Fireburst Read online

  There were no cars or any other form of motorized conveyance in sight. No music could be heard playing anywhere. There were no factory whistles, fire alarms, church bells, school bells or police sirens, only a deafening silence to go with the oppressive heat. The starving people shuffled along like an army of the damned heading back into Hell.

  The town boasted a crude dockyard, the concrete pilings pitting under the salty spray. The workers were lean, but seemed almost fat in comparison to the people in town. Their clothing was a mixture of old and new, all of it clean, and they were heavily armed with multiple pistols, knives, machetes and well-oiled AK-47 assault rifles.

  Using a plastic funnel, a tall man was carefully pouring gasoline into an engine bolted to a speedboat. “Is that enough, cousin?” he asked, stopping to straighten a kink in his sore back.

  “More than enough,” the captain replied, screwing down the cap to the fuel tank. “With luck we should make a fine haul today. Our scouts along the coastline report that there is a yacht only fifty miles away.”

  “A rich yacht full of fat men and their pale wives with big breasts?”

  “There almost always is.” He grinned. “But more importantly they are secretly carrying the payroll for the French Foreign Legion.”

  The tall man squinted. “How do you know such things?”

  “That is why I am the captain and you pour the gas.”

  “Fair enough.” The tall man laughed, displaying gold-capped teeth.

  Sitting along the tattered edge of a street, a small crowd of people watched the pirates performing their chores in a mixture of wonder and raw envy.

  Out in the harbor several container ships moved slowly along, their decks lined with armed men as protection from the local pirates. Off to the side was a shiny new warship from Saudi Arabia, located just on the other side of the harbor.

  Much farther out a couple of European cruise ships skirted along the horizon, trying to keep the dismal villages lining the shore out of the sight of their vacationing passengers.

  Only one ship was anchored in the bay, and there were no sailors in sight on the deck, nor any obvious defenses, such as barbed wire or Claymore mines attached to the hull.

  “A fine ship, eh, cousin?” the tall man said, stroking his small beard.

  “No, it is not,” the captain replied in a growl. “That is a ship of death.”

  “Ah, the crew are good shots.”

  “Worse.”

  The tall man gasped. “They’re American?”

  “Even worse than that,” the captain muttered, rubbing a fresh bandage hidden under his loose shirt. “Just keep moving, cousin, and keep breathing. There is no ship in our harbor. Understand?”

  The tall man scowled at the bizarre statement, then slowly nodded in comprehension and went to check the manacles belowdecks. As the old saying went, a wise man knew when to be blind. There were just some things in the world that were too dangerous even to talk about, and, apparently, that ship was one of them. Then again…

  “Would it really hurt if we did swing past the ship?” the tall man asked, the greed obvious in his voice. “A simple look, that’s all. What could that harm?”

  “Hmm, I suppose so,” the captain replied, turning to glance at the vessel.

  There was a distant boom, and a split second later the face of the captain erupted, teeth and eyes spraying out across the water.

  The tall man had no time to cry out before his chest exploded. For a very brief instant, he felt himself falling backward, but never seemed to reach the water… .

  * * *

  A THOUSAND YARDS OFFSHORE, the guard on the stern deck of the ULCV Red Rose worked the arming bolt on his .50-caliber Barrett sniper rifle to chamber a fresh round. The empty six-inch brass shell hit the steel deck with a ring-a-ling noise, and rolled out a wash port in the gunwale to splash into the bay.

  Normally, a sniper rifle would be a poor choice for a defensive weapon on a ship. But the Red Rose was no ordinary vessel, no matter how much it looked like one. The massive container ship was so broad and heavy that there was never any real sensation of being on the waves. Even when it was in motion, the ship felt oddly stationery.

  “Alpha to Command. The danger is neutralized,” the guard whispered into his throat mike. “Area four secure.”

  * * *

  “COMMAND TO ALPHA, CONFIRM,” Lieutenant Naser replied into a gooseneck mike attached to a control board. “Continue your sweep, Alpha. Neutralize any possible threats at your discretion, over.”

  The nearby walls were covered with monitors showing the real-time weather over every major city in the world, along with matching clocks and a glowing vector graphic of every telecommunication satellite in orbit.

  “Alpha to Command. Roger. Over and out.”

  “Trouble, Lieutenant?” Major Armanjani said, leaning over a table covered with maps. He had a ruler in one hand and a compass, in the other. A cold cup of coffee sat nearby, along with a plate of untouched sandwiches.

  Prepared for a meeting later that day, the major was wearing an expensive business suit that cost more than he’d made in a month as a major in the Republican Guard. His necktie was raw silk, the stickpin solid platinum. A gold Rolex gleamed on a wrist, and an aluminum tube bearing the logo of a Montecristo cigar jutted from his breast pocket. Armanjani didn’t smoke, but the cigar was just the sort of tiny detail that made his public persona of wealthy man absolutely believable.

