Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (9 page)

Suddenly the ship uncloaked itself from out of nowhere, it was
directly in their path and had them firmly locked in its sights; it had
caught them by surprise in its trap with every exit covered.

The stealth ship rocked with the explosion, a scream of steel
and a rumbling like distant thunder. The whole boat started to judder,
vibrating, and Taylor looked helplessly across the bridge at Deborah
Armstrong as it dawned on them that there was a strong possibility
that they were going to sink.

“The missile hit us amidships.” Taylor’s face was ashen white as
he met the stare of the crew present on the bridge. Armstrong was
screaming orders at the seamen, who were carrying out her directives
without question or hesitation. They knew what she wanted and
understood the urgency required of them. The implications of ending
up in open water and being gunned down was plainly written across
their faces, which were bleached with shock and horror, at this terrible
thought.

Every man and woman on the bridge stared at the monitors in
disbelief and horror as some form of advanced self-drilling missile
had penetrated the supposedly unsinkable multi-compartment hull,
and then had started to gouge its way through inch thick plating,
wreaking havoc and allowing ice cold water to flood in to the starboard
hull. The stealth boat, as yet, had not launched its own lethal payload
of missiles. Armstrong consulted the data stream on the monitor,
assessed the best possible course of action and then told Taylor. “I
suggest you access and authorise every missile we have on board to
launch immediately, Commander. We do not have the luxury of time
on our side - but - we do now know where the enemy ship is. I have
already loaded the command sequence.”

“Thank you, Major.”
“Arm all of the missiles, and then sound the alarm to abandon
ship Lieutenant.” Taylor picked up the mike to address the crew,
“Attention. This is Commander Taylor. In a moment you will hear the
alarm to abandon ship. I want every member of crew to make sure
they are armed before leaving
Sea Predator
. Good luck and may God
be with you.”
Deborah Armstrong grasped Taylor’s arm. “The
Mini Predator
jet
boat; we can still get away and make the Finnish naval base!”
Taylor shook his head sadly. He had been at sea far too long; he
knew the dangers, accepted the dangers; “Only a miracle would even
allow you to reach that section of the hull, and then the chances of
escaping...”
Armstrong, closely followed by St. Vincent and Greenwood, the
Ferran & Cardini tech officers, fled the bridge, boots stomping metal
grilles, pushing past panicked seamen who were also trying to get off
of the stricken vessel.
Sea Predator
suddenly lurched sideways as the starboard hull,
now completely filled with water, disappeared beneath the water.
The crew were thrown like dolls; bodies smashed into screens and
bulkheads and sparks showered the steel decking. Taylor hit the wall
with incredible force and lay still, staring into the unseeing eyes of
his second-in-command. The man had broken his neck and his limbs
were now in some bizarre contortion.
Water was pouring in; sirens wailed; blue lights were flashing all
around, and the only thing that Taylor could think about was his wife
Sarah and their two young sons Aaron and James playing happily in
the garden.
The water was cold around him, sloshing over his legs, a heavy
and suddenly powerful swirling, remorseless. He was unable to move,
the jagged piece of steel protruding out of his torso, pinning him
against the mesh grille of the deck. Sparks showered him but he
did not flinch. And then the power surged as the pre-programmed
missiles were launched one after the other from their silos on the back
of the stealth ship. Moments later, all power failed and only darkness
prevailed.
More groans began, as if the
Sea Predator
were a dying animal
in immense pain; Taylor was barely conscious, but he could
feel
and
sense
the sea - powerful and without compassion - rushing hungrily
throughout his vessel.
Those final moments, in the pitch black, with ice cold water
shocking his system into an uncontrollable spasm - those final
moments were the most intense moments of Commander John
Taylor’s life. He dreamed of Sarah and the boys and how they would
mourn at his grave side. Tears ran down over his cheeks. How did
that ship find them - and why did they lose sight of it. What the fuck
was it?

Deborah Armstrong strapped herself in at the controls of the
Mini Predator
; both St. Vincent and Greenwood were dead. Explosions
erupted throughout the vessel, the steel grille of the gangway had
become a writhing mass of metal flipping St. Vincent off of his
feet, high into the air, and down onto a split steel girder, the razor
sharp edges cutting him in half at the waist, his entire blood supply
flushed from his torn flesh in the blink of an eye. Greenwood had
been alongside his colleague as they were running to the
Mini Predator
,
and had been thrown head first down a stairwell as an explosion had
erupted directly above them. His neck snapped as easily as a twig
under foot. Armstrong had been left dangling over an abyss as she
watched the two Ferran & Cardini tech-officers disappear under a few
feet of ice cold water. It was a miracle that she had made the docking
area in the centre of the cavernous hull, an even bigger miracle that
the
Mini Predator
was still intact and all of its controls still functioning
and fully active.

