The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

“Why?”

Juan texted back Start prepping Nomad, then answered Overholt.

“Because we’re going to dive on the wreck of the Narwhal and raise the column.”

THIRTY-SIX

MELILLA, MOROCCO

Instead of going to France as they’d originally planned, Golov thought it would be wise to use the more out-of-the-way Moroccan port to pick up Ivana, Sirkal, and O’Connor after their missions. Within minutes of arrival, the Achilles was back at sea and headed toward the Strait of Gibraltar.

While Ivana got to work on diagnosing the software malfunction, Sirkal and O’Connor debriefed Golov in his quarters about the Frankfurt operation. The office adjoining his cabin was as lavishly appointed as the rest of the yacht, with the finest woods and marble from around the world. The top-notch furnishings made the cramped yet comfortable accommodations aboard the frigate he’d commanded seem like the interior of a garbage scow. Still, a small part of him missed the naval camaraderie and sense of purpose.

Of course, he realized those feelings had all been a phantom the moment his ship and career were stolen away from him by the Russians. The luxury that now surrounded him didn’t just symbolize wealth. They were the trappings of power. And he intended to take some for himself.

“From what I saw on the news,” Golov said, sitting in his leather chair behind his imposing mahogany desk, “I understand that the mission was a success.”

“The whole transformer substation was blazing away by the time the Polizei arrived,” O’Connor said as he munched on an apple and lounged on the sofa. “The papers said it took the fire department two days to put it out.”

“It’s completely out of commission?” Golov asked.

Sirkal, who stood ramrod straight during the report, nodded. “A total loss. They’ll have to replace all of the equipment. It could take months.”

“What about the power redistribution?”

“According to our sources, the power outages were limited to the Frankfurt region. But that’s only because of quick work to shunt the electricity to other major substations. The remaining transformers can handle the load, but only barely. The adjustments required balancing power across the twenty-four countries connected to the grid. Any further transformer outages and they’d have to shut down some of the power plants to compensate.”

Golov smiled. “Perfect.”

For Operation Dynamo to work, central Europe’s power plants had to be operating at full capacity. The power grid, also known as the Continental Europe Synchronous Area, formed the largest interconnected electric system in the world, supplying over seven hundred gigawatts of electricity on a daily basis from nuclear, coal, gas, solar, and wind power plants. High-tension lines crossed borders freely so that power could be distributed efficiently to where it was needed most. But with the key Frankfurt substation destroyed, the grid now had little protection if there was a power surge in the system. All it would take to overload the grid would be a push in the right direction an

d Dynamo was designed to do just that.

When that happened, the blackout would span the entire continent, from the Atlantic coast to the Ukrainian border, and from the North Sea to the Mediterranean. Over four hundred million people would be plunged into darkness. Transport would grind to a standstill, as petrol station pumps no longer operated, city traffic lights were extinguished, airports shut down, and rail switching operations went off-line. Banks would be unable to make any transactions and businesses would be paralyzed, causing an economic crisis. The euro would plummet in value instantly. And the best part was that Golov would make sure the Russian government took the fall for all of it, paying them back for invading his homeland and taking his ship from him.

He had always liked the symmetry of the plan. Napoleon’s invasion of Russia was the beginning of his downfall, as the European powers rose against him, and now the treasure he was forced to leave behind was the catalyst for Dynamo. From the grave, the French emperor would finally get his revenge on the continent that exiled him not once, but twice.

“Excellent work,” Golov said with a gleam in his eye. “I will have to let Mr. Antonovich know about our progress. Get your men prepared for the final phase of Dynamo. I want them to be drilled and ready in four days.”

“They will be,” Sirkal said confidently.

“For their cut of thirty billion euros, I’d hope so,” O’Connor said with a laugh, but neither Sirkal nor Golov joined in. He continued. “What? You think they’re doing this for free?”

“You know they’re never going to see that money,” Sirkal said. It just wasn’t possible. Too many potential witnesses after the fact.

O’Connor smirked. “Right, but they don’t know that.”

Golov stared at him for a moment, then said, “Dismissed.” Some naval habits died hard.

They left Golov to contemplate doing away with the crew that had performed so well. He didn’t take the prospect lightly, but he felt no loyalty or responsibility to the men and women that he’d inherited or hired. They were motivated by money, just as he was, and likely would do the same if their roles were reversed. Once Golov had left behind his sense of duty and acquired a taste for wealth, there had been no turning back. He was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish his goals.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting when there was a light rap on the door and Ivana entered.

She cocked her head at him. “Anything wrong, Papa?”

He shook himself out of his dark reverie. “No, dear, come in.”

She came and sat on the desk, patting his arm like the concerned daughter she was. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look like you need some sleep.”