Project Icarus - Disavowed Series 01 (2021)

by Shah, R D

  “You approved me?”

  “Absolutely. Every member of DS5 has to give approval for any new agent. Get one ‘no’ and you won’t get in. We’re a bit like the mafia like that,” she said with a wink.

  Considering what a tight-knit group it was Munroe could see the sense in it, Cosa Nostra aside, and he smiled. “Then thank you, Jax.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet. Now you’ve got to prove yourself.”

  At the far end of the cargo area the cockpit door opened and the co-pilot, wearing a grey military boiler suit, appeared. “We’ll be descending in a moment. Touchdown at New Orleans airport within the next five minutes. We’ve made good time. Strong tailwind. Buckle yourself in.”

  Both Munroe and Sloan were already in the process when a deafening boom sounded outside the plane, sending shockwaves rippling through the main fuselage. The co-pilot was thrown forward, landing face first on the cargo floor, knocking him out cold as Munroe gripped the belt buckle for stability. Sloan was also clinging to her seat as the cabin was filled with a sudden rush of air and both their ears popped as the entire aircraft depressurised. As Munroe pulled himself up to the small portal window he caught the shimmering glow of a rocket trail, and that’s when another explosion sounded off the portside wing, and with it the engines groaned and they were levitated into the air as the whole aircraft suddenly began to dive.

  Chapter 25

  The hissing sound of a high-pressure air escaping the aircraft was matched only by the gust of wind forcing itself through the open cockpit door and into the main cargo bay where Munroe and Sloan were clinging to their flapping seat buckles. The initial nosedive had eased but they were still descending rapidly. Munroe had no idea what height they were at but without oxygen they would soon pass out, and he pulled open the nearest metal flip door located on the fuselage and pulled out two portable masks, one of which he thrust into Sloan’s hand. With the mask slipped over his nose and mouth Munroe was already on his feet and using the thick cargo netting secured against the wall to pull himself forward. He passed Sloan, who’d had the same idea, and they quickly began to propel themselves along when after a few seconds gravity returned fully and the C-130 began to level out.

  Munroe immediately headed for the cockpit as Sloan checked on the pilot, who was still out cold. He pulled back the half open door to find the other pilot wearing a full-face mask and struggling with the yoke as air rushed through the broken side window.

  “What happened?” he yelled above the roaring wind and the pilot looked back at him and gave a sharp nod in the direction of the left wing.

  “We’re being fired at,” he shouted. “I’m trying to put the flames out.”

  Munroe craned his neck and looked out of the shattered cockpit window to see one of the two engines on fire, and as the pilot pulled a yellow lever jutting out from the panel above him the flame disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  Munroe dropped into the co-pilot seat and pulled out the full-face oxygen face mask from underneath. He pulled the straps over the back of his neck and used the internal mic. “Who’s firing?”

  The pilot was adjusting the trim as he attempted to keep the plane level and he was oversteering to account for the lost engine. “Two ground missiles, coming from the Louisiana coast. Countermeasures flares drew them off but the second was close enough to damage the far port engine.”

  Sloan now appeared in the cockpit doorway and she steadied herself against Munroe’s seat. She said nothing but Munroe pointed over to the smoking propeller and she understood straightaway.

  “Can we make the airport?” Munroe yelled above the thunderous sound of swirling wind still surging into the cockpit.

  “It’ll be an emergency landing, but we can make it. As long as we don’t get another incoming…”

  Warning alarms lit up the cockpit and as Munroe looked out of the side window he could see the thin trail of a rocket burner heading straight towards them. The pilot instinctively began to lurch the aircraft steeply to the left as the yellow hue of flared countermeasures popped from the back of the fuselage in the direction of the incoming missile. The whole C-130 was shaking as the stress of the manoeuvre pushed its frame to the limits and Munroe reached back and grabbed on to Sloan’s coat sleeve, offering support as the missile exploded into the countermeasures off the port side, sending shrapnel slicing through the cockpit. Metal debris blew out the remaining windows and disintegrated both HUD displays, also catching the pilot in the chest, sending blood splattering across the dashboard and causing him to lurch forward limply against the yoke, sending the aircraft into a steep freefall once again.

