Warriors (51 page)

That’s when a guy who’d been on the ground feigning death jumped up in front of him, firing wildly. Stoke fired once, twice, three times, wordlessly and with great care. The force of the powerful rounds at such close quarters lifted the man off his feet, smashed him against the wall, pinned him there for one incredible second, nailed against the wall as if in spread-eagled crucifixion. Then he fell to the floor and Stoke stepped over him to find Hawke in the melee and somehow put an end to this slaughter. He’d now lost three men, with more wounded. And he was winning the damn war.

HAWKE, MEANWHILE, WAS ADVANCING UP
to the third floor. He and Fitz, with Brock bringing up the rear, mounted the steps. The third-floor galleries were empty except for countless expended shells scattered everywhere.

But not the fourth floor. Not empty at all.

All four sides of the atrium gallery above were lined with the Te-Wu, men and women standing shoulder to shoulder, their pistols and automatic rifles aimed at the men pouring up the stairs. A last stand—Hawke could see grim determination on their mostly terrified faces.

Hawke paused on the steps.

“Don’t shoot!” Hawke shouted up at them. “Listen to me. You people don’t have to die here tonight. Lay down your arms peacefully, raise your hands where I can see them, and I will make sure you get out of this building alive. All I want is Dr. Chase. Turn him over to me, and I have no more business with you or anyone else on this island.”

“Who are you?” a glowering mop-haired chap with burning black eyes shouted down to him.

“My name is Alex Hawke. I am—”

“Hawke! We will give you Chase,” another man shouted, “but we want you, Hawke! Even trade.”

“Show me Chase and we’ll see.”

“We don’t trust you, Hawke,” said a young woman who couldn’t have been over twenty.

“I don’t think you’ve got a whole lot of choice. So either you bring him out here where I can see him or—”

Hawke never finished the sentence.

The woman simply pulled her trigger and shot him. The bullet got lucky and found a seam in his armor plating. He felt a red-hot blast of pain in his left side, one that spun him around and down. Fitz put three bullets in the assassin’s head and dropped to cover Hawke’s body with his own.

His men opened fire on the gallery above with a vengeance. People, a lot of people, started pitching forward over the railing, dead or dying, and landing with sickening thuds three stories below.

“Is it bad?” Fitz asked him.

“Hurts, that’s all. Went right through me. Let me up. Woman tried to kill me. It was personal, Fitz. I saw it in her eyes. Get the hell off me, I can’t breathe.”

“Not till I stop the bleeding.”

“These people are zombies, Fitz. Like the walking dead; they act like they’ve got nothing to lose. I’m tired of this crap, and we’re running out of time. These goddamn automatons want to die so damn badly, heave a dozen or so Willy Pete grenades up there so they can go out in a bloody flaming white phosphorus blaze of glory . . .”

C
H A P T E R
  72

T
hey were all dead. Fifty of them maybe, Hawke thought, maybe a lot more. Charred bodies stacked on top of more bodies. He waded through them, his left hand pressed against his wound, sickened by the stench of burned flesh, making his way to a room at the end of the long corridor where he prayed he would find Dr. William Lincoln Chase.

“What are you gonna do if Chase ain’t in there, boss?” Stoke said, as they paused outside the door.

“Just shoot me,” Hawke said and pushed inside.

“You already shot,” Stoke said, right behind him.

Chase’s home was an anonymous small bedroom with an adjoining toilet, a writing desk, and built-in bookcases overflowing with scientific tomes and military history. Engineering drawings covering the walls. Models of unrecognizable weapons . . .

There was a man lying faceup on the single unmade bed in the corner.

It was Chase.

Hawke bent over him and pressed three fingers to his neck, checking the carotid artery.

“Dead?” Stoke said.

“Alive. Probably drugged. Quick, soak a washcloth in cold water in the sink. I’m going to pop an amyl nitrate under his nose. That should do the trick. What time is it, Stoke?”

“O420, boss. We gotta move. Now.”

“Dr. Chase? Dr. Chase? He’s coming around,” Hawke said, cleaning the hostage’s sweat-greased face with the damp washcloth. “Here, help him sit up.”

“Who the . . . who the hell are you?” Chase said, his voice fuzzy with narcotics.

“Dr. Chase, my name is Commander Alexander Hawke. Royal Navy and MI6. How are you feeling, sir?”

“Lousy . . . I . . .”

