by Greg Barron
‘Yep, go!’
She wrenches the handle, and pushes open the door without exposing herself, letting PJ and Kutay enter almost together. A burst from one of them as a threat is eliminated. They each move stealthily in opposite directions around the walls.
Marika goes in third, moves left a pace, then takes up a firing position dominating the room. Kisira mirrors her position on the opposite side. There is no sound now but that of a man in the final stages of dying on the floor in the middle of the room. The cabin, seen through the night-vision goggles, is clearly a bathroom.
‘Clear,’ PJ shouts, and they reverse their entry manoeuvre, heading back out into the corridor, moving along past a stairwell and a galley. No one inside, but then a man appears, in a doorway of what must be one of the crew’s quarters, and fires a burst.
‘Give yourselves up,’ PJ shouts. ‘There’s no point dying. Come out one by one with your hands up.’
Another burst, the stubby barrel swinging from side to side, bullets striking and ricocheting like deadly rubber balls in this environment made almost exclusively of iron. The man is agile, however, and ducks back into the cabin before anyone can react.
Dark faces appear from below. Tension turns to relief as they identify themselves. ‘Hey, friendlies coming up the stairway, B Squadron SBS. Engine room secured.’
‘OK. Team One here. How many of you?’
‘Three.’
‘OK, go ahead.’
They come up the stairs, dressed in black, faces smudged with greasepaint.
The shooter appears at the doorway again, but this time PJ is ready. The man shudders as rounds from PJ’s HK417 slam into his chest. ‘If there’s anyone else in there, come out now with your hands up or you will be killed.’
Five men come out slowly, arms raised high.
The comms unit in Marika’s mask comes to life. ‘This is Brown Dog, we’re seeing images on the FLIR of five pax leaving the Isra by small boat. Over. Should we engage?’
‘Negative,’ Marika says, ‘there’s a high risk they’ll have biological material aboard — Christ knows how far a missile strike will disperse it. On-water pursuit will be better. But shadow them, don’t let them get away.’
She turns to the SBS men who have just come up. ‘You guys got one of those RIBs of yours handy?’
‘Yep, standing by at four hundred metres to pick us up.’
‘You mind calling it in so we can borrow it?’
‘Be my guest. But seeing as our job is done here, we might as well join you.’
FIFTY-TWO
THAMES ESTUARY, LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2330
The jet-black RIB is almost invisible as it looms up out of the night. It is, Marika sees as it comes alongside, a standard SBS issue Arctic 22. They scramble down a rope, weapons slung, and as soon as they have loaded, it sheers away, back out into the sea.
The helmsman accelerates to a speed that Marika judges must be close to thirty knots.
‘I think I can see the boat up ahead,’ PJ says.
One of the SBS men laughs. ‘Hey, that’s not our old mate PJ Johnson under that mask, is it?’
‘It might be. Is that Tom McDonald?’
‘You got it.’
Marika knows that PJ cut his teeth in the Special Boat Service, but the camaraderie suddenly annoys her. ‘When you boys are finished, we’ve got a mission in progress here.’
‘Yeah, OK.’
PJ whistles. ‘Shit, look at the fog rolling in off the river.’
Marika can see what he means — up ahead is a bank of white mist that rises in twists and spirals off the surface of the sea. The NVG doesn’t help, adding highlights that probably don’t exist, giving the swirls of mist an almost human quality.
‘The fog is impossible,’ Marika calls into the comms unit. ‘Give us a heading, Brown Dog.’
Only the infrared eyes of the FLIR unit onboard Brown Dog and the other Apaches can see through the fog. The voice from the chopper is accompanied by the thwack of rotors in the background. ‘The target appears to be landing now, a small jetty east of the main pier. The fun park. Adventure Island, isn’t it? From your position bear two-three-zero degrees.’
Blind, white fog whipping through her vision, Marika feels anxious. The mask is getting to her, despite the cool air, but removing it at this stage would be foolhardy.
‘Ahead now, they have disembarked. Looks like they just unloaded something.’
Yes, thinks Marika bitterly, like a hundred kilograms of anthrax powder.
