Scarecrow

by Matthew Reilly

  ‘So where’s it going to fire from?’ Knight asked.

  Schofield quickly plotted the GPS co-ordinates of the last Chameleon missile’s launch location . . . and he frowned.

  ‘It’s not coming from a boat,’ he said. ‘The launch location is on land. Somewhere inside Yemen.’

  ‘Yemen?’ Rufus said.

  ‘It borders Saudi Arabia to the south. Very close to Mecca,’ Knight said.

  ‘Yemen . . .’ Schofield said, thinking fast. ‘Yemen . . .’

  At some time today, he had been told about Yemen, had heard of something inside Yemen—

  He remembered.

  ‘There’s a Krask-8 clone in Yemen,’ he said.

  He’d heard it right at the start of all this, during his briefing on Krask-8. During the Cold War, the Soviets had constructed land-based ICBM facilities identical to Krask-8 in their client states—states like Syria, the Sudan, and Yemen.

  Schofield’s mind raced.

  Krask-8 had been owned by the Atlantic Shipping Company. David Fairfax had discovered that earlier today.

  And the Atlantic Shipping Company—he now knew—was a subsidiary of Axon Corp.

  ‘Goddamn,’ Schofield breathed. ‘Rufus: set a course heading due south-east and give it everything you’ve got. Afterburners all the way.’

  Rufus looked doubtful. ‘Captain, I don’t mean to be rude, but even flying at full speed, there’s no way we can get from here to Yemen inside of two hours. That’s a 6,000-kilometre trip, which is at least four hours travel time. Besides, on full burn, we’ll chew up all our gas before we even reach the French Alps.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Schofield said. ‘I can arrange for fuel to be delivered in flight. And we’re not going all the way to Yemen in this bird.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Rufus said. He banked the Raven, directed her south-east, and hit the afterburners.

  While this was happening, Schofield keyed his satellite mike. ‘Mr Moseley. You still with us?’

  ‘Sure am,’ came the reply from London.

  ‘I need you to do an asset search on a company for me. It’s called the Atlantic Shipping Company. Search for any land holdings that it has in Yemen, especially old Soviet sites.

  ‘I also need two more things. First, I need express passage across Europe, including several mid-air refuellings. I’ll send you our transponder signal.’

  ‘Okay. And the second thing?’

  ‘I need you to fuel up a couple of very special American planes for me. Planes that are currently at the Aerostadia Italia Airshow in Milan, Italy.’

  The next thirty minutes went by in a blur.

  Around the world, an array of forces sprang into action.

  THE ARABIAN SEA

  OFF THE COAST OF INDIA

  26 OCTOBER, 2105 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1205 HOURS E.S.T. USA)

  The supertanker MV Whale hovered off the coast of India on a languid sea, the giant vessel seemingly gazing at the shared coastline of India and Pakistan, its missiles ready to fire.

  It never saw the Los Angeles-class attack submarine approach it from behind, two miles away.

  Likewise, the African commandos in its control tower never saw the sub’s torpedoes on their scopes until it was too late.

  The two Mark 48 torpedoes hit the Whale together, blasting open its flanks with simultaneous explosions, sinking it.

  THE TAIWAN STRAITS INTERNATIONAL WATERS BETWEEN CHINA AND TAIWAN

  0110 HOURS (27 OCT) LOCAL TIME

  (1210 HOURS E.S.T. USA, 26 OCT)

  The MV Hopewell suffered a similar fate.

  Parked inconspicuously in a sealane in the middle of the Taiwan Straits, not far from a long line of supertankers and cargo freighters, it was hit by a pair of wire-guided American Mark 48 torpedoes.

  Some night-watchmen on other ships claimed to see the explosion on the horizon.

  Radio calls to the Hopewell went unanswered and by the time anyone got to its last known location, there was nothing there.

  The Hopewell was gone.

  No-one ever laid eyes on the submarine that sank it. Indeed, the US Government would later deny that it had any 688Is in the area at the time.

  WEST COAST, USA

  NEAR SAN FRANCISCO

  26 OCTOBER, 0912 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1212 HOURS IN NEW YORK)

  Inside the vast missile hold of the Kormoran-class supertanker Jewel, covered by twelve United States Marines and standing over the bodies of a dozen dead African commandos, David Fairfax plugged his satellite uplink into the vessel’s missile control console.

