16 July 2037
00:02
Dockside Street, Nowshahr, Iran
Sohel, Mitali, and Leon slipped out of the Cadillac and moved behind it, staying low in the shadows. Leon opened the boot and handed over two helmets. Sohel clipped his on and spoke in a low, clipped voice.
"Remember the plan. Wait two blocks west. One hour. If we're back, good. If not—contact Arash."
Leon gave a firm nod, then slid back into the driver's seat. A moment later the engine purred to life, and the car ghosted into the darkened street, leaving Sohel and Mitali alone.
They advanced toward the Meridien Boatyard with careful precision, skirting streetlights, keeping to cover. The chain-link fences loomed, crowned with coils of razor wire. At the front door, Sohel tried the lock—solid. He cursed under his breath, already knowing what that meant.
"The hard way," he muttered.
He signalled Mitali, and together they padded down the dock toward the water. The sea slapped lazily against the pilings, thick with the stench of oil.
Sohel whispered into his mic, "AURA, activate NVG, rebreather, and sonar on my mark. Map us a route in."
"Roger that, Major," came AURA's calm voice in his ear.
They stripped down quickly, revealing skintight diving suits beneath. Sohel stashed their clothes behind a stack of oil barrels, then glanced once at Mitali. Without another word, he dived. She followed close behind, cutting into the black water with barely a ripple.
The water was foul—a greasy film of diesel and burnt oil floating across the surface. Even with the helmet filters, Sohel gagged at the thought of what it smelt like. They descended, moving along the submerged wall. Reinforced concrete and steel plating extended far deeper than any normal boatyard wall should.
AURA's interface flickered across his visor, tracing a glowing route. It ended at a jagged boulder wedged against the foundation. The builders had been forced to pour the wall around it, leaving a narrow gap.
Sohel gestured forward and squeezed through, chest scraping against stone and steel, then pulled Mitali after him.
They surfaced on the other side—only to bump into something massive. Sohel raised a hand, sliding along its cold underside until he found open water. He pulled himself onto a dock and offered Mitali a hand. Both of them stood dripping in silence, scanning the shadows.
Their NVGs gave just enough detail to outline the beast before them.
Mitali's breath caught. Her voice cracked. "What… what is this thing?"
Sohel's voice was steadier, though even he felt the weight of it. "The Caspian Sea Monster."
Before them loomed a Lun-class Ekranoplane—the Russian ground-effect warship thought lost to history. Its vast hull crouched like a predator over the water, invisible to sonar and radar alike.
A ghost resurrected.
Suddenly the hangar lights blazed to life, flooding the cavernous space in harsh white. The glare stabbed through Sohel's NVG, forcing him to blink rapidly as AURA automatically shut them off. His hand had already reached for the M17 strapped to his thigh, instincts sharpened into muscle memory.
With a quick shove of his bionic arm, he pushed Mitali back into the water, shielding her from immediate fire.
A mocking voice boomed from the far side of the hangar:
"Thought you could use more light, Mr. Clark. Or should I say… Ghost? SNA scum."
The figure emerged at the top of the steel staircase, framed in the blaze. Broad, flat face. Dead, judging eyes. A body built like a fortress.
Lee Tonkin.
His heavy boots clanged against the metal deck as Phoenix Company soldiers stepped into view around him, M7 rifles trained on Sohel. Their FNA uniforms only deepened the sense of betrayal, mercenaries hiding behind borrowed flags.
Lee's grin was all malice. "I'd suggest you move your hand away from that pistol. My men don't take kindly to twitchy targets."
The answer came not in words but in silence broken by a series of muffled phut phut phut. Suppressed fire cracked through the hangar, precise and relentless. One by one, the soldiers crumpled, neat holes drilled into their foreheads.
Mitali.
She had slipped beneath the water and surfaced at the dock's far end, Glock raised. Her shots were surgical, her advance silent but lethal.
Seizing the moment, Sohel snapped into motion. He dived behind a stack of barrels, squeezing off rounds that cut down the nearest riflemen. He signalled Mitali forward, both of them moving in practiced rhythm toward the stairwell where Lee had stood seconds earlier.
Two soldiers swung rifles toward Sohel. He pivoted, his aim steady. Two sharp cracks, and they collapsed, eyes staring blankly into the floodlights above.
Sohel bounded up the metal stairs, boots hammering against the steel. He scanned for Lee—
A heavy thud slammed behind him.
He spun, weapon raised—
—and froze.
Mitali lay sprawled across the deck. Her visor was shattered, shards glittering like ice across the floor. Blood trickled from her nose and lips, her body limp.
Standing over her was Lee Tonkin, his massive hand still hanging in the air from the strike that had dropped her. The casual cruelty in his eyes was worse than the violence itself.
Sohel snapped his pistol up, sights locked on Lee's head—
"Uh-uh." Lee's voice was ice. "Pull that trigger, and my men will shred your pretty little secretary here into red mist."
From the shadows, half a dozen rifles tilted toward Mitali's unconscious form.
Lee bent, hauling her effortlessly by the nape, lifting her like a ragdoll. He slung her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.
"Now… toss the pistol. Or watch her die first."
Sohel's teeth ground together. Rage burnt in his chest, but logic held the trigger still. He clicked his tongue in disgust and slid the pistol across the deck.
Lee crouched, catching the weapon in his free hand. He smirked, almost satisfied. "Good boy."
He shifted Mitali on his shoulder and started for the far end of the deck. "Boss has a lot to say to you."
Sohel took one step forward—
—and a sudden, crushing blow struck the back of his skull. His vision swam, darkness bleeding into the edges. He staggered, then collapsed.
The last thing he felt was rough hands dragging him across the wooden dock, the cold echo of boots and the fading smell of diesel filling his senses as the void claimed him.