Seven Day Hero

by J. T. Brannan

  Keeping him held in tight, Cole had then wrenched the knife upwards and across, tearing into the solar plexus until the blade stopped against the hard bone of the sternum.

  There was a sharp intake of breath, and then an extended wheezing sound escaped Stern’s throat. Blood came to his mouth, and Cole closed his eyes as Stern coughed it out in a thick spray.

  Stern’s eyes, at first wide, eventually rolled up into his head as he breathed his last, and he collapsed to the floor, dead.

  Cole knew from the screams all around the cabin that the incident had been rather less subtle than he would have liked. Stern was amateurish but strong – demonically strong – and he had the psychological intent that made him even more dangerous. Compounded by the surprise of the man’s arrival on board the plane, Cole’s response had therefore not been as clinical as he would have liked.

  He looked over the seats and saw two men rushing towards him – one tall and black, the other short and white. Shit.

  There was then a shout from behind him, and he couldn’t believe that his luck had just got even worse.

  ‘US Air Marshal! Put your hands above your head! Do it now!’

  Moses and Arnold were only two rows away when they saw the little, bespectacled man in the business suit, aiming a Smith and Wesson .40 pistol straight at Mark Cole’s chest. An armed US Air Marshal, and he had the drop on Cole. There was no way the British assassin could cover the distance across the cramped seats in time to attack the man.

  Moments later, another armed marshal came running down the aisle from another part of the plane, handgun raised.

  Moses and Arnold smiled. Crozier’s killer was under arrest.

  10

  After Cole had been arrested and handcuffed, Moses and Arnold had followed the marshals to the rear of the aircraft.

  They explained who they were, showing their credentials, and requested time alone with the man. The marshals had agreed, but wanted to interrogate him first themselves.

  While they set about their task, Moses and Arnold had gone to check on Stern. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The man’s nose had been plastered over his face, and there was a huge, jagged gash going up his belly from near his intestine to just under his heart. A medic had stripped his shirt off, and Moses and Arnold had to look away as the grey, sausage-like intestine pushed up out of the bottom of the cut. It didn’t take long for the medic to look up, shaking his head. Nicholas Stern was clearly dead.

  An hour later, the two marshals came back out from the make-shift cell set up in the rear of the Boeing, shaking their heads.

  ‘He’s all yours,’ said one, ‘but you’re wasting your time with this one, he won’t say shit.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Arnold.

  ‘Good luck,’ said the second man. ‘We’ll be right outside if you need us.’

  ‘Okay,’ Moses said, ‘thanks.’

  They passed through the steel door into a small metal locker room that was being used as a makeshift cell. Cole sat strapped to a small metal folding chair, an aluminium trestle table in front of him, two other chairs on the opposite side.

  Cole’s face was bloodied and bruised, and the CIA men didn’t think the injuries had been as a result of the earlier fight. More likely, the marshals had got upset with having their peaceful flight interrupted, and didn’t like Cole’s stonewalling.

  They were just going to have to see if they could do better.

  Cole looked at them, unbelieving. The image of Mark Crosby’s obituary flashed across his mind, an image from a lifetime ago. He had been considered a hero of sorts once; but now? The events of the last seven days were threatening to override all of his previous good work.

  ‘No. You’re wrong.’ But what if they were right? No. They couldn’t be. It was crazy. But what if?

  If the two agents across from him were right, then Hansard was clearly insane. ‘Show me the tape,’ Cole demanded.

  Moses and Arnold exchanged looks, then nodded their heads. It seemed as if Cole had been lied to by his erstwhile boss; it was certainly clear that Hansard had been trying to have him killed. Maybe he should be shown proof; the proof of Hansard’s own confession, in his own words.

  Cole watched with a mixture of curiosity and fear as the images flickered onto the screen of the laptop computer borrowed from one of the other passengers, on which the CIA agents now played the recording they had taken in Hansard’s apartment just hours before.

  ‘What is your name?’ Arnold asked, seated across the table from Hansard, who was hooked up to a polygraph.

  ‘Noel Clifford Hansard.’ The polygraph registered this as true.

  ‘Did you arrange to have William Crozier, Deputy Director Operations for the CIA, assassinated?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To cover my tracks.’

  ‘Please explain what you mean by that.’

  ‘Bill organized the attack on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘In Stockholm?’

  ‘Yes, at the treaty signing.’

  ‘Did you order him to organize the attack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why did he do this? What power did you have over him?’

  ‘I recruited him when I was seconded to the Washington with SIS. During this time, he killed his wife and I was the only one who knew about it.’

  ‘He killed his wife?’ Arnold was obviously shocked.

  ‘Yes. It was labelled a hit and run accident, with his wife at the wheel. But Bill was driving, drunk, and crashed the car. I had become friendly with him, and as he didn’t want to involve anyone he knew in the US, he called me to help. We moved the body to the driver’s seat and left her there, while I took Bill home. The guilt destroyed him, turned him into a borderline alcoholic. He never wanted the word to get out, and I therefore used this to maximum effect.’

