electronics are the first things to break in the field, this mag in the stock makes it too bulky, having switchable ammo paths into the receiver means it’s more likely to jam, the carrying handle’s too far forward and I bet it costs a fucking fortune. You’ve made a gun that does twice as much as an M-16 . . . for ten times the price.’ He grinned. ‘Typical American toy.’
Mitchell grinned back. ‘Hey, how else are we supposed to keep increasing the stockholder value of our arms industry every quarter? Anyway, it’s at least five years from service, maybe even ten. You know how much the brass hate change. Even for the better.’
Chase shrugged and put down the rifle. ‘Think I’ll stick with the old school, thanks.’
Mitchell shook his head. ‘Not for this mission, you won’t. There’s another reason why I wanted these. When Vaskovich’s earth energy system is running - which it will be as soon as he gets Excalibur - it puts out a
‘You’ll have them, you mean,’ Chase corrected. ‘I don’t see Kruglov letting me stroll in there with one of these. And speaking of that, how’re
Mitchell indicated a case. ‘Another DARPA toy.’ He checked his watch. ‘In fact . . . I should start prepping it about now, so give me a hand.’
The case contained what looked like a large, hard-shelled backpack. Mitchell slid the rifles into a compartment inside it, then climbed into a black one-piece flight suit and zipped it up. He donned the pack with Chase’s assistance. ‘Latest thing we devised for airborne special ops,’ Mitchell told him as he fastened an electronic control unit to his wrist. ‘And this one
‘Are these engines?’ Chase said, seeing cylindrical protrusions on each side of the pack.
‘Yep. Mini-turbojets, three hundred pounds of thrust between them. There’s about fifteen minutes of fuel, but I can use them in bursts to gain height and glide. Then when I want to land, I just pop the ’chute. A good pilot can hit a fifty-foot target area from over a hundred miles away.’
‘And you’re a good pilot?’
‘Not bad. The controls are very intuitive - just pretend you’re Superman.’ He smiled, then became all business. ‘After I bail out, I can land in Vaskovich’s facility without anyone even knowing. Then I’ll come find you and Nina.’
‘What about extraction? How are we getting out?’ One of Vaskovich’s demands had been for their jet to take off and return to Moscow immediately after delivering Chase - and being searched for uninvited guests.
‘It’s all taken care of. Trust me.’
Chase didn’t like being left in the dark - especially when his and Nina’s lives were on the line - but it was clear that Mitchell wasn’t going to tell him anything else until he had to. Some kind of US incursion into Russian airspace would explain why he was being so secretive - Chase couldn’t reveal information he didn’t know.
Mitchell finished strapping on the pack, then took a full-face helmet from the case. ‘Okay, I’ll kick the cases out before I bail so nobody wonders what was in them - you’ll have to close the door after I jump. Try not to fall out, huh?’
‘And you remember to pull the ripcord
‘Oh, I’m an asshole,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’m just on the right side.’ He clapped Chase on the shoulder, then donned the helmet as the pilot called a one-minute warning from the cockpit. ‘Okay, here we go!’
Weighed down by his equipment, he moved to the cabin door as Chase brought over the empty cases and secured himself to the wall. ‘Thirty seconds!’ the pilot shouted.
‘See you down there,’ said Chase. He pulled the lever to open the hatch.
The noise and wind were horrific - even though it was slowing and descending, the Cessna was still cruising at over two hundred knots and nine thousand feet. Gripping the door frame, Mitchell booted the cases out, then hurled himself into the black void. He was snatched away by the slipstream, barely missing the jet’s low wing as he fell.
Buffeted by the freezing wind, Chase pulled the lever to close the hatch. Shivering, he returned to his seat, hoping Mitchell knew what he was doing.
Ten minutes later, the jet was on the ground.
Vaskovich was taking no chances; before Chase was allowed to exit, three armed men came aboard and searched the aircraft. All they found were the pilot, Chase, and the aluminium case in his lap. After frisking him thoroughly for concealed weapons, they waved him out at gunpoint.
Even though the wind was low, the cold hit him hard. Grozevny was on the very rim of the Arctic Circle at the entrance to the Barents Sea, situated on the edge of the marshy tundra about a hundred and eighty miles from Archangel’sk, the nearest city. During the Cold War it had been a naval base, a hiding place for the Soviet Union’s ballistic missile submarines. Now, that perverse non-conflict long over and the base’s secrets laid bare for anyone with an internet connection and Google Earth to see, it had passed into the hands of one of Russia’s new oligarchs.
As Chase stepped on to the runway he saw the cold sea off to the north, a cliff rising up along the curving coastline to the east. About a mile away, a long L-shaped jetty protruded into the waves from its base. He guessed the sub pen was under the cliff. Beyond it, the ground rose to a small hill, at the top of which was a brightly lit building, but it was too far away for him to make out any details other than its size, which was considerable.
More of Vaskovich’s men surrounded the jet, weapons at the ready. Kruglov stood at the foot of the steps, Maximov beside him. ‘Is that the sword?’ Kruglov demanded, pointing at the case.
That Kruglov hadn’t killed him on sight suggested Vaskovich intended to honour at least part of his deal. Chase opened the long case, revealing Excalibur nestled on a bed of foam within. ‘Where’s Nina?’
Kruglov glanced in the direction of the distant building, then indicated the nearer of two black Mercedes GL Class SUVs. ‘Get in.’
Sandwiched between Maximov and another guard in the back seat, Chase was driven along a road on the coast. The view ahead confirmed what he’d thought: the jetty was indeed connected to the sub pen, a vast concrete arch set into the cliff face, lights blazing within. The jetty ran from the end of a dock on the pen’s far side, a rusty crane overlooking the water.
To Chase’s surprise, the dock wasn’t empty.
The little convoy drove along a road at the base of the cliff and into the pen itself, giving him a grandstand view of the colossal vessel within. It was a submarine, a Typhoon-class ballistic missile boat, the largest type of sub ever built. As big as a Second World War aircraft carrier, only six Typhoons had been constructed by the Soviets, and just a single example remained in active service, the others either scrapped or supposedly held in reserve. Chase now knew where one had ended up.
But whatever the Typhoon’s purpose here, it wasn’t as a weapon. The vessel wasn’t seaworthy: a large section of deck aft of the squat sail had been removed to expose the twin pressure hulls within, dozens of heavy- duty electrical cables leading out from the hole to a pylon by a tunnel entrance on the opposite side of the dock. It wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry - at least, not if it wanted to stay afloat.
The SUVs drove over a bridge at the dock’s rear, then back along the other side of the sub to stop at the tunnel. ‘So what’s this?’ Chase asked as he got out of the Mercedes. He mimicked Sean Connery in
Kruglov ignored him, directing him into the tunnel towards the lower terminus of a funicular railway rising out of the grim concrete cavern. The track was steep, ascending the hill above at a steady forty degree angle. A boxy carriage waited for them at one of the two gates.
Everyone entered the carriage, all guns pointed at Chase as it began to climb the track. He looked up the hill as they emerged from the tunnel. A second car was descending from the top of the track, the two linked by cables and counterbalancing each other. A road followed a long zig-zag path up the hillside from the base, the funicular
