Black Sun: A Thriller (38 page)

He turned toward the cockpit, finally getting used to the speed at which the hydraulic actuators responded to the electrical input from his own nerves. At first it had felt too quick, as if he were being shoved around by some will other than his own. But now that he was used to it, Kang had begun to revel in it.

In the suit, he had the strength of a bear and the quickness of a cat. He had already decided that once he was healed he would continue to develop this suit and use it as he saw fit. He had been right all along. The machines would save him.

“We will find the boy and the other stones,” he said
to his men. “And we will take them without pity. And when we return, there will be fortunes waiting for you all.”

A cheer went up from the men, instinctive, unplanned for, like soldiers from the dynasties of old. They had just needed their leader back and now that they had him, Kang knew they would follow him to the end.

He motioned to the pilot and the engines began to roar.

A
ll through the night, Danielle had worked to stabilize McCarter, rigging IVs that she hung from a lampstand, cleaning and dressing his wound, and dosing him with antibiotics. Shortly after Hawker left, Father Domingo had come down to help and sometime around dawn, the fever had broken. McCarter wasn’t out of the woods yet, but she believed he would survive and recover.

Relieved by his progress, she’d rested, until being awoken by the church bells ringing across the street. Was it Sunday? She had no idea.

She checked her patient. He was doing well, lying on the floor of the small guesthouse, conscious now.

“You’re awake,” she said.

He strained to get the words out. “Who can sleep with all those bells?”

He had a point. The church bells were ringing rather insistently.

Insistently
.

Danielle sprang to her feet, suddenly realizing that the bells could be a warning. She grabbed her gun and ran outside.

A pair of armed men waited there, aiming weapons at her. Two others held a couple of the town folk as hostages, and an older man, who seemed like their leader, stood off to one side.

“Put it down,” the scruffy-faced leader said.

She dropped the pistol as he walked toward her. “I’m Ivan Saravich,” he said. “And you have something that belongs to me.”

Twenty miles away, Hawker was picking his way toward the fourth ridge. He had hiked through the night, one hour on, ten minutes off. Upon crossing a small canyon, he’d taken a slight detour and flung the radioactive pellet down into it. If he was lucky Kang’s men would track the pellet to the canyon and begin a search there. With all the nooks and caves he’d seen, it might be awhile before they knew they’d been had.

Since then he’d come five miles, though exhaustion was slowing his pace considerably. He stumbled on, scratched and cut from the briars and thornbushes, drenched in grime and sweat. He was exhausted, trudging forward, not thinking anymore, not looking at anything but the ground right in front of him.

In that semi-oblivious state, he failed to hear the sound of danger until it became too loud to ignore. A buzzing noise in the air, not a plane or a helicopter, it sounded more like a flying lawn mower.

He turned and ducked down, then glanced around, scanning sections of the sky. A mile or so behind, he spotted a small object cruising directly toward him. He
knew what it was: a remotely operated drone. It meant Kang had found him.

He ran from the sound of the drone. He didn’t bother ducking or hiding in the scrub; the drone had seen him. His only hope was to get to some real cover. The ridge-line up ahead looked like a possibility.

As he scrambled through the brush, the drone made a pass, buzzing by so closely that it almost clipped him.

He glanced at the stubby wings and gave thanks for the fact that it seemed unarmed. Then he heard a second drone coming in behind him, followed by the shrill whistle of an unguided rocket.

He dove to the ground. The missile whipped past him and exploded a hundred feet ahead. He felt the shock of the concussion and a wave of heat, but it was far enough away to be safe.

As the second drone passed him and broke into a turn, Hawker sprinted to the ridge and clambered up and into the rocks. He took cover, near the top, surrounded by a crown of boulders.

Safe for the moment, he looked around for the drones. They had pulled up higher, cruising in a lazy circle above him like mechanized buzzards. That could mean only one thing: They were there to keep their quarry treed. The real hunters were still on their way.