  Munroe grabbed the co-pilot’s yoke and pulled back on it and as he regained control, bringing the plane level. Sloan was already unbuckling the pilot and dragging him back into the cargo bay. Munroe wasn’t sure if the man was alive; the crimson wound across his chest looked deep, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and took the pilot’s as Sloan now returned to the cockpit and slid into the seat next to him, putting on the oxygen mask as she did so.

  “Who the hell’s firing at us?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s ground-based,” Munroe replied as the pressure of the oncoming wind seeping through the open windows pushed him back into his seat.

  “Jesus, Ethan. Someone doesn’t want us reaching New Orleans.”

  Munroe didn’t reply; instead he was searching ahead for Louis Armstrong airport, and to his relief he found the landing strip lights directly ahead. They were still some miles out but with three engines functioning he could get them down.

  “Can you land this?” Sloan yelled, and he gave her a firm nod.

  “I’ve flown a C-130 before.”

  “Yeah, but have you landed one?”

  His pause did not exude the confidence Sloan had hoped for.

  “I’ll get her down so long as we’re not fired upon again.”

  He’d barely finished the sentence when the red emergency light lit up the dashboard and after a glance at the radar Munroe rolled the aircraft into a steep turn as the fuselage was lit up again by the automated flares popping into the air with their heated signatures attracting the incoming projectile.

  “Hold on, this is going to be close.”

  The missile was again tempted by the flares and a bright flash lit up the cockpit with the explosion, but this time the shrapnel slammed into the nearest port propeller, and the shockwave rattled the whole plane so violently that it felt as if the whole aircraft would tear itself apart.

  Munroe stared over at the nearest engine and he could tell the bent propellers were only being spun by force of the oncoming wind. They were now down to just two, on the right side, and the whole aircraft began to yaw downwards, shaking violently. As Munroe fought against the yoke he jammed his foot hard on the opposite rudder pedal and attempted to straighten his line of flight. With only one side having thrust he had to offset the nose of the plane at an angle so the remaining propellers had enough directed thrust to keep the aircraft moving forward, but the wind shear was testing the aircraft to its limits, the vibrations intensifying with every passing second.

  They were now less than three miles out from the approaching runway, and down below the dense sprawl of New Orleans radiated its bright, welcoming glow. There wasn’t time to head back out to the coast, and if they went down here the damage would be immense. A C-130 crashing full speed into the streets, during the Mardi Gras celebrations, would be nothing short of catastrophic, and Munroe pressed his thumb down on the yoke’s mic button. “New Orleans international tower, this…”

  Shit, he didn’t even know the call sign.

  “This is the C-130 military cargo plane approaching the main runway from the south east. Both port side propellers have failed. Emergency landing requested.” Of course it wasn’t a request but a demand, and as he waited for a response he yelled out to Sloan. “We need to slow her down, we’re coming in too fast. See that grey switch between us?” He motioned with his chin but Sloan already had
her hand on it. She clearly had more knowledge of aircraft than he’d realised.

  “Extend the flaps, one stage only.”

  As Munroe continued his struggle with the yoke, Sloan engaged the flaps, and with a heavy buffeting to the wings the plane began to reduce in speed. With only two functioning propellers they couldn’t slow too much or they’d stall and drop from the sky like a dead weight. For Munroe, judging the correct speed was nothing more than an educated guess and a feel for the aircraft, and he knew he would have to bring it down faster than he should do. Despite this dead reckoning he wasn’t even sure where the landing gear was located.

  There was still no answer from the tower and Munroe figured the radio had been damaged during one of the blasts.

  “There it is.” He nodded to the central panel and the landing gear handle as the runway loomed closer, less than a mile away. “Drop the wheels,” he yelled, and Sloan pulled the handle and the sound of hydraulics hissed below them as the landing gears locked into place.

