Steve Wilson's Blog - Posts Tagged "eye-of-charybdis"
The Grittier Side of Michael Neill
Eye of Charybdis, book four, is progressing nicely. Not as quickly as I'd like (I've mentioned in past blogs that I am a monumentally slow writer), but this is one story that I am very interested in getting right.
In the first three books, Michael Neill has overcome many of his difficulties through prayer and the support of his colleagues. Eye of Charybdis takes a somewhat different turn; in this story, the past has begun to wear on the Captain. He's suffered personal losses; the deaths of two close friends, and he's reminded of the tragic demise of his parents (more of the details surrounding Neill's dad's death are still being unfolded). His life has been threatened on several occasions (shot by Chinese troops, nearly drowned, and on the wrong end of a rocket torpedo--all in the space of just a few hours), and in Trinity Icon, the enemies of America have targeted those closest to him.
The circle tightens further in book four, and Charybdis will reflect the real-life challenges of those serving around the world. In Trinity Icon, an assassin's bullet shatters some of Neill's confidence. He feels regret, and is forced to live with the realization that death is ever-present. His own harried experiences have left scars, obscuring his focus. The specter of post-traumatic stress rears its ugly head, not just for Neill, but for those who have shared the Captain's adventures. How they deal with these pressures is a commentary for everyday life.
But the book isn't just about challenges. There's more romance. More action. More behind the scenes political machinations. Things ramp up considerably in the new first chapter. There will be a deeper emphasis on Neill's spiritual side, and the choices he makes to safeguard the legacy left to him by his earthly father.
Just as more pressure comes to bear on the characters, opportunities for the future present themselves too. Sooner or later, this series will turn a corner, and commitments and alliances will be forced on Neill and his friends. More on that later.
I guess what I'm trying to convey is that we all face peaks and valleys, and it's no less so for those I write about. I have taken these characters into my soul, and I try to breathe life into them every chance I get. Their dynamics change. Our existence is always fluid, and not always to our liking. I've been thinking about this for some time. The world of Michael Neill is about to become grittier and more complicated, and should cause readers of the series to find common ground with protagonist and antagonist alike.
In the first three books, Michael Neill has overcome many of his difficulties through prayer and the support of his colleagues. Eye of Charybdis takes a somewhat different turn; in this story, the past has begun to wear on the Captain. He's suffered personal losses; the deaths of two close friends, and he's reminded of the tragic demise of his parents (more of the details surrounding Neill's dad's death are still being unfolded). His life has been threatened on several occasions (shot by Chinese troops, nearly drowned, and on the wrong end of a rocket torpedo--all in the space of just a few hours), and in Trinity Icon, the enemies of America have targeted those closest to him.
The circle tightens further in book four, and Charybdis will reflect the real-life challenges of those serving around the world. In Trinity Icon, an assassin's bullet shatters some of Neill's confidence. He feels regret, and is forced to live with the realization that death is ever-present. His own harried experiences have left scars, obscuring his focus. The specter of post-traumatic stress rears its ugly head, not just for Neill, but for those who have shared the Captain's adventures. How they deal with these pressures is a commentary for everyday life.
But the book isn't just about challenges. There's more romance. More action. More behind the scenes political machinations. Things ramp up considerably in the new first chapter. There will be a deeper emphasis on Neill's spiritual side, and the choices he makes to safeguard the legacy left to him by his earthly father.
Just as more pressure comes to bear on the characters, opportunities for the future present themselves too. Sooner or later, this series will turn a corner, and commitments and alliances will be forced on Neill and his friends. More on that later.
I guess what I'm trying to convey is that we all face peaks and valleys, and it's no less so for those I write about. I have taken these characters into my soul, and I try to breathe life into them every chance I get. Their dynamics change. Our existence is always fluid, and not always to our liking. I've been thinking about this for some time. The world of Michael Neill is about to become grittier and more complicated, and should cause readers of the series to find common ground with protagonist and antagonist alike.
Excerpt from 'Eye of Charybdis'
“Still sure you want to go through with this?”
The earpiece crackled, and the voice asked the question for a second time. Sitting at the bar, the man in the leather jacket sipped his drink and smiled. Directly in front of him was a mirror, and his reflection stared back with no small measure of confidence—and an abundance of resolve.
“An American died for this treaty, Dmitri; let’s make sure his sacrifice counts,” the Ukrainian breathed. “Besides, it’s a little late to back out now.” His tone suggested a smooth, experienced disposition, but the reality went much deeper than that, touching instead on the spiritual. He stared at the glass in his hand. “How do you drink this stuff?”
Again, the wireless device sounded deep within his ear. “It’s an acquired taste, Oleg.” Dmitri Yaroslav enunciated carefully. He had trained himself to use that name only. “Was it expensive?”
The Ukrainian frowned. “Twenty hryvnia,” he answered. “Why?”
