The Secret of Excalibur (33 page)

The flash lasted only a moment, many of the antennas melting, but as Chase rolled down the scrubby hillside he was already protecting his ears, knowing there was more to come.

A spear of intense blue-white light lanced down from the heavens into the dome, which exploded into splinters as the beam seared through it to hit the machinery below.

All the remaining earth energy still in the system was released at once. The generator disintegrated, the force of the blast shattering the concrete walls of the pit and ripping a massive crater out of the hilltop. The circular building above was pulverised, the shockwave reducing the entire structure to rubble in a split second and hurling it outwards in a huge swelling ring of destruction.

The force of the blast hit Chase through the ground itself, a colossal
whump
from within the hill knocking him into the air in a shower of soil and stones. He landed hard on a leg of the road below amidst a blizzard of churned earth, having just enough time to realise that he was almost beneath the steeply sloping trackbed of the funicular and roll into whatever protection it offered before the shattered remains of the generator building fell round him.

A cloud of choking dust swirled downhill. The ground shook again, a continuous bone-shaking drumming like an artillery barrage as debris smashed down all around.

Then it began to fade.

The rain of rubble fell to a drizzle. Chase sat up and coughed, squinting through the dust as the cold wind from the coast gradually wafted it away. The entire hillside was spotted with fires where molten metal from the twisted, blackened antennas had dripped on to the grass.

He stepped out from beneath the track. The slope above him was shorn to the bare earth, the topsoil and grass blown loose by the explosion. Below, the lights of the dock still shone brightly. The submarine pen had been built to withstand anything short of a direct nuclear strike. There were other lights closer to him: a vehicle on a lower leg of the road, lying on its side.

He heard a muffled Russian curse. ‘Hey!’ Chase shouted, scrambling down the hillside to the source of the swearing. ‘Thingy, Bulldozer! You okay?’

Maximov was slumped against one of the track’s supporting girders, covered in dirt. He dizzily raised his head and peered at Chase. ‘Oh. Is you.’

‘Can you move? Are you hurt?’

He grinned. ‘
Da
. What was that? It was like . . . fire from God!’

‘It wasn’t God, it was Mitchell. But I’m going to kick his arse straight
to
God when I catch him. You still with me?’

Maximov nodded, and Chase helped him stand. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Going after Mitchell. He’s kidnapped Nina and stolen the sword - and I’m not going to let that bastard have either of ’em. Come on.’

They picked their way down the hillside between the fires and warped antennas, following the funicular railway. The sea breeze had by now cleared most of the dust, giving Chase a better view of the base. He saw movement on the jetty.

‘Shit!’ Even though the figures were only tiny at this distance, Chase knew there was only one person who would be carrying another over his shoulder - especially when the person being carried had long red hair.

It was clear where Mitchell was taking her. A couple of small boats were moored at the far end of the wooden pier. The DARPA agent’s escape route wasn’t by air, it was by sea.

He had to go after him - or stop him from leaving with her.

‘We’ll never catch him!’ Maximov said, but Chase was already thinking otherwise as they reached the overturned car. It was another Mercedes GL Class, a man whom he recognised as one of the control room technicians hanging bloodily through the broken windscreen. He had escaped Mitchell’s onslaught and tried to drive to safety, only for the SUV to be flipped over by the subterranean shockwave. As they got closer he realised the engine was still running, fumes putt-putting from the exhaust.

‘How strong are you?’ he asked the Russian. ‘Are you like Arnold Schwarzenegger strong?’

‘Arnie? He is girlie-man compared to me!’ Maximov said proudly, flexing his massive arms.

‘Great! Then you can help me tip this thing back over!’

They reached the Mercedes, Chase grabbing the front wing and Maximov taking hold of the back as they forced the two-ton SUV back on to its wheels. ‘You will never get there in time. The road is too long,’ Maximov protested as the vehicle tipped over and bounced upright.

Chase opened the dented door and dragged out the driver’s corpse. ‘We don’t need roads.’ He climbed in and fastened the seatbelt. The cabin was strewn with broken glass and the airbags hung limply from their compartments, but everything else appeared to be working. ‘Coming?’

Maximov squeezed into the Mercedes and gave Chase an uncertain look. ‘Can we make it?’

‘We have to.’ Mitchell was now about a third of the way down the jetty. Chase pointed the SUV down the hill. ‘Let’s off-road!’

