He stared at the man, suddenly very focused, very clear. He could grab the barrel of the shotgun, push it away from him. He knew a couple different techniques to twist it out of the assassin’s hands, to get it away from him. Then it would be his shotgun.
Now that he was thinking clearly, though, he knew how stupid that idea was. In his head he could hear Bigelow’s voice, as clear as if his ranger instructor was standing next to him. “There’s no way you’re going to win this. The lesson I’m supposed to teach you today is that up against a man with a gun, you can’t win if you’re unarmed. You have to put your hands up and surrender.”
Chapel glanced over at the truck. Nadia hadn’t moved. She was waiting — waiting for him. She must have seen him running toward her. She must be watching right now in her mirrors.
If she hesitated even a few seconds more, the assassins would regroup and go after her and it would be over. They would shoot out her tires, leave her stranded, surround the truck and just fill it full of bullets or pump it full of tear gas and take her alive. Chapel didn’t know which would be worse.
She was waiting for him.
He looked at the assassin facing him. Looked into the man’s eyes. Then he grabbed for the barrel of the shotgun.
It went off before he even touched it. Something thudded into his chest, and he felt like he’d been hit by a hammer. It didn’t knock him over, though. He glanced down and was surprised by what he saw — a little yellow plastic box was sticking out of his ribs, anchored by two tiny barbs that had pierced his skin.
It wasn’t lead shot or a slug the assassin had fired. It was a Taser round, a self-contained electric incapacitation device. It went off in the same moment he realized what it must be.
Every muscle in Chapel’s body triggered at once. He curled in on himself, screaming in pain, as he dropped to the ground. He twitched and shook and drooled and there was nothing he could do — he stayed conscious through the whole thing; his eyes were open, but he could do nothing but look over at the truck and beg Nadia, silently, to drive away.
Just go, he told her. Just go. If she could get Bogdan to the submarine — if she could get away—
He saw the truck sit motionless for way too long. He could feel her hesitating.
Go, he urged her.
He saw the taillights flare as the engine was thrown into gear. And then the steel toe of a combat boot hit him in the head, and he didn’t see any more.
Captain Ronald Mahen walked on rubber-soled shoes from the engine compartment of his submarine, the USS Cincinnatus, up to the bridge. He placed each foot carefully, to make as little sound as possible.
The seamen he passed saluted smartly but made a point of not coming to attention — that would mean moving their feet, and their shoes might squeak on the deck plating. When he reached the bridge, he climbed up to the conning tower and saw his SEAL team exactly where he’d left them, crammed into a space too small for them, much too small when you included the mass of the inflatable boat they would use if he sent the order for them to go ashore.
He nodded at them, and they nodded back. No words were exchanged.
For nearly thirty-six hours now the Cincinnatus had been keeping station off the coast of Kazakhstan, just outside national waters. Twice in that time a vessel had passed overhead, well within passive sonar range. It was impossible to know who owned those craft — they could be fishing boats, or they could be naval ships of one country or another, equipped with hydrophones. For nearly thirty-six hours, not a word had been spoken aboard the submarine. Most of the crew remained in their quarters, passing the time as best they could without making a sound.
Captain Mahen climbed back down to the bridge and looked around at his officers. They looked to him for any sign that the wait might be over, but he had nothing to give them. They were in danger of losing their edge through sheer inactivity and loss of sleep, but he couldn’t even sigh and shake his head.
He went aft to his cabin and switched on his laptop. Even the gentle hum of its fans was a risk, but he needed to know. He waited for the machine to make contact and then typed a quick message, careful not to let his fingers click too loudly on the keys.
STANDING BY. REQUEST NEW INFORMATION.
The response came almost instantly. He had no idea who spoke to him through this particular link, but he had to admit they were diligent — he had never had to wait for more than a few seconds to get a return message.
NO NEW INFORMATION. MISSION PARAMETERS UNCHANGED.
This time the temptation to sigh was almost unbearable. The Cincinnatus had vital work to do south of here, off the coast of Iran. For the last six weeks, she and her crew had been monitoring training exercises by the Iranian navy’s newest Hendijan class missile craft, learning all they could about the boats’ capabilities, range, and armament. They had been dragged away for this secret mission on very little notice, and already it had cost them dearly.
Still, his orders came from very high up. He was to approach a certain point on the Kazakhstan coast and take aboard three individuals. They had been expected to arrive almost a full day ago, and still there was no sign of them.
Captain Mahen’s orders had come from very high up, indeed — straight from the Pentagon. But aboard his submarine the captain was one rank below God. The decision to stay and wait longer was entirely at his discretion — his duty to keep his crew safe had to come first.
The time had come.
ABORTING MISSION AS OF 00:30 LOCAL TIME, he typed.
For once the reply took longer than expected. Was the person on the other end of this connection hesitating? Was he or she waiting for instructions from a superior? An icon on the screen flashed to indicate that a new message was incoming, but for long minutes Captain Mahen could only listen to his laptop drone away and wonder if anyone up on the surface could hear it. Hydrophones were very sophisticated these days, very sensitive, and the slightest sound could betray the presence of the Cincinnatus…
REQUEST ONE MORE DAY.
Captain Mahen stared at the screen in amazement. Another twenty-four hours? His crew would be useless if he kept them at alert that long. Unthinkable. He had no idea who these people were he was supposed to pick up, but he was certain of one thing — they weren’t coming. They had to be covert operatives, if he was smuggling them out of Kazakhstan like this. People like that knew better than to be late for an exfiltration.
His hands hovered over the keyboard. He made up his mind.
ABORTING MISSION.
The reply came almost before he’d finished.
PLEASE, it said.
This time he couldn’t resist an actual grunt of frustration, though he clapped his hand over his mouth as the noise escaped him. No naval officer would ever send a message like that. Had he been talking to a civilian the whole time?
He didn’t take orders from civilians.
ABORTING MISSION. I WISH YOUR PEOPLE LUCK, BUT THAT’S ALL I CAN OFFER. COMMUNICATION ENDS.
PART V
Everything hurt.
Chapel had experienced enough physical pain in his life to know the difference between sore muscles and actual tissue damage. He knew what it felt like to wake up after having been beaten while one was unconscious. He knew what gunshot wounds felt like, and how to tell if he had broken bones.
He’d also had enough training to know that internal damage was tricky. You might feel a little achy for a day or two and then drop dead because of bruising on your liver. You might feel horrible agony, racking, excruciating pain, and be just fine after a few days resting in a soft bed.