Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  ‘What about a personal phone?’

  ‘You banned us from carrying them on surveillance jobs.’

  ‘Yes, but sometimes people don’t obey every …’

  ‘This is PJ Johnson we’re talking about. He obeys everything.’

  ‘OK, I want roadblocks. I want cops on street corners watching the traffic.’

  ‘The Fury is on station, sir, but is having trouble acquiring the target. The cars are black, and it’s night — not easy to pick up if they keep their headlights off. Not only that, but a rain band has just moved into the city. It’s pissing down.’

  Mossel shakes his head. Time has proved again and again that conventional fixed-wing drones, so effective in Iraq and Afghanistan, are largely useless in England’s low cloud and rain.

  Just to increase his unease, the ethics adviser — a legal requirement at all major operational meetings — arrives in the room, a prim woman in a grey skirt and blazer. He sighs to himself and starts to brief her on developments.

  PJ keeps the two black Mercs in distant view, the three-cylinder inline 1050cc engine growling between his legs. He would have liked to switch the headlights off, but low beam on modern bikes is fixed permanently on.

  Rain is still falling, arching down through the streetlights and biting coldly into his face as the vehicles move north, passing by a primary school he once attended for six months as a boy, when his old man had a rare job at a steel fabrication shop there. The family never stayed anywhere long. The yellow-grey brick and interlocking wire fences of the school buildings slip by.

  For all his faults, PJ loved his father. He was a caring man when not on the drink, and always had a joke or a small gift. His troubles were always away from home, and he never hurt anyone in the family. Not once. Not physically or intentionally. The pain of seeing his father behind bars, through a slot in the glass screen, was a different kind of hurt.

  By the time he was fifteen PJ hated the terrible waste that prison represented. Often for mistakes that other men walked away from. He came to know the cycle. Later he learned to understand the word depression. If only his father had been the kind of man who could ask for help …

  The two Mercedes have just entered the suburb of Woodford when a Nissan four-by-four and trailer packed with goods careens out of a driveway in front of PJ. He squeezes the brakes with all the strength of his wrists and the ABS brakes help him stop the bike from going into a deadly slide that would have put him under the wheels. Even so, he is forced to work hard with his legs to stop the bike tipping at the final moment. Furious, he shouts at the driver, ‘Good one! Watch where you’re going.’

  The driver lifts his middle finger and scowls back at him before accelerating down the road.

  Ahead he can see the two Mercs turn into a service station on the right, a twenty-four-hour EMK outlet with rows of bowsers and shiny yellow plastic façades. Both vehicles drive straight through a double gate in a chain-link fence bordering what appears to be an industrial site; a depot, perhaps. Someone runs back to lock the gate behind them.

  As he motors up closer PJ can see massive fuel tanks, huge sheds and at least one tanker truck. He stops the bike well short and kicks down the stand, gets on his feet, and reaches inside his shirt for the Warlock. He draws the heavy revolver and holds it tight against his leg.

  He walks purposefully past four or five men and youths standing around near the door to the shop and cashier. All wear hoodies. A couple of them are smoking cigarettes, despite the proximity of the fuel. There is just one car at the bowsers, a hot black Subaru WRX with white stripes down one side. The youths turn to stare as he goes past, as if unsure what to do.

  Not bothering to try to break the lock on the chain-link gate, he climbs, then swings back down onto the other side, cargo-net style, avoiding the three strands of barbed wire. He drops to the ground and starts to run inside the depot, then sees a door ajar in one of the buildings. He hears the pop, pop of silenced gunshots from behind him, and the rattle of one of the hooded youths trying to open the gate.

  PJ mounts the steps of the building, then runs through the part-open door, slamming it back with one outstretched palm, stopping just inside on resonant, hollow-sounding floorboards. A large room: some kind of workshop or factory divided into sixteenths by columns. Someone has just finished closing the door at the far end of the room, the lock engaging with a loud click. A moment later the lights go out.

