‘Can they destroy it?’
‘They have enough firepower on two choppers to take down a small town. They’re good at that.’
‘Fingers crossed, then.’ Jane hadn’t the energy to offer encouragement. She knew that in less than 15 minutes time her world was going to get very complex indeed.
The phone went dead.
‘Bugger.’ Was Colin’s comment.
‘That’s putting it mildly, Colin.’
5°16'39.8"N 67°25'48.7"W, Amazonas Jungle, Venezuela
Sam was counting down. Fifteen minutes multiplied by 60 seconds was 900. That’s all she had to stop the madness.
Nine hundred seconds.
She’d subtracted three minutes from the 18 she’d seen on the screen. In her head those three minutes would give the Tomahawk time to realise that it was no longer receiving instructions from a rogue source. Instead, it needed to lock onto the original GPS satellites, work out it was in the wrong place, turn around and then make its way back to its original target – probably Syria. Or as far as its fuel supply would take it.
That gave her 15 minutes. Nine hundred seconds.
That was 47 seconds ago.
853 ... 852 ... 851. Her brain was counting down in the background. It had a mind of its own.
She couldn’t take the missile down from the control room - they’d locked her out. So, she’d have to do some damage somewhere between the control room and the dish.
835 … 834 … 833.
In her pain-induced haze, her first thought was to look for the building’s power. Stop the thing from working altogether. No; that’s not right. If she had been putting the place together she’d have a seamless power backup system. Batteries. A second generator. Something bomb-proof.
That left her with only one guaranteed way to bring the missile down.
The dish.
She’d made it outside. Opening the door was an effort, her insides screaming for relief.
Black as ink.
799 … 798 … 797.
Her eyes were adjusting. It was still mostly black, but now there were a few deep blues and dark greens.
Come on!
She felt beneath her feet. Still gravel. She took a long step one way. Gravel. Turned. Then the other. Gravel. That made sense. A French drain all the way round the building. It rained a lot here. Standing water wouldn’t be good.
Sam could manage gravel. Just. Maybe.
Breathe.
Two choices. Left or right. Perhaps there’d be some trunking or cabling coming out of the building. She could shoot at it. Do some damage. Break the connection.
Move left.
It was the professional’s choice. The pistol was in her right hand. At a corner, she wouldn’t need to expose her torso - just half a head and her arm. Offering a smaller target. She may be in excruciating pain, but her mind somehow remained uncluttered. Apart from the counting down.
745 … 744 … 743.
She was still thinking. Her brain was still overactive.
And she was sweating. It was probably in the lower 80s. Which was hot for during the day in the UK. But she was acclimatised? Her core temperature and the sweating was something else. This was a fever. Her body’s reaction to the beating - to what was broken inside.
Thinking about it all made her giddy.
But her brain wouldn’t stop counting down.
712 … 711 ...710.
Sam stumbled to her left. One pace after another. In ten paces she was at the corner of the building. She carefully stuck her head round. Her eyes were better adjusted, but it was still dark. A dark wall heading off into the dark distance; the wall’s end merging with the blackness of the jungle.
No windows. She could see that. An unnecessary expense. What else?
Hang on. Three quarters of the way down the wall was an object. It was fuzzy - out of focus. She squinted her eyes. Nope. She couldn’t make it out. It was something other than nothing. A box? Maybe … a ladder of sorts? Onto the roof?
Can I climb a ladder?
Don’t be ridiculous.
651 … 650 … 649.
She couldn’t stop the counting. It was like a runaway clock in her head. Seconds ticking away.
Breathe.
Now move.
One step, then another; her shoulders rubbing along the wall. The pistol was heavy - she let her hand drop.
Step. Step. Shuffle.
The object was in focus now. It was as she thought. A metal ladder.
Step. Shuffle. Step.
Five more steps.
586 … 585 … 584.
There.
Sam grabbed one of the uprights. She looked up and saw the impossible. There was no way ...
Two choices.
Continue to circumnavigate the building. 520 … 519 … 518. Or attempt to climb. She reckoned she could definitely do some damage on the roof. There’d be something to shoot at. She could have a go at the dish.
She had 13 rounds left. That was unlucky. When have I ever been superstitious? It must be the state she was in. She almost fired off a round to make 13 become 12.
Stupid.
Think!
It would take her two minutes to get around the other side of the building. One hundred and twenty seconds. That would give her … 370 seconds to get back round here, climb the ladder and find something breakable - and then shoot at it. That wasn’t anywhere near long enough. The climb would likely kill her. She’d need time to recover if she ever made it to the top.
If she made it to the top.
Climb.
It was where the betting money was.
Sam put the barrel of the pistol down the back of her cotton trousers, and put both hands on the vertical rails.
That was a mistake.
Clump! Ping!
Fuck! She was being shot at.
Clump! Clump!
Sam was down. It was an innate reaction. As she fell, her hand reached behind her and grabbed hold of the pistol grip. She was in a pile. Like a rag doll. The fall had winded her and sent spasms of terror through every last inch of her flesh.
