The Persona Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  Passing right under the gunship.

  The tip of the seaplane’s tail scraped the Hind’s belly with a metallic shriek, but the damage it inflicted was nothing compared to the impact of the Beriev’s jet exhaust. With both engines at full power, it was blasting out over thirty thousand pounds of thrust – swatting the helicopter out of the sky.

  The gunship was hurled into a corkscrewing spin, rolling as it fell. Its rotors slashed into the water – and the engines’ torque flung the fuselage around in the opposite direction, slamming it down like a hammer. The Hind disintegrated, wreckage tumbling in all directions before being swallowed by the icy void.

  But the Beriev was not out of danger. The forced touchdown had slowed it, the airspeed indicator dropping. The bar of land across the lagoon’s mouth was coming up fast – and the seaplane was falling towards it.

  Adam grappled with the controls, desperately trying to find extra lift. If he pulled the stick back to climb without increasing speed, it would result in a stall, smashing the Be-200 on the frozen ground. But the indicator needle was rising too slowly. The plane reached one hundred knots again, but it was not enough to stay airborne.

  Despite every instinct of Gennady’s screaming for him to stop, he pushed the stick forward again. The altimeter spun down faster – but the plane picked up speed. One-ten, one-fifteen, but the Beriev was only fifty feet above sea level.

  Rocks and snow filled his vision . . .

  One hundred and twenty knots.

  Adam felt the plane’s wings flex, as if it were coming alive. He pulled the stick back. The icy land dropped away—

  A fearsome grinding noise echoed through the fuselage as the Beriev’s keel grazed the bar, kicking up a spray of snow and gravel – then the seaplane angled upwards, gaining height.

  ‘Slava bogu!’ cried Adam, whooping. ‘We made it!’

  ‘Jesus!’ gasped Tony, still clinging to the other seat. He looked back shakily into the main cabin. ‘Is everyone okay?’

  Baxter and his men gave more or less positive responses, the team leader closing the hatch before checking Levin’s wound. Bianca flipped strands of spray-soaked hair off her face. ‘Oh yes, fine,’ she said with withering sarcasm. ‘So what’s the in-flight movie? Alive?’

  Adam ignored her, turning the plane south-east. He found a pair of headphones on a hook and donned them, then switched on the radio and listened to the rapid chatter from Provideniya’s control tower. ‘This isn’t good,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Tony asked.

  ‘Our plane got away from Provideniya – but the controllers have requested Russian military support to bring them back.’

  The blond man was unimpressed. ‘The nearest airbase is, what, two hundred miles from here? There’s no way they’ll catch up before we reach US airspace.’

  ‘They don’t have to,’ Adam said urgently. ‘They already had two fighters in the air on a long-range exercise – they’re moving to intercept!’

  The Global 6000 had levelled out at ten thousand feet, on course for St Lawrence Island. Kyle hoped for a sight of American soil in the distance, but clouds obstructed his view. ‘God damn, that was close,’ he said, leaning back in his seat. ‘I’d better get danger pay for this.’

  Holly Jo glowered at him. ‘Jesus Christ, Kyle!’

  He looked affronted. ‘What?’

  ‘Is that all you can think about, yourself? Some of our people just died! We lost at least three members of the tac team – and we don’t know what happened to everyone else after you blew up the UAV.’

  ‘Hey, I was trying to save them by doing that.’

  ‘That’s not the point! You’re sitting there whining about how dangerous things were for you, when—’

  The entire plane lurched violently, loose items flying across the cabin. Only Kyle and Holly Jo’s seat belts kept them from following suit. A thunderous roar shook the aircraft, followed a moment later by another vicious jolt and a second rumbling scream that rapidly dopplered away into the distance.

  Holly Jo grabbed her armrests in panic. ‘What the hell was that?’

  Kyle looked back through the window. ‘Holy shit!’

  Two sleek jet fighters powered away from the American plane, having just crossed its path at near-supersonic speeds so that it would slam into their turbulent wakes – the aerial equivalent of throwing a stinger strip in front of a speeding car. They circled behind the business jet, giving Kyle a better view as they passed. He identified them instantly: Sukhoi Su-35E ‘Super Flankers’, painted in angular grey dazzle camouflage. The pride of the Russian Air Force, and among the most deadly aircraft on the planet. Each Flanker had four missiles mounted beneath its wings.

