Project Icarus

by R D Shah

  Cheeky bastard. Kessler, the sneaky little shit, had tagged him with a tracker. He must have done it back at the chateau, when he was out cold.

  Suddenly things began to make sense. That’s how they’d found him so quickly after he’d ‘borrowed’ the 911. At the time he’d thought it was blind luck, everyone gets lucky sometimes, but luck had nothing to do with it, and these two goons following him had now tracked him here!

  The line that his special forces training had taught him ran through his mind, and he berated himself for not following it. ‘There are no coincidences.’

  Munroe made his way to the restroom sign and then headed inside without looking back to check if his pursuers were still following. He didn’t need to. A public restroom, away from the hordes of other passengers, would be a perfect place for them to take him, and he was happy to oblige.

  The restroom was large, with multiple cubicles along one side standing on a blue and white mosaic tile floor, and two large mirrors on the opposite side above the washbasins. He was about to check each stall when his mobile rang and he answered immediately in a hushed voice.

  “Munroe.”

  “Ethan, your ride’s waiting,” McCitrick answered bluntly.

  “Whereabouts? I’m at gate twelve, on the concourse.”

  “Go to gate fifteen. There’s a familiar face. And pull the lead out, Ethan. You’re on a tight schedule.”

  “That could be tough, I’ve picked up a tail. Two of them, actually.”

  There was a pause, and when McCitrick came back on he sounded as unconcerned as ever in that monotone voice of his. “Where are you exactly?”

  “I’m in the restroom. Let me take care of this and I’ll head to gate fifteen.”

  Munroe heard the restroom door swing open behind the privacy partition and he turned off the mobile, slipped it in his pocket and began washing his hands at the nearest basin just as the bald-headed man who’d been following him appeared.

  His pursuer didn’t skip a beat and made his way over to the washbasin a few down from Munroe, where he also began washing his hands.

  Munroe looked over and smiled politely and the courtesy was returned, but as Munroe turned off the tap and began walking towards the hand dryer the bald man was already reaching into his pocket. Before he had a chance to retrieve anything, Munroe grabbed the man’s wandering arm by the wrist and with his other hand slammed the front of his head against the washbasin, leaving a dark bloody smudge from the impact. The man pushed back up but Munroe focused on his wrist and he jerked it upwards to reveal a thin, hardened plastic spike with a wooden handle, no doubt designed to pass through the metal detectors at customs undetected.

  “Christ, what is it with you people and ice picks?” was all Munroe managed to say as the bald man swung around and kneed him right in the groin. Thankfully he missed both of them, but the blow sent him down on one knee as the bald man now swivelled his wrist around and pulled away from Munroe’s grip. The ice pick was now forced downwards as Munroe grabbed his wrist again and held, pushing against the wavering sharp end above him.

  The bald man slammed a couple of kicks into Munroe’s side in an attempt to weaken him, as the blonde-haired woman he had seen earlier now piled in through the bathroom door, and ran at his back with an identical plastic ice pick to the one that the bald man was using. Munroe glanced back and then in one swift motion he swivelled the bald man’s hand with all his weight, sending him to the floor on his back. Still battling for control of the plastic ice pick he jumped from his kneeling position up onto one leg and with his other drove his boot into the chest of the woman, sending her flying backwards to the far wall.

  It was a bad impact, her head slamming against the cement, and then she collapsed to the floor, leaving a bloody smear as her weapon rolled out of her hand and across the tiles.

  Munroe now turned his attention to the bald man. He slammed the sole of his boot directly downwards into the man’s groin, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the makeshift ice pick to the floor. Munroe yanked him to his feet and flung him against the basin, and as the man fell back towards him he landed a solid punch to the face, sending him crumpling to the floor.

  Behind him the bathroom door flung open again and Munroe grabbed the plastic ice pick and turned to see a woman holding a black 9mm Glock directly at him. He froze.

