Once the delegation’s security men killed the last of the Dragons sent down into the dam complex, deputy plant operator Martin Mensah hurried across the generator gallery and entered a set of double doors on the other side. The entire entourage followed him, ARSO Chad Larsen shadowing him closely with his gun up, protecting him like a vigilant bodyguard because he knew that keeping this man alive to direct them was their only ticket out of here.
They spent the following few minutes moving through the depths of the construction, traveling past, under, and over piping, encountering rooms full of monitoring and control systems. The entourage moved on, until finally Mensah stopped at an elevator bank and pressed a button. He turned to the others. “These elevators are large, but it’s going to take at least three trips with this many people.”
Nichole heard this, then rushed forward to the regional security officer. “What about Josh?”
Costa said, “Josh didn’t need us to come down here and rescue him. He’ll get himself out of here once he gets the detonator.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Josh’s job,” Costa interrupted, “is to protect the ambo. It’s my job, too. You just need to let us both do what we’re here to do, and trust him to succeed.”
Dunnigan was covered in sweat, small blood splatters dotted her face, and her eyes remained slightly dilated. Still, she said, “If he’s not up there, then we need to come back and get him.”
Costa did not respond to this, but Nichole registered the look on his face. They would not be coming back down for him.
President Amanor, however, did speak. “How long until the elevator arrives?”
Mensah said, “It’s thirty-five floors, sir. If the car is at the top of the dam, it will be here in about two minutes.”
Nichole was certain two minutes would feel like a lifetime.
She looked back up the hall, her gun in her hand. She thought about going it alone, hunting for Josh down here in the bowels of this big and confusing place, but she didn’t think about it for long. Her brain quickly reasoned that Josh’s chances of getting out of here were better than her chances of finding him and providing more help than hindrance.
No, the only thing she could do was pray that once she got up to the surface she’d find her husband there, mission accomplished and waiting on them.
Lev Belov was in good condition for forty-eight years old, but the last hour had been one hell of a bitch on his body. He was exhausted, moving slower than he would have liked. The body armor, the rifle, the big battle belt around his waist: everything seemed to be working against him as he climbed ladder after ladder, heading towards the top of the dam. He’d made it over thirty stories, however, and he knew in minutes he’d be outside in the evening and in contact with his Sentinel commander.
He took a moment to catch his breath and, as he did so, heard the unmistakable sound of someone climbing below him, audible even over the rumbling of equipment and water gushing over the spillway outside. Quickly he spun around, aimed his weapon awkwardly, but the steep ladderlike stairs didn’t afford him a view of anything more than the landing ten meters down.
The footsteps were slow and careful, a lighter touch than his own, as if the person walking below Belov was aware of his presence up here.
He heard just one individual, and he considered waiting for whomever the hell this was to make it up here so he could shoot him, but instead he decided to continue on, to hurry his pace, and get to the surface. There, in the small concrete structure on top of the dam that housed the elevator and the ladder, he could find real cover and drop his pursuer with ease as whoever it was climbed out of the ladder well.
The Sentinel operator pulled himself onwards with his free hand and both legs, ignoring the fatigue, telling himself he needed to put some distance between him and the man below so he’d have time to find a good position.
One floor below the top, however, Belov realized there was a problem. It was dark above him, whereas the rest of the ladder well had been well lit, and the steep metal ladder had bits of debris on it, masonry that crunched under his boots.
He climbed out of the ladder well, and his heart sank. This concrete shack was partially destroyed, there was a round hole in the roof above him about a meter in diameter, and the metal door to the left, in front of the elevator, was blocked by heavy broken cinder blocks that had come from the roof and upper walls. The hole in the roof could be climbed out of by stacking bricks and stepping on them, but anyone trying this would be exposed to the ladder well, from where Belov knew an enemy approached.
He realized it was likely Tremaine’s mortar that had caused this damage, and since he couldn’t climb out via the hole in the roof, all he could do now to get out of here was to start the slow and arduous process of moving the debris from the door.
He shattered the one bare lightbulb still working above the elevator shaft door, lowered his rifle, and pulled his pistol, keeping it aimed generally at the exit to the ladder well. Then he got to work with his free hand, tossing masonry and concrete cinder blocks across the room to free the door.
Josh Duffy was fucking wiped out after climbing up thirty-four stories; his face was covered in sweat, and the stump on his left leg hurt because he’d not properly reattached his prosthesis after his stunt in the elevator, but his hearing had cleared enough for him to know he was no more than one floor below a man wearing a lot of gear who was struggling to get up and out of the dam.
This was his target, he was sure of it, so he pulled himself up with his legs and his left hand while his right hand held the Beretta pistol he’d taken from the elevator. Keeping his rifle hanging behind his back now, muzzle down where he could sweep it up quickly, aided him in his climb, and the pistol was his protection in case he heard the man stop.