  He doubted that the weapons were harmless training dummies.

  Holly Jo used her headset to talk to the cockpit. ‘What’s happening?’

  Tension was clear in the pilot’s voice. ‘They’re ordering us to turn about and head back to Provideniya.’

  ‘They can’t do that!’ Kyle protested. ‘We’re in international airspace.’

  ‘We just violated Russian airspace with an unauthorised takeoff. They’re kinda pissed about it!’

  ‘But what about our F-22s?’

  ‘Gee, I don’t see them,’ the pilot replied scathingly. ‘Do you?’

  Holly Jo listened in on another transmission, from one of the Sukhois. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, going pale. ‘They just said that if we don’t turn round, they’ll open fire.’

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ said the pilot. ‘I’m taking us back.’

  Kyle pressed his face against the porthole. One of the pursuing Flankers swung into sight as the Global 6000 banked, the military aircraft effortlessly matching the Bombardier’s movements. ‘Crap. Crap, oh crap!’ he cried, close to panic. ‘What happens if they arrest us? I mean, we’re technically spies.’

  ‘There’s no “technically” about it,’ said Holly Jo. ‘We are spies! We’ve got to destroy the hard drives, wipe anything containing classified data—’

  She was interrupted by an astonished shout from Kyle. ‘Holy shit! Look at this, look!’

  She rushed to the other side of the cabin to see what was happening – and reacted with the same amazement.

  Another plane had joined the chase.

  The pilot of the leading Sukhoi adjusted his course to follow the larger jet as it turned. Even though it had followed his instructions and was heading back to land, he still kept the gunsight on his head-up display locked on to it. Where east met west over the Bering Strait, the Americans were always up to something sneaky. This time, they had been caught red-handed—

  He flinched at a shocked yelp in his helmet’s earphones – his wingman. ‘Drop, drop!’ the other pilot cried. ‘Break off!’

  Nothing on the radar or threat warning indicator. He looked back . . . as a shadow fell over his cockpit.

  The second Flanker had made a hurried rolling descent – away from the looming underbelly of the large transport aircraft now plunging down at him like a giant’s fist.

  ‘He’s diving, he’s gone!’ said Tony, leaning over the pilot’s body to see what was happening outside. He had pressed a gloved hand against the bullet hole in the windshield to block the shrieking wind. The two Sukhois disappeared into the clouds below. ‘You did it! You scared them off.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Adam said grimly as he levelled out. He selected a new radio frequency. ‘Two-zero-one, do you read me? This is Adam, on an open channel. Do you read?’

  ‘We read you,’ came the reply – the pilot of the Global 6000, its tail number ending in 201. ‘What’s your situation?’

  ‘The situation,’ said Kyle, cutting in with enormous relief, ‘is that he’s just saved our asses!’

  ‘I only bought us a little extra time,’ Adam corrected. ‘Two-zero-one, turn back to the south-east, maximum speed. You’ve got to reach US airspace.’

  ‘Those fighters will catch up again long before then,’ the pilot pointed
out.

  ‘Just get as far as you can. We’ll do the same. Out.’ He banked the Beriev away from the business jet. As he turned, he saw two faces gawping at him through the cabin portholes: Holly Jo and Kyle. He gave them a brief wave, then looked back at the controls.

  ‘They’re following us,’ Tony reported as the Bombardier changed course.

  ‘They’re not the only ones.’ Although he couldn’t see them, Adam knew the Russian fighters were still out there.

  And now they were mad.

  The lead Su-35 pilot powered his plane back up through the clouds. He was shaking; both with shock at the near-miss, and with anger. Attacked – by a seaplane! It was almost insulting that somebody in a tub of a Beriev had tried to intimidate him. What made it worse was that they had succeeded.

  Now he would show the Beriev’s pilot the true meaning of intimidation.

  He activated his fighter’s fire-control systems. The Flanker’s Irbis radar was capable of detecting targets as far as four hundred kilometres away, but the two he was now hunting were only at one hundredth of that distance. ‘Bandits at eleven o’clock high, bearing one-one-zero degrees,’ he told his companion. ‘Let’s get them.’

