Scarecrow

by Matthew Reilly

  Moseley plotted the points on a map. ‘The first boat is in the English Channel—off Cherbourg, France, up near the Normandy beaches.’

  Book relayed this to Schofield, ‘The first boat is in the English Channel, near Cherbourg, off the Normandy beaches. It’ll fire on London, Paris and Berlin. The next two boats are in New York and San Francisco, each set to take out multiple cities.’

  ‘Christ,’ Schofield said as he hovered in the water.

  The patrol boat was 50 yards away, almost on him now.

  ‘Okay, Book. Listen,’ he said, just as a low wave smacked him in the face. He spat out a mouthful of salt water. ‘Submarine interdiction. Those missile boats can’t launch if they’re on the bottom of the ocean. Decode the GPS locations of all the Kormoran supertankers and contact any attack subs we have nearby. 688Is, boomers, I don’t care. Anything with a torpedo on board. Then send them to take out those Kormoran launch boats.’

  ‘That might work for some of the tankers, Scarecrow, but it won’t work for all of them.’

  ‘I know,’ Schofield said. ‘I know. If we can’t destroy a launch vessel, then we’ll have to board it and disarm the missiles in their silos.

  ‘The thing is, a light-signal response unit would require the disarmer—me—to be reacting to a disarm program on the unit’s screen. Which means I’d have to be sitting within sixty feet of each missile’s control console to disarm them, but I can’t be everywhere around the world at the same time. Which means I’ll need people on each launch boat connecting me via satellite to that boat’s missiles.’

  ‘You need people on each boat?’

  ‘That’s right, Book. If there are no subs in the area, someone’s going to have get on board each Kormoran boat, get within sixty feet of its missile console, attach a satellite uplink to that console and then patch me in via satellite. Only then can I use a CincLock unit to personally stop all the missile launches.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Book said. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  Another wave splashed over Schofield’s head. ‘Let’s tackle the first three boats first. Get yourself to New York, Book. And call David Fairfax. Send him to San Francisco. I want people I know on those tankers. If I get out of this alive, I’ll try for the tanker in the English Channel. Oh, and ask Fairfax what the sixth Mersenne prime number is. If he doesn’t know, tell him to find out.

  ‘And last, send that Department of Defense inspection team in early—the one that was going to visit Axon’s missile-construction plant in Norfolk, Virginia, at 12 noon. I want to know what’s happened at that plant.’

  ‘Already done that,’ Book II said.

  ‘Nice work.’

  ‘What about you?’ Book said.

  At that exact moment, the French patrol boat swung to a halt above Schofield. Angry-looking sailors on its deck eyed him down the barrels of FAMAS assault rifles.

  ‘They haven’t killed me yet,’ Schofield said. ‘Which means someone wants to talk with me. It also means I’m still in the game. Scarecrow, out.’

  And with that Schofield was hauled out of the water at gunpoint.

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, USA

  26 OCTOBER, 0915 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1515 HOURS IN FRANCE)

  The White House Situation Room buzzed with activity.

  Aides hustled left and right. Generals and Admirals spoke into secure phones. The words on everyone’s lips were ‘Kormoran’, ‘Chameleon’ and ‘Shane Schofield’.

  The President strode into the room just as one of the Navy men, an Admiral named Gaines, pressed his phone to his shoulder.

  ‘Mr President,’ Gaines said, ‘I’ve got Moseley in London on the line. He’s saying that this Schofield character wants me to deploy attack submarines against various surface targets around the world. Sir, please, I’m not seriously supposed to let a thirty-year-old Marine captain control the entire United States Navy, am I?’

  ‘You’ll do exactly as Captain Schofield says, Admiral,’ the President said. ‘Whatever he wants, he gets. If he says deploy our subs, you deploy the subs. If he says blockade North Korea, you blockade North Korea. People! I thought I was clear about this! I don’t want you coming to me to check on everything Schofield asks for. The fate of the world could be resting on that man’s shoulders. I know him and I trust him. Hell, I’d trust him with my life. Anything short of a nuclear strike, you do it and advise me later. Now do as the man says and dispatch those subs!’