“Cheap stuff,” Dmitri snorted. “Drink it slowly. The alcohol content is probably more than you’re used to.”
“Don’t make fun,” Oleg warned. “When this is all over, I’ll buy you a round.”
“Ya viddayu perevahu pivo, tavarisch,” Dmitri shot back. I prefer beer. A case officer with Ukraine’s security services, Yaroslav was a native of Kiev, and his accent confirmed it. “Is Pyotr in place?”
“He’s in a booth,” Oleg replied, “nursing a whiskey.”
Dmitri’s voice rose slightly. “And our other friends?”
The frown gave way to a smile. “They’re close.”
“Very well,” Yaroslav sighed. “Now stay sharp—your contacts are just coming in.”
“So I see.”
The conversation ceased. Boris Isakov has arrived, the Ukrainian thought silently, with a bit of eye candy on his arm, it would seem.
The Ukrainian stared ahead. He never turned, but his eyes followed three men and a woman as they entered the bar. Each man was turned out in a dark suit; the woman wore a short, black skirt, split on one side with a scalloped neckline. She was clearly proud of her long legs—among her other ample assets—and Oleg allowed himself a moment to take in her beauty.
He identified her instantly, having seen her photograph during the morning briefing. Nadia Kolvec was Boris’s consort and technical associate, serving as the Russian’s number one. And Nadia wasn’t just a pretty face; she was suspected in the deaths of two Ukrainian police officers. Dmitri recognized her as well. He was growing nervous, but kept his emotions in check.
The group of four began the long walk from the entrance to Oleg’s stool. Two of the men peeled off, taking positions at each end of the bar. Boris moved casually to Oleg’s three o’clock, awkwardly close. A tactical consideration, the Ukrainian mused; most shooters were right-handed, and Boris must have felt that planting himself there would give him an advantage, should gun-play break out.
“Oleg Kerensky?” Boris muttered. He sounded perturbed, upset that Oleg hadn’t spoken first.
“Oleg Avarysius Kerensky.” He never looked up, but scrutinized the woman’s features as she found a seat. The bartender instinctively stayed away. “Boris Isakov?”
A grunt; there would be very little in the way of pleasantries. “Are you ready to do business?”
“What’s your hurry?” Kerensky paused for effect. “I am ready to consider doing business,” he answered. “And what of you? Did you bring the sale item?” Merchandise sounded so cliché, and trite terminology was something the Ukrainian wanted to avoid.
“Possibly,” Isakov hedged. “Are you armed?”
Oleg laughed softly, and then lowered his voice. “Of course I’m armed; I have a Glock on my right hip. And we all know your men are carrying.”
Boris raised an eyebrow. His precautions would do him little good; Kerensky might, under ideal circumstances—circumstances that favored him—draw a bead before the Russian could pin his shooting arm.
“Let’s keep things civil, Boris,” Oleg advised. An admiring glance went to the lady, but he displayed more interest than he really felt. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Nadia Kolvec, my chief of staff,” Isakov answered smugly. “You may look, Oleg Avarysius Kerensky—just don’t touch.”
The Ukrainian’s eyes bored into Nadia’s. He wore a four day-growth of beard and drew a hand across his chin. “You have property I covet, Boris. But I have no interest in your woman.”
“A pity.” Nadia was not one for wasting words, and Oleg saw her smile. She liked what she saw, and if conditions were different, she would have enjoyed this handsome foreigner.
Game on, Kerensky decided.
For the first time Oleg turned his face toward the Russian mafia boss. “Shall we commence the transaction?”
“Now who is in a hurry?” There was an edge in his voice, but Isakov seemed to relax. “I require more confirmation. How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Oleg heaved a sigh. “Let me put your concerns at ease, Pan Isakov. You received a promise of payment—a back channel pledge of reward. You came here expecting to find Oleg Kerensky, and here I am. I was told to meet with Boris Isakov, and here you are. For my part I represent the Polish government, and they are very eager to know your employer.”
“But you’re Ukrainian,” Boris deflected.
“That is correct.”
“And you don’t like Russians, do you, Kerensky?”
An odd statement, Oleg thought. He gave Isakov an icy stare. “They have not been kind to my family, no.”
Boris’s eyes narrowed. “Why is Dobrogost so interested in what I have to sell?” He was fishing.
Oleg shrugged and wore a tired look. “His role in this has been withheld from me.”
That much was probably true, Boris considered. Damning evidence of any kind would be compartmentalized, and not even the messenger would be privy to the details. But Isakov wasn’t through yet.
“And why send a Ukrainian to broker the deal?”
“So many questions, tavarisch.” Oleg allowed his gaze to fall on the woman’s legs. Nadia Kolvec was undeniably beautiful. “Why hire a Russian to fence the sale item? And why here, on Ukrainian soil?”
