Tides of Fire, page 27
Then a huge explosion blasted the incoming boat, sending it upward in a flume of water and fire. It shattered in half and flew high. Several pieces rattled over the tier as a huge wave shoved them farther out.
This had been Kowalski’s plan.
To sic the attack dogs on their own masters.
Their group had needed to lure the enemy away from the station—out into the waters patrolled by the hidden UUVs. As before, the cavitations of the tier’s thrusters had triggered an automated attack. According to Kowalski, once a smart torpedo was deployed, it would constantly watch its target, reengaging as needed if it lost contact. With their thrusters silenced, the incoming torpedo had done just that—retargeting on the only remaining cavitation in the water.
Pieces of the boat and bodies rained out of the sky.
Byrd kept them dead in the water, using the hunters below to protect them. Another amphibious craft was still moored at the lower level of the burning station, likely the support boat for a demolition team that was planting another round of charges to sink the stubborn station. The enemy had surely witnessed the explosion, recognized the threat hidden in the depths. They would be leery to come out here.
But the boat wasn’t the only danger.
Jazz spotted a lone helicopter off in the distance, lit by its lights. It was headed east, running low under the ash cloud. She prayed it didn’t turn back. The UUVs below could not defend them against a missile attack from the air.
Knowing there was nothing to be done about it, she turned her gaze to the wreck of Titan Station Up. The middle level, the crew quarters, remained mostly intact. She prayed some of the researchers and staff were still alive in there.
She glanced back across the empty floor of Tethys Tier—toward the airlock on the other side.
She prayed Kowalski and Jarrah reached the station in time.
7:44 A.M.
Kowalski swam the last of the distance to a shattered section of the lower decking. It was overshadowed by one of the floating pylons that slanted half out of the water due to the station’s tilt. He grabbed hold of a strut and reached back to pull Jarrah to him.
He gave the man a hard, questioning look.
You okay?
Jarrah panted heavily but nodded.
Kowalski looked past the man’s shoulder. Tethys Tier floated a hundred yards away, barely discernible in the midnight gloom. Its location was marked by burning pieces of the attack boat and a flaming pool of diesel fuel.
So far, so good.
With the others momentarily out of harm’s way, Kowalski clambered up. He had stripped down to his skivvies for the swim. Jarrah had done the same. While the tier had been rising, they had exited out its flooded airlock when it was ten meters down. They had surfaced into an apocalyptic hellscape. The two of them had used the floating debris to help cover their fifty-yard swim to the station. As they crossed the distance, they had watched Tethys Tier surge up and lure one of the two amphibious boats to its doom.
Now it’s our turn.
Kowalski crouched atop the decking and removed his Desert Eagle from a waterproof pouch that was tied around his waist. He quickly inspected it, while Jarrah snapped his steel baton to its full extension.
“Ready?” Kowalski whispered.
Jarrah nodded. “Let’s go.”
They set off across the ruins of the lower level, wading and hopping over the wreckage, circumnavigating its edge to reach the moored boat on the other side. The darkness hid their approach. The craft was under minimal guard as the enemy assumed they had the place fully locked down. The two soldiers left aboard weren’t even watching the station. Their gazes were out toward the shadowy Tethys Tiers, likely still baffled as to what had happened.
Across the breadth of the ruins, voices reached them, echoing from above as the various demolition teams finished setting up their second set of charges. The eight or nine sites were easily spotted and avoided in the darkness due to the flashlights the enemy used to illuminate their work.
Kowalski concentrated on the target at hand. He eyed the boat’s wheelhouse that rose midship. It was lit from within and showed no movement inside. Satisfied, he leveled his Eagle at one of the two guards, the one closest to the huge gun that was mounted at the pontoon’s bow. The other soldier stood a couple yards off.
Before he could fire, Jarrah pushed Kowalski’s arm down. The security chief, a glistening ebony statue, stepped past Kowalski and motioned him to stay put.