  Both Sukhois banked hard, afterburners flaring as they surged in pursuit.

  Adam watched the Bombardier overtaking his plane. Even with its two powerful engines, the aerodynamic compromises needed to make the Be-200 amphibious limited its maximum speed to just over five hundred knots. The Global 6000 had almost a ninety-knot advantage.

  Not that it mattered: both aircraft were in a losing race. The Flankers could achieve well over Mach 2, getting on for three times faster.

  He switched one of the displays to a computerised map. The plane was now about halfway between the Russian coast and the north-western tip of St Lawrence Island. US airspace officially began twelve nautical miles from the land’s edge, matching the limits of its territorial waters.

  At the seaplane’s top speed, it would still take more than two minutes to reach it.

  And he didn’t have two minutes. ‘Attention seaplane, attention unidentified seaplane,’ said a voice in his headphones. The Russian pilot was speaking in thickly accented English, but his barely restrained fury was clear. ‘You have committed an aggressive act against military aircraft of the Russian Federation. You will turn to three-two-five degrees and land at Provideniya airport, where you will be placed under arrest. I have missile lock on your plane. If you do not obey, I will shoot you down. You have twenty seconds to comply.’

  ‘Not good?’ said Tony, seeing Adam’s expression.

  ‘Not good. They’re going to fire if we don’t turn back.’

  The Global 6000’s pilot had already made his decision, the other jet peeling away. One of the Flankers followed it. ‘I guess that settles it,’ Tony said mournfully. ‘See you in the gulag . . .’

  ‘You now have ten seconds,’ said the Russian. The Beriev was dead centre in his HUD, a trilling warble in his headphones assuring him that he had a solid missile lock on his target. ‘Nine. Eight . . .’

  A new sound, an insistent, piercing shrill. Threat warning indicators flashed red. Someone had locked weapons on to him! But who—

  ‘Russian fighters, Russian fighters,’ said a new voice. American. ‘We have missile lock on both your aircraft.’

  The display revealed that the radar beam pinning him was coming from astern. The pilot twisted in his seat to spot its source. He glimpsed an ominous grey shadow against the sky, closing in from behind.

  An F-22 Raptor, the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world.

  ‘You will disengage immediately and allow the two civilian aircraft to proceed on their way,’ the Raptor pilot continued. ‘If you do not, we will use all necessary force to protect them.’

  ‘What do we do?’ asked the Russian’s wingman, frantic.

  The pilot choked back his rage. He had always wanted to know how a dogfight between a Flanker and a Raptor would play out, not believing for one minute the American claims of the latter’s superiority and certain that he was more than a match for any US pilot . . . but from such a weakened position, any challenge would be suicide.

  ‘Withdraw,’ he snarled. ‘Break off and withdraw.’

  Tony was pressed against the window again, watching the Flanker curve away. An F-22 followed it, a hound corralling its prey. ‘They’re bugging out!’

  ‘Attention two-zero-one and companion aircraft,’ said one of the American pilots through Adam’s headphones. ‘This is Raptor One. You are now free and clear to reach US airspace. Once we’re sure these guys have gone, we’ll escort you to Elmendorf.’ A pause, then, pointedly: ‘Whatever you were doing, I hope it was worth it. There’s gonna be diplomatic hell to pay once you’re on the ground.’

  ‘Thanks for your assistance, Raptor One,’ Adam replied. He looked back into the cabin, seeing the RTG still secured to the deck, Bianca near it with the PERSONA cases – and Qasid, bound and under guard. ‘We got what we came for.’

  35

  Double Jeopardy

  Washington, DC

  The atmosphere in the meeting room was caustic, to say the least.

  Gordon Harper sat at one end of the table, glaring at the STS personnel around it with utter contempt. ‘So. I bust my ass and call in a lot of political favours to give you the chance to follow up on what you found out in Macau. And in return, I get’ – he jumped to his feet, banging both hands down on the table as his voice rose to a roar – ‘a colossal cluster-fuck!’ Holly Jo flinched.

  ‘With respect, Admiral,’ said Morgan hesitantly, ‘the operation wasn’t a complete failure.’