  Arnold paused as he digested this before moving on. ‘Describe the operation to me.’

  ‘Where to start? The Swedish part, or the whole operation?’

  ‘Why don’t we start with Sweden?’

  ‘I tasked Bill with the mission. I didn’t want the attack to be successful, and nor did I want any survivors, but I wanted the US to be identified eventually as the culprits. Bill came up with the actual operation himself, exactly as he would if he had been tasked with the mission by President Abrams himself. He shot the Chinese team leader at the hotel, just to give us an early lead with the body. He was a genius at intelligence operations was Bill. The best.’

  ‘So why? Why do it?’

  ‘Simple. So that Britain would once again rule the world, and America would be reduced to nothing more than a crippled, third-world nobody.’

  ‘Please explain this.’

  ‘Think about it. For the past few decades, the European Union has been slowly leeching away any power that Britain still had left. We were a second-rate country in an underachieving would-be superpower. But we should be so much more! What happened to the Empire? It should be ours again, it is our birthright! We civilized the world, made it what it is today. And I’ve spent most of my professional life preparing for the events that have occurred over the past seven days.

  ‘I ordered Bill to orchestrate the attack in Stockholm to create a situation whereby the US and ERA would be in direct conflict with one another, and then planted misinformation that precluded any diplomatic solution. I raised the stakes until it appeared that America was preparing to launch a pre-emptive nuclear missile strike against Europe.

  ‘I then ordered Gregory –’

  ‘Wait. You ordered Gregory – Adam Gregory, the Prime Minister? He works on your say-so?’

  ‘Of course. I recruited him before he left university, and it was my money and influence that paved the way for him to gain power. I saw his potential, but I also recognized his weaknesses, and how I could use them. And so, when the time was right, I told Gregory what he must tell the other ERA leaders.’

  ‘And what was that?’
/>   ‘He told him about your aggressive nuclear policy, and how the NMD system is mere protection for when you launch a first-strike. He also told them that President Abrams had contacted him, asking the UK to side against Europe.

  ‘He then offered ERA a deal. He said that if he sided with ERA against the US, not only would we be able to disable your defence shield, but we would also be able to ensure our future superpower status as the Confederation of the United States of Europe and Russia, unopposed by the US.

  ‘In return, ERA would grant us various large concessions, involving permanent future leadership of both ERA and the proposed Confederation.’

  ‘How would you disable our system? And why would you be unopposed by the US in the future?’

  ‘I have recruited a vast amount of agents over the past two decades. Some are US citizens that I have subverted; others are British agents that have infiltrated the American government and military. All are loyal, both to me and to the United Kingdom.

  ‘I ensured that Gregory kept the special relationship strong. We know everything about both your capabilities and your vulnerabilities. As such, we know all the access codes for both your missile defence system and your weapons systems, and we have people in place that are able to use these codes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They will ensure that neither your defensive or offensive capabilities can be used for the period of time that is necessary.’

  ‘Necessary for what?’

  ‘Necessary for ERA to be able to launch its own first strike against the United States, totally unopposed by your defence shield, and at no threat whatsoever of your own tactical weapons.’

  Arnold looked truly shocked. ‘Why?’ he asked finally. ‘Why would you do this?’

  ‘I hate America,’ Hansard answered simply. ‘You are ignorant, arrogant, corrupt and quite useless. Britain invented modern democracy, and yet you have hijacked it for your own ends, to spread the filth of the American dream around the four corners of the globe. We gave the world parliamentary democracy, organization, civilization, purpose. You have given it MacDonald’s and MTV. Your entire culture is a vapid, empty, shallow husk of pitiful conceit.

  ‘On a personal level, my father served with the SAS, which was one of the only British military units to serve in Vietnam. On his second tour, his body was cut in half by machine-gun fire, but not by the Viet Cong or the NVA. It was a US Navy Seal, one of your supposed ‘elite’. He panicked during an ambush and just sprayed his bullets everywhere. My father didn’t die instantly though; he lay there on the jungle floor, left to rot, pushing his own intestines back into his body as he tried to crawl to safety. He made it half a mile and it took him over six hours, before he finally died. The truth wasn’t released by the US military of course, and it was only when I looked into it myself years later that I discovered the truth.

  ‘My father was a hero to me. Strong, intelligent, brave and righteous, the things that have made Britain great. I was just eight years old when he died, and it destroyed me.

  ‘And then my own son. Twenty-four years old, Captain in the Parachute Regiment. Killed by a misdirected US artillery strike in Afghanistan, a strike ordered in by a Delta Force team, again supposedly an ‘elite’ unit. America has no idea what ‘elite’ means.

  ‘US stupidity and ineptitude has stolen from me both my father and my son, and America’s ridiculously ‘gung-ho’ attitude, far from cleansing the world of its nastier elements, has instead resulted in the complete radicalization of those elements, creating endemic problems around the globe where there were none before.

  ‘America is simply too immature to handle the power that comes with being the world’s only superpower. You cannot cope with the demands of the job, and the result is frightening global instability.