Jarrah lifted his baton, crossed the last of the distance, and hopped aboard the boat. Even knowing the guy was there, Kowalski still had a hard time picking him out of the shadows. Jarrah waited until both men were looking in opposite directions—then he dashed out of hiding.
Kowalski covered him with his Eagle.
Jarrah swung his baton like a broadsword, cracking it into the side of the man near the bow gun. Before his target could even topple, Jarrah spun around on a toe. The second man heard the strike of steel on bone and turned with his rifle—only to meet the upswing of the baton to his jaw. The man’s head flew back. The blow looked forceful enough to decapitate him. His body crumpled to the deck.
Jarrah waved to Kowalski.
With a nod, he leaped to the bow and ran to the weapon mounted there. It was a three-barreled 12.7mm Gatling gun on a swivel mount. He got behind its steel shield and swung the weapon toward the station.
Jarrah ran to the wheelhouse and started its engine with a roar.
As the boat set off, Kowalski aimed for those lighted sites along the station and strafed each spot. The rotary cannon could fire two thousand rounds per second, but he flipped to low mode, reserving his ammunition. The rounds lanced in bright tracer streaks through the darkness and pummeled those spots, tearing through steel and flesh.
He paused between sites as Jarrah guided the boat around the station, sticking close. Kowalski heard screams in the wake of his blasting. Return fire pinged off the armored flanks of the boat, its wheelhouse. A few rounds ricocheted off the gun shield. A huge blast erupted from a corner of the station as one of the charges was mishandled.
Bodies flew through the air.
Kowalski ignored it all and continued strafing any shadowy movement.
Jarrah made two full passes around the station until there were no more screams or return fire. Fresh smoke billowed. Kowalski waved an arm for Jarrah to take them back in. He was under no misconception that there weren’t a few commandos still alive.
The boat bumped against the flank of the station. Kowalski offloaded, armed with his Eagle and a QBZ assault rifle he had pilfered from one of the guards. Jarrah followed, but not before sending the boat jetting away into the dangerous waters beyond the station. They dared not risk it being used against them.
Kowalski faced the smoky mass of the station.
Time to go hunting.
Behind him, Jarrah had grabbed a sidearm of his own, but he poked Kowalski with his baton, then pointed it at the skies. Off in the distance, the bright speck of a helicopter glided around and headed back to the station.
Kowalski swore, suddenly wishing he hadn’t sent the attack boat and its huge gun away.
An explosive boom and fiery flume of water ended any hope of recovering it.
Jarrah grimaced. “What now?”
Kowalski waved at the dark station. “One problem at a time.”
27
January 24, 3:22 A.M. WIB
Jakarta, Island of Java, Indonesia
With a small army at his back, Gray crossed the city square that fronted the Jakarta History Museum. The air scorched, and their faces were masked like bandits to keep the powdery ash from their lungs. Still, his eyes watered, and the occasional fiery flake burned his exposed skin.
The museum’s columned façade rose ahead of him, spreading out in Dutch-colonial wings that flanked a rear courtyard. It climbed in two stories of white plaster with rows of small windows, all sealed behind green shutters. The red-tiled roof was covered in several inches of ash. Directly ahead, carved into the triangular pediment of the second story, was a single word in Dutch: GOUVERNEURSKANTOOR.
It translated as “Governor’s Office.”
That’s what we need to find in there.
As Gray headed across the plaza, he was surprised to discover that there was no cordon of defense around the museum. Then again, the entire island was coming apart at the seams.
Earthquakes continued to rattle with sudden jolts. Another two volcanic peaks had erupted over the past hour. Tidal surges struck the coastline in unending volleys. All around, the streets had become roadblocks of cars and wagons, most simply abandoned. People crowded past with their lives piled on their backs or dragged behind in carts. The military and police forces were scattered and strained. Especially as it wasn’t just this island that was under siege. The Indonesian archipelago encompassed seventeen thousand islands, six thousand of which were inhabited.
Gray stared at the dark face of the unguarded museum.
