Black Silver, page 25
Havok’s shaking hands were finally able to unclip the shoulder straps of the scuba tank on his back. Rolling away from the tank, he struggled to sit up, and as he did, Anisimova loomed out of the darkness.
“Hello. How are we doing this evening?” Anisimova greeted them cheerfully. “I hope today’s efforts were agreeable.”
“Can’t complain,” Havok replied, noticing Anisimova’s expression, which told him the man’s cheer was maniacal. Havok looked past Anisimova to where five commandos, including Ohmsky, stood. “I take it this is not the type of visit that we have all come to love.”
“Correct, Mr. Havok,” Anisimova said with a nod. “It seems the professor has received reports of your working conditions. She has grown quite concerned about your welfare and has finally been persuaded to reveal the location of our sarin in return for your better treatment.”
“Where did she say it was?” Havok asked, hoping she had misled them.
“In an underground cavern about three kilometers from your boat,” Anisimova responded, looking down his nose at Havok. “We discovered the entrance when one of Yeshenko’s men fell into it. We are setting up equipment to recover his body and the sarin.”
“Glad you have concern for your men,” Havok said, disguising his disappointment.
“Renko says you have worked hard, and due largely to your efforts, the recovery is complete.” Anisimova folded his hands behind his back and stood a bit straighter. His excitement was apparent to both Havok and Stone. “We have the gold and now the sarin, which means your services are no longer required.”
“Thanks, pal,” Stone said. “I always knew you would work us into an early grave.”
Havok ignored Stone’s comment. Instead, he was able to push himself up into a sitting position while looking at Anisimova in the growing darkness, trying to guess Anisimova’s next move. He did not have to wait long.
“Ohmsky,” Anisimova turned to the Russian sergeant. “Tie their hands, and get weight belts with enough lead to ensure they will stay put. I will meet you back here in a couple of minutes. I need to see Renko.”
It was almost black now on the stern deck of the salvage ship, but Havok could still see Ohmsky’s face when he received Anisimova’s order. Ohmsky sighed and looked at the deck. His shoulders dropped as well.
By the time Anisimova returned, Havok and Stone had weight belts wrapped around their ankles and their hands were tied behind their backs.
“You men have been like maggots picking at my flesh,” Anisimova stated, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I am glad to see that our relationship will soon be ended.”
“Are you done?” Havok asked with no emotion.
Anisimova balked at Havok’s lack of contriteness. The passiveness in Havok’s voice and face irked him. He wanted to gloat in his victory, to toy with them as a cat would toy with a dying mouse. He wanted the men in front of him to grovel at his feet, begging for their lives. Instead, Havok and Stone stared him down, though they were within seconds of their own deaths. They had removed his pleasure.
“I am discarding you just like the trash you are,” Anisimova snarled. Like flicking an unseen insect from his coat sleeve, he waved his right hand, and Ohmsky reached out and pushed the two men over the side.
22
TERUMBU ISLAND, LATE JULY
A silhouette of commandos lined the crevice as two of their number leaned against rappelling ropes, balancing themselves on the edge of the opening. One of the two, a corporal, spoke into the small mouthpiece of the radio headset strapped to his uncovered head. He was testing the equipment. Once Yeshenko heard the corporal’s voice on his headset, he ordered the men below. Silently, the two men lowered themselves from the protective watch of their comrades.
The soldiers slid down the ropes and into the fissure. Flashlights dangled from their cartridge belts and lit their way as they descended. After a few moments, they found themselves swinging in the spacious underground cavern, where their lights illuminated the body of their fallen comrade. The men stared at the ghoulish site, watching the body move. The corporal lowered himself farther, halting six feet above the cadaver. He saw the clothing move from the hundreds of insects that feasted on their unexpected meal. The light hanging from the corporal’s belt passed over the man’s face, revealing a grinning mask of death. In less than two hours, insects had consumed his eyes and lips.
