by James Phelan
Fox squeezed a single shot off at the other soldier as he dived for his pistol, and leapt over the man’s falling body to help Birmingham—only to discover a neat hole bored through his friend’s temple. He tried to fire at the officer but his gun jammed, so he smashed the AK-47 into the other man’s head. Losing strength but pumped with adrenaline, Fox grappled with the officer in a hand-to-hand struggle. He managed to grip his hands around the officer’s neck and pushed down with all his weight, but the officer fought back, clawing at Fox’s eyes and face.
Fox could hear more hostiles approaching the hut. He scrambled off the now lifeless officer, picked up the revolver and fired a shot through the chest of the guard who opened the door. Another shot and he grabbed at Birmingham, dragging his dead comrade across the dirt floor to the back of the hut, where he kicked the tin wall loose. The safety of the jungle was only metres away.
An ear-shattering wave of automatic gunfire ripped through the hut and a bullet tore into Fox’s forearm.
He dropped the pistol and tried to support the dead weight of Birmingham with one arm. “Come on, mate, come on.” He fell to the ground, sliding backwards in the direction of the jungle. “Come on!” he yelled again, heaving to his feet and pulling at the fallen soldier.
Another wave of bullets crashed over him and tore into Birmingham, spraying blood. With a pat on his mate’s head, Fox left him and scrambled into the jungle …
9
“Yes?” Ivanovich said, waving silence to the assembly of military chiefs.
“We have the pod, Mr President,” Popov said over the satellite phone. “It is operational and we are on schedule.”
“Excellent work, Popov. Any problems?” Ivanovich motioned a security officer to pour vodka for his war cabinet.
“Nothing much, sir,” Popov said. “We took a hostage—one of the two men who found the pod.” Ivanovich stopped before taking a sip of his vodka. “And the other man?”
Popov hesitated. He’d seen the other man covered in blood in a car wrapped around a tree. He’d stopped one of the commando thugs from setting the smashed car alight when he’d seen a bus of tourists coming up the road, but surely the man had perished from his injuries.
“He’s dead, sir,” Popov said.
“Well done. It seems I am getting quite a collection of Western prisoners,” Ivanovich said with a smile. His generals shared a laugh.
“When you have succeeded with the next part of your mission, I will reward you beyond your dreams,” Ivanovich said. A wicked smile crossed his lips. “You may even choose a woman of your own from our political prisoners.”
“Thank you, Mr President,” Popov said, but the phone had already been disconnected at the other end. The chief technician allowed himself a smile at his day’s luck.
10
The ceiling was the whitest white Fox had ever seen, accentuated by a bank of stark fluorescent lights. His bloodshot blue eyes blinked at the harsh environment; he felt like someone who was seeing the world for the first time. He thanked the darkness his eyelids provided, and for a moment the clouds of drowsiness cleared enough for him to wonder where he was and what he was doing there. Before he could ascertain any answers on his own, a soft feminine voice caressed his ringing ears.
“Good morning, sailor.”
A friendly face above a white nurse’s uniform came into view, and departed before Fox could say anything.
His world became a condensed nightmare of confusion for the next few minutes. Time and reality were spinning backwards to the last time he was in this situation, a nauseous sense of déjà vu mimicking reality. It was all he could do not to pass back into the safety and silence the dark cloud of unconsciousness was offering him. He blinked the cloudiness away and, one by one, each of his senses came back online. He wasn’t in the military hospital in Timor—this place felt different. The room was a lot smaller, the air drier.
“Ah, Mr Fox, glad to see you’ve awoken.”
The doctor was young, only a few years older than himself. He checked Fox’s vital signs and made some adjustments to the file tucked under his arm.
“Where am I?” Fox asked hoarsely, his mouth and throat dry.
“Christmas Island Hospital, Mr Fox. You were involved in a serious car accident and have been comatose the past four hours.”
The doctor whispered to the nurse who was at his side and she left the room again with a purpose.
“You have sustained some bruising to the ribs,” he went on, “plus some lacerations to your legs, and we’ve sutured a lesion above your right eyebrow. According to the paramedics who attended the scene, you’re damn lucky to come out alive.”
Fox was trying to piece together the events, but things were still too foggy, too incoherent to make sense. Car accident—hospital? Gammaldi …
“Where’s Al?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr Fox?” The doctor continued making notes on the medical chart.
“My friend, in the car…”
Fox lost his fight to stay conscious and slowly closed his eyes, barely noticing the tall figure that entered his peripheral vision and stood there for a moment.
Ten minutes later Fox opened his eyes again. He felt a small device in his palm, the size of a cigarette lighter. It had a button on the top … morphine. Fox considered pushing the button, which would have released five mls intravenously— but he’d been down that road before.
It was then he felt the presence in the room. Someone was there, watching him. He was unable to turn his head because of the cautionary brace on his neck. There was an uneasy silence during which Fox felt he was being appraised.
“Nurse?” he said, hoarser than before.