He stamped on the accelerator.

The Mercedes leapt off the edge of the road and bounded down the steep, bumpy hillside. Chase yanked the wheel back and forth to guide it through the antenna forest.

The next leg of the road was coming up fast. Chase swerved, hitting the frost-cracked asphalt in a shower of soil. The SUV shot over the edge of the embankment, airborne for a moment . . . then slammed down on top of the funicular line.

He aimed the car straight down the steel track. Maximov swore again, bracing himself against the dashboard. Chase glanced at the jittering speedo. Over sixty kilometres an hour and quickly picking up speed - and his foot wasn’t even on the accelerator.

But he couldn’t slow down, not yet. Mitchell was now over halfway along the jetty with Nina.

The track was perfectly straight, heading to a vanishing point at the bottom of the tunnel. The semicircle of light was partially obscured by a dark box - the funicular car, blocking his path. And there was a gap between the two tracks, making it impossible for him to swing into the open lane.

He looked to the side. Just before the tunnel was a concrete expanse running to the edge of the cliff. Some kind of fuel storage, tall cylindrical tanks lined up along it.

No choice—

Now he braked, pushing the pedal down as hard as he could and turning sharply. Tyres and brake discs shrieked in unison. There was a horrific bang as the wheels crossed the steel track, then the GL Class was clear, slithering sidelong down the rough slope before flattening a chain-link fence and hitting the concrete so hard it almost flipped over.

Chase frantically spun the wheel to apply opposite lock. The SUV wavered on two wheels for a moment before thumping back down on all four - heading right for one of the fuel tanks.

He yanked the wheel back the other way. The Mercedes skidded, spinning round . . . and stopped. It was actually touching the white-painted tank, the door panel bent inwards.

Maximov winced when he saw how close they had been to an explosive collision. ‘Next time, I drive.’

‘No, this is where you get out,’ said Chase. ‘Unless you want to go swimming.’ He jerked a thumb towards the low wooden fence at the edge of the cliff.

Maximov’s eyes widened. ‘You are mad!’

Chase threw open his door. ‘Mad? I’m fuckin’
furious
!’ He quickly reversed past another fuel tank, and sliced the door off the Mercedes with a crunch of tearing metal. ‘Seriously - out!’

The Russian had no further arguments, hurriedly flinging open his own door and rolling out. Chase didn’t even wait for him to close it, instead slamming the SUV into gear and flooring the accelerator. The tanks flicked past as he picked up speed, the black sea coming into view over the edge of the cliff.

As did the lights at the end of the jetty.

Chase adjusted his course, aiming straight for them - then ploughed the Mercedes through the flimsy fence and off the edge of the cliff at over eighty kilometres an hour.

He threw himself out as the GL Class rolled in mid-air, the water rushing up fast. He had barely enough time to twist into a dive before hitting the freezing sea just short of the jetty.

The SUV continued onwards without him. A fraction of a second after Chase splashed down, it nose-dived into the pier and exploded, blasting the end of the wooden structure to pieces - and cutting the shocked Mitchell off from the boats, knocking him on his butt less than thirty feet away.

He dumped the unconscious Nina on the planks and jumped up, staring in disbelief at the burning wreckage before looking at the water. Only one person could have been driving the SUV. ‘Eddie!’ he roared, unslinging the XM-201 and running to the jetty’s edge to point the weapon at the expanding splash below. ‘Fuck you, Eddie!
Fuck you!
’

Stunned by the cold, Chase was only just struggling to the surface when the water above him erupted with sizzling spears of metal and froth. Cheeks bulging as he held in his breath, he desperately swam back downwards as Mitchell kept firing into the dark water. The 3.6mm bullets only reached a depth of a few feet before the water slowed them to a non-lethal speed, but they were still hot, a couple like cigarette burns against his shoulders.

Mitchell exhausted the twenty rounds in his current load. He was about to switch the gun to different ammo when he remembered he had something more powerful.

Chase was already expecting it. He swam deeper, heading for shore as fast as he could—

The 25mm grenade smacked into the water, sank four feet deep - and detonated.

A spherical shockwave blasted outwards at the speed of sound. Its upper half reached the surface in a fraction of a second, sending a huge plume of white spray into the air. Beneath the surface, the shockwave continued to expand, much more powerful and deadly in dense liquid than in air.