  There was no need to say ‘hang on’. They shared a simple glance and Sloan grabbed the sides of her seat as Munroe descended towards the matt black tarmac, fighting the yoke with all his strength.

  They soared over the airport fencing and within metres of touching down he released some of the pressure on the yoke and the nose flipped back to its centre line, but his timing was slightly off. As the C-130’s wheels slammed down onto the tarmac the entire aircraft wobbled and began to tip to one side. Munroe was already countering with the rudder pedals and he felt the plane’s centre of gravity shifting, and then it stabilised and dropped back down onto all wheels with a heavy crunch. He slammed the brake pedals hard, too hard at first, almost causing the aircraft to careen off the runway, but then he lightened the pressure and the speed began to drop, knot by knot.

  The sound of metal screeching against tarmac told him one of the wheels had crumpled during the initial touchdown, but the rudder pedals were still operational, and by the time they neared the end of the runway he was down to a comfortable roll, and he used the momentum to guide the plane along the nearest taxiway and then off onto a large patch of grass. He could think of better places to park, but at least they were clear of any incoming commercial flights, and as the wheels ground to a full stop he allowed himself to exhale deeply. To his right Sloan was doing the same, and as they both looked at each other she coolly nodded her appreciation.

  “Welcome to New Orleans,” he announced, his breathing heavy. Without even a reply Sloan was unbuckling and heading back into the cargo hold to check on the two pilots. Munroe should have joined her immediately, but as he stared out of the broken cockpit window and watched the convoy of emergency fire trucks and ambulances heading in their direction he found himself momentarily preoccupied. No, uneasy. But not because of the controlled adrenalin spike he could feel running through his veins. It had been a close call after all, but that wasn’t it. What was making him uneasy was the ‘how’. How did Daedalus, if it had been Daedalus, know where they were? Firing rockets at a UK military aircraft over an American city was insane enough, but how did they know their location?

  His conclusion was the unsettling part, and he rubbed his forehead and then sat back in his seat. There were only a select few who knew where he and Sloan had been heading… and they were all DS5.

  Chapter 26

  Mardi Gras was already in full swing as Munroe and Sloan made their way down Bourbon Street and through the bustling crowds of revellers, all making the most of the organised chaos playing out on the streets of New Orleans. With every surge of the crowd Munroe stiffened and silently cursed the tightness in his neck which he’d managed to receive when making his ‘gentle’ touchdown at New Orleans airport over an hour earlier. The landing, as it turned out, had proved to be the easy part. After bringing the C-130 to an ungracious stop they’d been detained immediately. The safe landing of a British military aircraft after being attacked mid-air was one thing, but when one of the airport police had caught sight of Sloan’s Beretta hanging from its holster there was instant suspicion. The whole airport was in partial lockdown in response to the terrorist attack in London and nerves were already heightened. Add that to a missile attack above the city and the authorities were understandably suspicious of anything out of the ordinary, and a woman and man wearing civilian clothes, each armed with silenced firearms, were not something to be glossed over lightly. They had been handcuffed soon after and it was not until Homeland Security had turned up, which was quickly, that Sloan had been allowed to make a phone call. One call to DS5’s US section head Colonel Sinclair and they’d been released without any complaint. Munroe had no idea what the colonel had said, but it showed the real power DS5 had over law enforcement when necessary. The justice system in the US wasn’t like the UK’s, it was far more internalised, with each department always vying for jurisdiction. Given what must have been perceived as a terrorist attempt over the skies of Louisiana, their quick release had been all the more remarkable. They were even allowed to take their handguns with them. From there a waiting helicopter had flown them to a small private helipad just a stone’s throw from Bourbon Street, in doing so bypassing the congested Louisiana roads. Sloan had been right, McCitrick was a master organiser, and despite the emergency landing and detention, it had taken a fraction of the time that a taxi drive would have.