It took every ounce of strength and willpower to raise and tilt his head towards the person. A puzzled look replaced the frown of pain on his face, and he opened his mouth to speak but only a gargle came out.
She was a striking woman, tall and athletic, with a straight posture that made her seem even more impressive. Her hair was long and thick but she had it wrapped into a tight bun, the flaming red set off by the green in her eyes.
“You have a rather impressive record of escaping serious injury—and death for that matter, Mr Fox.” Faith Williams sat on the edge of the bed and took a good look at the man she had learnt so much about during the flight from New York. The few photos contained in his military and intelligence records certainly didn’t do him justice. Even when he was lying back with bandages covering various parts of his body, sapped of energy and practically motionless, she could feel his allure—not because of his good looks, but simply the natural assuredness he exuded. A presence. It caught her off guard.
“My name is Faith Williams, Mr Fox. Are you feeling comfortable? Shall I call for the doctor?” She pulled her attention back to her task, her words coming in a crisp Ivy League accent.
Fox blinked up at her and appeared to think. He winced a little when he moved, some badly broken ribs clearly causing stabs of pain, but she could tell he wasn’t going to let on.
“Water?” he asked.
She held a cup of water to his lips, tipping small amounts into his mouth.
“Thanks.”
She saw the pain on his face as he tried to sit more upright in bed. “You from my health insurance or something?” he joked.
“Not exactly. Did you need something for the pain?” She gestured to the self-medicating morphine button by his side.
“No, can’t stand the stuff.” He pushed it even further away as the temptation became greater.
“Mr Fox—”
“Lachlan.”
“Lachlan. I’ve seen your service records, they’re very impressive.” Faith paused, testing the water. “One question has been intriguing me for hours though…”
Fox lifted his eyebrows.
“Your actions in Timor, which led to the death of Leading Seaman John Birmingham … Do you regret them?”
F
ox appeared to look at Faith in a different way now.
“Who—”
“Did you know that during your rescue attempt, three families of East Timorese managed to escape?” She could see by Fox’s face that he hadn’t known this bit of news. “Fourteen of the forty-seven prisoners escaped during your firefight with the militia.”
“How do you know that?” Fox said. The Indonesian government had reported them killed, ‘caught in the crossfire’ of Fox’s unauthorised incursion. “Okay, Faith, you have my attention. Who the hell are you?”
The authority in Fox’s tone surprised Faith—not that she let it show.
“Mr Fox, I represent an organisation that would like to acquire your services—pressingly so because of what you found on the sea floor near here. It happens to be part of a weapons system of mass destruction.”
Faith paused to make sure he was listening.
“There is only one party in the world with the means and inclination to use such a thing, and several hours ago they took it—and your friend.”
PART TWO
>> PART TWO
>>
11
FOUR DAYS TO GO …
The Situation Room in the White House was located in a basement level of the West Wing. The oak-panelled walls were hidden behind plasma televisions, maps, screens and other technical necessities of modern military intelligence. Behind those walls lay a metre of reinforced concrete encapsulating the entire room. This was the command centre for medium-level ‘situations’, when more resources and security were required than the Oval Office or Cabinet Room could accommodate.
Bill McCorkell nodded to two marines in dress uniform guarding the entrance and almost tripped over a miniature castle propped up beside the double doors. He shook his head with a wry smile: the President was starting to take his golfing obsession way too far. As he entered the Situation Room, late for the morning briefing, the conversation between the others died down.
“Morning, Bill, glad you could make it,” the President greeted him good-humouredly from the head of the table. Peter Larter and Robert Boxcell sat to the President’s left; both nodded a silent greeting. Baker, the Secretary of State, was not present, nor was Chief of Staff Fullop.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr President,” McCorkell said as he took his position to the right of the President. He nodded to the two Joint Chiefs of Staff present: the appointed Chairman, currently a naval admiral, and the head of the Marine Corps. As the JCS was the highest body for planning and coordinating the armed forces, they brought with them a myriad of aides—always in full dress uniform—who scurried around the room talking on phones, working on computers and scrutinising data.
“Okay, gentlemen.” The President officially opened a new day in the White House.
“Mr President, two major pieces of intelligence came across last night,” Boxcell began. “We now have solid confirmation that the Dragon exists. This comes from Moscow and a British MI6 agent in Grozny.”
“And the confirmed number of projectiles?” the President asked with raised eyebrows.
“The only good news, Mr President,” the CIA chief continued. “Initially, the Dragon was loaded with one projectile. Another two were launched in ’85 but failed and splashed down in the Indian Ocean. The Soviets called off their search during Gorbachev’s time, as he ended many military programs to demonstrate goodwill.”
“There’s no chance they could have found these pods?” McCorkell asked. It was a question he already knew the answer to.
“No chance. The Soviets never caught a whiff of the downed pods in years of searching with a dedicated armada. Chechnya has no such search capabilities.”
“How many of these projectiles could they have on hand?” the President asked.
