Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  ‘I’ll get right to the point,’ he began shortly. ‘Forget China. We’ve got no problem with China anymore – except for how we’re going to apologise to her, that is.’ There were looks of confusion around the table, and Gregory held up a placatory hand. ‘I think it’s best if I let Noel have the floor.’ He turned to Hansard. ‘Noel?’

  Hansard stretched his arms out over the table in front of him, hands open and flat against the highly polished wood. ‘I’ll make this as brief as I can,’ he said in a voice that demanded attention. ‘I got a cable from the European JIC at half one this morning alerting me to a message from Sam Hodges, the Chief of the Canadian secret service. Geoff Huntington from SIS contacted them days ago asking for any input on identifying the attackers. At first they got nothing, but then a bright spark in their database division had the idea of running the information through the files they had on illegal aliens, both there and in the US, which they also had access to.

  ‘Now,’ Hansard punctuated his speech with a quick chop of his hand, ‘the only positive ID we had was of a Lao Shin-Yang, a one-time Captain in the PRC but not heard of for the last eight years. And can you guess where he had been spending the last two years of that time?’ Hansard gave no time for anyone to answer. Not that they would have dared interrupt his flow. ‘South LA Penitentiary, after he’d been arrested for entering and living in the United States illegally.’ Not a muscle moved in the faces of the men and women around the table. ‘Until, that is, an undesignated member of the US government signed him out a little over eight months ago.’

  Hansard sat back in his chair and took a sip of the coffee that had been prepared for him, as he watched the officials digest and absorb the significance of what he had told them. He started again before they’d had a chance to think too much. ‘The CIS sat on the information initially, investigating it further until they had a little more evidence. They took other evidence from the scene – partial prints, DNA, dental records, photographs – and cross-referenced that with their files. They also checked all institutions where Chinese illegals were being held, to see if any more were ‘taken’ by mysterious government officials. Sam Hodges called us directly with the answer this morning.

  ‘Out of the seventeen men believed to have been involved with the incident, the CIS has been able to identify nine of them as having been imprisoned within the US as illegal aliens, until that certain time approximately eight months ago when they were all transferred out of captivity. There wasn’t enough physical evidence to provide a similar link for the remaining eight participants, but it would seem like more than a simple stab in the dark to suggest that the situation was comparable for these men also.

  ‘Lucky for us that Sam is something of a fan of the Commonwealth and decided to share this with us, rather than covering up for our American friends. Because I am sure I don’t need to labour the importance of this. But the hour is early, and I will therefore spell out the situation to you plainly – it seems that, far from being a Chinese operation, the attempted assassination of President Danko was ordered, arranged and orchestrated by elements of the US government.’

  Hansard relaxed slightly in his seat, and Gregory took his signal to sum up. ‘Authorized how far up the chain of command, we have no idea – but we have to start planning our reaction now. Because this information came directly to the European JIC, every country in ERA now has this same intel. An emergency meeting has been called, to be held here in London. I am meeting with the other leaders in just over eight hours.’ He looked around the table, looking everyone in the eye to gauge their reaction to the news. Numbness seemed to be the general response. ‘We need to decide what our position will be. Suggestions?’

  For the first full minute, there were none whatsoever.

  6

  Cole had left the car in a quiet residential area of Maxton, a small suburb of Dover, in the early hours of the morning. Just another parked car, it would not arouse suspicion for a number of days. Only when it had been left in the same place for a protracted period of time would the first curious neighbours perhaps contact the police, by which time he would be long gone. He had cleaned the car for prints nevertheless.

  As he stepped off the local bus just outside the main ferry port of Dover at just after six in the morning, he was already operating with a firm plan of action. Rather than staying on the bus all the way to the main drop-off at Car Park Four, he decided to approach on foot. Hansard wanted him bad, and there would almost certainly be men there already, looking for him. Stepping off the ferry bus into the main car park would be a pretty major mistake.

  Instead, he walked the last mile to the huge port compound, observing constantly as he went. At this hour, it was still pitch-black, and he kept sufficiently to the shadows that passing vehicles would pay him no attention. He couldn’t make out any static surveillance on the roads leading in. Not that he was surprised – not enough time had elapsed since his escape for a full surveillance operation to have been mounted, especially as Cole could be at any one of dozens of international transport hubs around the country. Hansard would want his resources concentrated inside the main port area.

  As he first glimpsed the huge fences surrounding the massive complex, he was reminded of training exercises years ago when he and his men had been charged with infiltrating the main ferry terminal to leave dummy explosives, as part of an anti-terrorist programme ordered by the Ministry of Defence. Needless to say, it had been a simple enough task, even with security on full alert.

