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  Volkov shrugged. “Destroy it. Before any rescue and retrieval mission can be organized. Who will be able to say it wasn’t obliterated when it hit the ground.”

  Dubkin bobbed his head. “I would have recommended this option myself, except for one thing.” His smile widened. “The Americans weren’t just filming us. They were photographing every nuclear missile site in the world – every potential adversary and ally … and even their own sites. This film is invaluable, and I think critically important to Russia.” He leaned forward. “It is a gift, Comrade President, just waiting to be plucked from them.”

  Volkov’s eyes narrowed. “And I suspect a potential gift also to China, Iran, and North Korea.” He made a grumbling sound of assent deep in his chest. “Invaluable to us, and also worth billons if sold.” Unbelievably for Dubkin, he saw the corner of Volkov’s mouth lift microscopically.

  Dubkin clasped his hands together over his stomach. “Best case scenario for NASA is at least forty-eight hours before they are there.” He grinned. “And we are just across the strait. We can be there long before the Americans.”

  Volkov pointed. “Mister Dubkin, I hereby order you to retrieve this film.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dubkin gripped his armrests, ready to stand, but waited a moment. “I think we must send our best team, a small one, but one that can endure hardship and still retain speed, stamina, and strike capability. After all, they might encounter strong resistance, maybe even from American Special Forces.”

  “Yes, maybe even HAWCs,” Volkov said. He raised a finger and waved it in the air. “Our team must strike like a hurricane and then vanish like the wind. I think it is finally time for us to give the Kurgan a field test. Take charge.”

  Dubkin smiled as he stood. “Perfect, comrade president, it shall be as you direct.” He bowed and left, having gotten everything he needed.

  CHAPTER 6

  Pacific Ocean, twenty miles west of Monterey, California

  The super yacht Manhattan sliced through the warm, azure water off the continental shelf. She was 121 feet from bow to stern, sleek and sporty and from the highly sought after 3700 Fly Series range – there was a waiting list, that is, if you could come up with a spare 80 million and change.

  The yacht could accommodate nine guests with four full-sized luxury cabins. She had a salon and dining area with open-plan architecture creating a sensation of endless space. Added to that, large windows on port and starboard allowed all the rooms to be bathed in natural light. She was a little slice of heaven on the high sea.

  The retired senator, Robert A. Anderson, owned this particular boat. He and his wife, Gillian, had taken the Manhattan out for a spin, planning to head down to a little restaurant they knew at Coronado in San Diego. They’d stayed in radio contact, up until an hour earlier, when the boat had suddenly gone silent.

  Casey Franks’ eyes were unblinking and her mouth set in a grim line as she watched the yacht begin to slow. She stopped rowing the small boat and lifted an arm to wave as the ship’s bow turned toward her. Excitement began to build in her chest.

  She felt perspiration run from her scalp down her neck and then form a river along her spine from the weight of the thick wig she wore. In her ear was a small communication plug that also touched her tympanum nerve allowing it to both send and receive covert communications.

  She waved as she spoke through her grin. “Two on deck, multiple movement signatures below, numbers unknown. No sign of the senator or his wife.” A device at her feet clicked madly and she reached down to read some figures and then switched it off.

  “Rad count is well above background normal – the package has got to be onboard. I am locked and loaded and ready to roll, boss.”

  Casey waved again. The CIA, as well as numerous other global intelligence agencies, had been monitoring the movement of the dirty bomb for the last few weeks as it made its way out of Libya and across Italy. But then it had vanished. The USA was one of the few countries that had a radiation net over its borders and coastline, whereby nothing nuclear could be snuck into the country – that was unless it was heavily shielded, as they suspected was the case here.

  The Orbiting Space-Based Infrared System, SBIRS, or Sabers, to those who knew about it, could sniff a high radiation signature, but if the bomb was in a lead-lined casing, then you had to be up real close to detect it. Problem with that was, once you eyeballed it, you showed your hand, and had to be prepared for the assholes to detonate it.