  Captain Jaqueline Sloan stared at him, eyes wide at the scene, and then she lowered her gun and turned to the collapsed blonde woman on the floor next to her, checking for a pulse.

  “Dead.” She stood up and gave Munroe her full attention as she blew a loose strand of red hair from her face. The two simply gave each other a friendly nod before Munroe grabbed the bald man under the arms and began dragging him towards the nearest cubicle. “Give me a hand, would you,” Munroe asked, motioning his head towards the dead blonde.

  Jax said nothing but did likewise, dragging the woman’s body towards one of the cubicles before propping it up against the toilet. She then closed the door and joined Munroe as he perched the bald man on the toilet seat and began checking his pockets.

  “Nothing,” he said, and Jax, noting the man was still breathing, looked over at the plastic ice pick in Munroe’s hand.

  “What are you going to do?” She asked as Munroe looked at the man and then back at Jax. “Your mess, your call.”

  Munroe considered it for a moment before shaking his head. He wiped down the plastic ice pick using the front of the unconscious man’s jacket and then tossed it into a silver waste bin next to the wall. “We’ll leave him here. Let’s go.”

  Munroe pulled the cubicle door closed and was about to follow when he called out after her. He’d almost forgotten. “Do you have anything sharp on you?”

  Jax didn’t even question the request and she pulled out a small pocket knife, which she unfolded and passed over to him.

  Munroe pulled up his shirt and made a nick just above his hip. “This is how they found me,” he said, wincing in discomfort as he picked at the small puncture wound, retrieving a little capsule no more than half a centimetre long and as thin as a pencil lead. “It’s a tracker.”

  Jax looked at him in puzzlement as Munroe placed it on the basin counter and pulled out his iPhone.

  “Long story. I’ll bring you up to speed once we get out.” He snapped off a few pictures of the tracker before dropping it down the plughole and washing the drops of blood away with the tap.

  Jax only raised an eyebrow. “Amateurs,” was all she said and headed to the bathroom’s exit. Munroe couldn’t tell if she meant him or the people who had put it in, but he swiftly followed her outside as she made her way along the concourse.

  “I wasn’t expecting you,” Munroe said, actually glad to see her.

  “Yeah, well I wasn’t expecting that. You’re lucky McCitrick called me or who knows what would have happened.”

  “Don’t you worry yourself. I was doing just fine without you.”

  Jax looked unconvinced. “You mean like getting that tracker inserted into your body without realising it?”

  “Didn’t quite happen like that.”

  “No, never usually does.”

  Within a couple of minutes they were at gate fifteen and Munroe followed as Jax bypassed the reception area and, with no one batting an eyelid, they headed through into the connecting tunnel and then out of a service door leading down onto the central tarmac.

  They were met by two Royal Marines dressed in fully military attire, minus the weapons, and with a nod from Jax they were escorted towards a grey Merlin Mk 2 helicopter whose rotors were already beginning to rotate.

  “I could have taken a flight back to the UK, you know,” Munroe said loudly as the roar of the helicopter engine increased, the downforce pushing against them.

  “That would be pointless,” Jax shouted as she climbed on board, then waited for Munroe and the soldiers to join her. As he sat down opposite, the door was slid shut behind him.

  “And why would that be?�
��

  “Because we’re not going back to the UK.”

  Chapter 17

  The sun was glorious and flooding the skies with its warm, yellow embrace as the Merlin Mk 2 helicopter skimmed above the thick layers of cloud. By the direction they’d been heading in for well over an hour Munroe knew roughly where they were, but their intended destination was still a mystery. Above the roar of the engines, which had hardly slowed since taking off, he leant forward towards Captain Sloan and spoke into the microphone of the headphone he’d been given shortly after take-off. “So, Jax, are you going to tell me where we’re going or just keep me in suspense?”

  It was the second time he’d asked after giving her a debrief on Kessler and his run-in with Daedalus. The first had ended with Sloan simply lifting a finger to her lips and, judging by the blank stare he received now, her discretion wasn’t about to end any time soon.