As the
Sea Predator
was in the last throes of death, the fast nuclear
powered
Mini Predator
was ejected from the docking station and spat
out from between the twin hulls at high speed, foam spewing from
its quad-exhausts. Armstrong, tasting blood from the wound to her
forehead, watched in horror on the craft’s monitors as the stealth boat
went under the water and sank to the bottom of the Barents Sea.
Tears rolled down over her cheeks, streaking the blood there, and
she armed the mini-predators weapons systems with a nervous glance
over her shoulder.

Something so incredibly bad that she did not understand or
comprehend.
She increased the
Mini Predator’s
speed, skimming the water at
a high rate of knots and navigating using sensors alone; outside the
carbon-fibre hull the sea was an uncompromising and deathly black.
She glanced down at the radar monitor; squinting, she realised
her worst nightmare. Something was tracking the
Mini Predator
- even
though the stealth-mode was engaged.
Armstrong moved as if to lock her weapons - and realised that
there was nothing on her scanners on which to lock. Swallowing
hard, she switched to manual mode and flicked off the safety on the
joy-stick. On either side of the
Mini Predator
missiles and torpedoes
slotted neatly into place. And then, suddenly, a missile shot out of
the darkness and there was an insane explosion of carbon-fibre and
titanium and the sea rushed in towards her as she struggled to release
the harness that held her fast in the seat. The more she struggled
the tighter it became until the water was all around her and she was
screaming. An intake of breath and the world descended into total
blackness and cold and what was left of the
Mini Predator
disappeared
and spiralled down into the deep of the Barents Sea, lost and
dead
...

The London evening traffic, as usual, was busy and frenetic; horns
blaring, engines spewing out their noxious fumes, lights cutting the
darkness into fine slices of white and red, shimmering under the amber
street lamps. Cars, lorries, buses and taxis winding their way across
the city like giant snakes to all points of the compass. Past imposing
landmark buildings standing majestic and towering skyscrapers
pointing like metallic fingers towards the heavens. Piccadilly Circus
was alive with activity, people from every culture rubbing shoulder to
shoulder in this major European city. As the snakes wound on, they
would pass deprived run-down areas, where buildings were so derelict
that some had been raised by fire, others had windows blown out and
now only gaping black-holes existed. Where pavements were littered
with rubbish and dog-crap, people trod carefully and did so warily,
eyes watching one another with unease, guns and knives concealed
under coats.

The tall man stood on the pavement of the bridge, long black
overcoat pulled tightly about him, silk scarf around his neck. His eyes
were dark chestnut in colour and brooding, his face freshly shaved
hair short and spiky, dampened by the light rain. He pulled hard on
the cigarette, one last time, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs
and then flicked the butt over the edge of the parapet and into the
Thames below where it was swept along on the surface by the strong
current. He waited for a gap in the heavy traffic and then weaved his
way across the road, picking his way between Range Rover Sports,
Porsches, Fords and Renaults. Once on the opposite kerb he halted,
momentarily, looking west, back up the river towards the Houses of
Parliament and the decaying Government that it gave shelter to.

The chill wind whipped at his face as he scratched the imaginary
itch on his right ear, dark eyes glinted under the light of a street
lamp. His hand brushed down the side of his long coat, and then
he turned and walked briskly off the bridge and down the street,
finest handmade Italian leather shoes fell solidly on the pavement. He
passed a gathering of tourists who were intently listening to their tour
guide, who looked up and stared at him as he passed by. He turned left
down the steps that led to the Embankment and the smell of the river.

The rain fell, cooling his face, making the black overcoat sodden.
As he walked, he undid the buttons down the front and made sure
that his hand could easily delve inside the jacket he was wearing;
underneath to the cold metallicof the Beretta secure in its side-holster.

Alix Knew.
Knew, that he was being followed.
The footsteps were almost inaudible behind him and he increased

his stride. He blinked, raindrops falling from his eyelashes. When he
reached the steps, he sprinted to the top and momentarily paused to
get his bearings by a large metal wheelie-bin overflowing with rubbish
and stink, turned right and after a short distance, darted into a narrow
alleyway.