Was she hit? There was so much pain going on, she could have been. She didn’t know.
Play dead.
The clumps she heard were the breach explosions of three low-velocity rounds; almost certainly from a pistol.
They weren’t from a rifle. Rifle bullets travel faster than the speed of sound. She’d have heard a crack!, then a thump! The crack would have been the round breaking the sound barrier as it whizzed past her - a thump, the noise from the explosion in the barrel trying hard to catch up with the bullet. Crack! Thump!
There was no crack. Just the clump from the chamber of a handgun.
High-velocity versus low-velocity.
Not that it mattered that much. Either could kill you.
But, and it was a big ‘but’ in her favour, pistols were inaccurate. They’re self-protection weapons. Best at anywhere between one and ten metres. Anything further than that and they are woefully inaccurate. Mix in the dark, and you might as well throw a poisoned spear.
The shooter had fired off three rounds. The first had ricocheted off the metal ladder. The other two hadn’t hit metal. Maybe one was lodged in her?
She had no idea. But it hadn’t killed her. Yet.
Breathe. Yes, she should do that.
389 … 388 … 387.
Still counting down. The soundtrack to her current version of hell.
But counting down was good. She was still alive.
And counting.
And playing dead.
If Sam had tried to run, or returned fire, the shooter would have fired again. And again. She’d have lost that race; come second in a fight. Easy.
But playing dead bought her time. Time to think. 351 … 350 … 349. Time to prepare.
She had instinctively fallen facing the shooter. Her body so badly wanted to fall the other way. To face away from the threat. But that would have left her sightless; a
nd defenceless. Now she was in a heap, with her Glock still in her hand.
And with that hand close to her chest - and with one eye open, she had one chance. Just the one.
A blob moved towards her. It was difficult to see, but she thought it had its arms out straight, probably holding a handgun. Pointing at her. Poised. It was a big blob. A man. Ready for action. If it had been her, she probably would have got to close range and fired again. Just to be sure. Never assume an enemy is down unless you’re absolutely sure. If in doubt, finish the job.
The man was a couple of metres away now. He stood still for a second. Good drills. Waiting. Checking for a noise - seeing if the body was breathing.
Play dead.
Sam breathed as shallowly as she could.
The man took another step forward.
And then made a mistake that lost him this particular battle.
He assumed that Sam was gone. He went down on his haunches. He then slipped his pistol into his belt and leant forward to feel Sam’s neck for a pulse.
Before he had chance to complete his check of Sam vitals, she answered his question.
In one movement she cocked her hand ever so slightly so that the short barrel of her pistol was pointing at the man’s crotch - and fired. Twice.
Bang! Bang!
The professional’s choice.
He went down in a splurge of screams. Sam’s pain was momentarily banished to the back of her mind. She was up on all fours. The man was thrashing about, his hands holding his crotch. Sam couldn’t see any detail, but she suspected there would be a lot of blood.
Enough to kill him?
She didn’t know. She had chosen the man’s crotch because it was the closest thing to the barrel of her pistol. She didn’t want to kill him - she hated hurting anything. But needs must. If he were lucky, he might just get away with a high-pitched voice for the rest of his life. So be it.
He was still writhing. And cussing.
In one convulse he turned his body to the left. Sam seized the opportunity and took his pistol from his belt. A quick scan. Another Browning 9mm. Good.
With the noise of screams and swearing ringing in her ears, she turned to the ladder.
329 … 328 … 327.
Numbers. She had no idea how that worked.
Both pistols in the back of my trousers.
Check.
Climb.
Sam reached up and grabbed the handrails.
Pain. Lots of it.
The screaming from beside her had turned to moans. The man was not getting up.
One foot on the first rung.
Stand.
Shit!
Dizziness. Her world was spinning.
Breathe.
She then had the conversation she often had with herself when she was running.
Listen, Sam. The quicker you run - the quicker you get to the end - the quicker the pain stops.
It was that simple. She had to climb the ladder as fast as she could bear. Get to the top - and rest.
Climb.
Stand. Second foot on the same rung. Done. Lift that foot up. Stand. Second to join it.
No. Too much pain. It was everywhere. In her chest - in her stomach. Down one leg.
Her tears were constant. She sniffed. The moans from the injured man were hardly an encouragement.
First foot, new rung. Come on! Stand. Second leg up to join the first. New step. Stand. Pain. Waves of it.
Sam looked up. It was a stairway to heaven. It was endless. There was no way …
Next foot, new rung.
Come on!
Stand. Second leg up.
Go again.
It was too much. She pulled herself tight to the ladder. She gripped it with all her might. And then she needed a pee. Why now? Had she just wet herself? She didn’t know. Every nerve receptor was on fire. You could have cut off her leg and the sensation wouldn’t have changed.
298 … 297 … 296.
Foot. Step.
Foot. Step. Pain. Cling.
Breathe.
Foot. Step. Foot. Step. Cling.
217 … 216 … 215.
She’d lost almost a minute somewhere. She didn’t have enough time. Did she?