  PJ crawls away from his position — any violent act will surely focus on that area. He waits, eyes still adjusting, but the darkness is cave-like, unrelenting. There is no relief from it. He waits, poised in incredible stillness, listening with every sense and nerve.

  The room’s floorplan is stamped on his mind, laid out like on a draughtsman’s pad. PJ can visualise the columns delineating the space into sections like a giant grid. This is one of his skills: to visualise and organise.

  A creak of the boards, in the middle of the room. Momentary, fleeting, then nothing for a few seconds. Finally a scuffing sound, recognisable as the drag of a careless toe on the timber.

  Whoever it is will be just as hamstrung by the darkness as he is. Night-vision systems need some ambient light to operate — starlight, moonlight, city lighting. In here, however, there is nothing, and all known systems would need to throw an infrared beam to operate.

  More sounds of movement, then a door slamming. Someone is leaving the room. He stands and starts to run in the direction of the sound, gets halfway across the room before it erupts in a flash of orange fire and an ear-numbing explosion.

  PJ hits the ground, rolling, the strobe-light imprint of a lone man holding a firearm, standing in a doorway, stamped indelibly on his retinas. The second shot comes an instant later, striking the floor where he had been only moments before. There is a series of crackling impacts as some of the lead balls ricochet from the floor and strike the far wall, then rattle around the room like spilled marbles.

  Shotgun.

  Using one of the pillars for cover, PJ turns to look, and as the flash fades he can see the gunman in the corridor. There is light down there somewhere, enough to silhouette his body and face.

  PJ holsters the Warlock, waits for the sound of the man breaking the action of the shotgun, the unmistakeable slide and click as he pushes a 12-gauge cartridge into the breech. PJ doesn’t give him a chance to close the action, but moves around the pillar in the dark, pounding into the gunman with his arms extended just as the shotgun fires again, into the ceiling this time, yet the man is already falling. PJ uses the momentary light provided by the discharge to drive his fist with killing power into an unprotected larynx, then catches the shotgun as it starts to fall. Hefting the weapon, he kneels at the still body of the man, taking a fat, cold shotgun cartridge from his pocket, opening the breech, ripping out and dropping the spent case, a tendril of pure nitro smoke hitting his nostrils, as intoxicating as burning crystal meth.

  Then, standing again, making no move, just listening. The inert man behind him is breathing noisily through his nose. Someone else is moving down the corridor. The shotgun is as light as a feather in his hands. More plastic crap.

  Leading with the shotgun, PJ rounds the corner, tucks the butt snugly in his underarm to support it while he gropes with his free hand for the light switch, the old-fashioned lug type, flicking it on. A single compact fluoro light flickers down the middle of the hall. PJ waits a few seconds for his eyes to adapt.

  He studies the corridor out of the corner of his eye. Eight or ten metres of bare boards, a long, narrow Persian rug down the centre, faded red. A tall round table with a vase of dead flowers and an incense stick trailing smoke into the air.

  Two doors on the left side and one on the right. Open space at the end leads to more darkness. PJ flicks the shotgun back towards the dark room and waits, checking, finally satisfied that there is no one there apart from the dead or unconscious gunman.

  He moves down the corridor towards the first door, cursing the bare fl
oorboards. They creak and move at the most inopportune moments. The best way, he knows, is to feel for movement and bring the weight down slowly, moving with the board, yet even so there is a faint groan more than once.

  PJ accurately estimates the distance to the first door, varying his creeping pace to suit. Each will have to be checked as he moves past, or else he risks leaving himself open to a close-range attack from behind at any moment. One, two, three … he twists the handle and leads with the gun barrel. Darkness, no shot comes, and his hand flicks on the switch. A desk facing the window, no cupboards big enough to hold a human being.

  PJ turns back into the corridor and continues on.

  There is a smell in the air. He’s known that smell since he was a small boy with his first BSA air rifle. Gun oil. Someone is or has been cleaning firearms nearby. Either that or else he’s close to someone with a quantity of it on their hands or clothes.