Alix halted, listening, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling.
He stepped backwards into the dark shadows of a goods entrance
and lit a cigarette, hands cupped against the wind and rain. Smoke
plumed above him, and as the slim platinum lighter was replaced in his
jacket pocket so the Beretta found its way into his grip. He pulled the
lethal weapon from its holster and immediately screwed the silencer
in place, and then shoved it into an outside pocket of the long black
overcoat.

Still hidden by the gloom - he turned.
A casual glance back up the alley.
Nothing.
Alix stepped out of the shadows and walked on down the alley,

under metal fire escapes, under heavy drips from a dark and brooding
night sky that looked down upon this over populated struggling city
with malevolence. In the distance the bright sleazy neon lights of
Soho glittered in the rain and Alix felt his smartphone vibrate and
buzz, relaying a signal from the Scorpion Unit’s main-frame computer
system. The state-of-the-art system that was running a predator
detection programme that was locked onto Alix’s data-chip inside the
smartphone, and was scanning a fifty metre perimeter around him,
had picked up at least four assailants following. He glanced at the
screen; “Shit.”

Somebody wanted him
bad...
Alix increased his pace again, flicking the cigarette aside and
taking a right, down another narrow alleyway. He moved quickly with
the minimum of effort, his eyes moved up, checking, scanning and
adjusting. He reached the end and moved out into a quiet side street,
and singled out a parked BMW, silver with blacked out windows,
almost new and standing out from the other city-scarred vehicles. He
crouched behind it, sighting the Beretta down the side of the highly
polished bodywork, using the door mirror to steady his aim.
Four - maybe five...
Damn it, thought Alix. Who was it after him? Was it an
organisation, or, was it a terrorist group?
Either way - he was in the shit and the gravest danger... If it was
a terrorist group after him, taking them out would have to be quick -
and would not be that easy - even though he was better trained and he
had the benefit of surprise.
Or maybe it was just a just random gang, heavily armed and
out looking for an easy target to rob? If it was the latter - then the
problem would be erased in a matter of a few seconds.
Or maybe it was a rogue government dept...
The rain continued to fall.
Alix waited...
A noise, firstly from the darkened doorway of a nearby shop
on the opposite side of the road. The second, much louder from the
alley, alerted him. He turned, eyes still watching the entrance to the
alley, some twenty metres away. The noises were too loud to be made
by these secret followers. There was no element of stealth...
A group of five or six big eastern European men appeared from
out of the alley, wearing the latest designer label suits and shoes. Their
gazes turned towards Alix, who was by now casually leaning against
their Silver BMW X5. Their faces took on a hardened expression of
annoyance and anger.
They came out of the alley and while still walking towards Alix,
one of them shouted. “Get the fuck off of my car.” He had a heavy
accent reminiscent of a heavy weight boxer having gone several
rounds.
“Chill out, mate. I’m not doing any harm.” Alix smiled easily.
The response was anything but chilled - a fusillade of bullets
screamed and slammed into the side of the BMW, and Alix hit the
ground hard, rolled over once and fired the Beretta from under the
vehicle. The first man who had spoken; went down with a shattered
knee, the bullet had gone right through his knee cap - blood started
to ooze down his leg as he was hit by a second round to the groin
- he went down hard onto the ground screaming in agony. There
were shouts, the other men produced small Uzi machine pistols and a
small scale war ensued with the BMW X5 taking the full force of the
frenzied fire-fight.
“Bastards...”
Alix backed away from the vehicle and into one of the shop
doorways, back-kicked, the heavy looking door with as much force as
he could muster, and spun into total darkness.
Screams and the thwack of bullets ripping through flesh followed
him as he continued to fire the Beretta at his pursuers.
One of the followers had got so close behind him, that blood
had spattered across the back of Alix’s overcoat from the bullet that
had ripped his throat open.
Alix ran, dodging display stands and mannequins that loomed
suddenly from the gloom. The Beretta felt heavy in his hand now as
he moved through to the back of the building. He glanced down at
the smartphone in his other hand, the screen displayed four followers,
had logged their exact position on the grid and was now plotting
Alix’s escape route for him...
A thought crossed his mind - perhaps one of the local gangs
would hear the gun-fight and come running to take out these
mysterious Assassins?
No. He should assume the worst scenario; that the four left
would follow; and that all four were heavily armed and under orders
to seek and destroy their target - him.