At gunpoint, Danielle was forced back inside the guesthouse. The man who identified himself as Saravich followed. Father Domingo and several of the townspeople were brought in. Danielle recognized Maria, the woman
who had cared for Yuri and had given her the dress. They were ordered to their knees.

“Don’t do this,” Danielle pleaded. “They have nothing to do with me.”

Ivan raised a vodka bottle to his lips. “You deceive yourself, young lady. They are here
only
because of you. They’re hiding the boy,” he said, “just as you did.”

Danielle looked at Ivan’s men. They were young, with hard faces, the same type of men who’d come to the hotel. Undoubtedly they would want revenge for their friends. She could see it in their faces.

And Ivan … Ivan had a look in his eyes that suggested he’d done this work before, done it for a long time.

For the first time in many years Danielle felt a type of fear she could not control.

She was ordered to sit next to Father Domingo.

“Where is the boy?” Ivan asked.

She did not want to give up Yuri, but she was certain that the Russian would kill everyone if she didn’t.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You lie!” he shouted, flying into a rage and smacking her in the side of the head with his Makarov pistol.

She fell and he aimed and fired. The crack of the powder charge shook the room. Everyone jumped and dust drifted upward from a hole in the floor just inches from Danielle’s face.

Cautiously she returned to her kneeling position, her hands raised up beside her. Saravich stepped back and took another long swig from the bottle, like a man preparing for something he didn’t want to do but could not avoid.

“We have already searched the church and the house of this woman and each of the houses on this street. And still the boy is not found,” he said.

“He’s missing,” Maria said. “We don’t know where. He must have run off.”

Saravich wandered behind her to where McCarter lay. With a finger he flicked the IV line.

“I’m not afraid of you,” McCarter said.

“You don’t look so good,” Ivan said. “Maybe I should put you out of your misery.”

Danielle held her breath, realizing any response might be enough to set him off. She relaxed only slightly as the sound of Ivan’s footsteps circled away from McCarter.

He walked out in front of the prisoners, eyeing them, waving a finger at them.

“You have all spoken the same,” he said, sounding as if he approved. “But a well-concocted lie is not equal to the truth.”

Danielle’s mind whirled, desperately searching for a method of escape. It seemed impossible. The four younger Russians stood near the exit, weapons aimed at the floor, but ready and eyeing her and the other prisoners. Ivan continued to pace. She could sense his patience growing shorter.

He pounded the floorboards, slow and ponderous.

He crouched in front of her. “You know how this is going to end,” he said. “I will kill everyone and kill you last. Spare them. Tell me where the boy is.”

She looked down toward the floor, avoiding eye contact with him and hoping to disguise the fact that her emotions had gotten the best of her. But the position
caused the tears to stream across her face. She watched the drops fall and splatter on the simple wooden floor.

She closed her eyes, tight. And when she opened them, there were no more tears left to come. The fight had returned to her.

She met his gaze.

“I know who you are, Ivan Saravich,” she said. “And so do the people I work for. We take care of our own. A man from your era should know what that means.”

“‘A man from my era,’” he laughed. “Yes, once we were professionals. Now we are just roaches scavenging for what we can get.”

“If you harm me,” she said, “or any of these men and women, my people will hunt you down. You know that. So shoot me if you want, but dig your own grave while you’re at it.”

Danielle thought she saw a flicker of concern cross Ivan’s weather-beaten face, but then a sickening laugh bubbled up from deep in his being. He took another drink, then offered her the bottle, but she refused it.

“Mine was dug long ago,” he whispered.

For just an instant he looked sad, remorseful. And in that moment she recognized him: the round face, the flat bridge of his nose, and the sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

“I know you,” she said.

He stood and raised the Makarov slowly, as if it were heavy in his drunken hand.

“You knew my brother,” he corrected. “The man who kidnapped Yuri.”

“He was trying to save him,” she said.

“Yes,” Saravich said, as if it were some hated admission. “And he failed.”

Turning, Saravich centered the gun on the back of Father Domingo’s head.

“No,” Danielle pleaded.

“I’m afraid it’s time,” he said.

“May God forgive you,” Father Domingo said.