Right now, no one is worried about the past—only their futures.
Gray turned to his group. Seichan marched with her mother. Zhuang led a force—twenty strong—of triad fighters. Gray had tried repeatedly to raise Painter on his sat-phone. He had managed a few sporadic connections, none that lasted longer than thirty seconds. Still, he had tried his best to share his intent, to ask for support. While he knew Governor Raffles had kept an office here, Gray had no clue where to find it.
Cut off and operating on only tidbits of information, he felt as if he were flailing in the dark. Breaking into the museum was a long shot, but it was the only move he had left.
Seichan drew closer and pointed between the columns ahead. “Looks like we’re not the only ones who had this idea.”
Shutters had been ripped off a window flanking the main entrance. The glass had been shattered and brushed away. Gray raised an arm to slow his group. As he approached, he heard angry shouts and spats of gunfire from inside.
Gray shifted next to Zhuang. “We go in swift and shut that down.”
The shots sounded like small-arms fire. He studied their group’s automatic weapons and hoped it was enough. He gripped his SIG Sauer and Seichan raised her Glock. Zhuang carried a pistol in one hand and his antique saber in the other. Gray was unsure which was the deadlier weapon for the man, especially in a close-quarters battle.
Only one way to find out.
Gray pointed ahead. “Let’s go!”
They set off in a tight group and flowed through the broken window, crunching over the shards of glass as quietly as possible. They hurried across the dark entry lobby and into the museum proper. Doors opened in all directions.
Gray led his group to the right, to where the gunplay and shouts continued within a side gallery. So far, no one seemed to have noticed their trespass. Gray flanked to the left of the gallery entrance with Seichan and her mother, along with the triad deputy Yeung, who carried an arsenal of weapons. He was a veritable walking tank.
Zhuang took a post on the doorway’s far side with the rest of his contingent.
Gray poked his head around the corner. The gallery’s long hall was lined by tall display cabinets and dotted by pedestals. A few emergency lights glowed in the darkness. One of the cases toppled with a shatter of glass. More shouts erupted in Indonesian and Javanese. A pistol cracked off four shots.
Gray counted six or seven shadowy figures nestled among the cabinets. They were masked like his army. On the gallery’s far side, a clutch of men and women hid behind a low marble pedestal that supported a reclining Hindu goddess. Those defenders wore matching beige shirts. They were likely museum staff trying to guard the place.
From the attackers’ disheveled nature and disparate weaponry, they must be looters who had come to take advantage of the chaos.
Gray scowled and motioned Zhuang to take the gallery’s far side. He led his group along the closest wall. He paused until Zhuang was in position, then their two groups swept in tandem down the hall’s edges and ambushed the looters from both sides.
A brief firefight ended the standoff. Bodies fell, glass shattered. Finally, the last of the attackers fled down the center of the gallery and out the far door. Zhuang sent a handful of men after them to make sure they left.
One of the staff members called over from their hiding spot.
Guan-yin responded in kind, proving her fluency in the Indonesian language. After some back-and-forth, the others revealed themselves. Gray crossed with Guan-yin to meet them.
The leader of the defenders stepped forward. He was a tall stern-faced Indonesian. He had to be in his late sixties, but he looked capable of wrestling someone half his age to the ground.
“I’m Kadir Numberi, the museum director,” he said, introducing himself in English. “Thank you for helping us.”
“Glad to be of assistance,” Gray said.
Kadir frowned at the masked army behind Gray. “But how did you come to be here?” he asked with clear suspicion.
Gray tried his best to explain an abbreviated version of their story, one that connected to events two centuries earlier.
Even with this explanation, the suspicion in Kadir’s eyes dimmed only slightly.
“We need to find where Sir Stamford Raffles once kept his office,” Gray finished.
“Back when he was governor?”
Gray nodded. “That’s why we’ve come. Nothing more.”
Kadir turned to his staff and spoke rapidly. He got nods back, then turned to Gray. “In truth, I have no idea where his office was, but there are old schematics and records going back to the building’s founding in 1710.”