  OFFICES OF THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY,

  SUB-LEVEL 3, THE PENTAGON

  26 OCTOBER, 0930 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1530 HOURS IN FRANCE)

  A battered and bruised David Fairfax trudged back into his office on the bottom floor of the Pentagon, flanked by a pair of policemen.

  Wendel Hogg was waiting for him, with Audrey by his side.

  ‘Fairfax!’ Hogg roared. ‘Where in all hell and damnation have you been!’

  ‘I’m going home for the day,’ Fairfax said wearily.

  ‘Bullshit you are,’ Hogg said. ‘You are going on report! Then you are going upstairs to face a disciplinary hearing under Pentagon Security Regulations 402 and 403 . . .’

  Too tired to care, Fairfax could only stand there and take it.

  ‘. . . and then, then, you’re going to be outta here for good, you little wise-ass. And you’re finally gonna learn that you ain’t special, that you ain’t untouchable, and—’ Hogg shot a look at Audrey—‘that this country’s security is best left to men like me, men who can fight, men who are prepared to hold a weapon and put their lives on the—’

  He never finished his sentence.

  For at that moment a squad of twelve Force Reconnaissance Marines stomped into the doorway behind Fairfax. They wore full battle dress uniforms and were heavily armed—Colt Commando assault rifles, MP-7s, deadly eyes.

  Fairfax’s eyes widened in surprise.

  The Marine leader stepped forward. ‘Gentlemen. My name is Captain Andrew Trent, United States Marine Corps. I’m looking for Mr David Fairfax.’

  Fairfax swallowed.

  Audrey gasped.

  Hogg just went bug-eyed. ‘What in cotton-pickin’ hell is going on here?’

  The Marine named Trent stepped forward. He was a big guy, all muscle, and in his full battle dress uniform, a seriously imposing figure.

  ‘You must be Hogg,’ Trent said. ‘Mr Hogg, my orders come direct from the President of the United States. There is a serious international incident afoot and at this critical time, Mr Fairfax is perhaps the fourth most important person in the country. My orders state that I am to escort him on a mission of the highest importance and guard him with my life. So if you don’t mind, Mr Hogg, get out of the man’s way.’

  Hogg just stood there, stunned.

  Audrey just gazed at Fairfax, amazed.

  Fairfax himself hesitated. After this morning’s events, he didn’t know who to trust.

  ‘Mr Fairfax,’ Trent said. ‘I’ve been sent by Shane Schofield. He says he needs your help again. If you still don’t believe me, here . . .’

  Trent held out his radio. Fairfax took it.

  At the other end was Book II.

  Within twenty-two minutes, Dave Fairfax was sitting on board a chartered Concorde jet, heading west across the country at supersonic speed, his destination: San Francisco.

  On the way to the airport, Book had briefed him on what Schofield needed him to do. Book had also asked him a maths question: what was the sixth Mersenne prime number.

  ‘The sixth Mersenne?’ Fairfax had said. ‘I’m going to need a pen, some paper and a scientific calculator.’

  And so now he sat in the passenger cabin of the Concorde—head bent over a pad, writing furiously, concentrating intensely—shooting across the country all alone.

  Alone, that is, except for the team of twelve United States Marines protecting him.

  AXON CORPORATION SHIPBUILDING AND MISSILE ATTACHMENT PLANT, NORFOLK, VIRGINIA, U
SA

  26 OCTOBER, 0935 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1535 HOURS IN FRANCE)

  Surrounded by two teams of United States Marines, the Department of Defense inspection team in charge of the Kormoran–Chameleon Joint Project approached the missile installation facility in Norfolk, Virginia.

  The Axon plant loomed above them—a giant industrial landscape comprising a dozen interconnected buildings, eight enormous dry-docks and innumerable cranes lancing into the sky.

  This was where Axon Corp installed its cutting-edge missile systems onto US naval vessels. Sometimes Axon even built the vessels here as well.

  At the moment, a lone mammoth supertanker sat in one of the plant’s dry-docks, covered by gantry cranes, towering above the industrial shoreline.

  But strangely, at 9.30 in the morning, there was not a sign of life anywhere.

  The Marines stormed the plant. There was no firefight.

  No battle.

