Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“The man you just killed had been a member of the East German Secret Police and had received the finest training possible under Soviet sponsorship. I must congratulate the competence of America’s Special Forces. You did very well indeed.” The voice that called out into the darkness was thick, gutturally accented, the words clipped so tightly that all emotion had been trimmed from them. “However, I don’t believe that you are bulletproof. You will throw your weapon away from your position, hold your hands over your head, and step out of the ditch.”

Twice caught in under two minutes, Mercer tossed the Heckler and Koch and stood. A flashlight snapped on from about forty feet up the road, just outside the perimeter of the pump station, rain slashing through the beam. The man who’d seen him had been able to watch the entire fight from his position though he had not interfered, even when he had a clear shot while Mercer was drowning the guard. Mercer had no explanation why his life was spared, but he knew that he wouldn’t like the reason.

“So tell me” — the flashlight bobbed and weaved as the man approached Mercer — “are you an Army ranger or Marine force recon? I know that your government hasn’t had the time to activate a SEAL or Delta unit and get them to Alaska this quickly.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no one thought your threat was worth sending in real troops. I’m a Boy Scout leader. Dan Gerous is the name. Heck, I’m not even a soldier. I’m a geologist.”

Rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition chewed up the ground at Mercer’s feet, bullets zinging off stones and ricocheting back into the forest. He could do nothing but stand there as the earth around him was clawed with deadly ferocity.

“I came out here to investigate when my picket radioed he had spotted an intruder. I never imagined it would be you, Dr. Mercer. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hold your life in my hands. You are going to die a very horrible death, geologist. That I can assure you.” Mercer realized that he’d been captured by Ivan Kerikov himself.

Seconds later, two men flanked him, yanking his hands from over his head and wrapping his wrists with tape so tightly that blood drained from his hands and wrists. He was shoved toward the backlit figure of Kerikov with a well-placed rifle butt to his kidney. From this distance, it appeared that the Russian’s shoulders spanned the entire width of the Dalton Highway.

“I have been anticipating this day for a year now,” Kerikov said as the henchmen held Mercer before the former spymaster. “After I heard it was you who destroyed operation Vulcan’s Forge, I considered hiring an assassin to kill you in your Arlington town house, but I decided that I really wanted the opportunity personally.”

There was a cruel twist to Kerikov’s mouth as he spoke, and his eyes, washed-out and pale blue, glittered like flat chips of glass. Even in his moment of triumph, he showed little emotion. The juxtaposition of his words and his expression was unnatural, far more frightening than had he raved and gloated.

No matter how revolted Mercer was by Kerikov, by the malignant taint he possessed, he wasn’t about to show it. He would not give in to his own fear, not now, not in front of the Russian. “If you dedicated your life to getting revenge on a nobody like me, Kerikov, I really think you should reevaluate your career goals. You’re pathetic.”

Kerikov dropped his assault rifle to the road and rushed forward, his right hand swinging. He caught Mercer on the point of the chin with so much force that Mercer’s eyes turned back into his skull before he hit the ground. He would be out for hours.

“Take this sack of shit back to the helicopter,” Kerikov ordered his men. “And tell the pilot to get ready. We’re leaving.”

Kerikov turned away, heading back toward the pump station compound, secretly massaging his right fist. He winced once as he popped a dislocated knuckle back into place, but the pain didn’t break his stride.

The work on the pipeline was almost complete. The last sleeve of liquid nitrogen was slung under the line, its two halves hinged open so they could clamp it around the pipe. The leader of the work crew signaled the crane operator. He hoisted the cradle holding the false section of pipe sleeve, deftly following the quick hand signals of the PEAL activist standing on the pipe itself. Once the bottom of the nitrogen pack hit the underside of the pipeline, the crane operator heaved it up another couple of feet, and the two halves closed together naturally, encasing another twenty-foot section of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline with two more tons of supercooled nitrogen, held in stasis by a thin vacuum seal. Cleverly hidden bolts were shot home, tightening the sleeve to the pipe. Another section of the line was vulnerable to Kerikov’s attack.

A female technician climbed up to the pipe as workers unhooked the crane. With a portable computer, she activated the electronic triggering device built into the nitrogen pack, setting it to the frequency Kerikov had chosen to detonate the device. She also checked to ensure that it was reading the tiny transmitters in the other packs PEAL had set in place, guaranteeing they would go off in predetermined series, a cascade that would cause the most damage. With fingers made stiff by the cold, she checked the primary and backup circuits, making certain there were no faults or shorts. She unplugged the computer from the jack built into the sleeve, then snapped off the jack so that only a microscopically thin filament remained as evidence. The released nitrogen and a small explosive charge would take care of the other electronics, leaving behind nothing but a few pieces of shattered plastic and wires when the device was set off. The pack was virtually undetectable. She gave a thumbs-up to the foreman.

“That’s the last one, Jan,” the foreman yelled to Voerhoven, who stood a little way off.

Kerikov came up to Voerhoven, wondering silently why the Dutchman wasn’t frozen to death wearing just a thin windbreaker over his T-shirt. “Tell your people to pack up. The trucks must be destroyed and everyone must get to the Hope as quickly as possible. When we release the nitrogen tomorrow, I want all of your people back in Valdez, looking as innocent as schoolchildren.”

Having them aboard the Hope by morning would also make it that much easier for Abu Alam to kill them quickly. The Arab butcher wanted to do it singly or in small groups, but Kerikov decided that blowing up the research vessel made more sense.

“They performed better than you expected, didn’t they?” Voerhoven said with obvious pride.

“You’ve all done well,” Kerikov replied, knowing that Voerhoven needed another dose of ego building. “You have excellent people, and their loyalty to you is remarkable. In fact, as a reward, I want to give you this.” Kerikov handed over a black cellular phone. “This is the trigger for the devices. All you have to do is dial 555-2020, then hit SEND. The signal will reach the nitrogen detonators within a tenth of a second. You hold in your hands the future of this entire state, Jan — that is how much I trust and admire you. You will go down as the earth’s greatest protector.”

“Sometimes I’ve wondered about you, Ivan, about your motivations, your convictions. But this,” Voerhoven held up the phone, “this shows me more than your words can ever tell. When the time comes, I won’t hesitate.”

Kerikov wanted to laugh at the environmentalist, but he managed to keep his voice level and authoritative. “It’s time to go. I want you to come back with me on the helicopter. When he regains consciousness, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Are we going back to the Hope ?”