  ‘And yet a single world superpower is an appealing idea, subtly influencing other nations around the globe and gently leading them towards democratization, in line with our own ideals.

  ‘The European continent is so much better placed to achieve this ultimate objective of global peace and stability. ERA, and the Confederation that will follow, is the perfect antidote to the juvenile antics of the US, drawing as it can from thousands of years of shared history and civilization.

  ‘But leadership cannot come through committee, and therefore this future Confederation needs a single voice at the helm, and who better than Britain? We ruled the world before, effectively and magnanimously. Our Empire was the finest ever seen, and it has been my plan, my dream, to see this Empire rise again.

  ‘And so at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow morning, New Year’s Day 2019, my assets will disable the American ballistic missile defence shield, and will also make inoperable her entire tactical stockpile.

  ‘Europe’s own missiles will launch at ten-hundred hours, and before midday, the cities of Washington DC, New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, Detroit, San Francisco, and Seattle will have been wiped off the face of the earth. Your military installations around the globe will also be targeted, and also fifty of your minor cities.

  ‘The United States of America will cease to exist as an entity, and ERA will become a Confederation led by the United Kingdom in perpetuity. China, India, and any other nation with ideas above their station will have their wings clipped, and we will be free to shape the world as we see fit.

  ‘So you can see,’ Hansard said in conclusion, ‘New Year’s Day 2019 will be the start of a new world. Just imagine . . . Beautiful.’

  More frightening than the wistful look in Hansard’s eyes as he imagined Britain’s future, were the results of the polygraph, also captured on film.

  The man had not lied once.

  Cole sat there on the steel chair for some time, struggling to digest what he had just heard.

  So Hansard had lied to him back at the apartment. He must have somehow taken an antidote to the drug, but Cole wasn’t going to waste time now trying to figure out how.

  Cole felt physically sick, and it wasn’t from the beating the US air marshals had given him. Realization was beginning to dawn that his own actions might have contributed to the sequence of events that looked as if it might result in the deaths of tens of millions of people.

  If Crozier had not been killed, he might have eventually told someone – Hansard had obviously believed that this was a strong possibility – and this whole potential catastrophe might have been avoided.

  There was no use crying over spilled milk though; Cole knew that from years of bitter, hard-fought experience. The only thing that mattered was what could be done now.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ he asked the two men.

  11

  Communications were restored halfway over the Atlantic Ocean, and permission was granted by the flight crew for Moses and Arnold to use their phones.

  Arnold spoke to Trencher, telling him briefly what had happened, and then downloaded the video straight to CIA headquarters. Trencher assured him that he would notify Dorrell immediately, and probably President Abrams would be aware straight after that.

  More calls were made, and the two US Air Marshals reluctantly signed their prisoner over to the custody of the CIA agents. Moses and Arnold still didn’t know if they could trust Cole – he seemed to genuinely want to help, to try and rectify what he had already done – but the fact remained was that the man was a trained killer, a professional government assassin, and they still didn’t even know who he really was.

  But they figured that it was better to have Cole with them, in case there was any chance he could be of help. He was a witness of sorts after all, and was more than willing to testify against Hansard if it would help the situation.

  Trencher called them back later, just as they were entering United States airspace.

  ‘We watched the video. Unbelievable. We’re leaving now to brief the President, we’ve already sent him the recording, so he should be up to speed by the time we get there.

  ‘He wants you there too, so you need to get there right
after you land.’

  ‘Where?’ Arnold asked.

  ‘The White House, of course,’ Trencher replied testily.

  ‘Surely traffic will be at a standstill in DC?’

  ‘The President’s sending a helicopter to Dulles to pick you up. There’ll be an escort waiting for you as soon as you land, they’ll take you to the chopper. How’s this Cole guy?’

  ‘He seems genuine. He’s still handcuffed though, just in case.’

  ‘Okay. Bring him too. The President wants to see him.’

  12

  As Cole was shuffled between the Boeing and the Chinook helicopter, his legs in chains as well as his wrists, he saw Nicholas Stern’s body being wheeled out on a gurney in the opposite direction, escorted by the two marshals.

  He was glad the information had been received by the US government; surely they had sent it to the ERA leadership, and they were already negotiating a diplomatic settlement, probably involving the impeachment, trial and imprisonment of Adam Gregory.

  He was also sure that he would be made to stand trial for the murder of William Crozier. If they ever found out who he really was, which was fairly unlikely. Could someone that didn’t really exist stand trial for anything? Cole wasn’t sure, but also thought that the result of not being able to stand trial properly might just be the utilization of a CIA kangaroo court instead. There he would be tried, judged, and possibly even executed.

  But Cole no longer cared. Execution seemed appealing at that moment in time; there would certainly be nobody left in the world that would miss him. But before he died, he wanted to make amends for his latest actions. He couldn’t die knowing that he might have contributed to the mass murder of innocent people.

  If he could do anything, offer anything, help in any way at all, then he would do so unquestioningly. If they decided to try him and imprison or execute him at a later date, then so be it. But he longed for a chance to redeem himself before that day came.