Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (16 page)

“Let her go?” suggested West.

“So she can tell everyone she was attacked?” yelled an exasperated Cole. “No more ideas from you. Anyone else?”

“Kill her?”

Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, maybe. I hate to kill a woman, especially one of us.”

“We’ll be at sea soon enough,” said Tom Rider, a trusted friend and confidante. “We can dump her there along with the Jihad buddies if need be, no one will ever find her.”

Cole slapped Rider on the shoulder. “Good thinking.” He turned to West. “Tie her up and put her in the back of my truck. I want us rolling in fifteen.”

International Waters, Over the Red Sea

Trubitsin looked at Yakovski with a grin. They were the only two left of the original six who had discovered the weapon over twenty-five years ago. It had taken a long time, years of planning, years of waiting for the right opportunity, and years of waiting for the right buyer. Trubitsin wasn’t insane. He was greedy, but not insane. He wasn’t about to sell the missile to Chechnyans who would turn around and use it on his homeland. He had no intention of living in Russia, and may never set foot there again, but it was still his home. He loved his country, but couldn’t stand it at the same time. The corruption and violence were out of control, and now with that ex-KGB bastard running things, it was slowly turning back into the Soviet Union, something he now realized should never be allowed to happen.

Maybe I did sell it to the wrong people?

The fleeting thought was immediately dismissed. He had always assumed it would be sold to terrorists hell-bent on destroying some city in America. Never in a million years would he have thought Americans would want to buy it themselves. He knew the target, and didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t used on Mother Russia, or where he happened to be spending his millions, he didn’t give a shit. Anywhere else was fair game.

It suddenly occurred to him he couldn’t trust what he had been told. He turned to Yakovski. “I think we should rent a yacht.”

Yakovski raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“What if they were lying about the target?”

Yakovski’s eyebrows shot up even further. “Never thought of that.”

“Or we could go back home, wait it out there.”

“Something tells me we’re not very popular there.”

Trubitsin nodded. “Yacht it is.”

He turned to the rest of the hired crew. “When we get on the ship your shares will be wired to your accounts, then I suggest you all go on a long vacation at sea.”

There were smiles and American style fist-bumps passed around by the young group of freelancers. He was giving them each a quarter of a million Euros for a few days’ work. Not bad.

The co-pilot turned around and shouted to him, “We’re clear now, sir!”

Trubitsin nodded and looked out the window at the inky blackness below. Tomorrow they would never find him. Not with the amount of freedom fifty million buys you.

RFS Pyotr Velikiy, Nuclear Battlecruiser, Red Sea

Dymovsky had listened to the chatter between the pilots and their command, his heart pounding in his chest as he silently urged the helicopter into international waters. Though they were ultimately his target, and his enemy, he needed them alive. He had little doubt now the missile had most likely just been sold. Why else would they have clandestinely entered Middle Eastern territory? His, and the free world’s, worst fears were about to be realized. A terrorist organization most likely had a fully operational nuclear bomb. Who would they target? New York, Washington, London, Moscow? He shuddered at the thought and made a mental note to call his mother and have her visit her sister in the country as soon as he had the chance.

“Okay, they’re in international waters and should arrive at the MS Sea Maiden in thirty minutes. Dawn breaks in forty minutes so you better hurry,” said Captain Baranski. He snapped his fingers at a seaman standing at the starboard bridge entrance. “Take Agent Dymovsky to the helipad.”

The crewman snapped his heels, nodding. “Follow me, sir.”

Dymovsky followed the crewman through a maze of corridors, gangways, ladders, and hatches. Up and down, left and right. He could find no pattern, no rhyme or reason to the path the crewman followed. The only thing that kept him going without asking questions was the look of complete confidence on the crewman’s face as he urged him toward where he hoped would be the correct final location.