The other soldier, hanging several feet above the corporal, shuddered at the sight of their friend. “Poor Sergei. Is there any chance he survived the fall?”
The corporal looked up from the corpse at the private above him. “Nyet. He’s dead. Let’s get him out of here before those damned bugs eat him down to the bone.”
The men lowered themselves to the floor, landing on either side of their comrade. The private bent over the corpse to weave his climbing rope through the shoulder straps of the man’s web gear. The corporal made his report to Yeshenko, who stood 160 feet above him.
“Colonel, we’re on the cave floor and we found Sergei. He’s dead.”
When the soldiers had finished securing the rope, the corporal added, “He’s ready to be lifted out.”
“Stand clear,” Yeshenko ordered.
The men in the cavern stepped back as the men on the surface took up the slack in the rope, and as if the corpse had come back to life, it jumped to its feet. The insects that were not quick enough to latch on to a piece of flesh cascaded off the puppetlike body. The dead man soared upward through the hole in the rounded ceiling as if he were Lucifer himself.
After watching their friend rise out of the cavern, the men began their search for the sarin. First, they used their flashlights to scan the dry, sandy carpet of the cavern floor, looking for the tiniest clue, the smallest disturbance. When the beams of lights failed to find any sort of track, they moved out from where they stood. For many minutes, busy light beams danced about the floor and walls of the cavern and stabbed into every crevice. Finally, the corporal’s light found something out of the ordinary.
“There,” he said, pointing with the beam of his light.
The private turned and saw the corporal looking into a small cul-de-sac. He joined the corporal and saw the same thing. The sand inside the cul-de-sac was different from the sand outside of it.
“Sir,” the corporal said, speaking into the mouthpiece. “We have found an area that looks like it has been recently disturbed. We are going to start digging.”
“Very well,” Yeshenko’s distant voice replied.
The corporal and his charge placed their lights in crevices and angled them so that they lit the floor before unclipping their entrenching tools from their belts and beginning to scoop away the sand. They dug with a mission. Soon, their sweat mixed with the sand and the sweat of previous men, and their efforts paid off when the blades of their shovels struck something firm. The corporal set aside his tool to scrape away the loose sand and expose a patch of camouflage clothing. They had found one of their missing men.
The diggers worked fast to uncover the body, and as they pulled his body out, the two men uncovered another missing soldier. The second dead soldier was faceup and laughing at them with a great, bloody smile that went from ear to ear under his chin.
The corporal said aloud, “Did the Americans really have to cut his throat?”
The private sighed. “Well, it’s done. Let’s get him out of there.”
The two men grabbed the top dead man by the feet and the shoulder straps of his web gear, pulling him from the shallow grave. They turned back and pulled the second man from the bottom of the grave, expecting to see the bottom lined with canisters of sarin. However, there was no sarin.
The corporal reported their findings: “Sir, we have both missing men but no sarin.” His voice echoed throughout the domed cavern as he spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Keep digging,” Yeshenko ordered over the headset. “It has to be there!”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal replied.
Back on the surface, Yeshenko took his eyes away from the black hole and looked to his right. Varonov stood next to him. “Call the base camp. Have them get the Americans out here. If they won’t tell us where the sarin is, we’ll hang them upside down over this hole until they do. Tell that Asian pig to ask the professor again too. Tell him to tell Xian not to be so nice this time.”
Varonov turned to call the camp on his cell phone, leaving Yeshenko to stare back into the crevice. For thirty minutes, the men below dug farther into the grave. When they hit solid rock, they started to dig around the edges of the grave.
Thirty minutes later, Yeshenko paced back and forth along the rim. Soon his earpiece crackled with the dreaded news that he had expected to hear.
“Sir,” the corporal reported, “we have dug down a meter. There is nothing down here except two dead spetsnaz.”
Still, Yeshenko was not willing to give up. “Spread out and keep looking. Either the Americans are lying or they moved it.”