However fast he swam, Chase had no chance of outrunning the blast. A grenade tossed into a swimming pool could kill everyone in it through hydrostatic shock alone - his only chance of survival was to be moving directly away from the epicentre, feet towards it to spread out the impact along his body, as the shockwave swept past him. If it hit him squarely, he would be dead, organs ruptured . . .

The blow was horrific, a crushing pressure pummelling him from all sides and knocking him into an uncontrollable tumble. Air was forced from his lungs. He spun limply into the darkness.

Above, Mitchell surveyed the foaming surface for any sign of life. Nothing. He waited a little longer to be sure, then shouldered his rifle, picked up Nina, and hurried back towards the submarine dock.

30

C
hase had no idea which way was up. Freezing salt water stung his eyes as he forced them open. No sign of any lights showing the way to the surface, nothing to be heard except the hiss of billions of tiny air bubbles swirling around him.

He was running out of air. In the SAS, he had been able to hold his breath underwater for over five minutes, but without regular training his capacity would have decreased, and he didn’t know how much air the explosion had driven out of him. All he knew was that there wasn’t much left, pressure rising in his chest and his heart beating faster . . .

A new noise - a deep, booming splash. Close by.
Mitchell’s last grenade.
He braced himself for the explosion—

It didn’t come. Instead a huge hand locked round his arm and pulled him to the surface. He burst out of the water, gasping for air, and saw the grinning Maximov beside him. ‘Did - did you jump off the cliff ?’

‘If little man like you can do it, hey! No problem for big Russian like me.’ He swam for the jetty, pulling Chase after him. ‘Mitchell went in the dock with your wife.’

They reached one of the pilings and clung to it. ‘She’s not my wife. Well, not yet.’

‘No? So when is wedding?’

‘Why does everyone keep asking that?’ His breath regained, Chase climbed up the piling. He heard echoing gunfire from the sub pen - explosive rounds. What was Mitchell shooting at? A few seconds later came a much louder detonation. The last grenade.

Maximov dragged himself from the water. ‘What is he doing?’

‘Dunno, but we’ve got to get in there.’ Aching all over, Chase shook off some of the water soaking his clothes. The cold sea wind was already slicing through him; if he didn’t get into cover soon he’d be at risk of hypothermia.

They limped down the jetty, the pen’s brightly lit interior coming into view. The Typhoon’s broad black bow rose menacingly above the water, the squat sail set way back behind the ranks of missile tubes. Chase saw people running along the opposite side of the dock. He guessed Mitchell’s gunfire had prompted them to flee, but there was no sign of the American himself—

The submarine started moving.

Only slowly at first, but the rising wash of water over its bow was unmistakable as it angled away from the dock. Mooring lines hung limply down the side of the hull - Mitchell had used explosive rounds to sever them.

An echoing crash came from the sub as a gangway slid loose and fell into the water. Further aft, smoke drifted across the dock. The aftermath of the grenade explosion, Chase realised: a bollard had been blown apart, all the lines connected to it shredded.

The Typhoon was free - but Mitchell hadn’t cut the power cables running from the sub’s reactors through the hole in the hull. They slackened as the submarine slid past the pylon on the dockside, but it wouldn’t be long before they pulled taut again.

The vessel’s stern came into view, its giant propellers churning up the water on each side of the high rudder. The screws were mounted inside metal rings to shield them from damage by objects in the water, putting paid to Chase’s faint hopes of entangling them in the cables.

And his chances of even getting aboard the sub were rapidly diminishing. By the time it drew level, it would be too far from the dockside for him to jump on to the casing - and if he fell in the water, he would be swept into the screws. The protective rings were more than large enough for him to be dragged inside and torn apart.

No way to get aboard . . . except for the crane at the end of the dock.

It was turned away from the submarine, jib pointing along the jetty. But if it could be brought round . . .

‘Can you turn this?’ Chase asked, running to the crane. Its paint was scabbed with rust, the machine apparently unused for some time. But there was a crank at its base that still seemed to be in fair shape.

‘
Da
, but why?’

‘Because I need to get on that sub.’

‘What if it is too short?’

‘Then I’m fucked! Come on, turn it!’ He started scaling the rusty frame.

Maximov released the brake, then gripped the crank and strained to turn it. ‘It won’t move!’

‘Shake it loose!’

With a growl, Maximov pushed and pulled at the recalcitrant crank. It screeched horribly, then began to turn. ‘It’s moving!’