He burst out through the back door and into an alleyway. Long
powerful legs pushing him forward until he came to a solid metal
door that must have led out into the street on the other side, and
which had a digital lock securing it. His only chance was a fire escape
directly above him. Pulling down a steel first-stage ladder he took the
metal plates two at a time up to the first floor; pulled the lower section
up after him and continued up towards the roof of the five storey
building. At the fourth floor he looked back down into the alley - there
was no one following - he entered the building through a window and
found himself standing in a brightly lit hallway. Residential apartments
over the ground floor shops. He ran on, producing a small silent
chemical detonated death grenade from his pocket, which he tossed
over the edge of the stairwell. If the four men had not pursued him
into the ally, it was only because they had known it to lead nowhere.
This meant that they were still inside the building, and most likely
closing in on him from below.
He pulled the pin on the dull black coloured grenade and tossed
it over the edge of the stairwell, Alix heard the metallic click as it hit
the tiled floor of the lobby below and bounced once.
There was a muffled crack, and then a hiss.
A moment later, a bellow of angry hot air came back up
the stairwell, rushing past him like the approach of a fast moving
underground train through a tunnel. He didn’t wait around to see if
the grenade had created death and carnage: if nothing else, it would
make his pursuers much more cautious. His head snapped around to
his right at the sound of a group of people, laughing as their party
spilled out through the doorway of the flat.
He started walking towards them, while all the time he was
looking around for a way out, and then spotted the doorway to the
fire escape stairwell.
This is good, very good.
People - they make brilliant cover...
As dreadful as that might seem.
He went to move past the revellers, and a young woman grabbed
him playfully by the arm in her drunken state, and dragged him inside
the flat to dance with her. Alix felt a little out of place wearing the
long black overcoat in a room full of scantily clad university students,
he removed it and managed to detach himself and decided to leave
through a door on the other side of the room. He passed through
another door, and into some kind of sparsely furnished smokestinking
back living room, which was in desperate need of re-decorating. An
untidy mess of dirty dinner plates were stacked on a low coffee table,
together with a number of discarded beer cans, errant tangles of partypopper streamers and general mess. The distant music interrupted
Alix’s pause for thought. Student’s party? He quickly discarded the
overcoat onto a hook on the back of the door he’d just come through,
made sure the Beretta was properly holstered and concealed. And
went back to the party again.
What better place to tread water for a bit - and give his pursuers
time to get fed up and leave...
Dim lighting, strobes and the flicker of cheap disco-lights in
time to the latest girl band music mixed with cigarette smoke and the
aroma of Ganja filled the air in the hot stuffy room.
Alix picked up a can of lager from a table and pulled the tab off,
taking a long swallow, while all the time his eyes surveyed the room
and the group around the front door. Several girls gyrated into his
path, bodies writhing in time to the beat of the music.
Alix swiftly sidestepped groping hands, glancing behind to
see the group at the front door move aside. Hard faced men, battle
scarred, cold eyes displaying their utter professionalism, appeared:
dark-haired and well dressed in their Italian designer suits.
Alix stared, lips suddenly dry and the need to leave thumping in
his temples.
Who were thesepeople? Shouted his brain, searching the archives
of his mind without success. He did not recognise these pursuers; but
then, this information was an irrelevant factor...
Alix reacted by pushing his way back through the crowd towards
the back living room. Bullets tore through the party, plaster and
woodwork exploding as they slammed into the walls; Alix rolled,
darted through the doorway and into the other room. The soundtrack
had changed to one of panic and hysterical screams. He grabbed his
black overcoat and ran through another doorway that opened into a
small bedroom.
Trapped! Only a window. He opened it and peered over the edge
- nothing but fresh-air for two floors and then a flat roof.
No thought was required. He stepped up to the window sill and
jumped.
He landed heavily, rolled once and crouched on his haunches.
Rapid gun-fire rang out from above, and a moment later bullets were
screaming past him, slamming into brickwork off to his left. Alix
slipped over the edge of the flat roof - released his grip and dropped
twenty foot onto a stack of cardboard boxes below. He scrambled out
from the crushed stack, and leaped lightly to the ground below.
Ignoring the shocked looks of passers-by, Alix ran up the street,