Yeshenko waited for the Americans while trying to figure what had happened to the nerve gas. Finally, Varonov approached Yeshenko with a confused look on his face. “Colonel, it looks as if Deputy Anisimova went aboard the Stalinetz and executed the Americans an hour ago. They’re dead, sir.”
Yeshenko could not believe what he had heard. That impatient fool had killed the men before they had recovered the sarin. Killing the prisoners before the goods were within their hands went against all common sense and practicality. On second thought, though, Anisimova’s move did not surprise Yeshenko. Anisimova was a bully, and men like him were afraid of men like Havok and Stone. Anisimova might have impressed politicians with his intelligence and earned the respect of the public with his boldness, but professional soldiers who had to survive on their wits and honor despised the man. The only reasons Anisimova was in charge of this operation were his knowledge of the wreck and his ability to incur favor with the real leaders of their movement, who were all back in Russia.
After a few moments, Yeshenko’s anger subsided. Still looking into the crevice, Yeshenko gave his orders: “Varonov, get four more men in there and have them look another hour. I’ll return to camp with the rest of the men. In the meantime, I need to have words with Anisimova.”
Yeshenko returned to camp while six flashlight beams danced energetically over the cavern’s floor and craggy walls, searching for any clue. Hellish lights and dilated pupils inspected every nook and cranny. Nothing escaped the soldiers’ attention―nothing except a partial footprint almost completely covered by a four-foot-tall chunk of limestone that was wedged into a narrow vertical crack that split the cavern’s back wall.
***
Back at the base camp, inside the second-story room above Anisimova’s, a heap lay on the floor. Standing above the prostate figure was Xian, her face flushed with the erotic excitement from the beating she had just finished giving Pilar.
Xian decided to take a break and accepted a glass of wine from Chiba, Kang’s bodyguard. After filling her glass, Chiba placed the half-full wine bottle on a table next to the doorway. There were several bottles of liquor and wine on the table along with glasses. Chiba had watched the beating, and his pleasure showed. His thickset frame was capped with a head that was attached to his shoulders without the presence of a neck. Kang, sitting on a camp chair, held a glass of whiskey and smiled.
“I am sorry, Miss Bonne-Bouche,” Kang stated, “but if you refuse to give us the real location of the sarin, we shall have to continue with this foreplay. As much as I detest my present associates, I did make a substantial investment in their endeavors, and I will not let you destroy this opportunity.”
“You aren’t beating me for just the sarin,” Pilar grunted through swollen lips.
“You are correct,” Kang replied with a smile. “You have been a thorn in my foot for many years. Due to your efforts, my companies cannot legally enter the US to participate in projects that other companies are conducting this very minute. Now you are following me around the South China Sea to cause me more trouble. Yes, I am enjoying this. Again, please tell us where Havok hid the sarin.”
“I told you what Havok told me,” Pilar stated as she struggled to sit up. “What about Havok and Stone? Are they still on the Russian ship? Are they OK?”
“They are still alive,” Kang replied. He was unaware of Havok’s and Stone’s execution. “But from what I hear, they have been worked near to death. That is, they were worked near to death until you told us where the sarin was. Now, since it is not where you said it would be, I fear their tortuous work may begin again. Unfortunately”—Kang paused to sip his whiskey—“no matter what the Russians do to those two, I do not think Havok and Stone are the type who will break. No, they will be the cause of their own demise unless you are that cause. You had better be totally honest with us.”
“I have been truthful with you.” Pilar was sitting upright now. “If the Russians haven’t found the sarin, it is because somebody moved it or they’re digging in the wrong spot. I know Havok told me the truth. He had no reason to lie.”
“For your sake, Miss Bonne-Bouche, let’s hope he did tell you the truth,” Kang warned.
23
TERUMBU ISLAND, LATE JULY
Under the veil of moonlight, two heads quietly bobbed to the surface of the coal-black sea just outside and aft of the false island. Havok and Stone remained motionless as they sucked in great amounts of air through open mouths as quietly as they could. After a few minutes, they glided under the camouflage netting to the starboard side of the Russian ship. While they hung off the rope ladder, recouping their strength, they listened for voices but heard none.