  “Nothing of importance, sir,” Nasser replied, swiveling in the chair. “Some of the locals joked about taking this ship, so our rear sniper convinced them it was a bad idea.”

  “Good riddance,” the major said, checking the wind patterns over Australia. “The village elders should have tried harder to teach them restraint.”

  Raising an eyebrow at that, Nasser said nothing. What village elders? There was nobody in the entire city more than thirty years old!

  In a desperate attempt to make money to buy food, the Somalian government had leased the rights for foreign powers to dump garbage offshore. Now, this area of the ocean was so heavily polluted the men didn’t even dare to go swimming out of fear of catching a deadly disease. The Somalians had fouled their own nest. It made the major angry to think that any Arab had acted so foolishly. The government tried to feed the poor, and end up killing more of them than starvation ever could have done. It was pitiful.

  Then again, to be brutally honest, she noted, this huge ship lying anchored so close off the coastline must seem like an irresistible target.

  Registered out of Edinburgh, Scotland, the Red Rose was a typical container ship, deliberately designed to not be noticeable in any way. The ship was a thousand feet long and capable of hauling 20,000 of the standard twenty-foot-wide, ten-foot-high, forty-foot-long shipping containers. To maximize their speed, the Red Rose was only carrying only half that amount, most of it legitimate cargo just in case they were ever stopped for an inspection. It was mostly home appliances, rice and farming equipment. Nobody sane would ever try to check 10,000 containers. That would take weeks!

  However, past that outer layer were reinforced containers stuffed with BM-25 Hail multiple-rocket launchers. Designed to destroy land fortifications, the 122 mm rockets were more than capable of destroying any attacking enemy vessel, whether it was a jet fighter, battleship or submarine.

  Next came a buffer zone of containers filled with ordinary sand, a bulwark able to withstand any bombardment for a sh
ort while. Past those, safely located deep inside the main hold, was the prefabricated command module made of six cargo containers welded together, which made it just barely large enough to hold all of the equipment necessary to operate the Scimitar of God, as the new weapon was called. There was a mainframe computer sealed behind a Plexiglas wall, a bank of control boards, a compact emergency generator, pressurized containers of oxygen and a few chairs.

  In an emergency, the command module could be sealed airtight to sink to the bottom of the sea, far away from any battle raging on the surface, giving the people inside plenty of time to assemble a small submersible pod and quietly leave unnoticed.

  Their trip to Somalia from the construction shacks in southern Peru had been harrowing, almost nerve-racking. Zigzagging across two oceans, the major had closely followed every storm possible, endlessly fine-tuning the Scimitar to new and even more deadly accuracy. They had destroyed islands, icebergs and a dozen assorted small craft along the way.

  Just then, a polite knock sounded and a slim man appeared at the open hatchway. Professor Kazim Khandis was dark and handsome, with hair so black that it appeared to have blue highlights, and a small European-style mustache, meaning that he used no oils or wax.

  “Yes, what is it?” Armanjani asked without looking up from his work.

  “We should have Tokyo online in a few minutes,” Khandis announced in cultured tones.

  “Excellent!” Armanjani said, putting aside a ruler. “Was there any trouble with the relay?”

  “None whatsoever,” Khandis said, flashing a wide grin, then disappearing around the bulkhead once more.

  Leaving the command module, Armanjani awkwardly stepped over to the next container. A scarred hand reached out of the shadows, and Hassan pulled the major across.

  “Thank you, Benjamin. Is everything ready?” Armanjani asked, straightening his lapels.

  “Seems to be, sir,” Hassan replied, turning a wheel to seal the entrance airtight. “But I’m no tech.”

  “Not a problem, old friend, the professor is,” Armanjani replied. “Just remember not to speak after the red light goes on. Understand? No matter what happens, you must remain silent.”

  The sergeant nodded.

  Chuckling, the major patted the other man on the shoulder and turned to start down a short passageway lined with heavy curtains.

  The interior walls of the container were covered with rubber sheets studded with foam cones to render it soundproof. The floor was a thick shag carpet, and the ceiling was covered with acoustic tiles.

  Going to a corner of the room, Armanjani sat behind a wooden desk bolted to the floor. There were potted ferns on one side, and a small fishbowl containing a stuffed goldfish that had been carefully glued into place. The wall behind the major was draped with a soundproof curtain, devoid of any possible details that might reveal his mode of transportation, or location.

  “Ready,” Armanjani said, booting up a desktop computer, the monitor topped with a webcam.

  While the machine cycled into operation, the muted sounds of New York City traffic began playing softly from speakers hidden under the desk.

  “Lower, please, Professor,” the major said, smoothing down his hair. “We don’t want them to think it’s a trick.”

  Obediently, the recorded sound-effects fell away to a distant murmur barely discernable.