  All the involved countries were on a heightened alert, and when the senator’s boat went dark, it was suspected a hijacking had taken place. When looking for a large bomb delivery mechanism, air, rail, and sea are top of the list. The Manhattan would make the perfect delivery system.

  Casey momentarily glanced toward the invisible shoreline, and thought about the ramifications of the weapon. A dirty bomb detonation at sea, with prevailing winds, would send a cloud of radioactive dust over a coastal city and potentially contaminate a million people.

  Combined American intelligence agencies had formulated plans for recovering or neutralizing the bomb, but none could guarantee safe takedown without triggering the device. Added to that, there was no scenario where the senator and his wife came out alive.

  In the blink of an eye, Intelligence handballed it to the military, who immediately speared it toward Colonel Jack Hammerson. The commander of the Special Forces arm of the secretive Hotzone All-Warfare Commandos, designate HAWCs, had a mission plan in progress in less than five minutes.

  “They’re coming in nice and close to take a look, boss.” Casey flicked strands of blond hair from her eyes, and continued to wave.

  Into Lieutenant Casey Frank’s ear came a deep, authoritative voice. “I can see them now. Keep them interested for a few more minutes – mission is go.”

  A figure in the water, lying on the sheltered side of her boat sunk down and disappeared into the depths. Casey focused her attention on the approaching vessel. Alex Hunter, the Arcadian, would sink for another twenty feet, and then use long strokes to power toward the Manhattan – he had no air tanks as these would give a telltale bubble trail. It didn’t matter; she knew he would stay down for as long as it took.

  Casey grabbed the oars and began to row gently out in front of the luxury yacht, forcing it to stop, and keeping their eyes on her. Her muscular arms and shoulders flexed and rolled with each pull, but were hidden by a cotton shirt. Also hidden was a multitude of tattoos, burns and bullet wounds, plus a ripped frame that was all bulges and sinew. Like all the HAWCs, Casey had honed herself to be a living weapon.

  The Manhattan was still over a hundred feet away, and she knew that somewhere between them, Alex Hunter, her HAWC team leader and possibly the greatest soldier she had ever known, was already closing the distance.

  Casey’s grin widened as she looked up at the leering faces, and she whispered through her smile.

  “Wouldn’t wanna be you assholes in the next few minutes.”

  Several men crowded the deck and waved, whistled and called her over.

  She nodded, smiling sunnily. “Yeah, sure, I’ll join the party.” She began to row again, flicking the wig’s long hair forward and letting it fall over her face, especially on the side with the deep scar that ran from jaw to cheek and twisted her mouth into a permanent sneer.

  * * *

  Twenty feet down, Alex swum smoothly, reaching forward and pulling the water back along his sides. He only needed a facemask as the distance wasn’t great, and he wanted to be unencumbered when he boarded the Manhattan.

  He had memorized the vessel’s schematics, as he knew he needed to move quickly and surely, because the moment he was onboard he’d have mere seconds to make the difference between death of the hostages and perhaps detonation of a dirty nuclear bomb.

  Above him the water was a magnificent blue, with the golden sun almost directly overhead. But below, the rays of sunshine penetrated down another few dozen feet before the depths swallowed all light.
r />   Alex’s neck tingled from a sense of danger before he felt the surge of water from below. The fifteen-foot great white shark rolled slightly as it passed underneath him, checking him out with one soulless black eye.

  Oh shit. Not now.

  The creature was more than twice as long as Alex, and outweighed him by many hundreds of pounds. And down here in its element it was a dagger-toothed torpedo. The only weapons Alex had were a range of knives fastened to his belt, but the last thing he wanted was a pool of blood – his or the sharks – spreading in the water.

  He kicked harder, increasing his speed, still feeling the huge presence circling him down in the depths. He knew how big sharks attacked, diving and then coming up fast like freight trains in an ambush. He was quick in the water, but he wouldn’t stand a chance of being able to get out of the way of the massive creature rushing up from below with gaping mouth and row after row of serrated blades ready. Once it had him, then the best he could hope for was being spat out – if not, he’d lose limbs or be bitten in half.