“We can only hope,” Ivan replied. He flicked the gun to the right and fired two quick shots. Two of the Russians fell. A quick turn to the left and three more shells crashed.

Bang, bang, bang.

The other Russian men went down in heaps, one squirming and writhing until Saravich finished him with a shot to the head.

Father Domingo and the other prisoners dove in opposite directions. Maria scrambled out the door. Danielle pushed back to the wall and froze beside McCarter as Saravich aimed the gun her way.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“It is simple,” he said. “I do not wish to die today.”

“Neither do I,” she replied.

“You won’t,” he said lowering the gun. “Not by my hand, at least. But these men would have buried us all.”

Before she could ask anything else, Ivan turned to Father Domingo. “Do you have Yuri?”

“I swear, we don’t know where he is,” Father Domingo said.

“I hope for his sake you’re lying,” Ivan replied. “I hope you have hidden him well and just find it impossible to trust me. But do not worry. I have no intention of taking him back to Russia.”

Father Domingo shook his head. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Hmm …,” Ivan grumbled. “You must look for him, then. If you find him, or if he comes back once we’ve left, please keep him safe. I will tell the men who sent me that he died.”

Danielle studied Ivan’s face. It seemed etched with regret.

“I still don’t understand,” she said.

“All this time,” he told her, “I have been thinking that my brother disgraced me. That it was he who had ruined our names. But it was I who disgraced him and what he tried to do.”

“And now?” Danielle asked.

“Now?” he repeated. “Now an army of men and machines are speeding toward your valiant friend, the one called Hawker. And though he seems to be very resourceful, he will soon be involved in a battle he cannot hope to win.”

Ivan offered a hand. “Unless we help him.”

“He’s a long way from here,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, “and Comrade Kang has helicopters with him. But I promise you, they’re nothing like the one I’ve brought.”

Danielle found herself dizzy from the sudden reversal, but the thought of Kang killing Hawker was something she could not allow her mind to grasp. She reached out and grabbed Ivan’s hand, pulling herself up.

“Then let’s go help him.”

I
n the darkness of the Yucca Mountain tunnel, Arnold Moore jumped out of the Humvee before the driver had even stopped. He raced toward the trailer laboratory and burst in.

Nathanial Ahiga, Byron Stecker, and the rest of the two science teams looked up. With only half an hour to go, they had been discussing the procedure for destroying the stone.

“Where the hell have you been, Arnold?” It was President Henderson’s voice over the speaker on the flat-screen monitor.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been working on a new theory,” he said.

“Oh, please,” the director of the CIA grumbled.

“Shut up, Stecker!” Moore shouted, then turned back to the president.

“It’s a little late for this, Arnold,” Henderson said.

“Just hear me out,” Moore answered. “Then do whatever you want. Shoot me if you want. Just listen for two minutes.”

Without taking a breath or giving the president the
chance to say no, Moore continued. “Stecker’s information was correct, but the numbers weren’t the perfect match he told you they were. They massaged the data to fit it into the graph, but for reasons that would take too long to explain, if you extrapolated the numbers in either direction, their graph diverges from reality.”

“Stecker?”

“It’s called rounding, Mr. President. Other than that I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

The president looked open to suggestion but he glanced at the clock nervously. “Be quick, Arnold.”

Moore took a breath. Light-headed and sweating, he looked around. Stecker rolled his eyes, Moore’s staff members looked at the ground, and Ahiga shook his head sadly and looked away. Not a friend in the room. He didn’t care.

“Mr. President, standard geology holds that earth’s core is a huge, spinning ball of liquid metal, mostly nickel and iron. Because those elements are conductive, the spinning motion creates the magnetic field that protects us.”

It was the quickest primer Moore had ever given.

“The problem is, no one knows this for sure; no one’s dug down that far to find out. And no one has been able to match this theory up with an explanation of why the earth’s field reverses at seemingly random intervals, a million years between one changeover, fifty thousand between the next.” Moore ran a hand through his hair, tamping down his wiry mane, trying to look like something less than a lunatic.