PJ has pushed his NVG aside, holding his GU unit out in front of his eyes. ‘I’ve got it up on the map.’ Then, to the helmsman: ‘Turn fifteen degrees right. We’re six hundred metres out.’
‘So what’s the plan when we hit the jetty?’ someone asks.
‘Small arms fire probably won’t penetrate any stainless steel tanks, and if there’s a small leakage there’s no wind, at least — it won’t go far. You see a target, you shoot.’
There is a crack in the sky, then a spreading light, just peeling through the fog.
‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Fireworks. Shit.’
‘This is Brown Dog, tell them to stop the fucking fireworks. We can’t see a thing.’
The intense heat of the fireworks, Marika realises, has whited out the FLIR units on the choppers, and all other heat-imaging equipment.
Ahead she can see the boat at what is apparently the world’s longest pleasure boat jetty, tied up and bobbing gently. There is no sign of a vehicle. Chances are that they are already too late. The RIB nudges the plastic fenders built into the jetty and they step ashore, the helmsman holding the launch steady then backing away and standing off.
Marika talks into the comms unit as they walk along the jetty to the concrete foreshore. ‘Brown Dog, look for a vehicle leaving the area. They might have already gone.’ She looks ahead to a huge sign in blue that says ‘Adventure Island’, with a tribe of smiling faces bobbing around the letters like balloons.
‘You see anything, Brown Dog?’
‘We can’t see a damn thing until those fireworks stop. Sorry.’
‘OK. Keep trying. Control, can we get every available asset to Southend Pier right now.’ Then to the others: ‘Let’s split up. If you see them, start shooting and we’ll converge.’
The fog seems to have thickened. They can still hear the fireworks cracking and booming overhead but can only see occasional flashes. Dim outlines of rollercoasters and Ferris wheels appear like iron dinosaurs in the gloom. Marika keeps walking, every nerve taut and alive. Her mask hisses with each breath she takes in and out. The UMP5 in her hands is comforting. The weapon is cocked and loaded, her thumb on the safety catch ready to engage at a microsecond’s notice.
Then she sees a figure up ahead, standing in the middle of the path.
‘You there,’ Marika shouts, ‘identify yourself.’
There is no reply, but the figure makes no offensive move either. Marika eases off the safety and starts to walk forward with exaggerated calmness, her body completely still, only her legs moving so her aim never wavers.
The figure, indistinct in the fog, resolves itself into that of a woman, wearing a filmy white dress that both reveals and hides the shape of her body. The woman is weeping loudly.
The mask on Marika’s head is suddenly a handicap. She has minimal peripheral vision, and although the lens is designed not to mist over, the heavy fog constantly deposits microdroplets on the surface. ‘Who are you?’ she asks. Despite the mask, details of the woman are discernible. Tall, willowy, with a head of reddish hair. A pretty face.
‘I’m Cassie — you have to help me …’
Marika stops at a distance of two or three paces, slowly lowers the barrel of her weapon. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Quickly. They had a fight … Badi’s bleeding to death. He’s been stabbed.’
The words are like iron spikes in Marika’s brain. Badi stabbed? She realises that this w
oman must be the passenger spotted by the captain of the customs vessel who identified the Isra. American, judging from the accent.
‘Badi has been stabbed?’
‘Yes, hurry, for God’s sake.’
‘Who did it?’
‘One of his bodyguards. Sezai. He wanted money. They argued. Badi is dying, and I ran to get help. Hurry … please … this way.’
The woman grasps Marika’s hand and hurries her forward. Marika allows herself to be led, talking into the comms unit. ‘Converge on my position now. The fun park past the rollercoaster. CASEVAC may be required.’
‘Roger, coming now. CASEVAC on the way.’
Together the two women move around the carousel. Unmoving, the horses’ heads seem strangely insidious in that light.
A voice comes through the comms unit. PJ trying to pin down her position. With the masks on they do not have the instant tracking features afforded by the GU. ‘Over here,’ she replies. ‘In the fun park, moving past the carousel now. Quickly.’