  Within minutes, the area was declared secure, the Marine commander declaring over the radio:

  ‘You can let those D.O.D. boys in now. But let me warn you, it ain’t pretty in here.’

  The smell was overwhelming.

  The stench of rotting human flesh.

  The main office area was bathed in blood. It was smeared on the walls, caked on benchtops, some of it had even dried as it had dripped down steel staircases, forming gruesome maroon stalactites.

  Fortunately for Axon’s legions of construction workers, the plant had been in security lockdown for the week preceding the official inspection, so they had been spared.

  The company’s senior engineers and department heads, however, hadn’t been so lucky. They lay slumped in a neat row in the main lab side-by-side, having been executed on their knees, one after the other. Foul starbursts of blood stained the wall behind their fallen bodies.

  Over the past week, rats had feasted on their remains.

  Five bodies, however, stood out amid the carnage—they had quite obviously not been Axon employees.

  The men of Axon, it seemed, had not gone down without a fight. Their small security force had nailed some of the intruders.

  The five suspicious bodies lay at several locations around the plant, variously shot in the head or in the body, AK-47 machine-guns lying on the ground beside their corpses.

  All were dressed in black military gear, but all also wore black Arab howlis, or headcloths, to cover their faces.

  And despite the sorry state of their vermin-ravaged bodies, one other thing about them was clear: they all bore on their shoulders the distinctive double-scimitar tattoo of the terrorist organisation, Global Jihad.

  The Department of Defense inspection team assessed the damage quickly, aided by agents from the ISS and FBI.

  They also took a call from a secondary team checking out Axon’s Pacific plant in Guam. A similar massacre, it seemed, had happened there as well.

  When this news came in, one of the D.O.D. men got on the phone, dialling a secure line at the White House.

  ‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘In Norfolk: we have fifteen dead—nine engineers, six security staff. Enemy casualties: five terrorists, all dead. Forensics indicate that the bodies have been decomposing for about eight days. Actual time of death is impossible to tell. Same story in Guam, except only one terrorist was killed there.

  ‘All the terrorists here have been identified by the FBI as known members of Global Jihad—including one pretty big fish, a guy named Shoab Riis. But sir, the worst thing is this: there must have been more terrorists involved. Three of the Kormoran supertankers are missing from the Norfolk plant, and two more from the Guam facility . . . and all of them are armed with Chameleon missiles.’

  AIRSPACE ABOVE THE FRENCH COAST

  26 OCTOBER, 1540 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (0940 HOURS E.S.T. USA)

  The Black Raven rocketed down the French coastline heading toward the Forteresse de Valois.

  ‘So, Rufus,’ Mother said, ‘there’s something I’ve got to know. What’s the story with your boss? I mean, what’s an honest grunt like you doing with a murderous bastard like this Knight guy?’

  In the front seat of the Sukhoi, Rufus tilted his head.

  ‘Captain Knight ain’t a bad man,’ he said in his drawling Southern accent. ‘And definitely not as bad as everyone says he is. Sure, he can kill a man cold—and believe me, I seen him do it—but he weren’t born that way. He was made that way. He ain’t no saint, for sure, but he isn’t an evil man. And he’s always looked after me.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Mother said. She was worried about this bounty hunter who was supposedly protecting Schofield.

  ‘So what about all that stuff in his file then? How he betrayed his Delta unit in the Sudan, warned Al-Qaeda of the attack and let his own guys walk into a trap. Thirteen men, wasn’t it? All killed because of him.’

  Rufus nodded sadly.

  ‘Yeah, I seen that file, too,’ he said, ‘and let me tell you, all that stuff about Sudan, it’s horseshit. I know because I was there. Captain Knight never betrayed no-one. And he sure as hell never left thirteen men to die.’

  ‘He never left them there?’ Mother asked.

  ‘No ma’am,’ Rufus said, ‘Knight killed those cocksuckers himself.’

  ‘I was a chopper pilot back then,’ Rufus said, ‘with the NightStalkers, flying D-boys like Knight in on black ops. We were doing night raids into Sudan, taking out terrorist training camps after the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania in ’98. We were flying out of Yemen, skimming into Sudan from across the Red Sea.

