by Chris Allen
“Everyone out!” Morgan ordered. “Port side.”
Morgan and the others clambered out, weapons drawn, and took up firing positions covering the bend, keeping the broadside of the SUV between them and the approaching Chevrolet. Then they heard rather than saw the Chevy braking on approach to the bend. By the time they caught sight of it, it was at the end of a skid and the driver was crunching the gears into reverse. The Chevrolet disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Morgan bewildered. Everything was suddenly silent. Instinct told him to check back down the road in the direction they’d originally been traveling and a short sprint proved that instinct to be correct: Zolner’s SUV was stationary and at an angle across the road. There were bulletholes stitched along the gleaming black panels and the front doors were open.
Morgan ran to the SUV, beckoning to his team to bring theirs down. As he got closer he could hear raised voices, muffled at first but then getting clearer. It sounded like the Zolners, both of them, agitated. Then he could hear moaning. Pain. Someone injured.
“Get us out of here!” It was Kristina.
As Morgan reached the SUV he saw the windscreen and side windows had been shot out and there was glass everywhere. Kristina Zolner was huddled over her husband on the floor in the back, protecting him. She was yelling at Rodenko through the gap between the front seats.
“Are you hit?” said Morgan through the shattered side window.
“No,” she answered. “Just get us out of here!”
In the front, Rodenko, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead, was attempting to deal with bullet wounds their driver had sustained across his upper back and, possibly, his shoulder. His injuries probably weren’t as bad as they looked – he wasn’t coughing up any blood and he was responsive enough. Rodenko had it under control but was clearly under pressure from his employer to get going. Morgan could help with that.
The second SUV pulled up beside them. Morgan told the two security guys to help Rodenko and Zolner’s driver while he quickly transferred the Zolners across to his SUV. He was in the middle of telling his driver, Muller, to get the Zolners back to their house when Hedeon Zolner himself interrupted from the back.
“No!” he said. “You drive us, Morgan. He can drive the other car.”
Muller didn’t question it. He got out and gave Morgan a look that said, Just go with it. We’ve got this.
“Take us straight to the marina,” said Zolner. “I need to get back to the Gemini immediately.”
Reluctantly, Morgan climbed in behind the wheel, set the GPS and drove away.
CHAPTER 8
Intrepid HQ, Broadway, London
Major General Reginald “Nobby” Davenport, CBE, DSO, MC, chief of the Intelligence, Recovery, Protection and Infiltration Division of Interpol, otherwise known as Intrepid, stood in the very center of the oak-paneled office that was his war room, the epicenter of all Intrepid operations. The jacket of his worsted navy pinstripe suit hung on the back of his chair. This was the only relaxing of his attire he ever allowed himself. The Windsor knot of his maroon tie remained squarely fixed at the collar, nine of the ten buttons of his waistcoat were fastened – the bottom button left undone, as was his custom, and the cuffed sleeves of his white fine-cotton shirt remained, very definitely, affixed by a set of aged gold and onyx cufflinks that had been, as it happened, a gift from Violet Ashcroft-James many years before.
Davenport was thinking. His hands were in his pockets and he was gazing absently at a point above the door to his office. He was considering a vast array of scenarios that lay before him, every one of them disturbing and offering only more uncertainty with little chance, it seemed, of a solution.
“So, now we have three,” he said. “Correct?”
“Actually, this is the fourth, sir,” came the reply from the man seated in one of the Chesterfields that sat around the old circular mahogany coffee table where the General preferred to hold his discussions. “Last year we had Patiala Airlines Flight 550 on June third, Patiala Airlines Flight 190 on August fifth, and Chimbu Airways Flight 376 on September sixteenth. So, this latest one makes four.”
Davenport looked across at his chief of staff, former Green Beret Colonel Michael “Mickey” Sheridan, a highly decorated veteran of the U.S. Army Special Operations Command. Sheridan was an expert in unconventional warfare and had led various special operations for coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan for almost a decade. Originally from Detroit, Michigan, Sheridan was six feet tall with the build of an athlete, honed and lean. He had light brown hair, inquiring blue eyes and, despite a youthful quality, his face wore the subtle lines and experience of a former desert warrior. After two years of searching for a new chief of staff for Intrepid, scouring select lists of recommended candidates from all over the world, Davenport had known Sheridan was the right person from the moment they first sat down together in Sheridan’s office at Fort Bragg. At just forty-five years of age, he had the requisite special operations pedigree and contacts to make him more than suitable for the role, but it was his credibility in the field that made him the perfect choice.
“Four. Of course,” Davenport acknowledged. “Although, as far as we know at this stage, the disappearances of three of them remain officially unexplained while one stands out for having been – to all intents and purposes – shot down. Yes?”
“Yes, sir,” Sheridan replied. “We’ve been through every report from the authorities of all jurisdictions involved in the investigations and, while there are still some real possibilities to consider – including crew-related activity – nothing has been conclusively proven regarding how these aircraft were lost. Weather is considered a factor in at least two of them for sure, 376 and this latest one, Katak Airlines Flight 712. Officially, the jury’s still out on 550.”