  The bars were overflowing, as was the alcohol, and there was hardly a person in sight not decorated in throws of multi-coloured bead necklaces. The media had been full of doubt as to whether the yearly event would still go ahead after the attack on London but after much lobbying from all sides of the political spectrum, all played out on TV, the decision had been made to commence with the celebrations. It did, however, mean that the police presence was heavy, and even though the atmosphere was exhilarating one could feel an almost tangible sense of underlying apprehension emanating from every uniformed lawman on the streets.

  Despite the unease, Munroe had been draped with five necklaces, had multiple gold plastic doubloons thrown at him and a half empty plastic cup of beer thrust into his hand. Sloan hadn’t fared much better, with the added ask that she lift her top off by a bystander who had come extremely close to receiving a broken wrist for his request.

  “This is it,” Munroe said as he reached the store front of Dr Bute’s House of Voodoo and stared up at the skull-shaped wooden sign hanging above it. He gave the door a gentle push but it was locked tight. Sloan moved to his side, pushing back at the weight of the crowd which nudged them both backwards and forward in waves.

  “It’s locked,” he said, turning the door handle again just to be sure.

  “Let’s try the back,” Sloan suggested, and with a nod from Munroe they began to slowly push past the rows of people clogging the sidewalk, looking for a point of access that would lead them to the back of the shop buildings. After some hustling they reached the street corner and after a pleasant smile to a uniformed cop manning it they both headed down the road, relieved to see it mostly empty due to all the fun being had on the main street. There is an art to moving cautiously but not looking like you’re moving cautiously, and as Sloan took the lead Munroe never took his eyes off the rooftops. Icarus knew they were coming, shit, he’d invited them, and as Sloan pulled up next to a narrow alleyway and peered around the corner Munroe expected to be ambushed at any moment. The good news was nothing had happened yet, but as he followed Sloan down the tight corridor and towards the darkened rear side of Dr Bute’s House of Voodoo, the lack of any lighting had him feeling exposed.

  “Hold up,” he whispered, moving in front of Sloan. “Let me go to the back door first. I don’t want him taking pot shots at us from the window.”

  It seemed unlikely that this would happen. Icarus, if he was telling the truth, wanted to talk with him, but Munroe wasn’t taking any chances. How had the psychopath put it when it came to his own actions? ‘Conflicted.’

  Sloan nodded and drew her weapon, covering the top wind
ows as Munroe slunk past the arched opening to the rear yard and then up to the back door. Satisfied they were clear he motioned for Sloan to join him. By the time she did Munroe was already preparing the set of lockpicks as Sloan hugged the wall, her silenced Beretta still drawn.

  Munroe slipped the first pick into the Yale lock, but then he paused before pulling it back out and trying the handle.

  Icarus had invited them.

  His guess was correct, and as the door swung open Munroe retrieved his own silenced Beretta from his waist holster and raised its handle closely to his chest before glancing over at Sloan, who took the lead and headed inside.

  It was commonplace to see special forces hugging their pistols to their chests on TV shows, but the reality had nothing to do with trying to look cool on camera. When clearing an interior with tight corners, an outstretched pistol could be grabbed at by anyone hiding around them.

  The narrow back hallway had a small restroom leading off to one side and as Sloan moved to clear it, Munroe continued past her to the open doorway, giving him access to the front of the building.

  The odour of burnt opium joss sticks clung to the air, smelling like the aftermath of a party from the night before, and as he poked his head and barrel around the corner to survey the shop front crammed with trinkets and voodoo souvenirs, he could see the swell of bouncing shadows of outside partygoers against the closed blinds.

  Sloan was now at his back and with a nod they both filtered into the room on opposite sides. As Munroe came around the till counter he saw the body of a black man in a white shirt and beads sprawled out on the floor beneath him. On either side of the corpse lay two more bodies, a man and a woman, both with blonde hair and wearing jeans and T-shirts, all three of them sharing similar deep cuts across their throats, from ear to ear.

  For Munroe the deep knife wounds meant no checking of a pulse was warranted, and as Sloan joined him they both turned and brought their guns to bear on the only remaining unknown area of the shop, the dangling multi-coloured draped beads leading to a stairwell.