  ‘I got to know Knight at the base in Aden. He was kinda quiet, kept to himself most of the time. He read books, you know, thick ones, with no pictures. And he was always writing letters to his young wife back home.

  ‘He was different to most of the guys in my unit, the chopper pilots. They weren’t so nice to me. See, I’m kinda smart, but in my own way—I can do maths and physics easy as pie, and because of that I can fly a plane or a helicopter better than any man alive. Thing is, I ain’t so good in social environments. Sometimes I just don’t get the humour in jokes, especially dirty ones. That kinda thing.

  ‘And the other NightStalker pilots, well, they liked to joke with me—like sending one of the hospital nurses over to my table in the mess hall to talk all sexy with me. Or putting me down for briefings that I wasn’t meant to attend. Stuff like that. Instead of calling me Rufus, they called me “Doofus”.

  ‘Then some of the Rangers at the base started calling me that, too. I hated it. But Captain Knight, he never called me that. Never once. He always called me by my name.

  ‘Anyway, one time, he was walking past my dorm just after some of them pilot bastards had taken all my bedside books while I was sleeping and switched ’em with some dirty magazines. They was all laughing at me when Captain Knight asked what was going on.

  ‘A pilot named Harry Hartley told him to fuck off, mind his own business. Knight just stood there in the doorway, dead still. Again Hartley told him to beat it. Knight didn’t move. So Hartley approached him angrily and took a swing at him. Knight dropped the asshole using only his legs, then he pressed a knee to Hartley’s throat and said that my pilot skills were very much his business and that I was to be left alone . . . or else he’d come back.

  ‘No-one ever played a joke on me again.’

  Mother said, ‘So what happened with the thirteen soldiers who died in Sudan then?’

  ‘When he went out on a mission,’ Rufus said, ‘Knight often worked alone. Delta guys are allowed to do that, run solo. One man acting alone can often do more damage than an entire platoon.

  ‘Anyway, one night, he’s in Port Sudan, staking out an old warehouse. Place is a ghost town, deserted, rundown to all hell. Which is why Al-Qaeda had a training camp there, inside a big old warehouse.

  ‘So Knight gets inside the warehouse and waits. That night, there’s a big meeting there but this ain’t your usual backstreets-of-Sudan meeting between Al-Qa
eda buyers and Russian arms dealers. No, it’s fucking Bin Laden himself and three CIA spooks, and they’re talking about the Embassy bombings.

  ‘Knight sends a silent digital signal out, giving his location, calling for back-up, and indicating that OBL himself is there. He offers to liquidate OBL, but command tells him to stand down. They’re sending a Delta hit team in on his signal.

  ‘The Delta team is sent from Aden, sixteen men in a Black Hawk, flown by me. Of course, by the time we get to the warehouse in Port Sudan, Bin Laden is gone.

  ‘We meet Knight at the rendezvous point on the coast—an abandoned lighthouse. He’s pissed as hell. The leader of the Delta hit squad is a punk named Brandeis, Captain Wade Brandeis. He tells Knight that something bigger is at stake here. Something way over Knight’s head.

  ‘Knight turns on his heel, heads for the chopper in disgust. Then, behind him, that fucker Brandeis just nods to two of his guys and says, “The chopper pilot, too. He can’t go back after seeing this.” And so these Delta assholes raise their MP-5s at Knight’s back and at me in my chopper.

  ‘There was no time for me to shout, but I didn’t have to. Knight had heard ’em move. He told me later that he heard the sound of their sleeves brushing against their body armour—the sound of someone raising a gun.

  ‘A second before they fired, Knight dashed forward and tackled me into my own helicopter’s hold. The Delta guys rushed us, silenced guns blazin’ away, hammering the chopper. But Knight is moving too fast. He pushes me out the other side of the chopper, yanks me across a patch of open ground and into the lighthouse.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what happened inside that lighthouse after that. The Delta team came in after us, the whole Delta hit team. Sixteen men. Only three came out.

  ‘Knight killed nine Delta commandos inside that lighthouse before Brandeis and two other guys cut their losses and headed outside. Then, knowing that Knight was still inside fighting with four of his own men, Brandeis planted a Thermite-Amatol demolition charge at the front door.