gun in hand, approaching a man sitting astride a shiny black and red
Suzuki Hayabusa sports motorbike. Without time for polite niceties,
Alix grabbed the man by the collar of his leather jacket and pulled him
backwards on to the wet tarmac, jumped aboard the powerful machine
and, with the clutch in, he kicked down. The Suzuki screamed, fumes
exploding from the exhaust... The bike’s rear tyre spun furiously in
the middle of the street, smoke billowing off the hot rubber as it
reluctantly tried to grip the tarmac as Alix accelerated up the street.
He kept his head down as bullets hailed down from the small window
above, that he had just jumped out of, slamming into the bodywork
of passing cars as the Suzuki’s rear wheel attempted to grip the wet
tarmac.
“Damn these people - whoever they are...” Alix said aloud.
At the end of the street, cars were grid-locked queuing to get
out of a junction blocked by road-works. The bike screamed as Alix
braked hard and spun the machine around, he let out the clutch and
the bike lurched forward, mounted the pavement and started back
along the route he’d just come from. He used parked cars for cover
as pedestrians screamed and jumped out of the way as the powerful
bike accelerated at high speed. Wheels spun, Alix slung the bike to the
left, off the pavement and back onto the road again, the suspension
dipping as he braked hard again to miss pedestrians who dived for
cover.
Alix opened the throttle and the bike surged down the road.
He braked hard at the entrance to a large building site, the rear wheel
slewed round and a moment later Alix was racing through the gates
and over rough ground, churning mud and heading for the exit on the
opposite side of the large site. He hit the brakes, ending in a long mudslew skid, and jumped free at the last moment as the Suzuki collided
with a large earth moving machine. The fuel tank impacted against
the heavy metal and exploded into a fireball. Alix looked around and
spotted a black Mercedes Sprinter van parked just outside the exit of
the site, ran across and climbed casually in through the side door.
“Step on it, Lola - it’s time to leave.” Bullets slammed into the
rear door panel from behind as the Mercedes wheel spun and joined
the late evening traffic, and then the glass of the rear windscreen
exploded into millions of tiny fragments. In the back of the van Alix
ducked low onto the floor as bullets ripped through the side panels.
Ragged holes appeared and the hi-tech surveillance equipment and
weapons held in the metal racks were being destroyed.
“Fucking hell, Lola! Get this pile of junk moving?” Alix growled,
adding. “Get us out of here - now!” Alix eyes were wide, mouth dry as
he eyed the bullet holes.
Lola veered the van to the left, mounted the kerb and smashed
into oblivion one parking meter after another all the way to the end of
the street; the van’s engine roared and the bullets faded behind.
They drove through back streets and through deserted industrial
estates.
Alix, sweating now, slumped in his seat and ran a hand over his
spiky hair.
“Was I right?” Lola asked bluntly.
Alix met the woman’s intense gaze in the rear view mirror, and
nodded. “You were right. They definitely wanted me to lead them to
you. Bad enough to kill anyone who got in their way.”
“What now?” asked Lola, her sultry South American tones
for once edged with a kind of panic so unlike her usual well-trained
stability that it brought a frown to Alix’s youthful face?
He shrugged. “We have to warn the partners of Ferran & Cardini
and whoever is running the show at the Ministry of Defence.”
“I can’t use my Scorpion G8 unit - I’d say that’s how the bastards
have been tracking us,” said Alix with a snarl. He checked that there
was a full clip in the Glock and switched the safety to off on the
Heckler & Koch MP5 machine carbine in his hands and grinned - that
nasty grin he made just before the shooting started.
“We could of course just try this Pay as You go phone, that I
carry around for such emergencies?” Lola called back.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re a tricky one.”
“Comes with experience - lots of experience.” Lola said amiably,
and then added. “We’ve got no other choice than to use it. I’ll send
a message to Ferran & Cardini. Let them know that we’ve got a leak
somewhere inside Scorpion HQ or at the Ministry Of Defence, and
that they were laying in wait for us.”
“That’ll stir things up. There’s no way they could have just
happened upon us. Bastards knew exactly where we were.”
“It’ll be like waving a red rag at a black bull.” Lola said, and
laughed.
“Those bastards messed up my trousers
and
my new overcoat.
The
bastards
. Lola, get us out of this shit-hole city. Then we’ll see if we
can dump this van - it’ll almost certainly be tracked.”
Lola pulled free her phone. Tapped in a number of digits and the
device came to life and as quickly it went blank and died. She frowned
- and tried it again.
“Damn thing won’t work, Alix.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
“Bloody gizmos - never was very good with technology,”
complained Lola.