  A side door flies open. The man who comes through the doorway holds a pistol in each hand. PJ fires first. The shotgun blast peels back the man’s face and sends him toppling.

  As PJ steps inside, the gun-oil smell grows stronger. He switches on the light. The room is full of guns — mostly those same plastic-bodied, 3D-printed assault rifles that he saw during the ambush. PJ puts the empty shotgun down on the desk and picks one up. It is just too light, the point of balance wrong, a crude weapon for amateurs — or killers. He replaces it on the desk, and draws his own handgun.

  The Warlock in his right hand, finger on the trigger, he moves back out into the corridor, walking quickly now to the end door, finding himself in a large room, lit dimly from one end by wall lights. This is an office or study. It holds shelves of books, desks with computer monitors and a couple of threadbare beanbags in the corner.

  PJ pays the room only cursory attention, however, as a door leading to the outside is open. Cool air and splattering rain hit as he exits, his eyes falling on a car park illuminated with a single, dull yellow floodlight surrounded by swirling moths.

  A vehicle door closes, and a huge Pantech truck lurches into gear, accelerating madly. The two Mercedes are nowhere to be seen. A gun barrel appears through an open window and a burst of fire stitches across the wall and near the doorway, forcing PJ to drop. He knows better than to expect anything but a thick stone wall to protect against gunfire, having seen too many people get shot through doors and building linings.

  The firing stops. He picks himself up and runs out into the compound, taking a shot at the tyres of the truck. The cannon-like round must have been close, but the vehicle does not slow. He runs after it, through the now open gate. On the way out he points the Warlock at a youth with a gun who turns and runs back into the darkness of the depot.

  Finally, PJ reaches the spot where he left the Triumph, turns the key and kicks up the stand. Engaging gear with his left foot he slips the clutch, accelerates with a roll of the right hand and powers onto the road, into third before he hits the tarmac.

  He roars down the road at speed, then hangs left, streaming into the traffic.

  On Woodford New Road, with the line of plane trees heavy with summer foliage along the median strip, PJ comes to within view of the truck before pulling back. Traffic is heavy for three in the morning.

  PJ merges behind a cement truck with ‘Abel’s Quick Mix’ in black letters on the revolving drum, keeping within the sight shadow, swinging out just enough so he can see the target truck some ten vehicles ahead for a fleeting instant before he ducks back behind cover.

  The tail is relatively easy now, but the frustrating thing is his inability to communicate his whereabouts to the DRFS, along with the existence of a factory full of guns and the location of the truck.

  He slows a little, and drops back in the lane until he comes alongside a blue Ford Taurus, with full body kit and the heavy tones of a souped-up engine. He moves to the far right of the lane.

  Two teens are inside. PJ motions for the one on his side to wind down the window. The passenger complies, yelling out into the slipstream.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Have you got a phone?’

  ‘Yeah, course we fucking have. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Can you pass it to me?’

  ‘Are you on fucking crack or something?’

  PJ lets go of the handlebar with his right hand and reaches for the Warlock.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The car zooms ahead and takes the first exit.

  PJ swears, but he has no choice but to continue, following on as they continue to head north. Trees close in on either side of the road, and PJ realises that he has entered Epping Forest. The road is narrower now, with tracks branching off on either side at intervals. He speeds up, aware that the vehicle he is tracking might have taken any of them.

  He realises that he has not seen them for some minutes. He overtakes the cement truck and stares ahead at a long stretch of bare road. The Most Wanted Man in the World is getting away from him and he has no way of calling in.

  THIRTY-ONE

  LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 0330

  Badi directs the truck driver with a mapping app on the tablet as they delve further down the smallest trails of Epping Forest. The track grows rougher, steep in places, and the tyres struggle constantly for purchase.

  ‘How much further?’ the driver asks.

  ‘Not far,’ Badi calls back.

