Alaskan Storm (Part 1 of Blood Stone Impact): A Taskforce COBALT Action-Adventure Technothriller Read online

  Kronos Ananthsimha

  Alaskan Storm (Part 1 of Blood Stone Impact)

  A Taskforce COBALT Action-Adventure Technothriller

  First published by KRONOS Books in 2018

  Copyright © Kronos Ananthsimha, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Kronos Ananthsimha asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To my advance readers and everyone who supported me on my journey of writing this book.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Encrypted message board on Prototype Intranet - “Union"(Designed by US DoD)

  Coming Soon...

  Request

  Acknoledgements

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Prologue

  June 1st

  11.45p.m

  Foothills of Mt. Midzor

  Balkan Mountains

  Serbian side of Serbian-Bulgarian border.

  The chilly night felt lonely. Yet there was beauty in this grassy and calm landscape. No signs of settlements or wildlife could be found for miles. The dark cloudy sky was devoid of birds.

  Midzor was the twelfth highest peak in the Balkan range and the second highest in Serbia. It lay just on the South-Eastern border of Serbia and Bulgaria. Grassy meadows went on for long stretches in these foothills. Only one village had graced life on these slopes. As one went higher, the grass turned to rocks and those eventually turned into pines. There weren’t any patches of snow on the foothills on this summer night.

  On its slopes, a young couple hiked carrying enormous backpacks. Their bent backs ached under the weight of their load. Their path didn’t intersect with any settlements. The ruse of being tourists had worked so far. They were on an assignment to collect data covertly.

  Dr. Ashley Campbell, the meteorologist, wore a black pullover and a woolen beanie cap. His wife, Dr. Rachel Campbell had doctorates in both Medieval Archaeology and Historic Languages. She held a flashlight in one hand and a tablet in the other leading the way with its GPS application.

  Being in their mid-thirties, they had a lot to live for and had never been in danger. Their job as consultants for DARPA(Defence Advance Research Projects Agency) was secured by Ashley’s father, General George Campbell, who reigned as the new director of the legendary scientific wing of America’s defense force.

  DARPA was keenly interested in a meteorite which had hit the Baltic mountains during the reign of the ancient Greeks. Due to bureaucracy’s slow process, DARPA hadn’t yet acquired the consent to obtain the mythical “Haemus stone.” So the newly crowned director had sent his own kin as part of an illegitimate operation to secure the stone or at least obtain intelligence about its whereabouts.

  Rachel knew the myths and had guessed why it was called the Haemus stone. There was only one thing that made sense and yet, it was irrational. She chose not to ponder on it as it could be a fairy tale made up by the Greeks. What she was really worried about was that the Ottoman Turks, who had established themselves in this region nearly five hundred and fifty years ago, might have moved it. Legends about this meteorite were spun in the local villages that it could heal any brutal wound attained in battle. If this was true, it wouldn’t just be her employers who would fight to have it.

  On this path she felt purpose rejuvenate her as the myths and lore of this legendary meteorite felt more real by each step. It is said that the Haemus stone goes back to the final fight between the Greek god Zeus and the beast Typhon, where Zeus rained thunderbolts from heaven at the beast. When one of these thunderbolts hit Typhon, his blood fell on this mountain, turning the liquid into this stone. The Balkan range’s ancient name was Haemus which meant blood in Greek.

  Her thoughts were cut short by a sign pinned to a lone tree. Ashley was dumbfounded by its Arabic script and turned to her with a curious look.

  His wife’s face grew stern and she answered, “Don’t worry. It’s just a vile curse that says the following area belongs to the cursed and they’ll rain hell on those they meet.”

  The meteorologist answered, “You’re the one who’s worried.” He let out a sly smile.

  “It’s probably private property belonging to extremists and they want privacy.”

  “And there’s only one way to test their threats. . .”

  He pulled out a Desert Eagle pistol from his backpack and they both moved on. The further they went, the stronger the wind grew. While the wind blew with them, their speed and spirits increased. Going uphill was now easier.

  “The crater’s just a few hundred yards beyond those trees,” said Dr. Rachel as she pointed to a loose group of trees and ran towards them. Her husband cheerfully followed and came to a halt.

  They stood at the edge of a thirty yard wide crater. Many rocks lay scattered in it along with thick tall grass. The grass swayed playfully in the wind.

  Using flashlights, they both checked each rock and its color. None of them were red like the myth. The meteorologist pulled out a Geiger Counter from his backpack and began buzzing the small device around the crater floor. It didn’t show any signs of radiation like they expected. Just as he was about to announce this to his partner, he felt a sensation that made him speechless. Slowly the pain seeped in. He bent to see his hands stained red with warm blood.

  Rachel turned and began to scream at the sight of her husband’s bloody neck. Her mind stopped thinking and went into chaos. Fear gripped her like never before. But her screams weren’t heard by any probable rescuers.