There is a roadway ahead, a man lying prone on the footpath, both hands pressed tight against his abdomen.
‘Please,’ Cassie calls, ‘help him. He’s dying.’
Marika bends over the man, and even through the mask she is surprised at the lack of blood. Full realisation, however, comes too late. Footsteps in Marika’s periphery, the sight of a raised object silhouetted against the sky, then the crunch of something striking her on the side of the head.
Her final vision is of a triumphant snarl on Cassie’s face. Then a feeling of being lifted into a vehicle. Voices. Half-conscious, half-not. Then the fog fades into black.
FIFTY-THREE
THAMES ESTUARY, LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2345
Ronnie Booth stands on the main deck of the Isra, feet apart, weapon slung; one of three men guarding a total of fourteen prisoners. Five are laid out nearby, ready to be zipped into body bags. The towering grey bulk of HMS Dragon, an RN Type 45 Destroyer, comes alongside, rafting up tight with Isra, and disgorging a tribe of men in HAZMAT gear.
Until the all-clear is given, no one will step foot on the ship without protective equipment.
There is a distant crack far away on the shore, then a flower of sparks peeling off.
‘Fireworks,’ Ronnie mutters. ‘They started ten minutes late. I wonder what Mr and Mrs Jones watching telly in the lounge room made of all the noise out here tonight.’
A CASEVAC chopper settles onto the deck, and paramedics load the wounded before it clatters away.
The rest of the squad are patrolling the deck, or, along with the SAS, continuing the slow task of checking every compartment and space in the ship for hidden hostiles. Jay is part of a small team sweeping the ship for IEDs.
Kisira wanders up. ‘That you, Ronnie?’
‘Yep. Did you recognise my broad shoulders and manly bearing?’
‘Hardly. Just your ugly head.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘I’m not sure. Marika, PJ and a couple of the SBS blokes are in hot pursuit on the water.’
He reaches out and touches her shoulder. ‘Hey, one of them winged you.’
‘Just a graze. Doesn’t even hurt.’
‘You want CASEVAC?’
‘No. I want to see this through.’ She points up at the sky. ‘These bastards have got everything going for them tonight. Not a cloud up there.’
Ronnie nods. Rain at the time of release would help prevent an effective aerosol broadcast, though not long-term ground contamination. ‘Yes, they’ve had some luck.’
Kisira uses her rifle barrel to point across at the bodies. ‘Then again, we’re still alive, and that lot aren’t. Maybe their luck’s going to run out.’
‘Let’s make sure of that,’ Ronnie says, ‘and get after those machines.’
‘That’s not going to be easy if we don’t know where the freaking things have gone.’
Kisira slings her weapon and walks away. Ronnie watches her go for a moment, and then his eyes fall on the captain, Walid, sitting on the deck with the other prisoners, a smug expression on his face. All the bastard has to do, Ronnie thinks to himself, is deny he knows anything about Badi and his anthrax. He might do a few months for screwing with the customs laws, then he’ll catch a plane back to Dubai or Qatar or wherever the hell he comes from.
Another chopper has just landed, settling down onto the deck. On impulse, Ronnie walks over to Walid and grabs him by the collar, half lifting him. ‘Hey, you, we’ve got transport for you.’
‘What about my boys?’
‘They’ll come later, don’t worry.’
Ronnie steers Walid by one of his cuffed arms over to the chopper and shoves him into the back with a hefty push before climbing in and sitting down. Then to the pilot: ‘Take us up, fly boy. Five hundred feet over the deck will be great.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘This fucking city is at risk and this prick knows just how it’s going to be done. We’re going to deal with this right now. You, me and him.’
‘You’re the boss.’
The chopper lurches into the air, rising vertically until they look down on the ship far below. Ronnie turns to Captain Walid, whose grin has slipped into something a little less cocksure.
‘Now you don’t like us,’ Ronnie says, talking loudly enough to be heard over the whining engines and thumping rotors. ‘You don’t like our forms and our protocol. Well I don’t like you either. You tell me where those drones are heading out to attack, or …’ he points down at the ship far below, ‘I’m going to push you out, OK?’
