Devil's Gate

He tapped the screen to zoom out. His eyes fell on the huge bundle of high-voltage lines in the dead center of the ship, where the tanks would have been had the Onyx actually been a crude carrier.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the central section of the ship. “All this mess, what is it?”

The men hesitated.

“Come on,” Kurt snapped, gun held steady. “I don’t have all day.”

“It’s the Fulcrum,” the engineer said finally.

“Fulcrum?” Kurt said. “What does it do?”

The engineer reached over and tapped the screen, zooming in on the array. Kurt’s eyes went to the screen a little too intensely. It made him vulnerable. Something he realized too late.

The engineer lunged for him, grabbing his gun arm with both hands. Kurt yanked it free, slammed an elbow into the man’s gut, and then knocked him sideways with a forearm to the face. But the crewman had grabbed some type of wrench off the floor. He swung it at Kurt, missing his face by inches as Kurt pulled back.

Kurt triggered the Beretta with two quick pulls, and it spat two shells into the crewman’s chest, the sound muffled by the silencer. The man fell back, dropped the wrench noisily, and crumpled to the deck.

Kurt snapped the weapon around to his right. But it was too late.

The technician had punched some kind of alarm button. Klaxons began sounding and lights flashing.

Kurt jammed the gun into the man’s face, thought of killing him, and then relented. For all he knew, this guy was the only one who knew how to shut down the reactor.

Guessing he had little time, Kurt kneed the man’s solar plexus and sent him sprawling. Then he turned, ducked out the door, and began racing down the catwalk. His feet clanked on the open metal loud enough to be heard over the humming generators, but he didn’t have time for stealth.

Halfway down the catwalk’s stairs, shots rang out.

He saw a ricochet first and then a group of men near the door he’d come in through. He fired back, forced them to take cover, and leapt over the railing. Landing on his feet, Kurt took off ru

He came to a door, grabbed the handle, and wrenched it open. To his surprise, a blast of cold air greeted him.

He sprinted inside only to find himself racing beneath a giant lattice of huge interlocking arms, folded up in a way that reminded him of stacked lawn chairs or a monstrous jungle gym that hadn’t been assembled.

Hundreds of gray blocks lined each one of the arms. High-voltage power conduits and a network of pipes and hoses covered in frost ran between the blocks.

The whole compartment was the size of a small stadium, ten stories high, four hundred feet long, and stretching the entire breadth of the Onyx. As he raced along the metal floor he spotted giant hydraulic pistons co

He guessed this was the Fulcrum. But what that meant, he had no idea.

The design gave him the impression that it could open up, spreading apart like a giant handheld fan. A diagram on the wall warning the crew to keep clear of the hinges seemed to indicate the same thing. He’d assumed the particle accelerator that ran around the hull and exited near the front was the ship’s weapon. So what the hell did this thing do?

Whatever it was, it seemed more important to the engineers than the particle accelerator, and that worried Kurt.

Before he could learn any more, Kurt heard footsteps and another door opening at the far side of the cavernous room. He realized he was being surrounded. He looked up. Another catwalk beckoned thirty feet above.

Cautiously, he climbed up the hydraulic actuator and pulled himself onto the array. It was like scaling the world’s largest set of monkey bars. He was almost there when he accidentally touched one of the coolant pipes.

He pulled his arm back with lighting speed and somehow managed not to lose his balance or curse in pain. Gritting his teeth, he looked at his hand. The skin was peeling off as if it had been burned, but he knew better: it had frozen instantly.

He looked at the pipe. Writing barely visible beneath the frost read “LN2,” a common abbreviation for liquid nitrogen. From what he’d learned, superconducting magnets had to be chilled to ridiculous temperatures in order to activate their superconducting properties. He guessed the pipe’s insulated surface was at close to 70 degrees below zero. The liquid inside would be pressurized and pumping through at an incredible 321 degrees below zero.

Kurt began climbing again.

Don’t touch the pipes, he mouthed to himself, as if his freezer-burned skin wasn’t enough to remind him.

By the time he reached the catwalk he could see the men pursuing him. Three of them approached from one side, five more from the other, spread out along the floor.

As quietly as he could, Kurt climbed onto the catwalk. After sitting still for a second, he began creeping along it.

He remained virtually silent, but the vibration caused by his movement caused a chunk of frost to break off of the bottom. It dropped like an icicle from a power line and made a sound like shattering glass as it hit the ground.

“Up there!” someone shouted.

Kurt took off, ru

Had he managed to look back, he would have seen the leader of the pursuers grabbing the shooter and all but choking him for firing a stray shot in this room. But Kurt never looked back. He made it to the door on the far side of the Fulcrum’s vast bay and pushed through it, closing it behind him.

He raced forward, desperately looking for a place to hide and a way to send a message.

Something was about to happen, this ship was about to take some type of action, he was certain of that. And whatever it might be, he was pretty certain the rest of the world would not like what was coming.

56

Moscow, Russia

THE BALD MAN FROM THE STATE, a ranking member of the FSB, held court in a windowless room in the Lubyanka, the huge monolithic headquarters building of the Russian Federal Security Service.

In the room with him were several members of the Politburo and a representative from the Russian Navy and a general in the Red Army.

He’d just finished listening to a radio call from Katarina Luskaya, claiming she was aboard a ship with a man named Andras who wanted to sell them a superweapon, one that would put them years ahead of the Americans and the Chinese.

After listening to the explanation, one of the politicians could not contain his scorn. “Strange that we have not heard anything of this weapon,” he said, “and now we are to believe your most junior operative has uncovered it.”

“She was captured by Andras,” the Bald Man said. “It is fortunate that he has kept her with him. It is he who brings the offer to us. We have a history with him.”

“It is not a good one,” the general noted.

“No, it is not,” the Bald Man admitted.

“And he demands an outrageous amount,” the Politburo member said.

The Bald Man waved him off. “Of course we would not pay what he asks. A fraction, perhaps ten percent. Even then, only if it was decided that we should.”

“Your agent sounded as if she was under duress,” the general said.

“Yes,” the Bald Man replied. She had used a code word designed to alert only them to the fact that she was being held against her will. But, to her credit, she had chosen the less harsh of the two codes, which meant she thought the situation might be manageable. He was rather impressed with the young former Olympian.

The lone naval representative in the group spoke up. “It would be nice to get a look at that ship,” he said. “If it turns out to be of interest, we can start negotiations. If it turns out to be a lie, we simply write Ms. Luskaya off.”