  Ashley’s body began to fall into the silent night. His mind was calm and quiet as he kept staring at his caring wife. When he hit the ground, terror grasped him as he saw a bullet tear through his wife’s abdomen and create a dark red stain around her jacket. That was the last thing he saw.

  But that wasn’t the last thing Rachel felt. The bullet had pierced her spine. Her legs were instantly paralyzed and she dropped down. Knowing that she had a few more minutes to live, she unzipped her backpack and activated the satellite phone. She dialed a number and repeated a message without receiving any reply.

  The message was transmitted directly to the director of DARPA and went to voice mail. It wouldn’t be heard for an hour but after that it would put the wheels of vengeance into motion. The message wouldn’t be in vain.

  1

  Chapter 1

  June 1st

  10p.m

  Saratoga Havanar />
  Havana, Cuba

  Just another day wasted in making another enemy.

  Chris Flynn downed his ninth glass of Scotch, neat. As he sat by a window in a suite on the third floor of the historic Saratoga Havana hotel, he could only curse at everything.

  Being in this luxuriously renovated hotel didn’t satisfy him. Chasing wealth and myths couldn’t quench his thirst. Women, food and drinks never filled his hunger. Facing danger and surviving death were all that excited him.

  Ten years ago, he had left SEAL Team Six only to explore the places no one dared to. For that, he had mastered in Ancient and Medieval History at Oxford. Flynn had explored and played with languages, learning sixteen by the age of twenty. It was one of the main reasons he was given advanced covert warfare training at DEVGRU. The Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group had forced harsh discipline, causing him to break free after four years of service.

  While he barely made it through Oxford, he became a private contractor to obtain mythical pieces of art and artifacts. In other words, he turned his life into that of a childhood dream of many.

  A damn treasure hunter.

  Yet, there was pain in his heart. Instead of being a patriotic hero like Indiana Jones, Flynn was a fearsome tomb-raider. In times of that pain, the guilt was washed away by drinking until he barely knew his reality. Like one being undertaken now.

  He was exactly six feet tall. The ladies preferred him for his boyish charm and looks. That came along with his slender athletic build. His dark, thick hair flowed to his shoulders. When up close, his emerald eyes sparkled.

  Though he would be thirty-two in a week, he looked ten years younger. Whenever his enemies mistook his looks and tried to take him down, he astonished them with a range of deadly talents. His enemies were increasing by the day. But none had caused any serious damage to him.

  Downing his tenth glass, he began to sob at how he had no one to go to. The relationship with the cute Indian assistant was meant to be strictly platonic. He couldn’t risk another breakup. Being orphaned at the age of ten had given him many homes, but none to call his. One advantage of foster homes was that he learned a lot, good and bad, which sculpted him for the world.

  When he was about to refill his glass, a faint smile grew on him. He was closer to completing his personal quest. Flynn’s ticket to success was the fabled Templar treasure. The more he investigated in cults that were rumored to be connected to the Templar society, the more targeted he became. Now he was hunted by four different cults. This meant that he was on the right path.

  That morning, he had gone undercover in the Arc Collectors - an underground cult of ancient Catholic librarians in Cuba. Flynn was posing as a priestly researcher who needed some documents to write a piece on the Templars for the Vatican. But as soon as he had started his play, his cover was blown. This made him run for his life through the harbors. He’d had to hide and discard his disguise to make it back to the suite.

  After the fun chase, he met with his assistant, Neha Rao, a former Indian PARA Commando who had run logistics for his operations for two months. Though he barely knew her, Flynn trusted her. She was a year younger than him and was an excellent demolitions expert.

  A Click! above the windows brought Flynn’s attention back to the suite. He continued drinking.

  Just then, a long length of rope dropped parallel to the window. Flynn stood and turned his back to it. The legs of the armchair almost tripped him. His eyes were about to give out. Yet, he managed some strength and a plan. Though his body felt bouncy, he managed to stand straight and stare at a wall-mirror.

  Time began to slow down. A headache grew within him as he tried to concentrate. A few seconds passed. Nothing happened. Those seconds felt like hours.

  Now came the pair of legs followed by a loud - Crack! - shattering the glass across the armchair and thrusting the well-built body into the suite. What followed next was not expected by either Flynn or his attacker.

  Flynn swiftly turned and hurled his scotch glass at the attacker’s forehead. The glass exploded into millions of tiny shards on the attacker’s bald face. Some pieces were stuck to his skin causing his head to drip blood. It was all a blur to Flynn. Both he and his attacker were knocked out of balance. Flynn spun and took control of his body. This heightened his headache. The attacker tripped backwards and almost fell out of the broken window, but grabbed the arms of the armchair and held himself within the suite.

  The two men examined each other. Flynn was in tropical tourist clothing. He wore a floral shirt and a pair of white shorts. The muscular attacker was in a black-clad corporate suit.

