Mirage

“That him?” one of the killers asked.

His accomplice nodded. “Right here. Vermont driver’s license issued to Wesley Te

In the closet, Cabrillo held his breath, hoping that Te

As if suddenly thinking of something, one of the killers stood and looked out the doorway. “Where’s Vladimir?”

“He probably went to the van to get the gas cans to burn the house.”

“I can see through the van’s windshield. He’s not in it.”

“I’ll check the front,” the man standing in the doorway muttered. “You go upstairs and search the bedrooms. I’ll take the downstairs after I find Vladimir.”

“Don’t forget to turn on the gas on the stove.”

The man stepped out in front of the house while his co-conspirator climbed the stairs.

He only took five steps past the front door when he spied Vladimir’s remains lying in a bed of roses, his dead eyes staring into the sun. He whirled around and ran back into the house, shouting his colleague’s name. As soon as he burst into the entryway, he saw a man sitting on a nearby divan. Surprise cost him the three microseconds Cabrillo needed to put a bullet in his forehead precisely between the eyes.

Too late, the man on the stairs realized something was wrong. Cabrillo fired a second time, and a red hole appeared in the Russian’s neck.

Cabrillo looked down on the body that had fallen across Te

“Are you all right, Professor?”

Te

“Not to worry. Have you got a wheelbarrow?”

“I have one in the tool shed.”

“May I borrow it?”

Te

“I’m going to haul the bodies out to the van and hide them. Do you have any ideas for a nice secluded area?”

Te

“Where can I find it?”

“About ten miles south of town. It’s rough going. It runs through a thick wooded area. The road to it hasn’t been used for thirty years.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Cabrillo. He handed Te

“Pack?”

“Yes, pack. Your life isn’t worth two cents if you stay here. My corporation owns a nice little condo on the island of Antigua. You can go there and relax on the beach until I let you know it’s safe and there will be no more attempts on your life.”

Te

“You know too much about Tesla.”

Without further talk, Cabrillo loaded the van with the cadavers while Te

It took forty minutes to drive the ten miles. Cabrillo took the lead, followed by Te

Old rusting equipment lay scattered around the edge of the pit. Battered and rotted wooden buildings were all that were left of the offices and crew’s mess hall. Cabrillo stepped from the van and stared over the lip of the pit. The water looked yellowish brown and smelled like sulfur. He could only guess how deep the water was and hope it was enough to cover the van.

He put a rock on the accelerator, shifted the transmission into drive, and watched as the van jerked forward, dropped over the brink, and impacted the water with a formless splash and slowly sank into the watery ooze.

Then Cabrillo sat on a large rock, deep in thought, as he waited for the van to sink out of sight. He knew who hired the assassins and why, yet there were other questions.

Amateurs, he said to himself. Why did Pytor Kenin send a trio of amateurs?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When the mast rose out of the sea like a shark’s telltale fin, it barely cut through the water and left no trail of churned oceanic phosphorus, no presence other than a tiny blip undetectable to all but the most trained observers. Leviathan showed itself yet remained hidden in its watery realm.

Forty feet below this thin stalk of metal lay one of the most devastating weapons ever devised by man. Named Akula, or shark, this class of Russian fast-attack submarine was a true predator of the sea. Measuring more than a football field in length and displacing some twelve thousand tons when submerged, the hunter/killer boasted multiple torpedo tubes, rocket launchers, and a sonar suite that could detect the minutest sound over vast distances. She carried a crew of seventy-three led by one Kapitan Anton Patronov.

Patronov was so fair-haired and pale-ski

Patronov was just stepping from his cubicle-sized cabin when the flash traffic came off the comm line. Over the Ta

“Clear the way,” he growled as he made his way aft to the radio room. He possessed a low, rasping voice with a dark inflection that commanded instant respect. Seamen and officers alike pressed themselves against the tight companionway walls to ease his passage.

The radio shack was a confined space made more hospitable to electronics than man. Yet somehow two young techs were shoehorned into the room, one with headphones draped around his neck while the other sat back as far as the confines would allow and translated the burst transmission.

“We had an Ohio on the plot,” Patronov said as he entered the space. “Tell me this is more important.”

The Akula had been trailing an Ohio-class submarine, one of the legs of America’s defensive triad of nuclear deterrent, when she was called to the surface by a ULF summons for immediate data download. “It’s in code,” the radioman said without meeting his captain’s glare. He held the flimsy paper over his shoulder in hopes it would be snatched away and his culpability in ending the sub chase was at an end.

“Damn.” Patronov ripped the thin piece of paper out of the sailor’s hand, snapped it so he could inspect the type, and cursed again. “Kenin. He’s been the pain in my ass since the academy.”

“Sir?” It was obvious from his tone that the young radio operator hadn’t expected such disrespect from his captain for the fleet’s commanding admiral.

“Relax, Pavel. When the time comes for them to pin captain’s bars on your shoulders, you will curse my name ten times worse than I curse my first commander.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean…” The young radioman wisely stopped talking and kept his stare riveted on his equipment. The second radio operator swiveled in his chair and asked, “Will we reacquire the Americans?”