He stopped beside a parked car, swinging the grenade launcher back toward the two agents pursuing him, with the man being closer. Before Mixell could target him, both agents fired their weapons. He ducked behind the vehicle and waited for the hail of bullets to end. Then he popped over the hood and fired a round into the car closest to the male agent.
The XM1060 detonated after it pierced the car and the explosion shredded the vehicle, sending glass and metal fragments in every direction. Nearby pedestrians had taken cover, either behind vehicles or in nearby stores, but those near the explosion were hit by shrapnel. The lead DSS agent was one of the casualties, his scorched and lacerated body writhing on the sidewalk.
After a quick assessment of the results, Mixell sprinted up the street, hoping to slip away from the last agent.
Jill Mercer tried to push the image of Cross’s smoldering body from her mind as she raced up the sidewalk, shifting her thoughts from wondering whether he would survive to getting a clear shot at the perpetrator. As she moved up the street, she periodically regained her target, glancing between the parked cars she used as cover. She heard the faint sirens of approaching law enforcement; assistance would arrive soon. However, he was traveling up the street faster than she was, opening the distance between them. She couldn’t let him slip away.
She picked up her pace, moving as fast as possible while staying in a crouched position, shielded by the parked cars. To make up ground, she stopped checking on the man’s progress between each vehicle, sprinting past a dozen cars before pausing to take a look.
Peering over the hood of a Chevy Blazer, she scanned the other side of the street, focused on where the man should have been if he had kept up his pace. Just to the left of where she expected him to be, not quite as far up the road, she spotted the suspect. The man had the grenade launcher on his shoulder, aimed at her.
Jill’s gaze shifted to the burning and shredded car near Cross, suddenly realizing her peril. The projectile the man was firing would rip apart the Chevy Blazer she was hiding behind, turning the vehicle into a four-thousand-pound fragmentation grenade.
Bad place to take cover.
The danger coalesced in her mind a moment too late. She saw a thin white exhaust trail streak toward her as the projectile slammed into the Blazer.
Time seemed to slow down after the round detonated. An orange, blossoming cloud expanded from the vehicle as it shattered the windows and shredded the car body, enveloping her in a scorching inferno as shrapnel penetrated deep into her face and torso. The pressure transient from the explosion knocked her from her feet, blasting her backward until she slammed into a building’s brick facade, where she crumpled to the ground.
Unbearable pain sliced through her body as she lay there, while blood spread slowly across the concrete. As her world faded to darkness, the last thing she realized was that the agonizing scream piercing her ears was her own.
2
GADZHIYEVO, RUSSIA
Along the curved shoreline of Yagelnaya Bay, as the sun rose above snow-covered hills to the east, Captain First Rank Aleksandr Plecas stepped from his sedan at the end of the pier, instructing his driver to wait. After pulling the flaps of his ushanka fox-fur hat down over his ears, he strode down the pier toward his submarine, his boots crunching through the four-inch-deep layer of snow that had fallen during yesterday’s storm.
Winter had arrived early this year and Yagelnaya Bay, along with the entire Murmansk Fjord, would soon ice over. That was of no concern, of course, since Northern Fleet submarines deployed year-round, with an icebreaker clearing a path, if necessary, to and from the Barents Sea. Plecas and his crew would soon make that transit aboard Kazan—Russia’s newest nuclear-powered guided missile submarine.
The second of the new Yasen class, Kazan incorporated cutting-edge sensor and weapon technology. With eight torpedo tubes — double that of American submarines except the three Seawolf class — and eight vertical launch tubes loaded with up to forty land-attack or anti-ship missiles, Kazan was a formidable submarine indeed. After operating in the nearby Barents Sea for the last few months, working out the bugs in their new submarine, Plecas and his crew were finally about to take Kazan on her first deployment.
Much of Plecas’s crew was topside this morning, assisting with the food and spare parts loadouts, transferring the pallets of material from the pier into the submarine through the topside hatches. The weapon loadout was scheduled for next week, which would fill all stows and launchers with torpedoes and missiles.
Plecas crossed the brow onto his submarine, where he was saluted by the topside watch, who announced the Captain’s arrival over the shipwide intercom. After climbing down the ladder into the warmth of Compartment One, Plecas was greeted by his First Officer, Captain Third Rank Erik Fedorov, the submarine’s second-in-command.
“Good morning, Captain. All preparations are proceeding smoothly, and we are expecting the courier from Northern Fleet within the hour.” Plecas nodded his understanding and Fedorov asked, “Will you be staying long today, Captain?”
“Only to sign the necessary paperwork. I’m flying to Moscow this afternoon.”
“Spend whatever time you need with your family, Captain. Your ship is in good hands. We will be ready for deployment on schedule.”
Plecas appreciated his First Officer’s concern, as well as his confidence. Of course his submarine would be ready on schedule, even if he spent more time in Moscow than planned. As Captain, he made the decisions, but Fedorov and the rest of his men did the heavy lifting, and they were a dedicated and capable crew.
Fedorov left to address other matters while Plecas entered his stateroom, a three-by-three-meter room containing only a narrow bed, a built-in desk, and a small table with two chairs. As he tossed his overcoat and hat on the bed, he eyed the two-inch-thick stack of paperwork that had accumulated in his in-box. Sitting at his desk, he rifled through the documents, pulling out only those that had to be approved prior to deployment.
He had just finished reviewing all required paperwork — except one item — when there was a knock on his stateroom door. He answered to find his First Officer and an admiral’s aide from Northern Fleet.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Captain,” Fedorov said, “but our patrol orders have arrived.”
The final item.
The aide entered the tumbler combination and unlocked the courier pouch, then withdrew a classified envelope, which he handed to Plecas.
Plecas signed the transfer document, acknowledging that he now had custody, which the aide stuffed into the courier pouch before leaving. Plecas’s First Officer stood by the door expectantly, and Plecas realized Fedorov was hoping the patrol orders would be opened in his presence. At this point, no one aboard Kazan knew the deployment area or duration, although Plecas had an inkling.
There were several unresolved issues related to the deployment, and Plecas decided now was not the right time to reveal the details. “I will brief the officers and crew at the appropriate time,” he told Fedorov.
“Yes, Captain,” Fedorov replied as Plecas closed the door, the disappointment evident on his First Officer’s face.
Plecas sat at his desk and unsealed the envelope, then read the patrol orders.
Everything was as he expected.
He locked the orders in his safe, then checked his watch. His driver was waiting.