The turnabout was unexpected, but Boris was quick to answer. “Probably so that no one party has the advantage.”
Oleg nodded. “A fair assumption.” Easy now, he cautioned himself. “And how do you know I’m Ukrainian?”
“Your accent. You are from Kiev.” That was also true, but there was so much more to Oleg than met the ear.
“I was born not far from here,” he answered truthfully. “If that is not enough, I can tell you more—my village, the names of the schools I attended. Anything you like—but I should warn you. Your resistance to this arbitration is embarrassing the lady.”
Boris reddened, but Oleg’s prodding had the desired effect. For all his protestations, Isakov was being drawn in to this charade. The Russian turned to his left and nodded, bringing one of his associates from the far end of the bar. As he approached, the man retrieved something from his coat pocket.
“A padlock storage device,” Oleg observed. “You take security very seriously, my Russian friend.”
“All in the name of protection,” Boris answered. “Do you know what’s on this drive?”
He shrugged it off. “Does it matter what I know?”
Isakov pursed his lips. “It would matter to me—if my life was on the line.”
There was an interested light in Nadia Kolvec’ eyes. “I think Gospodin Kerensky knows exactly what’s on the drive.” She smiled, and the intensity behind it was more than alarming. “Don’t you, Oleg?”
“Steady,” Dmitri’s voice whispered in Kerensky’s ear. “Something just happened—don’t let them put you on the defensive.”
The Ukrainian kept his cool and decided honesty was the best policy. “Details of the new Polish defense shield,” Oleg answered quietly. “Firewall protocols for the software; I am no expert in this new digital age, but in the wrong hands, the warheads of SMOOTH STONE could be rendered inert—”
“—allowing my country to decimate anyone who stands in our way,” Boris announced.
Oleg smiled again. “Are you a patriot, Boris Isakov?”
“More like a venture capitalist,” the Russian replied. “If I were a patriot, I wouldn’t be selling it back.” He turned the drive over in his hands. “But this seems a fool’s errand. The Poles could just as easily reconfigure the codes and protect the missiles’ integrity.”
“They already have.” Kerensky smiled broadly, the dimple in his left cheek barely visible beneath the stubble.
“So what’s the point of all this?” Boris asked.
Nadia stirred atop the barstool, crossing her legs and allowing the hem of her skirt to ride higher. “To entrap those who stole the codes,” she purred. From her clutch she withdrew a revolver and leveled it at the Ukrainian’s chest. “Put the drive away, Boris.”
“That’s not very friendly,” Oleg said evenly. The pistol was close enough that she wouldn’t miss. “And I thought the two of us were getting on so well.”
Nadia continued to stare but said nothing. She reached out, squeezing Oleg’s thighs.
“What’s going on?” Dmitri’s voice came again. “I don’t like this.”
“Looking for something, Pana Kolvec?” Oleg asked.
“Firearms,” she answered. Her hand moved forward.
“Easy, Nadia,” Kerensky’s voice nearly caught in his throat. “You won’t find any there.”
Smiling wickedly, she ignored Oleg’s warning and tightened her grip. “Look closely, Boris.” Her palm lingered before grasping Oleg’s Glock. She worked it free and laid it in her lap. “Don’t you recognize him?”
He was confused, but Isakov trusted the woman’s judgment. A hand went into his jacket, and the bodyguards assumed a more defensive posture.
“This is the champion of Poland’s agreement with the west,” Nadia continued. “The American Marine turned diplomat—Captain Neill, is it?”
“If you say so,” Kerensky smiled
“You’re sure—an American?” Boris asked. “His command of the language—”
Nadia sighed heavily. “Try watching the news, Boris. He’s a bit scruffy—but it’s definitely him.” She lowered herself slowly to the floor, eyeing the four corners of the bar. “I think it’s time we leave.”
Boris’s own sidearm was on full display now. “There’s an exit in the rear—”
“—and we’ll take Capitan Neill with us,” Nadia licked her lips, “to ensure a safe departure.” The revolver was still pointed at Neill’s chest. “There’s a price on his head in Moscow.”
“On my head?” The Marine feigned surprise. “I’m flattered—but I think I like it right here. Besides, my friends would hate to see me go.”
Boris and his men traded glances, their heads turning in every direction. “He’s not bluffing, Nadia.”
At this hour, the bar was filled with the criminal element. Drug dealers, thieves and prostitutes. And the setting was becoming more fluid. From the shadows of the darkly lit room, Isakov saw movement. Pyotr Stanislaw—a lieutenant in the Polish Army—rose slowly from his table and edged out onto the floor. On the opposite end, more men stood, concealing their flanks, arms hanging loosely at their sides.
There was a wild look in Nadia Kolvec’ eyes. She kept them on Neill and seemed frozen. Etched on her face was a cold determination; a boiling anger intent on recovering control. This was not what she and Boris had planned. The reward was out of the question now, but escape was still a possibility. As the bar’s ‘patrons’ circled closer, she decided it was time to change the circumstances.