Foot. Step. Foot. Step. Pain. Cling.
Come on!
She wanted to let go. To fall. To land in a heap. She must be eight feet up. That would do for her. It would be over. The pain and the misery would be gone.
Out of nowhere Austin flooded into her consciousness. Save him! It was enough.
Foot. Step. Cling. Foot. Step. Pain.
The pain.
Foot. Step. Foot. Step.
And then Sam was at the top. The railings curved over the building’s ledge, secured to the roof by a couple of bolts.
Foot. Step. Crawl. Foot ... step ... pain ... push. Push!
Rest.
181 … 180 … 179.
Three minutes to ... to an event that was too horrible to contemplate. What few friends she had - Jane, Wolfgang, Frank and a couple of old army pals, their lives would be altered forever. Things would never be the same again.
Come on!
She needed more rest.
She couldn’t have more rest.
Sam’s face was flat against the roof. It was that bitumen and small-pebble-covering builders used on flat roofs. And it wasn’t perfectly flat - her face was in a pool of water. She let the cool of the water wash over her.
151 … 150 … 149.
I mustn’t sleep. I mustn’t.
121 … 120 … 119.
Where did those seconds go?!
Kneel! Now!
Sam did as she was told.
It was a huge effort.
111 … 110 … 109.
The dish was just there. Right in front of her. Placed on top of a big metal box. There was gearing, girders and curved metal stanchions. A thin, metal tripod extended from the rim of the dish towards the sky. It met a couple of metres out front where there was a small box and a cone. She remembered from her physics lessons. There’d be a transceiver at the focus of the parabolic dish. A sophisticated microwave contraption. Capable of receiving and sending signals. For sending: from the focal point at the end of the tripod, projected back to the dish, bouncing off it and then up to the stars. For receiving - the opposite way: microwave signals collected from the distant stars to the dish and rebounded off the curved metal surface, focused forward to a single point. Where the transceiver was.
What do I do?
There was some cabling running down one of the tripod’s arms. It looped behind the dish and into the metal box.
She should shoot that.
Crawl!
It was no more than three metres. It felt like forever.
89 … 88 … 87.
Sam reckoned she had about 25 rounds. Ten shots at the cabling and five at the transceiver. Then she’d regroup. She fumbled for both pistols and laid them on the roof beside her.
Sit. It was the best shooting position - if hardly the most ladylike.
Knees apart.
‘Get your legs open, Green, like you’re expecting a steam train!’ She had no idea why she had such fond memories of her army training, she really didn’t.
Elbows balanced on her knees. Elbows pushing down, knees pushing up. The perfect locked position. She picked up the first pistol.
I can’t do this! Agony. Dizziness. Stars.
Focus. Rear sight - foresight - cabling.
Sam was about a metre away. She was sitting at an oblique angle to the cabling that disappeared into the box. Any ricochet would be unlikely to come back and haunt her.
Breathe.
Fire!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The noise of the cartridge explosions was accompanied by pings from the metalwork.
She rested. The pistol was hot. Cartridge smoke filled the air. It was difficult to see if she had done any damage.
Breathe.
; Change weapons. She laid the first pistol on the ground. She took hold of the second.
59 … 58 … 57.
She altered her aim. The pistol was now pointed at the transceiver. It was four metres away at the end of the metallic tripod, a dull-grey box against a blue/black sky. It was about as big as half a shoebox.
If she was fit and well, she’d struggle to hit it at this distance in this light. In her state ...
The smoke was clearing.
Rear sight - foresight - transceiver.
Bang!
No noise at the target end. No hit.
Slower this time.
Her eyes were filled with tears. It was no use. She released her aim and wiped away the wetness with the sleeve of her blouse.
She lifted the pistol back into the aim position.
Breathe.
Bang!
No noise from the target.
Fuck!
43 … 42 … 41.
She had to try harder. She would run out of time before she ran out of rounds.
Aim. Steady. Breathe out. Hold. Contract the trigger finger slowly. Be surprised by shot. Don’t snatch. Slowly …
Bang!
Ping!
Bingo!
She’d hit it! She had. She’d hit it!
I have!
How many rounds left?
She didn’t know. She couldn’t count. Come on, girl. Think. No. She couldn’t. She tried. Tried really hard. Nothing.
She listened for the countdown numbers.
Come on - where are you?
No. There were no numbers. There was nothing. Just a fuzzy feeling. As though her brain was full of cotton wool. It was a strange sensation. Unusual. Nice unusual. She thought she was smiling. She was so used to clarity. Oh, and sleep - she got that, with nightmares that weren’t for retelling. Clarity and nightmarish sleep. She remembered those two states. Never fuzziness. No. A calming, fluffy blanket.
Am I lying down? Was she? Is that the cool of a puddle on her cheek?
I don’t know.
And what was that new noise? The one that sounded like someone chopping wood. Quickly. One chop after another. Clump, clump, clump …
I don’t know.
She didn’t.
And that white light. The bright white light. What was that?
For Good Men to Do Nothing Page 37