis. With a little incentive, the pilot will take you to the new rendezvous.”
“Which is where?”
“An island. Just outside Russian territorial waters—or what passes for marine borders in the Caspian Sea.”
“Who’s meeting us?”
“They’re trustworthy. I’ve worked with them personally in the field. You reach them, and your worries are over.”
“So says the woman who described this mission as a simple escort job.”