  The satellite signal shot up into the sky and bounced over to Schofield in the Black Raven, flying over France, heading for Italy.

  And while Schofield disarmed the CincLock system from afar, Fairfax held the console—at times protecting the uplink with his body, shielding it from two Eritrean commandos who had survived his Marine-enhanced entry.

  He was scared out of his mind, but in the midst of bullets and gunfire and exploding grenades, he held that console.

  Within a couple of minutes, the last two Eritrean soldiers were dead—nailed by the Marines—and the MV Jewel’s launch system was neutralised by Schofield in the Raven and David Fairfax fell to the floor with a deep sigh of relief.

  AEROSTADIA AIRFIELD

  MILAN, ITALY

  26 OCTOBER, 1900 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (1300 HOURS IN NEW YORK)

  With a blast from its retros, the Black Raven landed vertically on the tarmac of the Aerostadia Airfield in Milan.

  It was evening already in northern Italy, but the US Air Force contingent at the airshow had been working overtime for the last forty-five minutes, fuelling two very special aeroplanes at the express orders of the State Department.

  The Raven landed a hundred yards from a spectacular-looking B-52 bomber, parked on the runway.

  Two small black bullet-shaped planes hung from the big bomber’s wings, looking like a pair of oversized missiles.

  But these weren’t missiles.

  They were X-15s.

  Many people believe that with a top speed of Mach 3, the SR-71 ‘Blackbird’ is the fastest plane in the world.

  This is not entirely true. The SR-71 is the fastest operational plane in the world.

  One plane, however, has gone faster than it has—a lot faster, in fact—attaining speeds of over 7,000 km/h, more than Mach 6. That plane, though, never made operational status.

  That plane was the NASA-built X-15.

  Most aeroplanes use jet engines to propel them through the sky, but jet power has a limit and the SR-71 has found that limit: Mach 3.

  The X-15, however, is rocket-powered. It has few moving parts. Instead of shooting ignited compressed air out behind it, an X-15 ignites solid hydrogen fuel. Which makes it less like a jet plane, and more like a missile. Indeed, the X-15 has been described by some observers as a missile with a pilot strapped to it.

  Only five X-15s were ever built, and two of those—as Schofield knew—were making an appearance at the Aerostadia Italia Airshow, scheduled to start in a few days.

  Schofield leapt out of the Raven, crossed the tarmac with Knight and Rufus by his side.

  He gazed at the two X-15s slung from the wings of the B-52.

  They weren’t big planes. And not exactly pretty either. Just functional—designed to cut through the air at astronomical velocity.

  Speed-slanted letters on their tailfins read: NASA. Along the side of each black plane were the words US AIR FORCE.

  Two colonels met Schofield: one American, one Italian.

  ‘Captain Schofield,’ the American colonel said, ‘the X-15s are ready, fully fuelled and ready to fly. But we have a problem. One of our pilots broke his ribs in a training accident yesterday. There’s no way he can handle the G-forces of these things in his condition.’

  ‘I was hoping I could use my own pilot anyway,’ Schofield said. He turned to Rufus. ‘Think you can handle Mach 6, Big M
an?’

  A grin cracked Rufus’s hairy face. ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  The Air Force colonel guided them to the planes. ‘We’ve also received some satellite radar scans from the National Reconnaissance Office. Could be a problem.’

  He held up a portable viewscreen the size of a clipboard.

  On it were two infra-red snapshots of the southeastern Mediterranean, the Suez Canal and the Red Sea. One wider shot, the other zoomed in.

  On the first image, Schofield saw a large cloud of red dots that seemed to be hovering over the Suez Canal area:

  On the second satellite photo, the image became clearer.

  There were about one hundred and fifty dots in the ‘cloud’.

  ‘What the hell are those dots?’ Rufus said slowly.

  The colonel didn’t have to answer him, because Schofield already knew.

  ‘They’re planes,’ he said. ‘Fighter jets from at least five different African nations. The French saw them scramble but they didn’t know why. Now I do. They’re from five African nations that would like to see the world order changed. Nations that do not want to see us stop that last missile hitting Mecca. It’s Killian’s last safeguard. An aerial armada protecting the final missile.’

