by Matt Rogers
King spent the journey in absolute silence. He shunned Isla’s infrequent attempts at small talk. It was none of her business how his holiday had gone. He had a task ahead and that task would involve a return to the savagery and brutality of his past.
He was sure of it.
He concentrated on preparing for that and watched Stockholm flash by on either side of the Saab. Then he had a thought.
‘You got a phone?’ he said.
Isla twisted in her seat. ‘You don’t?’
‘Left it back at the apartment. Wasn’t expecting such an … abrupt departure.’
‘Why do you need one?’
‘You just dragged me away from someone who I’ve grown quite fond of. Let me tell her why I’m gone, at least.’
Isla nodded and tossed him a military-style satellite phone that she fished out of the footwell. He dialled Klara’s number and waited for her to pick up.
‘Hello?’ she said, her voice quiet.
‘Hey. It’s me.’
She said nothing for a while, likely putting two and two together. Connecting the unknown number to the sound of King’s voice. ‘You’re not coming back for a while, are you?’
‘I’m afraid not. Business … came up.’
‘Did you know before you left?’
‘No. Otherwise I would have said goodbye properly.’
‘They were following you?’
‘Maybe it’s best we don’t talk about that,’ King said.
‘Of course. Well, you know where to find me. Thank you for the week, Jason.’
‘I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
‘I know you will. Go do what you do best.’
‘I love you,’ King said on a whim.
It took her by surprise — he could tell. They hadn’t said it to each other yet, and King hadn’t intended to say it for a long time. He wanted to be sure before committing so hard to a relationship, but he didn’t want to suppress how he felt before potentially dying in the service of his country.
He wanted her to know…
‘I love you too,’ she said, and ended the call before either of them could say anything more.
He knew she would be fighting with emotions. He scolded himself for letting it out, aware that if he happened to meet his demise in the coming operation it would prove harder for Klara than he could imagine.
He listened to the silence from the speaker for a couple of beats before passing the phone back to Isla’s outstretched hand.
She grimaced as she took the device.
‘I’m sorry to have to pull you away on such short notice,’ she said. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘I know,’ King said. ‘You don’t have a choice.’
The conversation died. King wasn’t in the mood to talk. He considered the gravity of what he had just said, surprised that it had come out like that. He considered himself a man of few words, and even fewer emotions.
He was surprised that she had understood his departure so quickly. Perhaps it had been caused by witnessing the violence that he and Slater had dished out in Corsica.
She knew what he was.
She had chosen to be with him regardless.
He knew he might not find anyone else like that in his lifetime.
Finally — after ten minutes of silence — Isla turned back around and made sure to make direct eye contact with him. ‘You haven’t heard from Slater, have you?’
King didn’t miss a beat. ‘Not a word. I take it you haven’t?’
She didn’t respond for a lengthy duration, scrutinising the expression on his face, trying to ascertain whether he was really telling the truth.
He knew she wouldn’t find anything there. He could put on a mask of stone when he wanted to.
Satisfied by the answer, she turned back around. ‘Not yet. We’re hoping he makes contact.’
‘You’re not looking for him?’
‘Of course we are.’
‘To kill him?’
A pause. Isla let the statement hang in the air, weighing up its implications.
‘King,’ she finally said. ‘I want you to know that it wasn’t me who made the decision to send Slater after you in Corsica. We never really addressed that.’
‘Because it doesn’t need addressing,’ King said. ‘You had the wrong idea — I get it. You thought I’d turned psychotic in retirement. If I was in your position, I probably would have done the same.’
‘If you do want to talk about it…’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Not right now. Sounds like there’s more pressing matters at hand in Russia.’
‘Like you said, it could be nothing.’ Her tone had softened since they’d first run into each other in the laneway. King wondered if she felt guilty about Corsica. ‘But we need you to check it out.’
‘I’ll be compensated?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then that’s all that needs to be said. I’ll do my job.’
The airport loomed ahead — a vast expanse of land with a maze of lined runways and a couple of weather-beaten terminals in the distance.
‘I take it we’re not heading to the Russian Far East via the civilian route?’ King said.
‘Not this time,’ Isla said. ‘It’s quite difficult to reach. We need the assistance.’
Carter pulled up to a cramped security guard’s booth built into the wire fence skirting around the perimeter of the property. He flashed a knowing look at the waiting guard, who promptly stabbed a button on the console in the booth. The gate grated open, inch by inch. As soon as there was space, Carter shot through and sped toward a secluded corner of the airport’s grounds.
King spotted the aircraft well before they reached the otherwise-deserted stretch of runway. He studied its exterior from afar, struggling to comprehend the size of the plane. From this distance it looked like an alien spacecraft — jet black in colour, with two sweeping wings and a smooth body that seemed to be designed for high altitudes.
‘What the hell is that?’ he said. ‘Is that ours?’
‘It’s a B-1 Lancer,’ Isla said. ‘And yes — it’s ours.’