“Can you show us?”
“Certainly.” He turned and set off down the wing. “The records are in back.”
Before they followed, Zhuang ordered Yeung and a cadre of their forces to take up posts behind them, to guard the museum and their backs.
As Gray drew alongside Kadir, the man glanced to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know much about the building when it was a city hall. My area of expertise is in anthropology.”
“In that case, Director Numberi, you could be of help. The museum has an exhibit regarding the history of Indonesia and its relation to the Aboriginal people.”
“We do.” Kadir raised an eyebrow at Gray. “It explores Australia’s First Nations peoples and their nautical ties to our country. I put together that exhibit myself.”
“You did?”
“I’m from West Papua. But my great-grandfather was a member of the Yolngu People from northern Australia. So the merging of our histories—like my bloodline—is of particular interest to me.”
Gray now understood why this museum had a long history of covering this corner of Indonesian history.
Kadir’s stiff demeanor softened. “Why are you interested in the subject? I know Sir Raffles had a similar long-standing fascination when he was governor, but I know little else about him.”
“Raffles had an interest in Aboriginal people?”
“And in ethnography in general. Besides being a naturalist, he wanted to raise awareness and appreciation of the region’s peoples.”
With these words, Gray felt something shift inside him. That sense of flailing subsided.
We must be on the right track.
As they crossed into the next gallery, gunshots rose behind them. At first just a few pops—then a flurry of rattling blasts. Shouts and breaking glass echoed to them through the darkness.
More looters.
Gray drew Seichan to one side, raising his weapon. Zhuang guarded over Guan-yin. The rest of the triads took up positions flanking the gallery’s entrance, aiming weapons toward the long hall that they had just exited.
Yeung and a group of men came bustling back, sheltering a handful of Kadir’s staff. A sharp explosion lit the hall from a grenade blast. Automatic fire chewed through the smoke.
Gray and the others flattened to the sides.
These were no looters.
Zhuang called to Yeung in Cantonese. The triad deputy shoulder-rolled across the threshold and fired a grenade from a STK 40 launcher. The blast shattered into the hall. Yeung reached their side. Blood streamed from a cut over his eye, but he slapped a fresh 40mm grenade into the weapon’s breech.
Flames glowed out in the hall now.
The firefight momentarily halted as both sides reassessed the situation.
A shout rose from the far end of the hall. “Leave the museum! Leave the papers you secured! And you can walk free.”
The man’s English had a British lilt to it, but he was no doubt one of the Chinese commandos, part of the contingent that had chased off Valya.
Exasperated and frustrated at the stupidity of this battle, especially as the world burned outside, Gray took a deep breath. The fire in the gallery was quickly spreading. The old building was all wooden floors and beams.
Enough.
Someone had to make the first move—and not with a gun.
He cupped his mouth and called back. “We’re equally matched and determined! We can keep killing each other until the world ends. Or we can take a step back. Call a momentary truce!”
Seichan hissed at him. Guan-yin scowled.
There was a long pause, then, “What do you propose?”
“To find a way to save the world,” Gray called over. “Together if need be. If you’re willing. Or we keep this war going and watch the world burn.”
A fierce argument rose on the other side.
At least, someone over there seemed amiable to this pact.
Gray supported whoever that was. “You see what’s happening outside! On this island. Across this region. Both our sides have pieces to a centuries-old puzzle. One that could either end the world or save it. Yet, we keep fighting, clinging to our scraps. If we keep doing that, it’ll only end in destruction. But it’s your choice!”
The squabble slowly died over there.
The same speaker called to them. “You believe there is a way to stop what’s happening?”
“Stamford’s papers—the pages we have—hint at it.” Gray quoted from memory. “He states at the beginning, the only hope for the world lies within the pages that follow and ends with a promise, a method to appease the gods of the underworld if they should ever grow angry again. But I believe he hid part of his secret at this museum, dividing it up to better secure it.”
