Black Dragon, page 23
Stationed on a dirt track north of the factory, Batzorig—and his detachment of two Russian-made, BTR-80 eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers—had been sitting idle overlooking the barren desert for days. He had been playing cards with a few of his men in the back of his carrier when the call came in. He stood on top of his carrier, brought up a set of NVGs to his eyes and looked out into the desert. At first, he saw nothing, when from out of a gully raced a 6x6 vehicle without its lights on.
His heart raced. The saboteurs were coming his way.
He yelled at his men to get into their vehicles and to get ready.
Drilled incessantly by the sergeant, his men knew what to do. Within seconds, both vehicle crews stood ready to engage the enemy. Their vehicles were armed with 14.5mm heavy machine guns. Batzorig grinned to himself. The saboteurs didn’t stand a chance against the firepower from his two armored vehicles.
Like a panther waiting in the dark to strike, Batzorig watched through his NVGs as the vehicle sped toward his trap, unaware that the lives of its passengers were now his to take.
In the dark, Jackson regretted leaving their NVGs behind. He had good eyesight, but would have felt better if he could see what was in front of them. A second later, Jackson felt a tug on his pants leg. Looking down he saw Sam.
“Tell Ryan to slow down,” yelled Sam. “All these bumps are killing Gordon.”
Jackson keyed his throat-mic. “Ryan, Sam says you need to slow down a little. All these bumps are hurting Gordon.”
Mitchell slowed down. Turning the wheel, Mitchell steered the big 6x6 into a long, dry riverbed that meandered around a couple of small hills in the near distance.
“See anything?” asked Jackson.
“Nope . . . not a thing,” answered Mitchell. “By my estimation we are at least six or seven kilometers from the factory. We should hopefully see Yuri soon enough.”
“That would be good. I think Cardinal is really busted up inside.”
Mitchell clenched his jaw. The beating Cardinal had taken at the hands of his jailers had been brutal and sadistic. There was no need to have tortured him. It was done for the sheer pleasure of it. Mitchell hoped one day to return the favor to Cypher.
“Did you notice Miss Satomi in the hangar during our escape?” said Mitchell.
“No, I didn’t,” said Jackson. “I was kinda too focused on getting us out of there alive to see her.”
With a wicked grin on his face, Sergeant Batzorig told his machine gunner in the vehicle turret to lay his weapons’ sights on the approaching vehicle and to await his order to open fire. Radioing his other crew, Batzorig told them to hold their fire until his vehicle had opened up on the saboteurs.
There would be no escape from his ambush. With the vision of a promotion or a big fat reward for killing the enemy in his mind, Batzorig began to grow nervous. He had never fired a shot in anger before and was eagerly looking forward to the chance to prove himself in combat.
A bright light reached down from the night sky, illuminating a rocky hill.
Flying low over the ground, Yuri jammed his AK out of the cockpit window and fired on the closest BTR-80.
Tracers streaked down at the armored vehicle.
It was a one in one million chance to hit anything firing one-handed out the window of a moving helicopter, but Yuri had to do something to warn his friends that they were driving into a trap.
Batzorig saw the world turn bright, blinding him. He ripped off his NVGs and looked up, trying to see where the light was coming from. Barely a second later, a helicopter flew over their positions no more than twenty meters off the ground, firing at the BTR-80 parked just off to the left of his own vehicle.
Panic paralyzed his mind. Who was firing on them?
Before he could order his gunner to open fire, disaster struck. His second vehicle began to back up. His eyes widened when he saw that it was on a collision course with his vehicle.
He tried to warn his driver to move out of the way, but he was too slow. With a loud crunch of metal compacting from the sudden impact, Batzorig felt his vehicle, hit dead center, begin to lift up off the ground and then slowly roll over. He tried to grab onto something but instead was sent flying out of his seat. He landed hard on the side of the rocky hill with two shattered ribs. Barely, a second later, with the sound of metal being smashed filling his mind, the last thing he ever saw was the night sky blackened out as his vehicle rolled over on top of him, crushing the life out of him.
