Goliath

Mitchell sat there, growing colder by the minute; his breath hung in the air while internally he stewed about his inability to do anything, as the first nuclear bomb was securely placed on the trailer at the back of his ATV and then quickly covered with an old canvas tarp. Two men in grungy-looking blue coveralls, led by a thin man wearing an old red baseball cap, jumped in beside Mitchell. Turning the engine over, the driver moved the ATV slowly to the tunnel entrance. Mitchell stared into the darkness. The ATV parked just inside the tunnel. The man with the red baseball cap got out of the vehicle and moved back beside the bomb. Mitchell could see that he was checking and re-checking a box on the top of the bomb, which he surmised was an electronic arming device.

  A few seconds later, Mitchell heard a Jeep pulling up. He turned his head and saw Romanov and his daughter Alexandra get out. Accompanied by several bodyguards, Romanov strode over and stopped beside the bomb with a smug look of satisfaction etched on his face.

  “Still confused as to what is going on, Mister Mitchell?” asked Romanov.

  “No, not at all,” replied Mitchell, turning his head to get a better look at Romanov’s arrogant face. “If you are planning on doing what I think you are, then you intend to detonate these nuclear bombs inside the volcano in order to trigger a massive landslide that will send a mega-tsunami of almost unbelievable destructive power hurtling straight at the shores of Europe; to be precise, toward the United Kingdom and Norway.”

  Romanov clapped his hands. “I should have hired you instead of some of my other people. Not only are you an unbelievable irritant, but you are also quite intelligent, Mister Mitchell. Not at all what I would have expected from a man who works for a glorified security guard company.”

  “I’m flattered by the offer. But the fact of the matter is that I don’t work for psychos. Also, I watched a special on the Discovery Channel about mega-tsunamis last month, so I’m not actually all that bright.”

  A look of disgust flared in Romanov’s eyes at Mitchell’s insolent remarks. He took a deep breath and continued. “Just think about it for a moment, Mister Mitchell. When the bombs go off, they will superheat the ice trapped in the rocks throughout the eastern face of this volcano, causing it to tear itself apart in a spectacular explosion that will be heard around the world. I have been assured by my experts that something in the order of twenty cubic kilometers of rock, the equivalent of—”

  “Five hundred billion metric tons,” said Mitchell, interrupting Romanov’s thought.

  “Yes, of course. Five hundred billion metric tons will, within seconds, drop straight down into the Atlantic Ocean, causing a massive tidal wave to begin. In less than four hours, a wave up to one hundred meters high, traveling at close to eight hundred kilometers an hour, will hit western Norway and Scotland. The destructive power of all that water should travel for tens of kilometers inland before the wave finally dies out. I expect that at least five million people will die from the tsunami, but that is not the best part. The wave will then race down the North Sea between Norway and Great Britain, destroying every oil rig from here to the coast of the Netherlands. The entire oil-producing capacity of Western Europe will be eliminated in a single day. With winter gripping Europe, they will naturally turn to Russia to give them what they need, or face freezing in the dark. A Russia, I might add, that will be led by me in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Mitchell had thoroughly misjudged the man’s megalomania. “Okay, I’m impressed. So how much will it cost the West for you to not explode your bombs?”

  Romanov laughed loudly, as if Mitchell had just told a good joke. “No, Mister Mitchell, it is all far too late for that. As we speak, your vice president is on his way to meet me at my yacht to discuss my orderly transition into power as the next President of Russia. Naturally, I will agree to his more than generous offer of support. Unfortunately, just before I can assume power, rogue rebel forces will detonate these bombs, thereby crippling the West for decades. However, my first act in power will be to set things right, by handing back to the people the newly discovered crown jewels of Russia and accepting their invitation to become its ruler. After that, through an undisclosed, but thoroughly reliable source, I will leak to the Americans where the hidden rebel bases are. Within hours, planes from the mighty U.S. Navy, with token Russian military support, will crush the remaining rebels, thereby allowing my family to assume control over a major portion of the world’s oil supply, which I will then sell to the West for a phenomenal profit.”

  “You do realize that this blast will be thoroughly investigated, and the radiation signature on this island will be detected. Each one is unique; you do understand that, don’t you?” said Mitchell. “They will eventually trace it back to you.”

  “Mister Mitchell, your State Department has by now been informed of the theft of two South African nuclear bombs by an unknown terror organization. I made sure that sufficient information was leaked to tie the theft to one of the more radical nationalist groups tearing Russia apart right now. In the post-9/11 world, a state of paranoia has probably already set in. I must admit that you and your government are so predictable.”

  Mitchell shook his head in disgust. “Why the hell are you doing this?”

  Romanov stepped close so he could look deep into Mitchell’s eyes. “Because I can, that is why.”

  Mitchell had heard enough. Like a coiled cobra he struck, shooting his head forward and smashing his forehead down onto Romanov’s nose, shattering it and sending blood gushing down his surprised victim’s face.

  A rifle butt flew into Mitchell’s head, snapping it back. Stars filled his eyes; his vision blurred for a moment, but thankfully, this time he did not blackout.

  Romanov staggered away from Mitchell, his jacket covered in a slick patch of his own blood.

  “Bastard!” screamed Alexandra, as she grabbed hold of her pistol, pulled back on the slide, and aimed it at Mitchell’s head.

  Mitchell sat there, staring into the cold, dark eyes of Alexandra Romanov, waiting for the gun to go off.

  “No, not that way,” said an enraged Romanov, as he wiped the blood off his face with a white silk handkerchief. “I want him to agonize over the fact that there is nothing he can do to prevent the inevitable. Cuff him to the bomb,” ordered Romanov.

  Hands reached out and manhandled Mitchell away from the ATV and onto the trailer. Seconds later, he was cuffed to a railing running down the side of the bomb.

  “If he even so much as blinks, kill him,” snarled Romanov, as he walked back to his Jeep, got in, and drove to his waiting helicopter.

  39