  “You’re not much for small talk, are you, Captain?”

  Jax pushed her own headset mic closer to her lips. “You’ve got a big mouth, Ethan.”

  Munroe smiled. At least she was talking. “So have you, when it suits you.”

  “Well it doesn’t suit me now, so do us both a favour and shut up.”

  Munroe still hadn’t decided whether Sloan was acting tough or was just cold as ice, and he now probed playfully. “You know we’re on the same side, right?”

  Sloan’s unyielding stare continued and she sat back further in her seat. “That’s still to be determined.”

  Her response was hardly unexpected. She was a woman in a man’s army, and to thrive one needed to meet the bar, though to be fair that was the same whatever sex you were. The attitude in the military was one crafted from centuries of experience and centred around the need to follow orders and give no leeway. To be and act as tough as your teammates and hold that standard for the good of everyone. The group mentality needed no weak link in the chain. For special forces, a bit more free thought was welcomed – no, expected – but as he looked over at Sloan he couldn’t quite gauge what side of the fence she landed on.

  From the cockpit, one of the pilots reached back and tapped Sloan on the shoulder. He raised his index finger in the air and then clasped his hand into a fist.

  “Your suspense is over, Ethan.” The helicopter began to descend through the clouds, turning the view outside a foggy white, until moments later they broke through the bottom and down towards the foamy crests lapping across the dark blue waves below.

  The seas were rough today, and as Munroe pulled himself closer to the window for a better look her got his answer.

  HMS Queen Elizabeth sat proudly atop the waves like a shining monolith of grey steel. As the Merlin helicopter closed in on her, Munroe could already make out the row of F-35 Lightning II combat stealth jets lining the top deck. The aircraft carrier was the flagship of the Royal Navy, and despite only recently being put into service it had already become a beacon for naval and national pride. Its size was second only to the Americans’ Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, the most impressive naval ship on the planet, but regardless she was a sight to behold and the two unique separate command centres, the forward housing the bridge and the aft responsible for air operations, made her stand out from most traditional carriers.

  “The Queen Elizabeth. Never seen her up close,” Munroe remarked as Sloan glanced back at him.

  “Well congratulations, because you’re going to see a lot more of her.”

  The Merlin sank lower and as they approached the deck a ground crew with yellow hi-vis jackets and white helmets were already directing them to their landing spot.

  Immediately after the Merlin gracefully landed it was lashed down. After the pilot was given an all-clear signal, the door was slid open by one of the Marines, and Munroe dropped his headset onto the seat and followed Sloan as she strode across the deck towards the towering command centre.

  The upper deck was about 1,600 square feet and almost as long as three football fields. It had been a while since he’d found himself on an aircraft carrier and he stopped for a moment to inspect the row of F-35s. They were comparable only to the Americans’ F-22 Raptors, to which they were almost identical in shape, and as he sniffed the salt spray in the air a mild wave of euphoria ran though him. It felt good.

  Back in the saddle, he thought, unable to prevent the smile that was now etched across his face. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed this. The energy and excitement of the unknown, and the danger that came with it.

  “Munroe!”

  He looked over to see Sloan beckoning him with a sharp flick of her arm. She stood beside a tall man in his fifties, dressed in a blue naval jumpsuit, at the base of the looming aft command tower.

  Munroe allowed himself a final sniff of the sea air before heading over to join her, as the rotors of the Merlin helicopter behind him ground down to a halt.

  “Captain Markham, this is my colleague, Ethan Munroe,” she announced as Munroe offered his hand, which was shook firmly by the captain.

  “Welcome aboard the Elizabeth,” Markham greeted him courteously. “I hope your ride was enjoyable.”

  “Long time since I flew in a Merlin. Appreciate the pickup,” Munroe replied, nodding in the direction of the helicopter as the ground crew began the task of folding back the rotors in preparation for the elevator trip to the lower deck.