Yuri’s chopper raced right over Mitchell’s ATV and then banked off into the night.
Mitchell swore, jammed his foot down on the accelerator, and then steered the ATV up and out of the riverbed. They had come too close to being ambushed and killed; blind luck and Yuri’s sharp eyes had saved them. He had no doubt in his mind that within minutes, Mongolian army units would be making their way over to see what had happened. And he wanted to be long gone when they arrived.
Yuri’s voice broke the silence. “Ryan, you’re welcome.”
“I was going to thank you when you landed,” replied Mitchell.
“Da, of course you were,” said Yuri. “Turn slight right and go for another couple of hundred meters and then stop. I’ll meet you there.”
No sooner had Mitchell parked when Yuri’s chopper dropped out of the night sky and landed barely fifty meters away, sending a dust cloud swirling up and around the helicopter, obscuring it from sight.
Jackson took one last look around. Satisfied that no one was following them, he jumped down and helped Sam carry Cardinal to the waiting helicopter.
Climbing into the co-pilot’s seat, Mitchell saw Yuri sitting there with night-vision gear on his head, looking like a being from outer space. He looked over his shoulder and watched as Cardinal was strapped into a stretcher in the back of the chopper.
A minute later, Yuri applied power to the helicopter’s engine. Slowly, the chopper began to rise up from the ground. Effortlessly, pivoting in the air, Yuri turned the helicopter south and then gunned the engine. He flew nap-of-the-earth, barely missing the rocky hills, Yuri headed straight for the border with China.
Mitchell saw they were heading in the exact opposite direction of what he had expected. Reaching over, he grabbed a headset. “Yuri, what’s going on?”
“I got a phone call from one of my contacts at the airport. He told me that Mongolian soldiers raided our hangar. Everything we left behind has been taken,” explained Yuri. “Someone must have put two and two together and tipped off the authorities to arrest us on sight.”
“What’s the game plan now?”
“I have a Chinese friend who lives just across the border. He owes me a favor or two. I contacted him and told him to have a plane waiting for me.”
Mitchell shook his head. Yuri seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of shady characters who seemed to owe him favors. He sat back in his seat. He could feel the adrenaline begin to fade from his body, quickly replaced by a deep fatigue that threatened to overwhelm his tired body. He was about to fall asleep when he thought of Atsuko standing there in the hangar. There was no doubt anymore. She was a willing participant in whatever was going on. Borrowing Yuri’s cell phone, Mitchell made a quick call.
Sam and Cardinal might be headed home, but he had unfinished business, and he intended to discover what Cypher and Atsuko were up to and put an end to it—no matter the cost.
31
Outskirts of Big Hill,
Texas
Phillip Farragut pulled his cap back on his head and then slowly made his way down the newly installed metal staircase that descended over one hundred meters into the earth. The old wooden staircase would have creaked and wobbled from side to side with each step as if it were about to collapse after fifty years of neglect. Close behind him were two people, a man and a woman, both Asian. They were dressed casually in blue jeans with loose-fitting shirts and comfortable hiking boots on their feet. Farragut, closing in on seventy, was dressed as he was most days in his faded coveralls and a blue, grease-stained ball cap perched far back on his head. He had been tinkering on an old 1977 Mustang Cobra when his guests arrived at his farm and right away asked to see the cavern.
Found at the turn of the last century when Farragut’s grandfather had been looking for oil, the cavern had formed millions of years ago when an underground river had eroded away the limestone, creating the massive cave. Numerous tunnels branched off in all directions, some going for miles. No one really knew how far the tunnels went, since no one in his family had ever been bothered to spend the time exploring the maze of tunnels that meandered under their farmland. Nicknamed The Dome by Farragut’s grandmother, she always thought that it resembled a domed cathedral, the kind you saw in old books on Rome. The cave was breathtaking. Long stalactites hung from the roof, while thick columns of stalagmites reached up from the floor. In the center of The Dome sat a small pond, its water a glistening jade-green color under the powerful lights installed all around the interior of the cave.