  Now, in the freezing cold of the December morning, he once again approached the fence line with the aim of breaking in. It was ridiculously simple – Cole strolled for less than five minutes around the perimeter before he saw a long stretch of fence in an obviously underused area. He crossed the road after checking that nobody was around, and vaulted the broken-down six-foot chain-link barrier in one fluid motion. And that was it – he was in, completely undetected. He once again marvelled at the people who ran security at such establishments. The area was so big it was simply uneconomic to protect it properly all the way round, and so security was strengthened only at key points, such as the area immediately around the terminal itself. This would at least give the impression of security for the passengers and that, Cole reminded himself, was what it was all about – the perception of safety in the mind of the public. Anyone involved in the business itself knew that there was no foolproof way to protect against a determined intruder, and so seldom even tried. Such resolutely unsecured areas as the point through which Cole had entered were proof positive of that.

  Now he kept to the shadows as he advanced through the compound, moving through the massive storage zones and cargo areas. Whenever passing someone was unavoidable, he merely straightened himself up, nodded at the person and said ‘Morning!’, as if he had every right in the world to be there. And, as always, nobody ever questioned him. Because at an establishment where over ten thousand people were employed, many on temporary contracts, who would know that he didn’t belong there? Cole had long since accepted the truism that when ignorance was mutual, confidence was King.

  At a little before seven in the morning, the first faint rays of dawn only just starting to penetrate the dark winter gloom, Cole arrived at his destination. Even at this early hour, Car Park Four was a hectic cacophony of activity. The next Sealink ferry was scheduled to leave at eight a.m., and already the long queue of vehicular traffic was spread for half a mile along the icy concrete approach-way, the lead cars creeping onto the ramp that connected the mainland to the huge passenger ship that lay floating ominously in the dark waters of the Strait of Dover, the lights from the upper floors struggling to break through the freezing fog that constantly lingered over the English coast.

  Cole identified where the cars were feeding from, and made his way across the car park towards the starting line. He waited in the shadows, observing the scene for some time, until he saw what he was after. Nearby, a man and a woman in their mid-twenties, two young chi
ldren in tow, approached their car. It was a smallish Toyota hatchback, and as the woman put the two kids into their seats in the back, Cole saw the man talking to her impatiently, before stomping to the driver’s side and slamming the door. Probably stopped off in the main terminal building for a bite to eat and a visit to the toilet for the kids, and now he was pissed off about the surprisingly long queue to the ferry. Ah, the joys of family holidays, Cole thought cynically, as he started his own approach to the small vehicle.

  He advanced on the car from the cover of the line of parked automobiles to the left, crouching low to avoid detection. He waited patiently just yards from the Toyota, and used the time to take off his shoes, removing his socks and wrapping them around his hands before putting the shoes back on his bare feet. He ducked low as all the doors were finally secured and the harassed father got the engine started. Instants before the car moved out to join the traffic, Cole rolled in one smooth motion underneath the chassis, clamping his protected hands around the cold metal front suspension struts and heaving himself from the floor, feet twisting around the rear struts.

  He adjusted position slightly as the car moved forwards, making himself as comfortable as possible. It was a shame that he had to get into position so early – ideally he would have liked to pick a car nearer to the front – but by the time the cars were in the queue, there were large expanses of bare concrete to either side of the line, and his approach would have been easily spotted. As it was, nobody had seen him latch himself to the underside of the Toyota; and nobody, he was confident, would check underneath the car. It was unlikely that anyone would even look inside the boot, even at the security checkpoints just before the boarding ramp. A young family in a small hatchback simply did not attract attention; Cole wondered if they’d even be asked for their passports.

  No, Cole decided as he relaxed all but the necessary muscles, nobody would find him. He would be decidedly cold and uncomfortable for the next forty minutes or so, but it would be no worse than many other things he had done, and actually more pleasant than some. But by eight o’clock, he would be safely aboard the Sealink ferry, undetected by Hansard’s agents, and the first leg of his journey to meet his family would have begun.

  7

  After their chat with Ellison, Moses and Arnold were once again in transit, this time on board a specially chartered helicopter that was speeding low above the fields of West Virginia towards Ohio, and an urgent meeting with Colonel James Jarvis, the man in charge of the CIA training facility known as ‘The Ranch’.

  Although ‘The Farm’, based at Richmond, Virginia, was for years associated with the training of CIA operatives, it was now used only for public relations purposes. It had become so well-known that it was all but useless to conduct any proper training there, and so it had been used as a successful decoy since the late 1990s.

  According to Jacobs, most training now occurred at two main locations. The first of these was known as ‘Trade Point’, and was located just north of Richmond. It was here that officers for the Department of Operations were taught the art and science of their business – surveillance, counter-surveillance, agent-running, secure communications, building networks, and many more esoteric skills that might one day save their lives. Starting off small, with the value of Humint, or Human Intelligence, at a very low standing at the time of its establishment, Trade Point was now one of the major spy training centres in the world.

  After the New York attack in 2001 and the subsequent campaigns in both Afghanistan and Iraq, it had become painfully obvious that reliance on technological surveillance and weapons systems had left the United States with precious little capability for on-the-ground, real-time human intelligence gathering. In an effort to reverse this trend, money had been poured into the Department of Operations, and such training had truly been taken to the next level. The CIA now had four times as many human assets as it had just two decades before, and much of the training for this aspect of the Agency’s activities occurred at the sprawling, still relatively secret compound of Trade Point.