  “You’re welcome, Mr Munroe. But given that the whole country is on high alert, the government is in chaos, and we’ve been placed on a war footing, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt, I’d like to know what the hell my visitors’ business is when letting them aboard my ship. Especially at such short notice, and given the circumstances.”

  “We understand, Captain, and considering the attack on Parliament I think we’re all on edge,” Sloan interjected with an understanding curtness that appeared to calm Captain Markham slightly. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the army has checkpoints all over London, and if my sources are correct what’s left of Parliament is about to issue a nationwide curfew. We certainly don’t want to add to your concerns or troubles, but the truth is we’re not exactly sure why we’re here either.”

  Judging by the captain’s expression, it was clear he knew she was lying.

  “Mmm. Really. I find that very hard to believe, but given the state of our national security at the moment, and the need now for cohesion, I suppose I have no option but to trust you, Captain Sloan. Very well, let’s get you down there.” With Sloan looking respectful, and Munroe behind her, they were quickly led into the command tower and deeper to the decks below.

  “We were supposed to be setting a course for a NATO exercise in the South China Sea within the next few hours, but considering the terrorist attack at Westminster I’m unsure what our orders will be. The political chain of command is in a bad way and a breakdown in command means mistakes. Mistakes cost lives. Either way, I suspect yours will be a short visit unless you’re intending to travel with us.”

  Captain Markham was doing his best to wheedle out any information about their visit, but Sloan kept her reply short.

  “I doubt we’ll be here that long, sir.”

  “Mmm,” The captain murmured again as he raised his hand towards an open area at the bottom of the steps. “No time for a tour, but that’s the galley, and the doors ahead take you to the main hangar.”

  “Impressive aircraft up top, sir,” Munroe said, referring to the F-35 Lightning jets as Captain Markham guided them quickly down the next flight of metal steps.

  “Hell of a fighter. We can hold thirty-six of them. Bloody shame we only bought twenty-one! That’s the government for you. What’s left of it anyway. Luckily there’s another thirty on order, but it means we’re travelling light at the moment.”

  Sloan said nothing but Munroe snorted at his honesty. “The only thing you can count on in the military is not having what you really need.”

  The comment brought a frustrated smile to the captain’s face. “Don’t I know it, son, today mo
re than ever.”

  The lower deck they arrived on was lined by a main corridor and Captain Markham pointed to a closed oval doorway opposite. “Mr Munroe, you’re in there, and Captain Sloan, you’re a bit further down.”

  Sloan gave him a nod. “Catch you later,” she said, and without any further explanation headed down the galley with Captain Markham in the lead.

  The chain of command for the military was as essential as breathing, and the captain’s assessment was absolutely correct. There had never been an attack like this before. Individual assassinations did and had occurred throughout history, but almost the entire political system in one shot! They were in uncharted waters, and as Munroe looked at the navy staff passing him by he saw an unease in their faces that he only now began to consider. With so much going on he’d hardly had time to truly appreciate the worldwide consequences, and a troubling feeling of uncertainty now ran through him as he stepped over to the doorway, turned the handle and let himself inside. The attack on Parliament was a game-changer, the UK’s own 9/11, and even more worrying was that he had the feeling it was just the beginning. He was still in the dark… That had to change, right now.

  The briefing room could have held forty people, at a squeeze, with four lines of plastic seats all facing one way and bolted to the floor. The walls were metal grey with protruding bulkheads every few metres, with a number of maps and various instruction signs attached to them.

  “Ethan. You made it.”

  The deep, monotone voice was unmistakable and Munroe turned to see McCitrick with his arms folded, resting against a briefing table with a sixty-inch flat-screen monitor on the wall behind.

  “Ahh, Boris,” Munroe said lightly. McCitrick only stared at him blankly and pointed to a seat in the front row.

  “I think we’re past that, don’t you? Please, have a seat.”

  Munroe didn’t move immediately, waiting for a few moments and leaving McCitrick’s hand hovering in the air before he finally walked over and sat down in the central front chair.