‘I don’t know nothing …’
‘I wasn’t too good at English, but even I know that’s a double negative. Last chance — tell me, or you better learn how to fly real fast.’
‘Nothing … really.’
Walid is a big man, but Ronnie handles him like a child, grabs him by the ankles, lobs him across his body, then flips him out the side of the chopper, dangling him over a drop higher than most skyscrapers with the captain swinging and wildly trying to right himself.
‘Nooo, please. Let me back in.’
‘Tell me what I want to know … that Faizan … where is he?’
The view down to the boat is dizzying, even to Ronnie. The downdraught of the rotors whips at the captain’s face and hair, and distorts the skin of his face. ‘He went in the boat with Badi and the girl.’
‘He programmed the drones, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Please, let me up.’
‘What cities are they going to strike?’
A hesitation. Ronnie takes a risk, lets him drop a hand’s length before gripping his ankle again. Walid screams like a baby, full-voiced and high-pitched.
‘Hey, easy,’ the pilot calls.
Still hanging on to Walid, Ronnie turns to face the pilot. ‘You know how many people might die today? The death of one shitbag is a fair price to pay to save them, even if they court-martial me for it — I’ll go to my cell with my head held high.’ He switches his attention back to the free-swinging man. ‘Now tell me what the targets are, or I swear I will drop you.’
‘Two will start over … skies of Boulogne-sur-Mer, on French coast and fly slowly toward Paris, releasing spores as they go.’
‘The others,’ Ronnie shouts, ‘where?’
‘They start above London, same thing … start releasing. One goes north to Newcastle. One Manchester, one Birmingham.’
‘What time? Hurry.’
‘The English ones wake up … eight-thirty in the morning … when the people are around. The French a little earlier — time zones — maybe eight o’clock. Now let me up, I beg you.’
With a Herculean heave Ronnie pulls the shaking sea captain back into the aircraft, then turns to the pilot. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is how we used to do things in the old days before we had ethics officers and all that shit.’ He turns to Walid. ‘You better be telling the truth or I’ll come and get you, I don’t care where it is, and we�
�ll have another talk.’
Walid swallows as the chopper’s wheels touch the deck again. ‘All those people. I don’t want them all to die. Badi is mad — maniac.’
‘Well you should choose your friends more carefully next time.’
Ronnie calls in: ‘We have received intel from a prisoner.’ He passes on the names of the target cities, then, ‘I want to be the one to hunt them down. I’ve been chasing these people for more than a year now. I want to finish this. London is my home. It’s personal.’
‘Have you trained on the THOR weapons system?’
‘Yes, sir, best scores in the unit.’
‘We’re preparing a specialised CBRN chopper unit to take the fight to the cluster drones at Wattisham. They need a THOR-trained gunner. Pick someone to go with you and get over there.’
Ronnie escorts Walid back to the lines of prisoners, pushes him down, then walks across to Kisira. ‘Hey, you want to go kick the arse of these drones?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Well come on, you and I have orders, we’ll hitch a ride on one of these birds.’
FIFTY-FOUR
THAMES ESTUARY, LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2345
‘This is Brown Dog, we still can’t see a damn thing.’
‘Try harder,’ PJ shouts. ‘I’ve lost contact with Hartmann, you have to find her. Shots fired. Shots fired.’ He tears off the Draeger mask and slips the GU over his nose. He activates the ‘agents in proximity’ mode and searches desperately for Marika.
‘Unit not available’ flashes up on the screen.
Ignoring the growing pain in his feet he runs in the direction from which he heard the shots, around the side of the fun park proper, the sweat from the mask drying in the cold air.
‘Marika,’ he screams, running down a side road until he can see traffic moving on the busy Western Esplanade.
Then, from behind him he hears a powerful auto engine out in the fog, but can’t see anything until it screams towards him. A silver car — another Mercedes, an S-Class sedan. Behind it comes a van.
He lifts his HK417 to his shoulder. Through the sights he can see Marika’s head lolling between two others in the back seat.