  But it was Trade Point’s smaller and even more secret cousin towards which Moses and Arnold now travelled. Situated away from the main government epicentre of Washington, Long View Horse Ranch was a genuine four thousand acre horse ranch set deep within the open plains of Ohio, although the business of rearing and using horses was now just a front for a covert CIA training facility. According to Jacobs, it was here that specialist quasi-military ‘black ops’ teams received their instruction in such skills as demolitions, marksmanship, kidnapping, interrogation and assassination.

  Such teams were taken from various branches of the military, more often than not from elite units such as the Navy Seals, Army Special Forces and Marine Force Recon, and seconded to the CIA for clandestine, covert operations. Jacobs had told the investigators from Internal Affairs that these men and women were often used for one-off missions, and received their mission-specific specialist training at the Ranch.

  Not wanting to discuss the situation over a telephone, secure or otherwise, Moses and Arnold had therefore asked Jacobs to make arrangements for them to meet Colonel Jarvis, which he had done immediately. Working for Internal Affairs, both men had heard of the Ranch, but neither man had been there. The place was off-limits for the uninvited, subject to Presidential protection. But if there was any chance that the men they were now investigating had been trained there, it would take more than that to stop them.

  Moses clutched a huge sheaf of papers in his hands, which had been gathered together by Trencher. The papers consisted of all the available information on the men involved. Richmond had at least managed to recall the men’s real names, and where he had first met them. After some further investigation, the various immigration holding centres where the men had been imprisoned had released all the information they had on the illegal Chinese immigrants. Moses and Arnold now had photographs, blood types, prior histories and medical records for all thirty of the men Richmond had initially selected.

  The helicopter began to descend, and Arnold looked out of the window. Through the light snow he saw vast fields, with sporadic buildings dotted around the sparse landscape. As they neared the ground, he also saw a man waiting by the side of a Humvee, looking up at the approaching chopper, Stetson on his head and hands on his hips.

  Arnold smiled to himself. He was looking forward to showing the file to Colonel Jarvis and finding out just what exactly the man knew.

  8

  Sarah felt cold. She had known before Tarr had told her, of course. His very presence in the house had disturbed her and, although she liked the man and had tried to hide her worries, the truth of the matter was that she was scared.

  Initially, it was fear for her husband’s safety. The fact that Tarr had been sent round to the house meant that something had gone wrong on her husband’s latest trip. She knew that he was good at his job, and although she could have wished for a better career for Mark, but she had no moral qualms about what he did; her family background ensured that such occupations were not entirely unfamiliar to her. And she could see in her husband the same cool self-confidence that her father possessed, and this assuaged a lot of the fears that she may otherwise have felt whenever Cole went away.

  But her past experiences had also displayed to her the inherently ruthless nature of the game that her husband played. She was all too aware that the merest glimmer of a mistake could prove fatal.

  When Tarr had knocked softly on her bedroom door just minutes earlier, therefore, her first thoughts were of Mark. But apparently he was okay, Tarr had assured her; he just wanted the family moving to the emergency rendezvous.

  Which meant only one thing – they could be in danger. Herself, Ben and Amy. There might even be people outside right now, watching and waiting to act. She had asked Tarr as much, and he had told her not to worry, that he had it all in hand.

  She wouldn’t have been as worried if it had just been herself; she was sure that Tarr was more than competent,
especially if Mark trusted him, and she knew the emergency RV was safe. But as she woke the children to tell them they were going on a surprise trip to meet Daddy, she did so with a cold, sick dread that clawed desperately at a heavy heart.

  Albright was sitting on the hard deck of the yacht as the sun rose in a brilliant golden hue above the shimmering Caribbean Sea. Such beauty was lost on him, however; his attention was instead concentrated on the small mirror in his hand. The light sea breeze had whipped a lock of blond hair across his forehead, and it needed immediate adjustment. His comb was halfway through the procedure when he felt a tap on his leg. He looked next to him at the prone body of Art Michaels, still in position stretched out in front of his surveillance equipment.

  Albright’s mirror snapped shut, and he got up onto one knee. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got movement,’ Michaels replied. ‘Mrs Cole is getting some things packed up in the children’s rooms.’

  Albright stood up abruptly. ‘That’s it. They’re on the move. Keep watching,’ he ordered as he moved quickly towards the wheelhouse, punching a number into his secure cell phone as he did so.

  Michaels tried to listen to the conversation as Albright left the deck, but only caught the beginning. ‘Sir, it’s Albright. They’re on the move, and – ’

  The door slammed shut, cutting off the rest of the dialogue. Moments later, however, he felt the throb of the engines as they started up, and moments later saw the breaking of the waves ahead as the big yacht started heading for shore.

  He could simply hope that the order was still only to follow and observe.