They burst through a hatch and he saw Chernov and Koslov there, geared up with half a dozen of the Spetsnaz team, along with Rakov and about half a dozen of his own men. All eyes were on Dymovsky as he emerged from the hatch. “Here you are, sir,” said the crewman. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Dymovsky as he hurried toward the assault team. Koslov grabbed some gear and tossed it to him. “Get dressed, we leave in two minutes.” Dymovsky nodded and stripped off his shirt and pants, pulled on the wetsuit, and followed Koslov onto one of the two choppers on the platform. As they completed the loading, an alarm sounded and several warning lights spun around them. A jolt shook them all then the platform they occupied rose. He saw a large set of doors overhead open up and out, revealing the night sky and more of the ship as they rose. A final jolt signaled the end of their rise, and the pilots fired up the choppers.

Koslov slapped Dymovsky on the knee. “When we get within range, we’ll drop the boats. They’ll inflate on impact with the water. We’ll drop from the chopper. You’ll jump after me. Before you jump, put your goggles on,” he pointed to them around Dymovsky’s neck. Dymovsky fingered them without looking, making sure they were there as he had no recollection of putting them on in all the excitement. “Take a deep breath then jump. When you hit the water, don’t forget to kick to get to the surface.”

Chernov laughed and punched Dymovsky on the shoulder, a little too hard. “Not like last time, eh!”

Dymovsky managed a smile through the pain.

“It won’t be as bad as last time,” said Koslov. “You’re jumping from about five meters. Nothing to worry about.”

Dymovsky nodded.

“When you surface, get your ass into my boat, and keep your head down. I’ll give you further instructions as we approach.”

“Understood,” said Dymovsky as the helicopter lifted off and within seconds was racing across the water, barely clearing the chop as they rushed to their target thirty minutes away.

Sky dive from ten thousand meters into an ocean, and now assault a ship in the dark. What next?

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

Mitchell finished relieving himself in the latrine, thankful no one had seen the morning wood he had been sporting, and looked around for Professor Palmer. A few other students moved about the camp, the early birds eager to avoid the hot sun starting their day just before sunup. But the professor, who was usually the earliest of them all, was nowhere to be seen. “That’s odd,” he said aloud as he walked to her tent. He neared the entrance and rather than walk in as he normally would, he paused outside in case she was still asleep. “Professor Palmer! Are you in there?” he called.

No answer.

She couldn’t still be asleep!
He raised his voice a little louder this time. “Professor? Can I come in?”

Again nothing. Several other students had taken notice and approached the tent. “Has anyone seen the professor this morning?” he asked. A few headshakes later he pointed at one of the female students. “Jenny, you go in and see if she’s okay.”

“Why me?”

“Well, you’re a girl, she’s a girl,” explained Mitchell feebly. “What if she’s not, you know, decent?”

“Honestly, Terrence,” she said, shaking her head as she flipped the flap aside. “You’ll never get laid if you keep calling us girls.”

Mitchell’s face flushed as several of those gathered, laughed. Jenny disappeared inside then quickly poked her head out again. “She’s not here.”

“What?” Mitchell followed Jenny back into the tent and looked around. The bed was slept in, but the professor was definitely gone.

“She must have gone somewhere, her boots are missing,” said Jenny.

Mitchell nodded then exited the tent. The full dig site complement had gathered while they searched inside, muttering to each other. They became silent as Mitchell and Jenny appeared. “Listen everyone, the professor is not in her tent. Her boots are gone, so she must have gone off somewhere.” Mitchell took another look around, hoping to spot her walking toward the camp. “I’ve been on a dig before with her, she would never wander off, not without telling someone.” He lowered his voice. “Let’s search the camp. Inside every tent, behind every box, she may be hurt somewhere.” Nobody moved. Mitchell smacked his hands together. “Now, people!” They scattered as he headed for the Jeep.

“Where are you going?” asked Jenny, trotting after him.

“Just a hunch.”

A hunch I hope I’m wrong about.

Over the Red Sea

Dymovsky stood in the open door of the helicopter as it hovered low above the water. Chernov hit the surface and disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, giving a thumbs up. Dymovsky braced himself. Koslov slapped him on the back and he jumped, taking a deep breath. He hit the water and found himself completely submerged for the second time in one night, but this time was different. He was calm. Relatively calm. His heart still pounded, but not in the near panic he had experienced not even two hours before. Which he thought was odd considering this time he was about to go on an armed assault where he could very well get killed. He kicked gently, waving his arms, pushing against the water, and propelled himself toward the surface. He broke through and gasped, taking in a deep breath of fresh, salty air.