  His neck and spine tingled, and he could make out the hull of the Manhattan no more than twenty feet ahead. He’d make it to the craft, only if the shark left him alone. He used both arms and legs now to pull hard through the water, angling slightly to head for the huge transom at the boat’s rear.

  He started to come up through the clear water, and he prayed that onboard the only thing that was of interest to the watching men was a small dinghy out front with a blonde woman seemingly lost at sea.

  His initial plan was to ease himself up and over the transom, but right about now, he didn’t like the idea of waiting in the water with a shark closing in. He felt another surge, closer, and he looked down to see the shark turn on its side again, the eye, like black glass, fixed on him for a second or two before the giant predator flicked its tail and angled down into a dive. It had decided he could be eaten and was going to take a run at him – his time was up.

  Alex tore furiously through the water coming up at the end of the transom and not stopping, but instead launching himself to land and roll along the six-foot flat diving platform until he was tucked behind the stern gunwale. There was a thud from below, probably the shark’s tail as it turned, pissed off because its meal had escaped.

  Alex sucked in a few huge breaths, and turned back to the water. A gray lump surfaced. The shark had lifted its head about three feet from the water and hung there watching him.

  “Sorry buddy, not today.”

  The shark slowly sank beneath the surface, and Alex pulled off his mask and lay still, just letting a hand rest on the stern and allowing his senses to reach out to see if there was anyone close by. He couldn’t detect anyone, but with the throb of the idling engines so close, hearing anything was out of the question.

  He rose slowly, just letting his eyes come up over the gunwale. The deck was empty so he slid over. Normally, his training dictated he move to take over the control room on the upper deck, but the nuclear bomb changed everything. He needed to seek it out. Once neutralized, the terrorists were just flesh and blood killers, and not potential mass-murderers with a weapon of mass destruction at their disposal. He made his way to the cabin doors.

  Beneath his feet he felt the engines rev slightly as they’d obviously decided to move in closer to Casey. The extra noise would conceal his approach, but also mask the movement of the terrorists. He moved quickly to the galley door, and when he was just three feet from it, it opened.

  A huge man pushed outside, his hands cupped around a tiny flame that he held to the tip of a dark cigarette. He froze and stared. Alex was tall at 6’2” but this guy was half a head taller.

  The man reacted quickly, his coal-dark eyes going from surprise to confidence in a blink. One ham-sized fist flicked out with a straight-arm lunge punch aimed toward Alex’s throat. Alex recognized the stance and the training. This guy was Hezar-Jihadi, the Party of a Thousand Martyrs, combat-hardened fanatics whose hatred for the West was only matched by their determination to see a world governed by their laws, their religion and their leaders – anything else was a blasphemy.

  Normally, the rapid punch would have crushed an opponent’s larynx, and with oxygen shut off, even if Alex stayed on his feet, suffocation would be minutes away. But the fatal mistake the terrorist made was that the confidence he had in his own abilities meant he attacked first instead of calling for backup.

  To the man’s shock, Alex caught the log-like arm, yanked and twisted it, dragging the terrorist toward him. He then used the v-shape between his thumb and forefinger of his other hand to strike at the man’s neck – doing to the terrorist what he had planned for Alex.

  The big guy’s cigarette shot out of his mouth like a bullet followed by an extended tongue, but then nothing else, not words, shouts, or even a breath. Alex had shut down his respiratory system. With his windpipe collapsed, only a tracheotomy would save him from strangling to death. He turned, clawing at his throat, and heading fast for the refuge of the cabins. Alex grabbed his collar, lifted the man from his feet, walked him to the side of the boat, and then flung him out over the gunwale.

  Alex was about to turn away from the railing when an eruption of bloody water told him that the great white shark had been waiting just below the surface. He smiled grimly at the man’s fate.

  “Welcome to America.”

  The boat’s engines stopped, and Alex paused for a moment. He heard some laughing from the upper deck, and he grinned. It could only mean that Casey had convinced them to take her onboard. He hoped they liked surprises, because things were about to get real interesting for them.