“Another hundred and fifty people dead and still no answers. There’s more to all this than we’re seeing,” Davenport said, returning to Sheridan. “All we have is this as yet inconclusive association between the pilot recruiter, Salazar, and Zolner – what is it that he calls himself?”
“Helldiver, sir.”
“Helldiver, of course. Enjoys the notoriety, I imagine. Just like his bloody father.” Davenport paused, massaged his temples for a moment. “This strategy, Michael, whatever it is they’re playing at, is immense. More than just terror. Must be. I can feel it in my bones, but I’m damned if I can put my finger on it.”
“While we’re on the subject of the strategy behind this thing, have you had any further thoughts about the Russians? There’ve been literally hundreds of close encounters lately between NATO aircraft and Russian Tupolev Tu-95 bombers and Sukhoi Su-27 jet fighters.”
“Don’t forget their warships in the Channel, a move which just happens to coincide with NATO ships exercising in the area. And, on top of all that, we have the Syria issue and Putin’s apparent support for the Assad regime.”
“British RAF Tornado pilots operating in Iraq have just been cleared to fire upon Russian aircraft if they believe they are under attack,” said Sheridan. “ Not good.”
“It’s quite clear the Kremlin has been testing reaction times and the extent to which NATO forces will be deployed in response to their infringements into NATO airspace for some time. Their sudden intense interest in Syria could be just the catalyst to take us all closer to …” Davenport paused. “It’s unimaginable.””
Sheridan remained silent as Davenport explored a thought.
“In addition to these deliberate infringements of sovereign airspace, Putin is clearly not afraid to test the resolve of the NATO alliance. He’s rebuilding the Black Sea fleet and his occupation of Crimea ensures Russia’s ongoing access to the port of Sevastopol. His influence there continues to destabilize Ukraine despite the ceasefire. We saw exactly how far the Kremlin is prepared to go to exert its position in Georgia back in 2008. It’s only a matter of time before they begin to press their interest in the Baltic States, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania. They already hav
e Kaliningrad, of course, which maintains their warm-water port in the Baltic Sea and, as you say, there’s been an encounter between the US Air Force and a Russian Su-27 over the Baltic Sea north of Poland as recently as last week.”
He fell silent. Sheridan picked up the threads.
“We know Putin’s objective is to re-establish Russia to the former glory days of the Soviet Union – economically, politically, geo-strategically. And his foreign policy commitment toward the integration of former Soviet territory is absolutely clear and on the record.”
“And he is already setting the foreign policy agenda for the states he has successfully reintegrated without being too fussed about what they do domestically. Within reason, of course,” Davenport said. “Lots of talk of Russia’s national interest.”
“Comply or we’ll shut off the gas,” added Sheridan drily. “Gunboat diplomacy at the end of a gas pipeline.”
“Indeed,” replied Davenport. “And beyond Eastern Europe, we now have the added dilemma of the Kremlin agreeing to supply their S-300 air defense missile system to Iran. Yet another line crossed.”
“It’s a return to the dark old days, that’s for sure,” said Sheridan.
“These kinds of operations, pushing the boundaries of the NATO defenses and so on, were routine back then. Now, countries like Germany are being forced to rethink their entire defensive strategies for the next ten to fifteen years, Britain is already being faced with the rather embarrassing realization that systematic cuts to defense spending over the past decade has been a major bloody mistake, and by successive administrations over-committing in Europe there are many influential figures in the United States who are now justifiably concerned about their capacity to defend themselves.”
“The new Cold War,” said Sheridan. “There’s already a hashtag getting around online that the journalists are all using – ColdWar2015.”
“This is exactly what the hardliners in Moscow have wanted since the collapse of the Soviet Union in ninety-one. And this man ‘Helldiver,’ his father – Zolnerowich senior – was the worst of them all,” Davenport said, rubbing his brow, deep in thought, pondering a stream of long buried memories. “For our part in all this, we must find the connection between this overt shift in the Kremlin’s attitude toward its neighbors and our investigations into the disappearances of these aircraft. We’re missing something about this Helldiver creature, Michael. His father’s blood flows through his veins. The connection must be staring us in the face.”
“I agree, sir. But for my money, I’m confident we’re closing in via our focus on crew-related events for Flight 712. If we can confirm that, at least with this latest one, we’ll trace the line back to the source – via Salazar back to Helldiver.”
“Any word from Dominique?” Davenport asked. “We must be due another situation report by now?”
“We are, in fact,” replied Sheridan. “I’m expecting to hear from her controller within the next twelve hours.”
“Masterson?”
“Yes, sir. He’s familiar with the area she’s currently operating in, fluent in a dozen relevant languages and he’s also extremely experienced in post-Soviet Russia and the rise of the oligarchs under Yeltsin and Putin.”
“And has the scars to prove it, I might add. Yes, Masterson’s a good choice. He as good as wrote the book on counter-intelligence for field agents; still very highly sought after by governments with sensitive issues to deal with. We’re lucky to have him and Dominique is lucky to have him as her lifeline back to us.”