It was time for a distraction.
“Da svedanya, Capitan.”
The .38’s report was much louder than expected, but it did the trick. The first round struck Neill center mass. The second went high, over his shoulder, striking the far wall. Neill fell back and landed on the bar room floor. Nadia thought to fire again, but Boris grabbed her arm and pulled her away. His henchmen brought up machine pistols—one held an Uzi—and began to fire into the air, inciting chaos. There were screams and the clattering of chairs as customers began a frantic search for cover...
The earpiece crackled, and the voice asked the question for a second time. Sitting at the bar, the man in the leather jacket sipped his drink and smiled. Directly in front of him was a mirror, and his reflection stared back with no small measure of confidence—and an abundance of resolve.
“An American died for this treaty, Dmitri; let’s make sure his sacrifice counts,” the Ukrainian breathed. “Besides, it’s a little late to back out now.” His tone suggested a smooth, experienced disposition, but the reality went much deeper than that, touching instead on the spiritual. He stared at the glass in his hand. “How do you drink this stuff?”
Again, the wireless device sounded deep within his ear. “It’s an acquired taste, Oleg.” Dmitri Yaroslav enunciated carefully. He had trained himself to use that name only. “Was it expensive?”
The Ukrainian frowned. “Twenty hryvnia,” he answered. “Why?”
“Cheap stuff,” Dmitri snorted. “Drink it slowly. The alcohol content is probably more than you’re used to.”
“Don’t make fun,” Oleg warned. “When this is all over, I’ll buy you a round.”
“Ya viddayu perevahu pivo, tavarisch,” Dmitri shot back. I prefer beer. A case officer with Ukraine’s security services, Yaroslav was a native of Kiev, and his accent confirmed it. “Is Pyotr in place?”
“He’s in a booth,” Oleg replied, “nursing a whiskey.”
Dmitri’s voice rose slightly. “And our other friends?”
The frown gave way to a smile. “They’re close.”
“Very well,” Yaroslav sighed. “Now stay sharp—your contacts are just coming in.”
“So I see.”
The conversation ceased. Boris Isakov has arrived, the Ukrainian thought silently, with a bit of eye candy on his arm, it would seem.
The Ukrainian stared ahead. He never turned, but his eyes followed three men and a woman as they entered the bar. Each man was turned out in a dark suit; the woman wore a short, black skirt, split on one side with a scalloped neckline. She was clearly proud of her long legs—among her other ample assets—and Oleg allowed himself a moment to take in her beauty.
He identified her instantly, having seen her photograph during the morning briefing. Nadia Kolvec was Boris’s consort and technical associate, serving as the Russian’s number one. And Nadia wasn’t just a pretty face; she was suspected in the deaths of two Ukrainian police officers. Dmitri recognized her as well. He was growing nervous, but kept his emotions in check.
The group of four began the long walk from the entrance to Oleg’s stool. Two of the men peeled off, taking positions at each end of the bar. Boris moved casually to Oleg’s three o’clock, awkwardly close. A tactical consideration, the Ukrainian mused; most shooters were right-handed, and Boris must have felt that planting himself there would give him an advantage, should gun-play break out.
“Oleg Kerensky?” Boris muttered. He sounded perturbed, upset that Oleg hadn’t spoken first.
“Oleg Avarysius Kerensky.” He never looked up, but scrutinized the woman’s features as she found a seat. The bartender instinctively stayed away. “Boris Isakov?”
A grunt; there would be very little in the way of pleasantries. “Are you ready to do business?”
“What’s your hurry?” Kerensky paused for effect. “I am ready to consider doing business,” he answered. “And what of you? Did you bring the sale item?” Merchandise sounded so cliché, and trite terminology was something the Ukrainian wanted to avoid.
“Possibly,” Isakov hedged. “Are you armed?”
Oleg laughed softly, and then lowered his voice. “Of course I’m armed; I have a Glock on my right hip. And we all know your men are carrying.”
Boris raised an eyebrow. His precautions would do him little good; Kerensky might, under ideal circumstances—circumstances that favored him—draw a bead before the Russian could pin his shooting arm.
“Let’s keep things civil, Boris,” Oleg advised. An admiring glance went to the lady, but he displayed more interest than he really felt. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Nadia Kolvec, my chief of staff,” Isakov answered smugly. “You may look, Oleg Avarysius Kerensky—just don’t touch.”
The Ukrainian’s eyes bored into Nadia’s. He wore a four day-growth of beard and drew a hand across his chin. “You have property I covet, Boris. But I have no interest in your woman.”
“A pity.” Nadia was not one for wasting words, and Oleg saw her smile. She liked what she saw, and if conditions were different, she would have enjoyed this handsome foreigner.
Game on, Kerensky decided.