His family had never really bothered with the cavern. Unlike other natural caves spread throughout Texas, it had never been developed into a tourist attraction. In the late 1960s there had been some interest shown in the cavern by the University of Houston. Used on and off for the next decade, during the summer months, gangs of paleontology students would descend upon the cavern to look for fossils. Their efforts unfortunately proved mostly fruitless. After a while, the university, looking to cut costs, abandoned the project, leaving the cavern in silence until about a year ago when, out of the blue, a couple claiming to represent a major movie studio showed up on the front door and asked to see the cavern. They said that they represented a film producer from Hong Kong scouting a suitable location to film a horror story set in an old cavern in the United States. Farragut was eager enough to show them about, especially when they offered to pay him for his time. Never married, he lived on a paltry pension. Paid a thousand dollars a day just to show the people and their growing team of experts around, Farragut couldn’t believe the money he was making.
About two weeks ago, a group of men arrived at the farm after dark and soon set to work replacing the old staircase and building what looked to Farragut like an old-fashioned oil derrick inside The Dome. When he asked about the derrick, the woman had explained that it was simply a prop to be used in the opening of the film. He knew nothing about the movie business and took her word for it. Besides, who was he to object? They were paying him well to use his land. With the money he was making, he could easily afford to fix up a couple more of his vintage cars sitting under dust-covered tarps in his barn.
When he stepped off the stairs onto the cool, rocky floor of the cave, Farragut waited for his guests. He could see about a dozen men, all Asian, busy working on what he assumed were more props to be used during the filming of the movie. The sound of saws cutting wood and hammers pounding away filled the vast cavern.
“It’s always so nice and cool down here,” said the woman, with a warm smile on her pretty face. She had introduced herself as Jane Tam and explained that she was the liaison representative between some of the movie’s silent backers and the film studio. Farragut was good at placing a person by their accent and pegged hers as Southern Californian.
The man with her rarely said a word and when he did, he spoke exclusively to Jane in Chinese. Farragut had long forgotten his name. He only dealt with Jane Tam and he liked it that way. The man was cold and officious. Hardly what Farragut had expected from a movie producer. The ones he had seen on TV always seemed to be full of life.
“Is there anything in particular you wish to see today?” Farragut asked Jane.
“No thank you, Mister Farragut,” pleasantly replied Jane. “Mister Wu just wanted to see how things were progressing down here.”
“It all looks good to me, but then I’m not in the film business like you folks.”
Jane smiled and then led Wu toward a couple of men working on top of the derrick. Wu called up to the men, who waved back, pointed to something they were welding in place, and then got back to work.
“How come you hired Koreans to build your set?” asked Farragut.
Jane turned her head. For a brief second, her eyes betrayed surprise. With a practiced smile on her face, she looked into Farragut’s weathered face, and said, “Pardon me?”
“Your men, they all speak Korean, not Chinese. I may not be a linguist, but I know that Mister Wu just spoke to those men up on the derrick in Korean.”
Jane smiled. “You have an ear for languages, Mister Farragut.”
Removing his ball cap, Farragut ran a hand through his thick, silver hair. “I served in the navy during Nam, spent my whole time in the Pacific. When we pulled into port, it was always good to know a couple of phrases in the local language just in case you bumped into a lady, if you know what I mean,” said Farragut, trying not to sound too crass. “Can’t speak a word of any of ’em anymore, but I can still tell the difference between ’em.”
“Well, it just goes to show you how much the world has become interconnected these days. Anonymous donors in China and the States are financing this movie. The producer, Mister Wu, comes from Hong Kong, while the director, whom you have yet to meet, is from Europe. We put the labor requirements out to tender and a South Korean company had the best bid, so we hired them to work on the film.”