  Flynn saw the rope behind his enemy swing. Even the attacker saw it. He flanked the window, expecting something.

  Seeing this, so did Flynn. He moved back towards a table. With his hands behind him, he ran them through every item on it-checking, scanning, analyzing, planning and preparing.

  Another pair of legs slid through the broken window, pushing the pieces of glass on its sides and corners away. The third figure rolled into the suite and stood, reaching into a sheath to the side of his thigh and pulling a knife. Before he could throw the long, thin dagger, he experienced an unexpected pain.

  Across the suite, Flynn had reached for a letter opener and spun it towards the second attacker in a motion too quick to see. The letter opener struck the second attacker’s wrist making him drop the dagger, and hiss in pain.

  But now, as Flynn turned, he realized that he couldn’t always kill two birds with one stone. When he had hurled the letter opener, the first attacker had lunged towards him. They both crashed on the table causing it to break. As they did, Flynn grabbed his enemy’s collar and pulled it for support, steadying himself and tearing it. This made them both crash on their flanks. It revealed a large black tattoo of a Templar cross on the attacker’s lower neck, painted like a medal.

  Flynn’s suspicion was confirmed. None of the members of the Arc Collectors, had tattoos on them. These men surely must be working directly for the Templars. Normally in a fight, Flynn’s instincts and intellect would merge making him deadly. But now intoxication got the better of him. Both those factors were dissolving in a trance making this a nightmare.

  With his right hand he tried to pull away from the body of the Templar assassin. When he placed his left hand over the Templar’s back collar, there was an unexpected bulge which puzzled him, only for a second. The assassin was experiencing a concussion due to the fall and was dizzy. He was almost drooling over Flynn but the ex-SEAL didn’t care. The Templar was too heavy for Flynn to pull away and so with his right hand, he searched the contents under him, over the broken table. With his left, he tried to push away the drooling face of the Templar, but his drunken body didn’t exactly obey his mental commands.

  It only provoked his dizzy enemy even more. Flynn’s fingers pierced into the first assassin’s eyes, which would blind him for a few painful minutes. The assassin groaned, then let out a roar and raised his body. He held the treasure hunter’s left hand with one hand and with the other, he swung hard thrice.

  Punch!

  Blood sprayed around Flynn’s right eye.

  Punch!

  Flynn’s nose broke with a crack and blood oozed from his nostrils.

  Punch!

  It hit Flynn’s right collar-bone, shattering and bruising it.

  Flynn swiftly found a pair of scissors below him, and swung it into the figure on top of him before he was hit again. The pair of scissors pierced the assassin’s chest, far from his heart, spraying a fountain of blood on Flynn’s face but it didn’t stop the Templar from landing another punch.

  What stopped him was a brutal double knee kick into his groin from the ex-SEAL. This sent the blinded assassin away from Flynn to moan in pain. But the smile on Flynn’s face was cut short.

  Just as the blinded assassin was sent a few yards away, the second assassin stood beside Flynn, with the letter opener in his uninjured hand. He struck the dagger down Flynn’s waist
.

  Shock and instinct still worked in Flynn. He rapidly spread his legs, took support of the wall with one leg and kicked himself away. His body was sent behind the Templar.

  When the assassin bent to pick up the letter opener which was stuck to the carpeted floor, Flynn sent a straight forceful kick upwards, while he lay on the ground. His leg connected with the assassin’s nose, shattering it. The assassin was sent behind and fell on his back over Flynn.

  The treasure hunter saw his opportunity and took it. He grabbed the assassin’s broken nose with one hand, twisting and amplifying the pain, and with the other hand, he locked onto the enemy’s trunk sized neck. The moans were softened by the tightening of the neck lock, which left him unconscious.

  Flynn noticed that the second assassin too had a Templar cross tattooed on his lower neck, like a medal. He stood up and searched for the bottle of Scotch, not finding it.

  Just as his drunken body was wavering around the couches, a bedroom door burst open, and his assistant, Neha Rao, came jogging towards him with an encrypted SATCOMM device in hand. She looked puzzled at the scene at first, then connected her eyes to his and raised an eyebrow. Though he was drunk, he understood its meaning. It was both a compliment and a poke.

  Why can’t we spend even six hours without chaos?!

  Flynn took over the SATCOMM. “Hello. Who’s so desperate that they want a struggling drunk’s assistance?” he said.

  Rao saw the first assassin struggling and aiming punches in the air towards her floral perfume. All she did was turn and strike his bald head with one nasty punch. The blinded Templar was knocked out. Rao turned at Flynn and they both exchanged sly smiles.

  Flynn was barely listening to the call. He kept drunkenly gazing at his assistant’s cute, round face; short, spiky hair; radiant, fair skin; curvy yet strong body and dreamed, if only things were more than platonic. She was the only woman he knew who was smart and tough enough to be so self-reliant that he desperately depended on her.