For the first time Oleg turned his face toward the Russian mafia boss. “Shall we commence the transaction?”
“Now who is in a hurry?” There was an edge in his voice, but Isakov seemed to relax. “I require more confirmation. How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Oleg heaved a sigh. “Let me put your concerns at ease, Pan Isakov. You received a promise of payment—a back channel pledge of reward. You came here expecting to find Oleg Kerensky, and here I am. I was told to meet with Boris Isakov, and here you are. For my part I represent the Polish government, and they are very eager to know your employer.”
“But you’re Ukrainian,” Boris deflected.
“That is correct.”
“And you don’t like Russians, do you, Kerensky?”
An odd statement, Oleg thought. He gave Isakov an icy stare. “They have not been kind to my family, no.”
Boris’s eyes narrowed. “Why is Dobrogost so interested in what I have to sell?” He was fishing.
Oleg shrugged and wore a tired look. “His role in this has been withheld from me.”
That much was probably true, Boris considered. Damning evidence of any kind would be compartmentalized, and not even the messenger would be privy to the details. But Isakov wasn’t through yet.
“And why send a Ukrainian to broker the deal?”
“So many questions, tavarisch.” Oleg allowed his gaze to fall on the woman’s legs. Nadia Kolvec was undeniably beautiful. “Why hire a Russian to fence the sale item? And why here, on Ukrainian soil?”
The turnabout was unexpected, but Boris was quick to answer. “Probably so that no one party has the advantage.”
Oleg nodded. “A fair assumption.” Easy now, he cautioned himself. “And how do you know I’m Ukrainian?”
“Your accent. You are from Kiev.” That was also true, but there was so much more to Oleg than met the ear.
“I was born not far from here,” he answered truthfully. “If that is not enough, I can tell you more—my village, the names of the schools I attended. Anything you like—but I should warn you. Your resistance to this arbitration is embarrassing the lady.”
Boris reddened, but Oleg’s prodding had the desired effect. For all his protestations, Isakov was being drawn in to this charade. The Russian turned to his left and nodded, bringing one of his associates from the far end of the bar. As he approached, the man retrieved something from his coat pocket.
“A padlock storage device,” Oleg observed. “You take security very seriously, my Russian friend.”
“All in the name of protection,” Boris answered. “Do you know what’s on this drive?”
He shrugged it off. “Does it matter what I know?”
Isakov pursed his lips. “It would matter to me—if my life was on the line.”
There was an interested light in Nadia Kolvec’ eyes. “I think Gospodin Kerensky knows exactly what’s on the drive.” She smiled, and the intensity behind it was more than alarming. “Don’t you, Oleg?”
“Steady,” Dmitri’s voice whispered in Kerensky’s ear. “Something just happened—don’t let them put you on the defensive.”
The Ukrainian kept his cool and decided honesty was the best policy. “Details of the new Polish defense shield,” Oleg answered quietly. “Firewall protocols for the software; I am no expert in this new digital age, but in the wrong hands, the warheads of SMOOTH STONE could be rendered inert—”
“—allowing my country to decimate anyone who stands in our way,” Boris announced.
Oleg smiled again. “Are you a patriot, Boris Isakov?”
“More like a venture capitalist,” the Russian replied. “If I were a patriot, I wouldn’t be selling it back.” He turned the drive over in his hands. “But this seems a fool’s errand. The Poles could just as easily reconfigure the codes and protect the missiles’ integrity.”
“They already have.” Kerensky smiled broadly, the dimple in his left cheek barely visible beneath the stubble.
“So what’s the point of all this?” Boris asked.
Nadia stirred atop the barstool, crossing her legs and allowing the hem of her skirt to ride higher. “To entrap those who stole the codes,” she purred. From her clutch she withdrew a revolver and leveled it at the Ukrainian’s chest. “Put the drive away, Boris.”
“That’s not very friendly,” Oleg said evenly. The pistol was close enough that she wouldn’t miss. “And I thought the two of us were getting on so well.”
Nadia continued to stare but said nothing. She reached out, squeezing Oleg’s thighs.
“What’s going on?” Dmitri’s voice came again. “I don’t like this.”
“Looking for something, Pana Kolvec?” Oleg asked.
“Firearms,” she answered. Her hand moved forward.
“Easy, Nadia,” Kerensky’s voice nearly caught in his throat. “You won’t find any there.”
Smiling wickedly, she ignored Oleg’s warning and tightened her grip. “Look closely, Boris.” Her palm lingered before grasping Oleg’s Glock. She worked it free and laid it in her lap. “Don’t you recognize him?”
He was confused, but Isakov trusted the woman’s judgment. A hand went into his jacket, and the bodyguards assumed a more defensive posture.
“This is the champion of Poland’s agreement with the west,” Nadia continued. “The American Marine turned diplomat—Captain Neill, is it?”