“As soon as I have anything I’ll brief you.”
“Very well. As things currently stand, Dominique is still our best option. She’s our closest link to Salazar and the pilots and to Helldiver’s involvement, but we need proof. There are so many moving parts beyond our immediate grasp. I just hope she can keep any outside interference at bay so we have time to bring all of the pieces together and form a coherent picture of exactly how and why they are creating all this bloody carnage.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, that’s what you have me for now, General,” Sheridan replied. “I’ll keep the operation in play so you can make sense of all the global factors.”
“Well, you just tell me what you need and I’ll throw every available resource your way. Unlike our member nations, I’m not curtailed by borders, politics or relationship sensitivities. Don’t feel in any way restricted. Whatever you need, you’ll have it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sheridan replied. “While we’re on the subject, I think it’s timely that I update you on Major Morgan.”
“Ah, yes. Very well. Do we know where he is?”
“Hawaii. Honolulu to be precise.”
“Does he know yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
“Not well, initially at least. From what I’ve seen of him so far, I expect he’ll probably kick over some furniture and want to crack a few heads.” They both laughed. “But, once he’s done all that, I have no doubt he’ll be back on the team.”
“He’s going to be none too happy with me when he finds out. How do you plan to tell him?”
“Don’t worry, general,” said Sheridan. “I have a surprise for Morgan.”
CHAPTER 9
Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, United States of America
At the marina, Simon, Helldiver’s personal assistant, was waiting for them. The twin screws of the Riva 33 Aquariva were already bubbling the water. Morgan was surprised; there’d been no plan for the Zolners returning to the Gemini that evening, yet Simon’s unexpected presence, in Morgan’s eyes at least, seemed predetermined. Morgan pulled up alongside the Aquariva and shut off the engine. Instantly the same young marina attendant appeared from nowhere and began rummaging around in the back compartment of the SUV, retrieving the luggage.
Morgan got out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door for the Zolners. Kristina went straight to Simon, who had his face bent to his cellphone. Hedeon Zolner stood and faced Morgan.
“You OK?” Morgan asked. “Not an easy thing to go through.”
“We’re fine. Just a little shaken. As usual, Kristina handles these things much better than I.”
“You’ve been through this kind of thing before?”
“No, I just meant she has a much greater capacity to deal with the unexpected than I do. No, this is very definitely a first for us.”
“Well, whoever they are, they’re not very happy about something. You’ve got a driver who’s been shot and needs a hospital, and it’s very possible that locals will be reporting they heard gunfire up there. If anyone spots the other SUV full of holes it’ll only be a matter of time before the cops put two and two together. Care to bring me in on it?”
“We’ll get to that. Eventually. For now, Rodenko will take care of everything. Don’t you worry about it.”
“So, what now?” said Morgan.
“Now I want to rest and regroup and consider my next course of action.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Right now, all I want you to do is allow me to thank you for saving my life, twice. There’s a car coming for you. Simon will take this one back to the house. You’ll be taken straight to the Halekulani Hotel where you’ll stay as my guest for the next few days. Once Kristina and I return we’ll send for you and then we’ll talk about the future. OK?”
“Well, I’m very grateful, but won’t that leave you short-handed?”
“See, always the professional. Thinking of your employer’s needs rather than your own. That’s why I want you on my team, Morgan. Don’t you concern yourself about those things. Kristina has arranged everything.”
They shook hands and Helldiver walked off to join his wife at the boat. Once both the Zolners were safely onboard the Gemini, Simon approached Morgan.
“Here’s my card,” he said, sending a digital business card direct to Morgan’s cell. “If you need anything, call me. Otherwise, put your feet up
for a while and I’ll be in touch when they’re back.”
“OK,” said Morgan. “Keys are in it.”
“Thanks,” Simon replied. “Here’s your car now. Your luggage has already been delivered to the hotel. Enjoy.”
A gleaming black Cadillac XTS pulled in. A chauffeur emerged and opened the nearside rear door for Morgan.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. He was Hawaiian, mid-thirties and, judging by the embroidered crest on his jacket, was in the employ of the Halekulani Hotel. He had a cheery face and looked like he’d enjoyed a meal or two more than he should. His name tag said BILL.
“Good afternoon, Bill,” Morgan replied. “I prefer to sit up front. Do you mind?”
“Whatever you say, sir,” Bill replied. He closed the rear door and didn’t quite make it in time to get the front door for Morgan, who was already climbing into the passenger seat.
Before they got underway, the driver made sure the temperature was to Morgan’s liking and turned the techno music, evidently preferred by previous passengers, right down.
“I hope you’ve got more than just techno,” Morgan said. “That shit makes my skin crawl.”
Bill laughed. “What’s your preference, sir?”
“Jazz or blues, if you’ve got any.”
A broad smile answered him as the driver made a new selection on the Cadillac’s audio system. The opening bars of “Riding with the King” through the Bose Centerpoint Surround Sound system got the intended reaction.
“Ah, B.B. King and Eric Clapton,” said Morgan. “The perfect choice, my friend.”