  ‘You want to call it a success?’

  ‘We stopped al-Qaeda from getting the RTG,’ said Tony, more firmly. ‘And we have a recording of al-Rais’s persona. The information we get from that—’

  ‘Will be utterly useless!’ Harper bellowed. ‘Because you let him get away! The Russians haven’t caught him, so he’s still out there somewhere – and now he knows we’re on to him, so whatever plans al-Qaeda had in the works, they’ll change.’

  ‘It’ll still be valuable,’ Tony insisted. ‘Al-Rais knows names, contacts. With that information we can attack al-Qaeda from the top down, go after the captains rather than the foot-soldiers.’

  Harper couldn’t deny that he had a point, so switched to another angle of attack. ‘And speaking of the Russians, do you have any idea of the size of the swirling shitstorm you’ve started at State?’

  ‘Awesome alliteration,’ said Bianca quietly.

  Not quietly enough. Harper’s searing gaze turned upon her. ‘I don’t think you appreciate how serious this is, Dr Childs.’ He was somehow more threatening now that his voice had returned to a normal volume. ‘Not only are three members of the Persona Project dead and two more injured,’ he nodded towards Tony, who had a dressing over his head wound, ‘as a result of the failure of this operation, but it’s caused a major diplomatic incident. The Russians have raised their military alert status in response to what they call an aggressive invasion of their sovereign territory, so we’ve been forced to do the same. The United States is now at DEFCON 3 – and the last time it was that high was on September eleventh, 2001. Now do you see how serious this is?’

  She nodded, abashed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, the State Department has brought out its chopping block, and it wants to see heads on it. Specifically, all of yours. Convince me not to hand them over.’

  Adam spoke up. ‘We still have the other prisoner, sir – Qasid. I learned from al-Rais’s persona that he knows the identity of a mole who gave away the Secretary of State’s route in the Islamabad bombing.’

  That produced surprise around the table. Harper flicked through some papers. ‘Qasid? According to everything we have on him, he’s just some low-level thug.’

  ‘Al-Rais didn’t think so. He considered him one of his most reliable people.’

  The Admiral didn’t appear convin
ced, but before he could say anything the telephone in front of Morgan rang. He picked it up. ‘Morgan . . . Okay, thank you.’ He ended the call and turned to Harper. ‘Mr Sternberg is ready at the White House.’

  Harper looked less impressed than ever. ‘Put him through.’

  Morgan used a remote to activate the big screen. The National Security Adviser appeared on it. The camera shooting him was positioned below his eyeline, increasing the impression that he was looming over everyone seated around the conference table. ‘Good afternoon, Gordon, Martin,’ he said, apparently not considering anyone else worthy of a greeting. ‘I won’t mince words – the President is furious about this situation.’

  Harper went straight on the attack. ‘A situation that you recommended to him.’

  ‘At your insistence,’ Sternberg countered smoothly. ‘But at this stage, I’m not here to apportion blame. I just want to know what you’re doing about it. Have we got any actionable intelligence?’

  ‘Not immediately actionable,’ Morgan replied. ‘Agent Gray was imprinted with Muqaddim al-Rais’s persona, but circumstances forced the team to erase it before he could be debriefed. However, we still have a recorded copy of that persona. Our plan is to re-imprint it and get as much information as we can.’

  ‘I thought using the same persona twice was unsafe?’

  ‘Given the circumstances, it’s the only logical option,’ said Kiddrick. ‘We think the risk is minimal.’

  ‘You think the risk is minimal,’ Bianca said pointedly.

  ‘All right, Dr Childs, that’s enough,’ said Morgan. ‘We need that information.’

  ‘See to it,’ said Sternberg. ‘Hopefully we can salvage something out of this mess.’

  ‘We did get the RTG, sir,’ Tony reminded him.

  ‘There is that, I suppose. NEST has secured it at Elmendorf. The question now is what we actually do with the thing. I doubt the Russians will ask for it back, considering how much it’ll cost them to make it safe. Anyway, do you have anything else to say at this stage?’

  ‘You’ve been told everything I have, Alan,’ said Harper. ‘As soon as STS gets anything more, you’ll be copied in on it.’