“If you say so,” Kerensky smiled
“You’re sure—an American?” Boris asked. “His command of the language—”
Nadia sighed heavily. “Try watching the news, Boris. He’s a bit scruffy—but it’s definitely him.” She lowered herself slowly to the floor, eyeing the four corners of the bar. “I think it’s time we leave.”
Boris’s own sidearm was on full display now. “There’s an exit in the rear—”
“—and we’ll take Capitan Neill with us,” Nadia licked her lips, “to ensure a safe departure.” The revolver was still pointed at Neill’s chest. “There’s a price on his head in Moscow.”
“On my head?” The Marine feigned surprise. “I’m flattered—but I think I like it right here. Besides, my friends would hate to see me go.”
Boris and his men traded glances, their heads turning in every direction. “He’s not bluffing, Nadia.”
At this hour, the bar was filled with the criminal element. Drug dealers, thieves and prostitutes. And the setting was becoming more fluid. From the shadows of the darkly lit room, Isakov saw movement. Pyotr Stanislaw—a lieutenant in the Polish Army—rose slowly from his table and edged out onto the floor. On the opposite end, more men stood, concealing their flanks, arms hanging loosely at their sides.
There was a wild look in Nadia Kolvec’ eyes. She kept them on Neill and seemed frozen. Etched on her face was a cold determination; a boiling anger intent on recovering control. This was not what she and Boris had planned. The reward was out of the question now, but escape was still a possibility. As the bar’s ‘patrons’ circled closer, she decided it was time to change the circumstances.
It was time for a distraction.
“Da svedanya, Capitan.”
The .38’s report was much louder than expected, but it did the trick. The first round struck Neill center mass. The second went high, over his shoulder, striking the far wall. Neill fell back and landed on the bar room floor. Nadia thought to fire again, but Boris grabbed her arm and pulled her away. His henchmen brought up machine pistols—one held an Uzi—and began to fire into the air, inciting chaos. There were screams and the clattering of chairs as customers began a frantic search for cover...
Excerpt from 'Eye of Charybdis', part II
Far to the northeast, fog covered the Commander Islands, a normal occurrence during the summer season. Bering and Medny lie in the shadow of Kamchatka, and while part of the Aleutians, these narrow spits of land were claimed by the Soviet Union.
The hunter was exhausted. Using an alternating rhythm, he drove his oar down and back, propelling the hide-covered baidarka forward. He was called Anax, but that was just an abbreviated form of a much longer name. To his people he was known as Katmai, a title that brought to mind images of snow-swept Alaskan plains and the brown bears that lived near the top of the world.
Katmai and his tribe were Aleut, a label supplied long ago by the Russian pelt and fur traders of the eighteenth century, but the islanders themselves preferred a different appellation, Unangan—meaning ‘seasiders’ or ‘original people’. This was a nod to their way of life.
Despite their hearty constitutions, the Unangan had suffered under Russian influence. Disease brought by outsiders ravaged the population, a consequence not uncommon when two diverse peoples were met. Exploitation and hardship imposed by the trading company—again, a Russian entity—also took their toll. Not even the Unangan homes were sacred; in ages past, the consortium had uprooted entire families, relocating them to the Commanders as little more than slave labor—
Katmai shook off the fatigue gnawing at his bones. The gale sent spray into his face, and salt stung his struggling eyes. He had rowed twenty-five kilometers south of Bering Island, the largest in the Commander Chain, and now, thankfully, he was almost home again. He had little to show for his efforts. It was unseasonably cold—too much so, in fact, to hunt or fish, or be successful at either—and the shoals of the treeless archipelago were a welcome sight.
To the west, a pod of six orcas harassed a bowhead whale. Katmai watched but felt no fear. These powerful beasts were his brothers, and were much more interested in prey below the waves. At length the bowhead broke the surface for air, but the killers’ tactics proved their intellect. Swarming the victim, the orcas piled on, covering the larger animal’s blowhole. She could do little more than fight for her own survival, leaving her newborn calf to fend for itself. Even Katmai felt pity, but the outcome was nature’s way, and sunset would find the pod with full bellies.
The sudden change in weather took him by surprise, and Katmai tried to make sense of it all. One day earlier he had stood on the roof of his house, tasting the morning air and reading the winds. No warning touched his senses. The sky was clear and the sea calm. There was nothing above or below to suggest the threat of an impending storm. Only one explanation remained, and Katmai knew what that was.
He had begun his journey shortly after sunrise, embarking on a simple hunting trip, but the Spirits had other plans. They had drawn him away for another purpose—to bear witness to a spectacle no one else had laid eyes on.
Katmai almost missed it. The humidity contributed to that. The last bands of fog hugging the Commanders billowed south, following the warm currents fed by volcanism below the waves. It was the Unangan’s keen hearing that alerted him first. A deep and constant roar sounded from the west, muffled by the mists hanging low on the horizon. He thought it to be a ship at first, and then his eyesight was challenged. A broad, dull shape stretched across his field of vision—darker than the fog roiling around him—and in an instant, the winged monster ripped through the vapors masking its approach.