The knot in King’s stomach that had formed after Isla’s appearance twisted a little tighter. He grimaced as they pulled up to the enormous aircraft and Carter killed the engine. Silence filled the car. No-one moved.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ King said, ‘but isn’t that a supersonic bomber?’
‘It is.’
‘Why the hell do we need a supersonic bomber?’
Isla shook her head. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not starting a war. In fact, quite the contrary. That’s why we need something like this.’
‘An explanation would be good.’
She pointed at the vast underside of the Lancer, where two steel doors rested firmly shut. ‘That’s the forward bomb bay. It’s currently empty. That’s how we’re getting you into Russia undetected.’
King grimaced. ‘I’m jumping?’
Isla nodded.
‘From what altitude?’
‘Thirty thousand feet.’
‘A HALO jump?’ King said.
It stood for “High Altitude, Low Opening.” He had only made a handful in his lifetime. They required the use of a plethora of apparatus, including oxygen masks and gear capable of withstanding temperatures well below zero.
In almost all cases, he preferred to avoid them. A traditional skydive provided more than enough of a rush.
‘Yes,’ Isla confirmed. ‘It’s important that no-one knows you’re there. We want you in and out before any alarm bells start ringing. The less their government know about American black-ops soldiers on their soil, the better.’
‘Hence the bomber.’
‘Exactly.’
‘They need quite the crew, if I’m not mistaken,’ King said.
Isla gestured across the centre console. ‘Carter here is an Air Force enlisted bomber pilot. That’s why he’s here.’
‘And the others?’
‘On board. A co-pilot and a defensive systems officer.’
‘I take it I keep my mouth shut around them?’
‘You’re damn right,’ Isla said. ‘You don’t exist, remember?’
‘Let’s get in the air,’ Carter muttered.
King followed them out of the Saab. He stepped down onto the tarmac and felt the wind in his hair, thick and unruly after the lack of maintenance. He made a mental note to return to the familiar buzzcut as soon as he could.
It seemed that would have to be after Russia.
Still largely uninformed on the details, he trailed along behind Isla and Carter, heading for the bomber. Despite the pit in his stomach, the nerves felt normal. His track record was long and storied and rarely ever non-violent. At this point, he anticipated carnage in the Russian Far East. He expected nothing less.
Any alternative would be greatly welcomed.
But it never seemed to turn out that way…
They were met by an unassuming middle-aged man underneath the Lancer. He was well below average height and dressed in a stained olive jumpsuit.
‘I’m the co-pilot,’ he said softly, exchanging a nod of greeting with Carter. He didn’t elaborate. King shrugged it off, agreeing that knowing as little about the man as possible was probably best. Carter seemed to be the only crewman aware of Black Force’s existence.
The co-pilot shook their hands in turn before leading them up a shaky entrance ladder. King went last, following Carter and then Isla into the bowels of the bomber.
They climbed up into a cramped, low-ceilinged room behind the main cockpit. It was windowless and humid, with the only light coming from a dim bulb fixed into the metal roof. There were three hard seats taking up the majority of the floorspace — one occupied by another middle-aged expressionless man in a jumpsuit.
The defensive systems officer, King thought, recalling the crew members Isla had rattled off before.
‘There’s no offensive systems officer?’ he muttered to Isla.
She grit her teeth. ‘We weren’t able to find one in time. Besides, we’re not attacking anything.’
‘Wha—’ he began, but the co-pilot cut him off with a glare, as if to say “I already tried.”
King shrugged off the haphazard approach and dropped into one of the available seats, positioned in the centre of the space. It provided a clear view through to the cockpit, where Carter was busying himself firing up the bomber. Hundreds of indecipherable buttons and switches and flashing lights splayed across the console in front of him.
Isla dumped herself into the seat next to him — usually occupied by the offensive system officer.
‘Something about this whole thing gives me the feeling that it was thrown together at the last minute,’ King said.
‘It was,’ Isla said. ‘We’re improvising here. But that’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?’
King sighed. ‘I guess.’
Twenty minutes later, strapped into the seat so tight that he thought the circulation might be cut off in his limbs, he felt the B-1 Lancer rocket down the empty runway and lift off with a swooping stomach lurch.
King closed his eyes and composed himself.
Earlier that day, he had been anticipating a relaxing evening spent indoors with Klara, cooking and eating and talking about life.
Now, he was shooting toward the darkest corner of Russia at seven hundred miles per hour.
Just another day at the office, he thought.
7
The silence that gripped the cockpit as the Lancer left the runway and began its ascent into the night sky gave King time to think.
Ultimately, he concluded that nothing about this situation made any sense.
Black Force was made up of the very best operatives on the planet, used to achieve the impossible and act decisively when unnaturally high stakes presented themselves. King recalled his whirlwind career before his short-lived retirement.
He remembered battering his way through a Mexican drug cartel — one of his first operations under the command of Black Force. He remembered waging a one-man war against a vicious Ugandan warlord and his army of hired thugs. He remembered coming within a hair’s breadth of death in the jungles of the Amazon Rainforest.