But if Duff could hear the man above, it was highly likely the man above could hear him as well. This was a chase that was going to end in violence, Duff was sure, but all he cared about was the computer with the detonation codes, so he kept his careful but steady pace.
But then, after rounding yet another landing with his gun hand high, he came to an abrupt stop. It was darker at the landing above, and though Duff couldn’t see it, he could tell his enemy had reached the exit.
But instead of the man simply walking away, it sounded as if he was hefting stones or bricks and then tossing them onto the floor.
Duff lowered to his knees, holstered the pistol, and raised his rifle. Wiping sweat from his eyes, he began crawling up the ladder slowly now, step by step, trying to be as quiet as possible.
He made it near the landing, then considered rising, stepping the one rung up, and then spinning around to fire above, but he realized he couldn’t tell exactly what was going on. Surely the man had a gun aimed down here; Duff knew he hadn’t been quiet enough to escape detection.
No, stepping into the line of fire wasn’t the right call. It sounded like the man was stuck, at least temporarily, so Duff decided on another tack.
Belov tossed a concrete block out of the way of the door, which he could now see was itself damaged, wedged into the frame and dented with shrapnel. He grabbed another piece of material and threw it, then another.
He had to get a few more big pieces out of the way to even try the door, but before he could do so, he heard a shout from below him.
A man spoke English with an American accent. “Having some trouble up there?”
Belov furrowed his eyebrows and paused from his work for a moment, but then he got back to moving rubble. As he did so he said, “Nothing I cannot handle. You are the one in trouble, American.”
The voice called back a moment later. “You’re Wagner Africa Corps? Working with an indigenous rebel force?”
Belov kept working, and soon he heard the man speak again. “Wait…no…that’s not it, is it? I know who you’re working for.”
Belov sniffed, grabbed another broken piece of masonry, and tossed it away from the door.
The American below him shouted up. “You’re not Wagner. Not anymore. You’re Sentinel, aren’t you?”
Josh Duffy kept his rifle pointing at the corner of the landing, waiting for a response. He’d remembered what the odd CIA man had told him at the party in the French ambassador’s residence about the commander of Sentinel and Duff’s old nemesis being seen in nearby Togo. Now it all made sense. He decided to go for broke. “You’re with Conrad Tremaine.”
Duff heard the movement of the rubble stop above him. The Russian did not call back down, and Duff took the lack of reply as an answer in itself.
He pressed his luck. “You planned on killing the president but failed. You planned on blowing the dam, but you can’t get out of here to do it, can you?”
It was quiet for a moment more, and then the man above him fired a shot down the ladder. He didn’t have an angle on Duff, however, and the bullet slammed into the wall at the landing.
Duff realized he’d been right not to turn the corner. The Russian above might have his attention divided between protecting himself and working on getting out, but he had enough attention focused on the man below him to be dangerous.
Duff said, “That gunshot sounded like desperation. Your day not going the way you’d planned?” When he heard no response, he said, “Look, man. I know Tremaine. He’ll sell you out, one way or the other. You better have that trigger in your possession, because if it’s already in his hands, then he won’t think twice about blowing your ass up along with the rest of us.”
Now the man above spoke. “I have the detonation device, and I’m going to blow you to hell.”
Duff replied. “The way you’re slinging those stones, you sound to me like a man who wants to live to spend the money he’s making. You aren’t going to blow the dam till you’re off the dam, and I’m not going to let you out of here.”
The Russian laughed loudly. “Stick your head around that wall and try and stop me.”
Duff ducked his head around quickly, then looked up at the small building, the hole in the roof.
He retracted himself back to safety just before a gunshot cracked; the bullet ricocheted off the wall within a foot of his face.
Isaac Opoku had the front passenger window of his Toyota pickup down, his AK-47 hanging out and pointing forward as the vehicle raced to the east along the top of the dam.
Behind him two of his men stood in the bed with their own weapons trained on the eastern side of the facility, and three more men waited to jump out and take up defensive positions if this force of RIVCOM men encountered the enemy.
The mortar crew had been up here fifteen minutes ago, but since then the mortars had been silent, and Isaac had no idea if the enemy up here had bugged out or not.
But this question was answered when the windshield cracked between him and his driver, and then a second unmistakable bullet hit the screen pillar that went from the hood to the roof, tearing through the metal with a crunching sound.
Isaac’s driver was a twenty-eight-year-old named Sergeant Arthur, and Arthur got the message the enemy was sending, loud and clear. He jacked the wheel to the left, then raced across the width of the dam road towards the reservoir side, and Isaac heard and felt more rounds slamming into the truck, both in front of him and below him.
Soon, however, they were out of the line of fire, and Arthur bounced off the road and onto a narrow grass strip that led to the edge of the reservoir side of the dam. He positioned his vehicle behind the police station, hopefully out of the line of fire from what sounded like three or four weapons that had opened up on them, and he turned off the machine.
Isaac saw steam rising from the engine, and oil had splattered the windshield.