  The B-52 bomber thundered down the runway with the two X-15s hanging from its outstretched wings.

  It soared into the sky, rising steadily to its release height.

  Schofield sat with Rufus inside the two-man cockpit of the right-hand X-15. It was a tight fit for Rufus, but he managed. Knight was in the other plane, with a NASA pilot.

  Schofield had his CincLock-VII disarm unit strapped to his utility vest, next to the array of other weapons in its pouches. The plan was a long shot—since no-one else in the world could disarm the Chameleon missile aimed at Mecca, he would have to go into the Krask-8 clone in Yemen with only Knight by his side.

  They expected resistance to be waiting for them—probably in the form of an African commando unit—so Schofield had requested a Marine team be dispatched from Aden to meet them there. But whether it would arrive in time was another question.

  Scott Moseley called in from London.

  ‘Captain, I think I’ve found what you’re looking for,’ he said. ‘The Atlantic Shipping Company owns two thousand acres of desert in Yemen, about two hundred miles south-west of Aden, right on the mouth of the Red Sea. On that land are the remains of an old Soviet submarine repair facility. Our satellite pics are from the ’80s, but it looks like a big warehouse surrounded by some support buildings—’

  ‘That’s it,’ Schofield said. ‘Send me the co-ordinates.’

  Moseley did so.

  Schofield punched them into his plane’s trip computer.

  Flight distance to southern Yemen: 5,602 KILOMETRES.

  Flight time in an X-15 travelling at 7,000 km/h: 48 MINUTES.

  Time till the Mecca ICBM launched: ONE HOUR.

  It was going to be close.

  ‘You ready, Rufus?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, baby,’ Rufus replied.

  When the B-52 reached release height, its pilot came over the comms: ‘X-15s, we just got word from the USS Nimitz in the Med. She’s the only carrier within range of your attack route. She’s sending every plane she has to escort you: F-14s, F/A-18s, even five Prowlers have volunteered to ride shotgun for you. You must be one important man, Captain Schofield. Prepare for flight systems check. Release in one minute—’

  As the pilot signed off, Knight’s voice came over Schofield and Rufus’s earpieces. His voice was low, even.

  ‘Hey, Ruf. Good luck, buddy. Remember, you’re the best. The best. Stay low. Stay focused. Trust your instincts.’

  ‘Will do, Boss,’ Rufus said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And Schofield,’ Knight said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bring my friend back alive.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Schofield said softly.

  The B-52 pilot spoke again. ‘Flight systems check is complete. We are go for launch. Gentlemen, prepare for release. On my mark, in five, four . . .’

  Schofield stared forward, took a deep, deep breath.

  ‘Three . . .’

  Rufus gripped his control stick firmly.

  ‘Two . . .’

  Over in his plane, Knight looked over at Schofield and Rufus on the other wing.

  ‘One . . . mark.’

  CLUNK-CLUNK!

  The two X-15s dropped from the wings of the B-52 bomber, swooping briefly before—

  ‘Engaging rocket thrusters . . . now!’ Rufus said.

  He hit the thrust controls.

  The X-15’s tail cone ignited, hurling its afterburner flame a full hundred feet into the air behind it.

  Schofield was thrown back into his seat with a force he had never even imagined.

  His X-15 shot off into the sky—cracking the air with sonic booms, literally ripping the fabric of the sky—its flight signature just one continuous roar that would be heard all the way across the Mediterranean Sea.

  And so the two X-15s rocketed to the south-east, toward the Suez Canal and the Red Sea and a small decrepit base in Yemen from which a Chameleon missile would soon be launched, a missile that would shatter the existing world order.

  In their way: the greatest aerial armada ever assembled by man.

  After only twenty minutes of flying, Rufus caught sight of it.

  ‘Oh my Lord . . .’ he breathed.

  They hung in the orange evening sky like a swarm of insects: the squadron of African fighters.

  It was an incredible sight—a veritable wall of moving pinpoints spread out across the Egyptian coastline, guarding the airspace over the Suez Canal.

  One hundred and fifty warplanes.

  All manner of fighter planes made up the aerial armada.