  “Perfect. Now add the train.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the click-clack of iron wheels started to play. Major Armanjani nodded in satisfaction. Now, if there were any odd motions in the room from the ship it would be discounted as merely the motion of a rolling train.

  “How many satellites are we relaying this through?” Armanjani asked, adjusting the empty picture frames on the desk.

  “One hundred and six,” Khandis said through a speaker in the ceiling.

  “Camel dung,” Hassan snorted. “There aren’t that many satellites in existence.”

  Ignoring that, Armanjani switched on a microphone and tapped it with a finger for a sound check. “Ready?” he asked.

  On the other side of the room, behind a thick sheet of clear plastic, the professor looked up from a soundboard. Raising his hand, he splayed five fingers, then four, three, two, then pointed at the major.

  Major Armanjani pulled in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Showtime.

  Gradually, the monitor cleared into a view of a small garden with a splashing fountain, and caged hummingbirds hanging from the branches of the trees. Three Asian men and a middle-aged Asian woman were sitting in wicker chairs.

  They were dressed in Western business suits, except for the woman who was in some sort of a business dress, the hem halfway down her trim calves, but a hint of nylon still visible. The top button on her blouse was undone, and the stylized horns of some mythological creature were just barely visible on the swell of her breasts.

  As if in counterpoint, every inch of exposed skin on the men was heavily covered with tattoos, almost garish, as if they were freaks in a circus. Their yellowish skin looked like ancient parchment, old and brittle, as if they would fall apart at the slightest touch.

  All of them were wearing shoulder holsters without weapons. Armanjani could only assume this was some sort of Japanese protocol. But whether they were being polite or announcing that they didn’t fear him was completely unknown. Ordinary Japanese were difficult enough to understand, while these elite members of the ruling council of the secret criminal organization known as the Yakuza were absolutely inscrutable.

  “Asalamu alaikum,” one of the men said in ritual Muslim greeting.

  “Koniciwa,” Armanjani replied in smooth Japanese. “Genki desu ka?”

  That clearly caught the council members off guard. Only the woman had the grace to give a small bow of respect.

  That was when Armanjani noticed that the tip of a finger was missing from her left hand. That meant she had once made a very serious mistake, yet now was on the High Council of the Yakuza. It was very unusual for a woman to have such a position. Suddenly, he had the feeling that she was actually in charge, and the old men were there purely as window dressing. The Yakuza had to know that Arabs preferred to deal with men. Smart. Very smart.

  “Ah, you see with more than your eyes,” she said, straightening both cuffs. “Good. I dislike dealing with fools. Shall we switch to a neutral language? It would be much easier than waiting for a translation.”

  “That is fine. Which would you prefer, German, French or English?”

  “English will be fine,” she replied. “Especially since I do not speak Arabic, Major.”

  That caught him by surprise, and Armanjani fought hard not to let the shock show. Who was this wizened old crone, and how much more about him did she know?

  Suddenly, Khandis held up a clipboard with a name hastily written across the back in magic marker.

  “My thanks, while I appreciate your honesty…Lady Hoto,” the major said coolly.

  Smiling faintly, Lady Rashomora Hoto gave no outward reaction to the identification, but her eyes darkened.

  Major Armanjani recognized the name. Rashomora Hoto had previously been the top assassin for the Yakuza, and had personally killed more people with her bare hands than he had done with an entire army. She was old now, but not weak by any means. Even through the monitor the major could feel the power of her presence. He would have to be extremely careful from this point onward. One wrong move, and he would start a war with these bl
oodthirsty infidels.

  “No, not a fool at all,” Hoto muttered, then shrugged. “Fine, let us begin.”

  “Are you satisfied that the Scimitar is everything we promised?” Armanjani asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

  “Yes, I am convinced,” Hoto said, folding her hands. “Every target that we requested has been completely destroyed after a storm passed over. Clearly, the weapon can do exactly what you claim.”

  “Good. The price is five hundred million U.S. dollars.”

  There was a short pause while the old men glanced at one another, then at Hoto.

  “The price is acceptable,” she announced. “When and where can you make the delivery?”

  “Right now if you wish. Our codes are unbreakable.”

  “No codes are unbreakable,” Hoto snorted. “It is all that we can do to keep Interpol from recording this brief conversation!”

  “All right, I know the perfect location where we can make the exchange in person,” Armanjani said, tapping a few buttons on the keyboard. A small map of the world appeared on his screen, rotating and turning, while it shrank to an aerial view of an atoll off the coast of Fiji.

  Squinting at something off-camera, Hoto scowled, then nodded. “A good choice. Shall we say tomorrow at noon?”

  “Noon.”

  “Agreed. See you then.”

  As the screen went dark, Armanjani disconnected the microphone before exhaling. “Victory, my friends! In twenty-four hours we will retire immensely rich!”

  “And what will the Yakuza do with the Scimitar?” Khandis asked, turning off the sound effects.