“Did you really have to drop me on my head?” Stone whispered.
“I just saved your life, and you still have room to complain?” Havok replied. “By the way, your head landed on a mattress.”
“Fine. Thanks for saving my life, but did you really have to drop me on my head?”
Havok didn’t reply. Instead, he stared at the rope ladder, thinking of a plan, and of their narrow escape.
Their survival had been close.
Their bound bodies had sped downward in the water, but Havok did not fight or struggle against his bindings, knowing it would be a waste of energy. Instead, he waited to hit the bottom. As he counted off the seconds, he could see nothing but the weak light escaping the open forward hatch of the submarine far below him. It seemed like hours, but Havok had subconsciously counted off ten seconds when his plunging race came to a sudden halt. The men’s bare feet struck the edge of the submarine’s deck, but the stop was brief. Their feet slid over the curved hull, the weights pulling them downward. A second later, their feet plunged into mud.
Havok could feel the muck around his ankles, which also covered the buckle of the weight belt. He could also feel the corroded steel of the sub’s hull against his back. By then, his lungs were climbing into his throat, trying to escape to the surface without him. At the same time, dozens of thoughts raced through his brain. Havok knew his brain would start shutting down from lack of oxygen, but something brushed against him. Was it Stone going through his death throes? He didn’t know, but it saved his life. As he was pushed sideways, his hands scraped across the jagged edge of torn metal. He ran his bindings up and down against the jagged metal, and he felt the steel slice into his flesh. He didn’t care, as they had been down for over a minute and were running out of air. Finally, the rope snapped and his hands flew apart. He bent over and thrust his hands into the mud, fishing with his slashed fingers until they felt the large metal buckle. He struggled feverishly to release it. By now, Havok was seeing racing bright lights. Death was near.
He didn’t know if it was him or the Virgin Mary, but something forced open the buckle, and he felt his feet pull themselves from the mud. He desperately needed to reach the surface and life, but he could not face leaving his friend behind. He knew Stone was off to his left, so he leaned over and reached out with his arm, waving it back and forth. He found Stone, who himself was thrashing furiously, struggling against his bindings and the lead weights. Havok didn’t waste time with the rope, but pushed his hands into the thick mire at Stone’s feet. He found the buckle, snapped it open, turned around, and stuck his arm between Stone’s arm and chest, in square-dance fashion. Havok used his free hand to pull both of them up, along the hull of the submarine. Once they were on the deck, he saw the light coming from the open hatch. Forcibly, Havok pushed Stone toward the hatch and threw him through it headfirst. Havok followed Stone, and seconds later, both of them were sucking in the air trapped in the pocket inside the submarine.
Neither man said anything for the longest time as they came to grips with their miraculous survival. They simply breathed in as much as they could, with their eyes closed. Their laborious breathing echoed against their eardrums in the tiny air pocket.
After a while, Havok asked, “You ready?”
***
Now, somewhat recovered, Havok said, “Time to spike a gun?”
“I hope I get to see Anisimova’s face when he realizes we ain’t dead,” Stone whispered back. “He tried to drown us, but all he did was throw us into the briar patch.”
“Now you can recall your literature?” Havok responded as he pulled on the rope ladder. “Come on.”
Havok slid over the bulwark with Stone right behind him, and when both of them were lying flat on the deck, they crawled forward, feeling their way cautiously. Stone passed Havok and was the first to reach the ladder that led to the upper deck, while Havok paused to collect a few pieces of round steel stock that lay scattered about the deck: leftovers from the welding table. He scooped them up and stood, ready to follow Stone up the ladder, when suddenly a brilliant white light blinded him. Havok froze where he stood and looked through the open watertight door directly into the ship’s interior. The massive body of one of the divers filled the frame only four feet in front of him.