“Sir, I’ve got to get you out of here. Let me quickly inform you that your wife and two children are safe. They are now en route to San Francisco aboard a U.S. Navy destroyer.”

“What? They’re out? My God, how?”

“A long story. Can you get on your feet?”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” he said. Hawke and Stoke each took an arm and helped him up. “I seem to be operating under my own power again. Where are you taking me?”

“Home, ultimately. But we need to stop at the submarine command and control ops center.”

“Why?”

“Moon has launched a series of attacks using the Centurion missiles you designed. Iwo Jima and Okinawa were completely destroyed. He’s now threatening to take out Pearl Harbor, sir. We need to stop him.”

Chase said, “That sonofabitch never told me he was already launching them.”

“How many Centurion subs are out there, sir?”

“Eight. Four in the Pacific, four in the Atlantic.”

“You lost one in the Atlantic. Seven more Centurions. I believe you built a fail-safe self-destruct mechanism into each sub, is that correct?”

“I did.”

“You memorized the codes?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why we’re going to the ops center. Once you’ve destroyed the seven Centurions, I’m going to blow that building up. We need to get moving. Ready?”

“Ready?” Chase said. “Seriously?”

Hawke smiled. Yeah, he was ready all right. “Any luck with the jeep?” he asked Fitz.

“Managed to borrow three.”

“Good man, Fitz. You may have just saved our asses.” Hawke looked at his watch again. He was conscious of every passing second now.

THE THREE JEEPS, OVERCROWDED WITH
passengers, raced across the sand toward the sub bunkers.

“Which entrance?” Hawke yelled at Chase, jammed up front between him and Stoke.

“Far left. That’s where CCC, Chinese Centurion Command, is located.”

“Command and control? Where they monitor and control all the unmanned subs at sea?” Hawke yelled. “Right?”

“Right.”

Hawke cranked the wheel hard left and spun his tires. All three vehicles fishtailed to a stop at the entrance, sandstorms whirling about them, and the men jumped out and sprinted full up the broad steps leading to the entrance. Hawke and Stoke ran more slowly, still helping a slowly reviving Chase to keep moving.

Once inside, Hawke said, “Which way?”

“Follow me,” Chase said, taking off at a run. The news that his family was safe and that he might soon be freed from Moon’s living hell seemed highly motivating. He’d been broken on the wheel. Now, he was the wheel upon which his adversary would be broken.

Hawke ran after him, everybody overtly conscious of that big ticking time bomb overhead, the one flying in with overwhelming reinforcements from the Chinese mainland.

Chase checked up outside two stainless doors with a keypad entry. He pressed his right palm against the sensor and the doors slid apart. “All the way to the far end of the corridor,” he said. “That’s what they call the ‘War Room.’ ”

THE ROOM WAS VERY COLD
and very dark. An undercurrent of electronic humming. You could see silhouettes of men at control consoles, staring up at the big monitors above them. Hawke and Chase stole through the darkness, counting down the minutes and seconds that remained to them to complete their mission.

Chase grabbed Hawke’s forearm, stopping him.

“That’s him,” he whispered. “That’s Moon.”

“Which one?”

“At the center control module. White uniform and . . . wait . . . He’s initiating another Centurion missile launch! That’s Honolulu. He’s got bloody Pearl Harbor up on the monitor. God, Hawke, we have to stop him!”

Hawke turned and motioned for all the men to advance into the room, all at ready arms. They strode forward warily and stood in a semicircle behind Hawke, Chase, and Stoke, ready to kill anything that moved . . .

“What’s the—” Stoke said, but Hawke silenced him.

“General Moon,” Hawke called out. Loud enough to be heard, but calm.

He could see from the general’s posture that he’d gained his attention. The man got to his feet, turned, and said, “Continue with the launch sequence,” to an older navy officer standing next to him. Then he saw Hawke and Chase. Betraying no visible emotion, he began to walk toward them. Hawke held his weapon loosely at his side, ready for anything.

“Good evening, Commander Hawke. It’s been a long, long time. I see you’ve met my colleague, the good Dr. Chase.”

Hawke said nothing.

“Have you completely lost your mind, General?” Chase said, trying to remain calm. “You’re about to start World War Three, you goddamn maniac. There’ll be no world left for you to rule . . .”

Moon’s face was suddenly twisted in a rictus of rage.