  Alex went through the galley doors, and his eyes immediately adjusted to the lower light. The Manhattan’s galley was open-plan, and the huge room had a bar, viewing deck, computer hub and couches all stylishly laid out. It also had blood splatter and two bodies, belly down and naked, rope looped around their necks and then tied to their wrists and ankles, forcing them both up into painful curves.

  Alex crossed to them and kneeled. He already knew it was the senator and his wife, and guessed how the torture had unfolded. The wife, Gillian, had her throat cut, her face calm, almost serene as her life had leaked away. But trussed and facing her was the senator, his face monstrously beaten to be almost unrecognizable.

  Alex looked from the woman to the man – Gillian would then have had her throat sliced open in front of her husband. Where the woman had accepted her fate, the senator’s battered face was twisted in agony. But Alex knew that it wasn’t the physical pain that the senator had found intolerable, but being forced to watch the destruction of everything he had loved that had broken him.

  Whether the terrorists were trying to extract some sort of concession or confession from the man was unknown. But the senator had voted for increased raids on terrorist strongholds in the Middle East, so perhaps they just wished to both physically and psychologically torment him to death as payback.

  Evil is real. Alex reached out to lay a hand gently on the man’s forehead. He almost recoiled as he immediately felt a shock run through him. The man’s last experiences still ricocheted around inside him like tormented wraiths shrieking in anguish and anger.

  He stared down at the battered face. “Rest easy, for I am your vengeance.” Alex’s teeth ground together as he gently closed the man’s eyes.

  Alex drew his hand back from the dead senator, noticed it shook slightly, and made a fist to calm it. Behind his eyes he felt a pressure building that soon began to burn.

  Let me free, a small urgent voice whispered from a cage he kept locked deep in his mind. He ignored it and slowly rose to his feet and drew two of the knives that sat on his belt – long and short tanto-tipped Ka-Bar blades. The night-black hardened steel blades were laser-honed to scalpel sharpness, and didn’t lose their edge even when called upon to cut bone. He headed for the lower-deck door. His hands gripped the blades so hard the rubberized grip began to pop and protest as it was compressed.

  The fury
grew inside him, and so too did his senses. He could feel everything now. Several men crowded together inside working feverishly on something – the bomb – getting it ready, excited about the prospect of the death and destruction they were about to rain down on the heads of the innocent.

  Not this day. He breathed through gritted teeth. And not any day.

  * * *

  Casey’s small boat bumped up against the huge yacht and she looked up the twenty feet to where the men hung over the edge looking down at her.

  “Aren’t you boys a sight for sore eyes!” Casey called coquettishly. “Heroes come to rescue a damsel in distress!” They stared flat-eyed for a moment.

  “How’s the fishing?” Casey flashed the men the biggest, flirtiest smile she could muster.

  One with jug ears shook his head and then took a thick cigarette from his mouth for a moment. “No fish.”

  “Haven’t you got a fish finder?” Casey looked along the length of the boat, trying to see if there were any other inquisitive eyes on her. Satisfied she looked back up at the men.

  Jug-ears smirked. “I have a woman finder. And it’s pointing at you.”

  “Ooh, I’d love to see it. Is it a big one?” Casey winked.

  The two men conferred for a moment, guffawed and then slapped each other’s shoulders, perhaps not believing their luck. They seemed to make a decision then grinned widely down at Casey.

  “We drop a ladder.”

  “Yay!” Casey clapped her hands and then quickly dropped them, not wanting the men to see the gnarled knuckles and blunt fingers.

  As the pair went to find a ladder, Casey hummed softly and pulled on a pair of gloves. These were no ordinary gloves, but HAWC Special Forces issue with armor plating across the knuckles and backs.

  To the men it would have looked like she didn’t want to get her hands abraded from the coming ladder climb. She flexed them, smiling as her excitement peaked. Casey had been a HAWC for several years now, and though she wasn’t as tall as the male operatives of her Special Forces unit, she made up for it with a mix of ferociousness and expertise in hand-to-hand combat that made her one of the Arcadian’s first choices as backup on many missions.