  Old planes, new planes, red planes, blue planes—anything that could carry a missile—a motley collection of once-great fighters purchased from First World nations after their First World use-by dates had expired.

  The Sukhoi Su-17—built in 1966 and long since discarded by the Russians.

  The MiG-25 Foxbat—superseded in the 1980s by more modern variants, but which could still hold its own against all but the best American planes.

  The French-made Mirage V/50—one of France’s biggest military exports, which they sell to anyone: Libya, Zaire, Iraq.

  There were even a few feisty Czech L-59 Albatrosses, a favourite among African nations.

  Performance-wise, all these fighters lost ground to more modern planes like the F-22 Raptor and the F-15E. But when they came equipped with top-of-the-line air-to-air missiles—Sidewinders, Phoenixes, Russian R-60Ts and R-27s, missiles that were easily obtainable at the arms bazaars of Romania and the Ukraine—this older force of fighters could match it with the best of them. Fighters may be expensive and hard to get, but good-quality missiles can be bought by the dozen.

  And if nothing else, Schofield thought, these guys have the advantage of sheer numbers.

  The best-equipped F-22 in the world could not hold off a force of this size forever. Ultimately, sheer force of numbers would overwhelm even the best technology.

  ‘What do you think, Rufus?’

  ‘This baby wasn’t built to fight, Captain,’ Rufus said. ‘She was built for speed. So that’s what we’re gonna do with her—we’re gonna fly her low and fast and we’re gonna do what no pilot has ever done before: we’re gonna outrun any missiles those bastards throw at us.’

  ‘Missiles chasing us,’ Schofield said. ‘Nice.’

  Rufus said, ‘For what it’s worth, Captain, we’ve got exactly one piddly little single-barrel gun pointing out from our nose. I think it’s there for decoration.’

  Just then, a new voice came over their headsets: ‘American X-15s, this is Captain Harold Marshall of the USS Nimitz. We have you on our scopes. The Jolly Rogers are en route. They will intercept you as you reach the enemy force. Five Prowlers have been sent ahead at hundred-mile intervals t
o provide electronic jamming for you. It’s going to get hot in there, gentlemen, but hopefully we can punch a hole big enough for you guys to shoot through.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, and Captain Schofield, I’ve been informed of the situation. Good luck. We’re all right behind you.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ Schofield said softly. ‘Okay, Rufus. Let’s rock.’

  Speed.

  Pure, unadulterated speed. 7,000 km/h is about 2,000 metres per second. Seven times supersonic is super super fast.

  The two X-15s ripped through the sky toward the swarm of enemy aircraft.

  As they came within twenty miles of the African planes, a phalanx of missiles issued out from the armada—forty tail-like smoketrails streaming toward them.

  But no sooner had the first missile been loosed, than its firer—a Russian MiG-25 Foxbat—erupted in a burst of orange flames.

  Six other African planes exploded, hit by AIM-120 AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, while twenty of the missiles loosed by the African armada exploded harmlessly in mid-air, hitting chaff-deploying dummy missiles that had been fired from—

  —an incoming force of American F-14 fighters bearing ominous skull-and-crossbones symbols on their tailfins.

  The famous ‘Jolly Rogers’ from the Nimitz. About a dozen F-14 Tomcats, flanked by nimble F/A-18 Hornets.

  And suddenly a gigantic aerial battle, unheard of in modern warfare, was underway.

  The two X-15s banked and swerved as they shot through the ranks of the African armada, avoiding midair explosions, dive-bombing fighters, waves of tracer bullets and superfast missile smoketrails.

  All manner of fighter planes whipped through the twilight sky—MiGs, Mirages, Tomcats and Hornets, rolling, diving, engaging, exploding.

  At one point, Schofield’s X-15 swooped upside-down to avoid one African fighter, only to come on a head-on collision course with another African bogey—a Mirage—but just as the two planes were about to slam nose-to-nose into each other, the African plane exploded—hit from underneath by a brilliant AMRAAM shot—and Schofield’s X-15 just blasted right through its flaming remains, sheets of burning metal scraping against the X-15’s flanks, the severed hand of the enemy plane’s dead pilot smearing a streak of blood across the X-15’s canopy right next to Rufus’s eyes.