  The original London plan, he reflects, had been much the same as it had been for many other cities around the world — seize, buy or hire a light plane and use it as the delivery vehicle. Yet as the months counted down, the security services in the great cities of the world — London, New York, Paris — were increasingly focused on this probability, and other ideas had come to mind.

  Several plans had been discussed: an introduction into the Channel tunnel, or a broadcast from the London Eye. Neither, however, offered wide enough coverage.

  The idea of using drones as a delivery system was an interesting one, and had occurred quite early to Badi, though the logistical problems seemed insurmountable. The difficulty was not just getting hold of one, but also designing a delivery system for the spores.

  The idea had firmed into a favourite with the recruitment of the man they called the Magician, who was more than happy to help turn sophisticated weapons against their makers in return for wealth.

  What is special about the Chevalier cluster drones, apart from the fact that there are five of them under central control, is that each can carry a payload of more than twenty kilograms, and already has a wide-ranging ability to dispense weapons or materials.

  Badi breaks himself out of the reverie, stares at the GPS screen on the dash. ‘Be ready,’ he commands, ‘we turn now.’

  They travel the rest of the way in silence, climbing a forested hillside. The Pantech truck comes to a halt, and the men walk quickly over to a ridge. This is the edge of the forest, overlooking farmland.

  The back of the truck rolls up, and the men go to work, carrying equipment out of the rear. One man unfolds a table, another a cable running from a tiny and silent inverter generator in the rear of the truck. Within minutes Faizan, the Magician, has a powerful computer connected. He calls Badi over, and points with his finger at the screen.

  ‘This is where the technicians of Chevalier Aerospace are testing their drones. The cluster drones emit a signal called IFF that makes them show up when viewed on a radar screen. After we take them we will turn it off of course, but right now it helps us to see them in the night.’

  ‘Yes.’ Badi cannot keep the excitement from his voice. The lights are moving in the darkness three thousand metres away and almost as high, like fireflies.

  It has stopped raining but remains cool, so their combined breath fogs the night air.

  ‘Way up there in the sky,’ the Magician explains, ‘there is an array of satellites, feeding GPS information to the drones. Do you know how GPS works?’

  Badi says nothing — would never admit lacking knowledge on
any topic. Just stares while the other man goes on.

  ‘GPS uses satellites in orbit to both transmit and receive data, sent as microwaves. A GPS receiver requires a “fix” from at least four satellites, all sending time and position data to be able to function. This information is encrypted. In the past, to spoof a drone we would have merely broken that encryption and sent even more powerful, erroneous signals to the machines. Then they would have travelled to any location we liked.’

  ‘I take it that is not the system we will use.’

  ‘No. The cluster drones use the new Wideband Global SATCOM network, an eight-satellite geosynchronous constellation system with sophisticated anti-spoofing modules. Instead we will spoof the drones by becoming part of the ad-hoc wireless network that links them together — this will give us full control.

  ‘You are a treasure beyond price. How much money did we promise you for this night’s work?’

  ‘Five million dollars.’

  ‘When those machines are in the truck and heading for the coast, I promise you ten million. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly. What if I fail?’

  ‘You do not want to think of what might happen.’

  The Magician, however, as he boots his laptop, is supremely confident of his abilities. During his time at Chevalier Aerospace they ran countless models of various spoofing attacks. The drones are now more protected against the demonstration attacks orchestrated by British Intelligence Services, but even SIS did not have his level of insider knowledge.

  He is fully aware of what he must do, knows which avenues will work and what won’t. He just wishes he could see the expression on Ross Craven’s face when he, Faizan, the Magician, steals the cluster drones from right under his nose.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ADEN, YEMEN

  LOCAL TIME: 0700

  Rehan was in the water for two days and nights, clinging to his life ring, mad with thirst, weakly singing songs by the pop diva Hadiqa Kiani, who he had idolised in his youth. Then, at dawn on the third morning he had heard voices out across the water. Hands reaching out to him from the side of a fishing boat made him weep with joy.