He had never seen anything like it. Massive in size, its speed was like something from a dream. Flying at sea level, just above the water’s surface, it was visible for scant seconds, with what appeared to be huge horns on either side of its head. The hunter felt a crushing pressure, and passing in front of him, the beast’s breath and forward momentum threatened to capsize the small kayak. Had he been just a dozen yards closer, Katmai would have been swept away.
An ear-splitting voice rose in pain as the monster skimmed the waves, and then came the sound of the sea entering the beast’s throat. A wrenching din filled the air; Katmai likened it to the cry of a dying animal, and then his view was hidden once more by the veil covering the waters like a shroud.
Blue and green lightning erupted behind the shifting cloud bank. An intense flash of orange appeared briefly before being snuffed out by the combers washing over it. Katmai could hear the leviathan’s death throes as air escaped its lungs and was replaced with brine, and then all was quiet as the beast was claimed by the sea and slid reluctantly below the waves.
• • • •
The drones were gone now.
Seventy-five kilometers to the northeast, five Czech-designed Delphin trainers left the skies above the Pacific and returned to the mainland. These planes were old and unmanned, piloted by aviators in metal trailers at a ground station nestled in the Koryakskiy Mountains. The location was austere, and one of the last outposts in the far-flung Eastern reaches of a country that spanned eleven time zones.
The first aircraft suffered a glitch, and lost contact with its control beacon before falling into the Aleutian Basin. Crews manning radar screens ashore were amused; it was an inconsequential loss, as scores of the simple jets were in service, and it was difficult enough to keep them aloft with a pilot on board—much less without one. And besides, this fixed-wing sortie was never intended to return.
The last four birds came in without incident, circling the airstrip and brushing the narrow runway one at a time before taxiing to an old hangar at the far end of the field. Air traffic controllers in the tower—the top floor of a simple three-story construct—considered letting the Delphin flight expend their fuel supplies and ditch in the sea, but the next test might come sooner rather than later, and it was decided to let the planes land and fly another day.
But that was not the original plan ...
• • • •
Katmai steered away from the angry waters and pointed the baidarka north. He rowed through the night, his strength waning, his arms and shoulders taut as the storm began to build. By dawn the fog had long since lifted, and the breakers fought against him, becoming gray and lifeless as he drew closer to the shoreline of Bering Island.
The Unangan snorted under his breath. He knew why the ocean paled. The sea had been disturbed, and digesting the mortal remains of the beast had soured her belly. Not everything was meant for the dark halls of the ocean floor, and there were many things, some evil, that would never find rest there.
In time, Katmai retrieved the seal bladders he’d left behind to mark his path. His actions had become rote. The sun hid its face, and he was chilled to the bone and numb from his experience. In the solitude of the return trip, the hunter tried to shut out the memory of the monster that had nearly claimed his life. He had no interest in sharing his story with anyone. Ultimately, he would speak of what he had seen to only one soul.
Some would see his encounter as simply happenstance. Others would view it through a different lens and call it Providential. It never occurred to Katmai that he had been singled out for a greater purpose, and that one day the account of his voyage might save lives.
The hunter harbored a secret. The sea did likewise, but that was the way of things. Something so vast could do no less, and was the perfect place for concealment. The ocean floor was the abode of riddles. Far below the surface, the unyielding depths held many mysteries.
Now they contained one more.
The hunter was exhausted. Using an alternating rhythm, he drove his oar down and back, propelling the hide-covered baidarka forward. He was called Anax, but that was just an abbreviated form of a much longer name. To his people he was known as Katmai, a title that brought to mind images of snow-swept Alaskan plains and the brown bears that lived near the top of the world.
Katmai and his tribe were Aleut, a label supplied long ago by the Russian pelt and fur traders of the eighteenth century, but the islanders themselves preferred a different appellation, Unangan—meaning ‘seasiders’ or ‘original people’. This was a nod to their way of life.
Despite their hearty constitutions, the Unangan had suffered under Russian influence. Disease brought by outsiders ravaged the population, a consequence not uncommon when two diverse peoples were met. Exploitation and hardship imposed by the trading company—again, a Russian entity—also took their toll. Not even the Unangan homes were sacred; in ages past, the consortium had uprooted entire families, relocating them to the Commanders as little more than slave labor—
Katmai shook off the fatigue gnawing at his bones. The gale sent spray into his face, and salt stung his struggling eyes. He had rowed twenty-five kilometers south of Bering Island, the largest in the Commander Chain, and now, thankfully, he was almost home again. He had little to show for his efforts. It was unseasonably cold—too much so, in fact, to hunt or fish, or be successful at either—and the shoals of the treeless archipelago were a welcome sight.