“You okay?” yelled Chernov as Koslov hit the water beside them.

Dymovsky gave a thumbs up.

Chernov pointed at the nearby dingy that had finished inflating. “Get in!”

Dymovsky swam for the boat and grabbed a rope-hold ringing the outside. He paused to catch his breath as Chernov swam up beside him and grasped him by the back of his wet suit and without a word half pulled-half pushed him into the raft. He tumbled in, the raft rocking violently from the waves and the sudden addition of an occupant. Koslov’s hand appeared over the side and Dymovsky clasped it, pulling him in.

“Thanks,” said Koslov as he positioned himself to help the others in. Dymovsky looked to the right and saw the second raft quickly filling with members of the assault team from the second chopper.

Chernov tumbled in beside him and shuffled to the back, firing up the motor. Dymovsky was surprised at how quiet it was. Chernov appeared to read his mind and looked at him with a wry smile.

“A design we
borrowed
from the American Navy SEALS.
Very
quiet.”

Dymovsky grunted as one of the assault team landed on him.

“Sorry, sir,” said the man as he rolled off and into a spot beside him against the side. “She’s going to be cramped, I think!”

Dymovsky nodded and searched for the MS Sea Maiden. At first he didn’t see her, but then Chernov gunned the engine and turned the boat to the right. After a few minutes he saw what he thought might be the outline of a ship on the horizon. He pointed. “Is that it?”

Koslov looked at where he was pointing. “Da, must be. No lights.”

They continued in silence for another five minutes, the boat bouncing on the waves. The engine was quiet, but not that quiet. Dymovsky wondered when Chernov would cut the engine and they would switch to oars.
It must be soon!
The MS Sea Maiden was now large on the horizon.

Suddenly the entire ship lit up as if someone had thrown the switch on the Christmas tree at the Rockefeller Center. Almost every square inch of the ship was lit, and so was the surrounding water. Chernov immediately cut the engine, and so did the other boat.

“Do you think they spotted us?” whispered Dymovsky.

Koslov raised his eyebrows and scrunched his mouth. “Possibly. I doubt it though. Something else must be going on.”

They sat in silence for a minute, all eyes straining on the ship. Koslov had a set of binoculars trained on her then handed them over to Chernov. “Doesn’t look like they’ve spotted us.”

Chernov grabbed the binoculars and brought them to his eyes when everyone heard it. The roar of an engine in the distance got steadily louder. They all looked up to try and spot the source of the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors.

“Everybody down!” yelled Chernov in a hoarse whisper.

Dymovsky ducked and turned his head, looking toward where Chernov was searching. From the corner of his eye he saw the helicopter race by, not two hundred meters away, just above the water, its running lights ablaze against the dark night sky, a Soviet hammer and sickle proudly lit on the side.

Dymovsky noticed he was holding his breath and let it out slowly, gasping for another. Everybody remained low, trying to create as minimal a profile against the choppy sea as they could. The blazing lights from the ship worked to their advantage now. Anyone on the ship would have difficulty picking them out on the dark ocean with the lights blazing around them.

Chernov appeared aware of this, and fired up the engine, racing for the ship. The roar of the chopper engine was far louder than the small engine on the boats, providing them with excellent cover. Even Dymovsky knew the helicopter would most likely prove an excellent diversion, with all eyes on the ship probably directed at the arrival. Chernov angled the boat to approach from the rear, and within minutes both boats angled alongside, their engines cut.

The MS Sea Maiden, her rusted hull in desperate need of a paint job, towered above and over them, its curved hull slowly arcing over their heads. They tied themselves to a ladder, its metal rungs extending up the side of the ship and out of sight. Chernov grabbed on and began the long climb, the rest of the team following him. Koslov slapped him on the back and motioned him toward the ladder. Dymovsky crawled for the nearest rung; the boat rocked and swayed with his movements. He fell forward and flailed for a rung. His hand made contact and he gripped it, pulling himself upright. He grasped the next rung and pulled himself up and out of the boat, with Koslov already directly below him. He looked up and gulped. He could see several of the team already well above him, with one disappearing from view as he passed the curve of the hull.