“Sure is a small world these days.”
“It sure is, Mister Farragut. I hope as per our signed non-disclosure agreement that you haven’t told a soul about what is going on here.”
“No, Miss, I have not. As far as I am concerned, what happens on my farmland is of no concern to anyone else.”
Jane smiled and laid a manicured hand on Farragut’s shoulder. “Tonight after dark, more laborers will be arriving to speed up work on the set. I asked them to arrive sometime after ten to avoid prying eyes. The last thing the studio wants or needs right now is a swarm of reporters poking their noses around trying to see what is going on.”
“Not much chance of that. I don’t take too kindly to strangers on my land.”
“Well, we don’t need any confrontations, Mister Farragut. If you’ve told no one that we’re here, then we can expect to be left alone during the shoot.”
He placed his cap back on his head, stepped back and left his guests alone to discuss business. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a packet of chewing tobacco and then jammed a big wad of chew into his mouth. Farragut tasted the mix of apple and tobacco on his tongue. A few second later, he spat out a mouthful of brown spit onto the rocky floor. Farragut stood there, watching some of the Korean laborers install a heavy metal chain under the derrick. He wondered what they were up to but decided that like everything else it really was none of his business. He had a bottle of bourbon waiting for him in his living room. With his sudden change of good fortune, Farragut couldn’t wait to get what was coming to him.
32
Cypher Factory Complex
Gobi Desert, Mongolia
A thin sliver of light crept up on the horizon as night gave way to the coming dawn. A cool fog hung over the low ground, blanketing it.
On the tarmac outside of the main complex building, a blood-red Augusta Westland AW-139 helicopter sat with its engine running, its rotors nosily cutting through the air.
Gabriel Cypher walked to the waiting helicopter, dressed in a dark gray, one hundred thousand dollar Alexander Amosu suit, hand tailored for him during his last visit to London. As was his style, he wore highly polished Italian-leather shoes on his feet. With his head held high, he moved as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Lagging a few meters behind was Colonel Hwan with a tired and bitter expression on his face. An hour ago, his blood-soaked suit had been taken from him and burnt. Wearing a set of borrowed dark gray coveralls, Hwan felt out of place and humiliated to be wearing common work clothes. He was a senior officer in the North Korean Army, not some fool who could be pushed around. Hwan hadn’t been told why they were leaving or where they were going, only that he had five minutes to meet Cypher outside the hangar, or he would be left behind.
Cypher calmly walked under the racing propeller blades and then made his way into the co-pilot’s seat.
The side door slid open. Hwan, mumbling to himself, climbed inside the back of the helicopter. He was stunned. Instead of the bland, utilitarian interior of a military helicopter, the back of the AW-139 was as luxurious as the first-class seating on board a commercial airline. There were four plush, tan-leather seats inside, all facing into the middle of the chopper. The floor was carpeted, and light-brown wood paneling lined the walls.
Atsuko Satomi was already seated; in her lap was an open laptop. She was wearing a black suit with a white, open-necked shirt. Without looking up from her computer, Atsuko motioned for Hwan to take the seat beside her.
Hwan buckled himself in. A technician hopped aboard, checked that they were secure, and then handed them both a headset before climbing out of the chopper, slamming the door closed. The loud noise from outside diminished.
“Good to go back there?” said Cypher.
“Yes,” replied Atsuko.
A second later, the pilot revved the engine. Smoothly, the helicopter climbed up into the morning sky.
Hwan watched out the window as the helicopter circled the complex a couple of times before stopping to look down at the factory from a height of two thousand meters in the sky. Hwan was mystified. He had no idea what was going on. Continually kept out of the loop by the people he was working with was not how he liked to be treated.
With a slight nudge from her elbow, Atsuko got Hwan’s attention. He turned his head and looked over at the screen on Atsuko’s laptop. He could see the factory complex.