“Mr President, the projectile is made up of one of the rarest elements on Earth—theterium,” Boxcell reminded the President. “So rare, in fact, that we know of no substantial deposits outside of what was found in Tunguska. To cause the destruction wreaked on Iran two days ago, the Chechens must have used the one remaining projectile and the last of the theterium.”
“Then we’re in the clear and the Chechens are bluffing.”
“Not quite, Mr President.” The Secretary of Defence entered the exchange. “A substantial reward for any discovery of theterium was offered in all Eastern Bloc geology periodical literature—funded by a body with links to Sergei Ivanovich. The reward offer was withdrawn shortly after Christmas—the same time we picked up troop movements in Chechnya.”
“So … theterium has been found in Iran,” the President said, making the connection.
“Based on reasoning, yes, sir. And this must be the mother lode, since the Chechens are staking everything for the claim,” McCorkell answered. “How close are we to finding the location?” he continued.
Larter turned to the JCS Chairman, who in turn referred to an aide—it all took two seconds and a couple of head shakes in the negative.
“It may take minutes; seventeen hours at the longest,” the Admiral said.
“We can have men on the ground the moment it’s found—including the Resourcer Regiment,” added Larter, with a confirming nod from the marines boss.
“US forces in Iran!” The President raised his voice so loudly that all the aides in the room stopped still for a second.
“Are you telling me or asking me, Pete?” The President’s face was becoming red.
“Mr President, I don’t think I can stress enough the importance that this theterium not get into the hands of the Chechens—or anyone else in the world for that matter. Our resourcers conduct this sort of operation all the—”
“You won’t have to deal with the press and public of this country when they find out our boys have died in Iran!” The President slammed his palm on the solid table.
“Mr President, with all due respect, a few more dead US soldiers in the Middle East is a damn easier news item to deal with than a space weapon taking out the cities and people of this nation that those servicemen are sworn to protect—sir.” Larter was looking the President square in the eye and the President conceded the point.
McCorkell let the President take his time to digest the argument. He took in the others around the room and settled his gaze on Boxcell, who was sitting pensively, watching the exchange with detached interest. He could just imagine the chief of the world’s most capable spy network filing the observation away in his memory banks: the President could be pushed.
McCorkell watched as the President bit his lip in thought; he could tell the leader understod little of the reasoning. To save face he turned to the man whose sole job it was to advise him on matters of national security.
“Bill, how do you see it?”
“Mr President,” McCorkell began slowly. He knew exactly how to work the man he had known for most of his adult life. “We have a few options but the bottom line is this: if anyone gets their hands on this element, it must be us. If not, it must be destroyed beyond all useful purposes.
“Consider what is occurring. The clock is ticking for the threatened destruction of Tehran. Whilst all our intelligence points to the Dragon having only one projectile, we cannot take that as gospel. Iran sure as hell won’t call the Chechens’ bluff and instigate the battle along their border.
“Right now, every expert we have is using satellites to look for heat signatures in Iran, west of the Fiftieth Longitude. If the theterium is down there, we will find it before the deadline.” McCorkell paused. “And what then? We either go after it and blow the site, or we launch from a boomer in the Gulf and wipe the site from the map so no one can have it.”
McCorkell looked away from the President to the others around the table for confirmation of his summary. They nodded back in the affirmative.
“Well, let me know as soon as we find the damn stuff.” With that, the President stood from his chair and walked from the room, picking up a putter that was leaning against
the wall as he exited.
For all the thickness of the reinforced concrete, McCorkell swore he could hear the golf club striking a wall in the outer corridor.
12
The Gulfstream X touched down at JFK International Airport. Fox was glad to be rocked awake by the landing as his dreams were starting to turn bad. Faith Williams moved past him up the aisle as the aircraft taxied to a private terminal.
Waiting on the tarmac for the two passengers was a black V12 S650 Mercedes, its windows almost as dark as the duco.
Faith ushered Fox into the soft leather seat of the Mercedes limousine, and went around the car to the other rear seat.
As the driver took off at a reasonable pace, Fox looked back and took in the Gulfstream’s radical design. The sleek jet aircraft had been moved to a hangar where an identical jet was being serviced. The Gulfstream X was ultra fast and manoeuvrable, yet radically angular and not very aesthetic in conventional design terms. Only a handful had been made to order so far, and with a price tag in the same echelon as the cost of a large commercial airliner, numbers were likely to remain low.
For the first time Fox noticed the light grey stencilled signage on the aircraft’s fuselage. It was so light he had to focus hard through the dark window and the dim light of the New York evening to decipher the company name: GSR.
Fox was glad for the silence Faith offered and used the time to gather his thoughts. He had many questions he wanted answers for.
13
On the other side of the world, Gammaldi was being treated far less cordially. He had endured a long flight bound in the cargo hold of a twin-engine jet. During the trip, he had managed to wriggle his feet free and had spent the rest of the journey rubbing the tough plastic straps that clasped his hands together behind his back and through his belt against the small metal handle on the inside of the cargo door. His desperation had heightened when the handle broke off and his hand binds proved inescapable.