‘Great, keep it up!’ As Chase ascended, the jib slowly rotated, flecks of rust falling on him like sharp-edged snowflakes. He looked across at the Typhoon. The bow had already passed him, the massive submarine picking up speed.

A crunch of metal echoed inside the pen. Some of the electrical cables had torn loose from the sub, but others were holding firm, the pylon buckling as they were pulled taut. Sparks flew as the cables twisted against each other, then the pylon’s legs gave way and the whole thing crashed to the dock, dragged along as the submarine moved into open water.

‘Come on, come on!’ Chase yelled. The jib had turned through about thirty degrees, but he needed it to go much further. He reached the jib, clambering along its top as Maximov kept working the crank. The Typhoon’s missile tubes rolled past below. ‘Faster!’

Maximov roared as he pushed harder. The jib picked up speed, but Chase realised he was out of time. The submarine’s sail had almost reached him, and by the time he got to the end of the jib and climbed down the cable the stern would have passed.

Instead he ran along the jib.

One slip and he would fall to his death. But he kept running, feet clanking along the weather-worn metal until he reached the end - and leapt from it, arms and legs still pumping as he flew through the air . . .

Chase slammed against the rear end of the sail, slithering down the steep black wall to crash on to the rounded hump at its base. He rolled painfully down it, ending up skidding on his back down the wet stern. Barely missing the edge of the hole cut in the hull, he picked up speed on the sloping casing, one of the churning propellers rising out of the water just ahead—

His hand bashed against a recess in the hull. He reflexively grabbed it, swinging around with his feet just short of the enormous bronze blades. Freezing spray sluiced over his body. Gasping, he pulled himself forward.

An ominous crack. He looked towards the sail . . .

Another overstretched power cable ripped loose from the reactor. Chase ducked as it whipped over his head and tore a chunk as big as a man out of the rudder before splashing into the sea. The pylon was still being dragged along the dock, sweeping up smaller objects as it went.

It reached the crane. Maximov, who had been watching Chase’s battle for survival in frozen fascination, suddenly realised the danger he was in and fled along the jetty as the wrecked pylon crashed into the crane behind him. The Typhoon was now moving at near running pace, the impact shaking the crane to its foundations. Another cable tore free in a shower of sparks - but the remainder were firmly secured, thirty thousand tons of submarine jolting as if it had run into a wall.

With an earsplitting screech, the crane was wrenched from the jetty and toppled over. It fell into the water, pulling the pylon with it. Both broken structures sank, sweeping the cables across the submarine’s stern.

Chase pulled himself up and vaulted them as they sliced over the recess. ‘Jesus!’ he gasped, seeing them pile up against the ring shrouding the propeller. The safety feature had done its job - not that it helped him. The Typhoon was now clear of the dock and heading out to sea at an increasing pace.

He staggered up the stern and reached the gap in the casing. The Typhoon consisted of two long titanium pressure hulls mounted side by side like a catamaran, enclosed in an outer steel shell. Looking down, he saw where the inner hulls had been cut open to facilitate the decommissioned vessel’s new life as a mobile nuclear power station, cables running through them. Some of the gaps were large enough for him to fit through. He dropped into the opening.

Behind him, unnoticed, water crept up the stern as the weight of the wreckage being dragged behind the submarine pulled its back end lower and lower, waves sloshing towards the hole in the hull . . .

Chase slipped through a gap to land on the deck beneath - and found himself facing a huge radiation warning symbol on a bulkhead. He instinctively clapped both hands protectively over his groin and looked for the quickest possible way out of the reactor room.

An open hatch led forward. He moved through it, the low thrum of the driveshafts turning the screws fading behind him. There were no other sounds of activity. Presumably the sub only had a skeleton crew, just enough to operate the reactors rather than actually take it out to sea. Either they had got off, or Mitchell had killed them.

He guessed the sub’s control room would be under the sail, where its commander could use the periscopes. He headed forward until he found a ladder to the next deck, and crept up it.

The faint sound of someone talking reached him. Mitchell. Chase couldn’t make out what he was saying, but from his clipped tone it sounded as though he was issuing orders. Was he sending a radio message?

He quietly advanced through what turned out to be the sonar room, seeing the first physical sign of Mitchell’s presence, a splatter of blood on one of the pale cream walls. A few more steps and a body came into view, a man slumped over a hatch entrance. A large wrench lay beside him. Chase picked it up - any weapon was better than none - and peered through the hatch.