To the west, a pod of six orcas harassed a bowhead whale. Katmai watched but felt no fear. These powerful beasts were his brothers, and were much more interested in prey below the waves. At length the bowhead broke the surface for air, but the killers’ tactics proved their intellect. Swarming the victim, the orcas piled on, covering the larger animal’s blowhole. She could do little more than fight for her own survival, leaving her newborn calf to fend for itself. Even Katmai felt pity, but the outcome was nature’s way, and sunset would find the pod with full bellies.
The sudden change in weather took him by surprise, and Katmai tried to make sense of it all. One day earlier he had stood on the roof of his house, tasting the morning air and reading the winds. No warning touched his senses. The sky was clear and the sea calm. There was nothing above or below to suggest the threat of an impending storm. Only one explanation remained, and Katmai knew what that was.
He had begun his journey shortly after sunrise, embarking on a simple hunting trip, but the Spirits had other plans. They had drawn him away for another purpose—to bear witness to a spectacle no one else had laid eyes on.
Katmai almost missed it. The humidity contributed to that. The last bands of fog hugging the Commanders billowed south, following the warm currents fed by volcanism below the waves. It was the Unangan’s keen hearing that alerted him first. A deep and constant roar sounded from the west, muffled by the mists hanging low on the horizon. He thought it to be a ship at first, and then his eyesight was challenged. A broad, dull shape stretched across his field of vision—darker than the fog roiling around him—and in an instant, the winged monster ripped through the vapors masking its approach.
He had never seen anything like it. Massive in size, its speed was like something from a dream. Flying at sea level, just above the water’s surface, it was visible for scant seconds, with what appeared to be huge horns on either side of its head. The hunter felt a crushing pressure, and passing in front of him, the beast’s breath and forward momentum threatened to capsize the small kayak. Had he been just a dozen yards closer, Katmai would have been swept away.
An ear-splitting voice rose in pain as the monster skimmed the waves, and then came the sound of the sea entering the beast’s throat. A wrenching din filled the air; Katmai likened it to the cry of a dying animal, and then his view was hidden once more by the veil covering the waters like a shroud.
Blue and green lightning erupted behind the shifting cloud bank. An intense flash of orange appeared briefly before being snuffed out by the combers washing over it. Katmai could hear the leviathan’s death throes as air escaped its lungs and was replaced with brine, and then all was quiet as the beast was claimed by the sea and slid reluctantly below the waves.
• • • •
The drones were gone now.
Seventy-five kilometers to the northeast, five Czech-designed Delphin trainers left the skies above the Pacific and returned to the mainland. These planes were old and unmanned, piloted by aviators in metal trailers at a ground station nestled in the Koryakskiy Mountains. The location was austere, and one of the last outposts in the far-flung Eastern reaches of a country that spanned eleven time zones.
The first aircraft suffered a glitch, and lost contact with its control beacon before falling into the Aleutian Basin. Crews manning radar screens ashore were amused; it was an inconsequential loss, as scores of the simple jets were in service, and it was difficult enough to keep them aloft with a pilot on board—much less without one. And besides, this fixed-wing sortie was never intended to return.
The last four birds came in without incident, circling the airstrip and brushing the narrow runway one at a time before taxiing to an old hangar at the far end of the field. Air traffic controllers in the tower—the top floor of a simple three-story construct—considered letting the Delphin flight expend their fuel supplies and ditch in the sea, but the next test might come sooner rather than later, and it was decided to let the planes land and fly another day.
But that was not the original plan ...
• • • •
Katmai steered away from the angry waters and pointed the baidarka north. He rowed through the night, his strength waning, his arms and shoulders taut as the storm began to build. By dawn the fog had long since lifted, and the breakers fought against him, becoming gray and lifeless as he drew closer to the shoreline of Bering Island.
The Unangan snorted under his breath. He knew why the ocean paled. The sea had been disturbed, and digesting the mortal remains of the beast had soured her belly. Not everything was meant for the dark halls of the ocean floor, and there were many things, some evil, that would never find rest there.
In time, Katmai retrieved the seal bladders he’d left behind to mark his path. His actions had become rote. The sun hid its face, and he was chilled to the bone and numb from his experience. In the solitude of the return trip, the hunter tried to shut out the memory of the monster that had nearly claimed his life. He had no interest in sharing his story with anyone. Ultimately, he would speak of what he had seen to only one soul.
Some would see his encounter as simply happenstance. Others would view it through a different lens and call it Providential. It never occurred to Katmai that he had been singled out for a greater purpose, and that one day the account of his voyage might save lives.
The hunter harbored a secret. The sea did likewise, but that was the way of things. Something so vast could do no less, and was the perfect place for concealment. The ocean floor was the abode of riddles. Far below the surface, the unyielding depths held many mysteries.
Now they contained one more.