He certainly didn’t remember babysitting a party of international relief workers who had gone missing for a grand total of thirty-six hours.
Despite the situation that might have unfolded, it felt unnatural to King. He had never undertaken a task like this before. The stakes felt incredibly low.
Which is good for your health, he reminded himself. About time you got an easy gig.
Still, it unnerved him.
Black Force didn’t exist to dispense easy gigs.
It wasn’t in his job description.
As they reached altitude and levelled out near the top of the lower atmosphere, King flashed a glance at Isla. She sat rigid in her seat, palms flat against her knees, hands white and clammy.
‘Afraid of flying?’ King said, pointing at her hands.
She shrugged. ‘A little.’
‘So talk to me about what the hell’s going on here.’
She leaned over and checked on the defensive systems officer to King’s left, making sure he was out of earshot. The cockpit was loud as hell, and the man had his gaze transfixed on the screen in front of him. His ears were covered by a bulky headset. Satisfied, she sat back.
‘It’s rare that Black Force is required in a situation like this,’ Isla said.
‘I’m aware.’
‘This came from the very top,’ she said. ‘Usually there are endless protocols in place for this sort of thing. None of them involve us.’
‘So what’s different about this?’
Isla shrugged. ‘I know as much as you do. Tensions are high, apparently. The upper echelon of government wants to be assured that everything is okay, and they don’t want the Russians to know that our operatives are snooping around in places they’re not meant to be.’
‘I still don’t buy it.’
‘I’m not asking you to buy it,’ she said. ‘I’m asking you to carry out the orders you’ve been given.’
He stared at her, unblinking.
She sighed. ‘Look, King, I don’t understand either. This definitely shouldn’t be our area of concern. But it is — for who-knows-what reason — and you need to do it. Poke around the village. Look for anything unusual. Do what you always do — improvise.’
‘And if they really are gone? Disappeared without a trace?’
‘Then find out what happened to them — by whatever means necessary — and get them back. You know how this works.’
‘I don’t know, Isla…’
‘In all likelihood, they’re all locked up in their HQ riding out a snowstorm or trying to patch up their communication equipment. Then you can turn around and head right back to Sweden. Okay?’
‘Where’s their HQ?’
‘From what we know, they’re using the town hall. You can’t miss it.’
‘You have the location?’
‘Of course. You’ll be supplied with everything you need.’
King felt the Lancer shudder underneath him and experienced a wave of unease as he contemplated just how far above ground they were cruising.
He imagined the oxygen mask clamped over his face, amplifying his panicked breaths, waiting for the bomb bay doors to shoot open and send him tumbling out into the freezing Russian sky.
Thirty thousand feet…
He shook it off, but couldn’t help but consider the ridiculousness of what was about to happen. He was being forced to follow questionable orders and proceed with a HALO jump into a desolate wasteland. For a moment, he reconsidered his decision to sign on the dotted line back in New York and rejoin his old organisation…
He scolded himself for such thoughts. If he hadn’t done so, a radical extremist from the slums of Cairo would have succeeded with his plan to obliterate a few hundred tourists at the Giza Pyramid Complex in
order to turn a quick profit.
And more importantly, the WHO workers could be in serious danger.
He couldn’t picture a scenario where all of their communication equipment — including backups — would fail at once for such an extended period of time.
He feared the worst.
That’s because all you’re used to is the worst, he thought.
Nevertheless, he calmed his heart rate and rested his head against the cold metal headrest behind him.
‘How long’s the flight?’ he said, eyes closed.
‘Only a couple of hours,’ Isla said. ‘This bird is fast.’
‘Great.’
In the back of his mind, the fear threatened to break out. He didn’t let it. The atmosphere of the cramped cockpit added to the unease. Cold steel and confined spaces — and below, tens of thousands of feet of nothingness. He wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if he didn’t have to leave the plane at the same altitude in just a few short hours.
He kept his eyes shut.
It would be a tumultuous plane ride for his emotions.
Transforming into the Jason King of operational ability was not as simple as flicking a switch.
He always prepared to enact savage violence, even though it might not come.
But something told him it would.
8
Some time later, a hand seized his shoulder.
King’s eyes shot open and he wrenched the arm away with lightning quickness. The frail wrist spun away from him and the owner let out a sharp gasp of air.
He blinked twice and saw Isla staring at him, shocked by the sudden outburst.
He calmed himself. ‘Sorry.’
She shook it off. ‘On edge?’
‘A little. I need to be before this sort of thing.’
‘Half an hour until drop,’ she said.
‘Half an hour?’
‘You’ve been asleep.’
King shook his head to gather his senses. The run through Stockholm must have sapped his energy. ‘Jesus…’
‘You need to be briefed properly. Follow me.’
She led him through a narrow doorway into a claustrophobic corridor packed with all kinds of electronics. To his inexperienced eye, it looked like a systems bay. They moved past the flashing lights and shimmied down a hatch into the forward fuselage bomb bay.