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 sensethe 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 very bad was happening.
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…
Chapter 5
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.