It was the control room. Two long tubes ran down from the ceiling through large circular holes in the deck to the level below: the sub’s periscopes, both lowered. At the front of the room was a pair of seats before banks of instruments and almost aircraft-like controls. Another corpse was slumped in one, blood trickling down the seat back. Mitchell must have forced the luckless sailor to get the sub under way before killing him.

Chase couldn’t yet see Mitchell - but he could see Nina. Still unconscious, she lay in a corner beneath a bank of computer screens. He watched for a few seconds until he was sure that she was breathing. Then he heard movement from the other side of the room, and slowly leaned further round the hatch.

Mitchell stood before what he assumed was the communications console, his back to him. The XM-201 was propped beside him. As Chase watched, the American unzipped the pack containing Excalibur and took out the sword to examine it.

Chase assessed the situation. If he could get close enough, he could smack Mitchell over the head with the wrench and knock him out - or kill him, either was fine. But the rifle was within easy reach of the DARPA agent, and apart from a faint hiss of static from a radio the control room was all but silent. It would only take one footstep, one slap of wet clothing, for him to be heard.

There wasn’t much choice. He couldn’t wait for ever - Mitchell definitely wasn’t planning to sail the Typhoon all the way back to the States. Someone was meeting him, either a ship or another submarine.

Hefting the wrench, he stepped through the hatch and moved behind the nearer of the two periscopes. Glancing through the hole in the deck he could see the handgrips and eyepieces in a compartment below, ready to rise at the push of a button. Mitchell was about ten feet away. Close enough to rush him?

A small noise caught Mitchell’s attention. Chase ducked back, but it wasn’t him the American had heard. The sound had been a faint scrape of metal. Mitchell stared intently at a piece of equipment resembling a weighing scale, low-tech in the computerised control centre. Chase realised it was a mechanical inclinometer: a weighted pendulum, a simple but near-foolproof way to determine the sub’s angle of climb or descent. As he watched, the pointer slowly moved. The Typhoon’s bow was gradually rising - or the stern was sinking.

A chill ran through Chase as the implications of that hit home, but then Mitchell took a step closer to the inclinometer, Excalibur still in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the pointer.

Chase saw his chance and crept round the periscope behind him. Mitchell turned, about to put Excalibur down on the console - and his eyes locked on to Chase’s, reflected in the sword’s polished blade.

Chase jumped back behind the periscope as Mitchell snatched up the rifle. He expected gunfire, but nothing came. He quickly realised why. Even if Mitchell switched to armour-piercers, shooting the thick titanium casing of the periscope would result in a potentially lethal spray of ricochets.

But he only needed take a few steps round the periscope to have a direct line of fire.

‘God
damn
, you’re persistent, Eddie!’ said Mitchell, dropping Excalibur on the console and moving towards him. A couple more steps and he would be exposed—

Chase slapped his hand on the periscope controls.

With a hiss of hydraulics, the metal tube rapidly rose into position. Chase dropped, hurling the wrench under the bottom of the periscope. It cracked into Mitchell’s knee and clanged to the floor.

Mitchell staggered back in pain. Chase rushed at him. The rifle came back down, but too late, as Chase tackled the taller man at the waist and slammed him back against the console. Excalibur spun to the deck and dropped into the hole beneath the raised periscope.

Chase swept out an arm, knocking the XM-201 from Mitchell’s hand. He was about to drive his fist into Mitchell’s crotch when a knee rammed into his face. His nose cracked, hot blood gushing over his lips.

‘Oh, you fucker!’ Chase roared, whipping up his head and catching Mitchell under his chin. The American’s jaw snapped shut, and he spat out blood. Chase punched him twice in the stomach, doubling him over, then smashed a fist into his mouth and knocked him backwards. ‘
Not
such a -
fucking
pretty boy -
now
, are you?’ he shouted as he delivered three more brutal blows to Mitchell’s face, his own knuckles splitting with the force of the punches.

But Mitchell was far from down, an arm snapping up to block Chase’s final attack. The heel of his palm hit the Englishman’s jaw like an axe, and as Chase reeled Mitchell kicked him in the stomach and knocked him back against the periscope. He hit one of the handgrips, the tube spinning round and pitching him to the deck.