“You think we are starting this? Did we invade the West? Did we enslave millions to opium? Did we carve your territory into bits and pieces to give away to our friends? Answer me! Are you really so ignorant of history?”

“Ancient history.”

“Two centuries of humiliation and hardly ancient by our standards. We should have done it sooner, Dr. Chase, but we had not the means. When your enemy hands you a sword, you use it. And you handed me this Centurion sword, lest you forget.”

“Right, General. My friends are here to help me take it back.”

“Never! You’re too late. No one can stop me now. Even you, Hawke. You’re a walking dead man.”

Hawke ignored him and spoke very calmly. “Dr. Chase, I want you to abort that impending Centurion missile launch on Honolulu. How long have we got?”

Chase looked up at the red digits whizzing by on the countdown timer. “Five minutes and counting.”

“Go do it.”

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Dr. Chase,” Moon said, moving a step closer.

“Why not?”

“Not enough time to enter the fail-safe codes. And because the only sensible thing for you and your men to do is surrender. If you don’t, I can promise you that every last invader on this island will either be dead or imprisoned in a matter of minutes.”

“Really?” Hawke said. “Just how do you intend to do that? We’ve already killed all your adoring Te-Wu acolytes. The remaining men here are no match for us.”

“True. But any second a Chinese military C-130 will roar overhead. One hundred crack Chinese paratroops will float to earth. How many of you are left in fighting condition? Ten? Fifteen? I don’t fancy your odds. There’s no place to run on this island, Hawke. We’ll hunt you down like dogs. Hang you from hooks in the trees.”

Hawke raised his sidearm, leveled it between Moon’s eyes.

“You murdered my son’s guardian and tried to murder my son, General. Reason enough to kill you on the spot.”

“It’s war. You killed my daughter tonight!”

“Hell are you talking about?”

“Liar! I watched you do it! On the security cameras . . . the beautiful black-haired woman who stopped you in the lobby tonight . . . my darling Jet.”

Hawke, amazed, said, “That was Jet?”

So . . . his old lover. The woman he thought he’d recognized back there somehow . . . the young Te-Wu assassin sent by Moon to kill him years ago . . . in a hotel room in the south of France . . . yes, of course it was her.

Jet Moon.

“General, listen carefully. If you try to prevent Dr. Chase from aborting that launch, you’ll be the second member of your family to die by my hand tonight. You have five seconds to decide.”

Moon’s eyes bulged, and color rose in his face. But he said nothing to his men.

“Dr. Chase,” Hawke said evenly, never taking his eyes off the countdown, the general, or his armed men ranged around the room. “Abort the Centurion launch. Now! Fitz, go with him and watch his back. Shoot anyone who interferes.”

Chase brushed past Hawke going to the console and Hawke felt a clumsy tug on his thigh holster and knew in an instant what was happening. Chase had snatched his assault knife.

“No! Dr. Chase! Stop!” he said.

Chase lunged toward General Moon, his face contorted with hatred, screaming at the torturer his wife and children had suffered under.

“You miserable little monster!” he shouted at Moon. “You monstrosity! You stole my life. Now I’m going to—”

Stoke was closest to Chase. His big hand shot forward like a piston and clamped around the doctor’s wrist, tearing the knife from his grip and handing it back to Hawke in one single, fluid, and blindingly fast motion. Chase screamed in frustration and lunged for Moon with his fists flailing.

Shots rang out as two of the general’s personal security bodyguards moved forward, reacting instinctively to this attack on the exalted new leader of all China. Hawke, to his horror, saw that Chase was nanoseconds from death despite all that had been done to save him. Without him, half of Honolulu’s population would disappear in seconds.

He fired into the first bodyguard’s brain and brought his gun hand down on the other’s wrist, snapping it before he could squeeze off the fatal round—

“Dr. Chase, you have exactly sixty-two seconds to abort that missile destined for Honolulu,” Hawke said. “Do it! Move! Fitz, you, too!”

Chase and Fitz bolted for Moon’s console panel.

“Stoke, you guys disarm and cuff everyone remaining. Get them all facedown on the floor. If they resist, shoot them.”

Now came the unmistakable roar of a giant Chinese C-130 approaching overhead, flying at low altitude, filling the air above Xinbu Naval Base with a hundred parachutes . . . shit . . . he looked up at the digital launch clock, the red numbers flashing toward 0045. . . .