oil, had been ripped free of all bulkheads to make one enormous open chamber for the supplies of Dhul Qarnain’s invasion force.
Qarnain and Killov stared out at their stock of the most modern weaponry of war. The cleared hold was three football fields long, almost a field wide—and seventy-eight feet high. Dozens of Norski helicopters stood in a line on each side of the cargo bay. They had been stolen from a Red convoy to Saudi Arabia, believed to have sunk at sea in a sudden gale. The ’copters sat perched like deadly blue dragonflies with silver wings, waiting to take flight and sting. They still bore the Russian Air Force emblems, big red stars, on their sides. And they would stay painted on. It would just add to the confusion—later. High above hung steel shutters that would, at the right moment, slide back to allow the ’copters to rise from the center of the ship and carry out their mission of death.
In the center of the great metal cavern, which echoed with deep thudding sounds from the waves outside slapping against the hull, stood pile after pile of machine guns, ammunition, and hand-held missiles. All were still in their packing crates and teams of men were busy unloading the contents for their imminent use.
Colonel Killov pulled out a silver timepiece with an engraving on the back, inscribed, “From Premier Vassily. With thanks.” It brought a deep smirk to the KGB colonel’s mouth. How fitting that he would use it to time the mission, to tell the very second that the attack should begin. By this instrument would Vassily’s capture—and death—be counted.
“We are right on schedule,” Killov said, glancing at the date and then back up at Qarnain, dressed in flowing white robes, who stood towering over him. “The missiles should be unloaded at this exact moment.” The colonel was a fanatic for punctuality—and obedience. Qarnain had known that from the start of this whole operation. But he had delivered what he promised as well. Cash, weapons. For the oldest truth was and still is: he who has the hands empty has no friends. Now Dhul Qarnain had all the “friends” he needed. Hundreds of them throughout the tanker, ready to die for him. For Killov. For their sacred joint mission.
The two figures walked across the cold steel decking, passing bunches of men here and there in black jumpsuits that covered them from ankle to chin. They busily ripped at the crates with crowbars, taking them apart and stacking the weapons contained within into rows as others began assembling them. They bowed whenever Qarnain walked by them, then quickly returned to their jobs as he impatiently motioned with his hands for them to continue.
In the middle of the steel cave, the Sukai-II hand-fired missiles were being moved and stacked in piles on six-foot-long metal racks that stretched twenty feet into the air. Their bright red nose cones were the only colors in the room other than the shimmering blue of the choppers. Everything else was black—uniforms, weapons, even the straps that supported the weapons, and the boxes that held the ammunition. All had been painted midnight black.
The tanker had been Killov’s doing. Qarnain had told the KGB colonel what he needed—and Killov had worked out the entire operation down to the smallest detail. Every item, every bit of supplies that was needed was here because he had ordered it. The colonel had paid with gold bullion—he had hidden away such deposits of treasure throughout the world, in the days when he had been able to do such things. Now he was cashing in on just one such stash—dug up from its tomb in Asia. Gold—it had always been the international currency. Even a stinking cannibal in the woods would bite into a piece of gold should he see it, and his face would light up in a toothy smile. Thus they had easily been able to procure the weapons. All purchased on the black market from Premier Vassily’s own Asian Red Army forces.
Killov was pleased with the
Qarnain and Killov stared out at their stock of the most modern weaponry of war. The cleared hold was three football fields long, almost a field wide—and seventy-eight feet high. Dozens of Norski helicopters stood in a line on each side of the cargo bay. They had been stolen from a Red convoy to Saudi Arabia, believed to have sunk at sea in a sudden gale. The ’copters sat perched like deadly blue dragonflies with silver wings, waiting to take flight and sting. They still bore the Russian Air Force emblems, big red stars, on their sides. And they would stay painted on. It would just add to the confusion—later. High above hung steel shutters that would, at the right moment, slide back to allow the ’copters to rise from the center of the ship and carry out their mission of death.
In the center of the great metal cavern, which echoed with deep thudding sounds from the waves outside slapping against the hull, stood pile after pile of machine guns, ammunition, and hand-held missiles. All were still in their packing crates and teams of men were busy unloading the contents for their imminent use.
Colonel Killov pulled out a silver timepiece with an engraving on the back, inscribed, “From Premier Vassily. With thanks.” It brought a deep smirk to the KGB colonel’s mouth. How fitting that he would use it to time the mission, to tell the very second that the attack should begin. By this instrument would Vassily’s capture—and death—be counted.
“We are right on schedule,” Killov said, glancing at the date and then back up at Qarnain, dressed in flowing white robes, who stood towering over him. “The missiles should be unloaded at this exact moment.” The colonel was a fanatic for punctuality—and obedience. Qarnain had known that from the start of this whole operation. But he had delivered what he promised as well. Cash, weapons. For the oldest truth was and still is: he who has the hands empty has no friends. Now Dhul Qarnain had all the “friends” he needed. Hundreds of them throughout the tanker, ready to die for him. For Killov. For their sacred joint mission.
The two figures walked across the cold steel decking, passing bunches of men here and there in black jumpsuits that covered them from ankle to chin. They busily ripped at the crates with crowbars, taking them apart and stacking the weapons contained within into rows as others began assembling them. They bowed whenever Qarnain walked by them, then quickly returned to their jobs as he impatiently motioned with his hands for them to continue.
In the middle of the steel cave, the Sukai-II hand-fired missiles were being moved and stacked in piles on six-foot-long metal racks that stretched twenty feet into the air. Their bright red nose cones were the only colors in the room other than the shimmering blue of the choppers. Everything else was black—uniforms, weapons, even the straps that supported the weapons, and the boxes that held the ammunition. All had been painted midnight black.
The tanker had been Killov’s doing. Qarnain had told the KGB colonel what he needed—and Killov had worked out the entire operation down to the smallest detail. Every item, every bit of supplies that was needed was here because he had ordered it. The colonel had paid with gold bullion—he had hidden away such deposits of treasure throughout the world, in the days when he had been able to do such things. Now he was cashing in on just one such stash—dug up from its tomb in Asia. Gold—it had always been the international currency. Even a stinking cannibal in the woods would bite into a piece of gold should he see it, and his face would light up in a toothy smile. Thus they had easily been able to procure the weapons. All purchased on the black market from Premier Vassily’s own Asian Red Army forces.
Killov was pleased with the
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