He climbed out, his borrowed AK-47 in his hands, and looked back at the other vanload of men. The vehicle was right behind his, out of the line of fire from the east, but it was even more shot up than Isaac’s truck.
One RIVCOM man, a corporal who was new to the unit after serving as a police officer in Kumasi, lay on the ground behind the vehicle, two men huddled over him attempting to treat him, though blood gushed from his upper torso. The rest of the men had bailed and now held defensive positions around the side of the police station, their guns sweeping for any targets in that direction.
Arthur shouldered up to Opoku. “Was that the mortar crew using their small arms, or is it a bigger force?”
“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted. “I’ll take five men and try to flank around the rear of the station and the admin building, see if I can come up on them from behind. You hold it down here. There’s a couple more vehicles behind the police station. Once we clear the enemy up here, we’ll bring them back to you.”
“Roger.”
Isaac chose the five men closest to him, and they moved over to the reservoir side of the building, then began heading towards the rear of the police station.
Conrad Tremaine unslung his rifle and climbed into the passenger seat of the Toyota pickup. Krelis was already behind the wheel, and both Junior and Baginski opened the back doors and got in just after their leader sat up front.
They’d fired on the vehicles approaching up the road after confirming this was not the thirty-two-man Dragon platoon Tremaine had called in from the south. These VRA vehicles had to have been the real RIVCOM, so Tremaine had given the order to engage, and then they’d run both vics off the road behind the police station, some one hundred twenty meters away.
Now Tremaine gave the order for Krelis to get them the fuck out of here. He wasn’t sure how many police had been in those two vehicles, but he recognized that they had the will to fight, and that was as important as the sheer number of men and guns they possessed, if not more so. There were only four Sentinel men up here on the dam, Tremaine included, and until Second Platoon arrived, wiped these guys out, and retook the dam, this area wasn’t safe for one pickup truck with only four operators inside.
They raced to the east in the dusky light, heading towards the jungle, and Tremaine hoped to get some high ground on one of the hills there so he could reestablish coms with Belov, because, more than anything else, he needed that fucking computer.
Nichole Duffy found herself in the middle of a tight group of people shuffling out of an elevator car and into a small motor pool garage building about twenty-five yards from the banks of Lake Volta, on the other side of the dam from the power house.
When she got to the exit of the building, she searched the small part of the top of the dam she could see, looking for any evidence of her husband, but she could only make out the tops of buildings; she had no view of the road itself.
Mensah had said there were several elevators and ladder wells that led to different parts of the complex, and Nichole had no idea which one Josh would take, so she hunted for any signs of life among the buildings around her.
But there was nothing—this grouping of structures felt like a ghost town.
Everyone in the joint delegation was told to wait inside the garage, while Julian Delisle tried to pick up the helicopter pilots on his handheld walkie-talkie. He went outside with one of the President’s Own Guard Regiment to do this, leaving the three VIPs, the remaining security, the dam workers, and the other members of the delegation, Nichole included, back inside.
But Nichole tried to make herself useful. She held the Browning pistol in her hand, low and pointed down, as she manned a west-facing window of the motor pool garage, knowing she was the only set of eyes looking in this direction.
It was evening; the light had all but faded in the west, and the area appeared to be abandoned. She marveled at the peaceful setting outside the building. It seemed that the horrific firefight at the power house could not have possibly taken place just a few hundred meters away.
RSO Costa was just a few feet from her, and he pulled his satellite phone out, tried to make a call, then slipped the device back into his pocket.
“Nothing?” she asked.
He shook his head. Softly, he said, “In a million years you won’t be able to convince me that a rebel force in Ghana was able to jam satellite communications.”
Nichole just said, “No way in hell.”
Dunnigan spoke up now. “Russia or China. Place your bets.”
“No question,” Aldenburg said.
Before anyone else chimed in, Julian Delisle walked back inside the building. “I just reached the helo crews on the walkie-talkie. They landed five klicks away to conserve fuel, but they haven’t been able to make comms with anyone else. Only these walkie-talkies are working, and only at short distances.”
RSO Costa was with the ambo, just a few feet away from Nichole. He said, “What are you thinking, Julian?”
Delisle said, “I don’t hear any gunfire, and I don’t hear the mortars. I say we bring the helos in, have them sweep by once. If they don’t take any fire, we go ahead with the extraction.”
Nichole spoke up now. “Have you tried your sat phone?”
Julian nodded. “Still down.”
To this, a member of the President’s Own Guard Regiment said, “We tried ours. Still jammed somehow.”
Nichole looked at the RSO. “Jay, how about I keep trying the phone so you don’t have to worry about it?”
He pulled it out of his pocket. “Why not? That jamming has to stop eventually. Let me know if you reach anyone in Accra.”
She took the phone and stepped a few feet away back to the window, and she did not try Accra. She tried Josh.
Just as the men said, however, there was no signal.