by RR Haywood
It takes off within fifteen minutes of the call from Alpha to Mother, and it takes fifty minutes for the jet to reach Berlin. During that time, the van containing the bodies of M and K is driven to a disused industrial estate, where a waiting operative sets it on fire and provides the five men with clean clothes.
They are taken to the airfield in time for the private jet to land and the famous owner to get out, shout at a poor, unwitting subordinate from the Berlin office of his fashion chain stores and get back in for the take-off. The owner does not say a word to the five men in his jet, but discreetly goes to the rear of the plane to stay out of sight.
That process gets the five out of Berlin, but it does not get them into London, and anything coming out of Berlin right now is subject to intense scrutiny.
So another jet is sent to Berlin from Paris. Another from Zurich. Another from Istanbul. Another from Barcelona, from Krakow, Moscow and five more from various cities within the continent. They file incorrect flight plans and cause chaos within the aviation authority’s offices, and more at the private and commercial airfields they land at. Some wait a few minutes before taking straight back off. Some taxi about to draw attention. The pilot of the jet from Moscow gets out, pisses on the tarmac, then climbs back in and takes off. Attention is drawn and diverted, and every single one of those jets then aims for London.
Security services go into meltdown. The police are overwhelmed with reports of aircraft coming into the city with incorrect flight plans. The pilots on board those jets argue and bicker with each other for the right to land first. Air traffic controllers throw fits of panic, and, in the middle of it all, Mother’s hands blur through the icons and programs hovering above her desk.
A mass brawl starts in the bar at Gatwick International Airport. A suspicious package left inside Terminal 7 at Heathrow. A truck fire outside the main doors to Stansted. A bomb hoax dialled into the police offices at Luton Airport. All of these things create enough of a distraction for the jet containing the five to land unobserved at Farnborough airfield in the north-eastern edge of Hampshire county in the south of England, as every airfield near London big enough to take commercial flights is put on standby to receive emergency landings.
The five, now dressed in smart business suits, walk through the small terminal. To say they adopt serious expressions and remark in the manner of business people delayed and frustrated at the chaos going on around them underplays the excellence of their craft. They are business people. The proficiency of their cover is superb in the display of behaviours that show they do not know each other, but realise they are all bound for the same executive meeting. They discuss the dismal pre-tax profits report produced by the fashion chain store, and nod and mutter in the way of people invested in such things who are frustrated at such delays and poor organisation.
The executive cars waiting at the airport take them on to the M3 motorway, first west towards Basingstoke, then south through increasingly narrow country lanes until they arrive at a wooden lodge five miles out from the small town of Alton, where Alpha strides in ahead of his team, already pulling ties from necks.
The large, open-plan lodge is packed with operatives, weapons stacked up, magazines being made ready, medic kits being sorted. Five sets of black combat gear identical to those worn by the five in Berlin wait by the table.
‘I am Alpha. I have control,’ Alpha says clearly, his voice carrying.
The energy in the room changes the instant they arrive. These are the five best agents known in their agency, probably the best in the country, possibly the best in the world. All five are together in one place at the same time. Every man and woman in that lodge making adjustments to kit, clothes and weapons glances over in the hope of gaining eye contact, to nod a greeting or make a show of the connection they may have once had on different operations, jobs and missions, but right now, those operatives are nothing more than cannon fodder.
‘Secure line,’ the operative at the table says, holding out a phone to Alpha.
‘Stand by for briefing,’ Alpha says, pressing the phone to his ear.
‘Go outside,’ Mother says. Alpha does as he is told, striding from the lodge as an army truck comes down the lane. He pauses to stare as the truck comes to a stop and a uniformed soldier jumps down from the front.
‘Where do you want us?’ the soldier calls over.
‘Stand by,’ Alpha replies to the soldier. ‘Clear,’ he says into the phone.
‘We think the device inventor is R’s son,’ Mother says. ‘R is Roland Cavendish. His son is Bertie Cavendish.’
‘I’ve heard that name,’ Alpha says, squeezing his eyes closed to try and sort through his mind.
‘Roland Cavendish walked into the sea in 2046. Body never recovered. Bertie was then in the press a few years later when he gained three Master’s degrees at the age of fourteen . . . applied mathematics, theoretical physics and computer science.’
‘Yes. Yes, I remember,’ Alpha says, thinking back to the national press coverage.
‘M and K worked for R. They died in a car accident in 2052.’
‘Understood,’ Alpha says.
‘Good. Get briefed. We’ll talk in a minute . . . For the purposes of everyone else, we are saying there is a new weapons system capable of mass destruction.’
‘Got it . . . What happened in Berlin?’
‘We will talk in a minute, Alpha. Get briefed.’
‘Sorry, Mother. Why is there an army truck here . . .’ He turns to look, and blinks at the soldiers pouring from the back of it and the row of identical trucks behind it. ‘Sorry, I meant why is the army here?’
‘Ring of steel. Get briefed.’
The line cuts off. Alpha pauses, sensing the size of the operation growing with every passing second. He walks back in as the lodge once again comes to instant silence. His eyes fix on the agent at the main table, which is now covered with maps, files and tablet screens glowing.
‘Are you the briefer?’ Alpha asks.
‘I am,’ the man says curtly.
‘Brief will commence,’ Alpha says, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Go.’ He nods at the man at the table.
‘Target premises is Cavendish Manor.’ The man tasked with briefing fires the words out as he taps a paper map before thumbing the screen of a tablet device that blooms out the hologram 3D image of a stately home. ‘I’ve taken the trouble to map the entire area in order to establish the most accessible route in. This main road here,’ he says, tapping the map while rotating the 3D hologram image of the house for no reason other than to try and impress the five, ‘is the best route in . . .’
‘That’s a main road,’ Charlie says. ‘We cannot attack en masse from a main road . . .’
‘There is a bridleway suitable for vehicles in the woodland to the rear of the target premises,’ a voice calls out from one of the balaclava-wearing operatives gathered in the room.
‘The bridleway does not show on the maps or satellite images,’ the briefer snaps.
‘Stop,’ Alpha says, already irritated by the tone of the man and the lack of structure to the briefing. He turns to look at the operative who spoke out. ‘You know this area?’
‘Yes,’ the voice says.
‘How familiar?’ Bravo asks.
‘This is my patch.’
‘Over here,’ Alpha says, motioning the operative to come forward. ‘You know what’s going on?’
‘Yes, Alpha,’ the operative says politely. ‘New weapons system capable of mass destruction. Snatch mission to secure Roland and Bertram Cavendish.’
‘Mask up,’ Alpha orders.
The woman rolls the black balaclava up to stare at the five. Brown hair tied back. Brown eyes set in a clear, healthy complexion. Slender and athletic. She takes the scrutiny without reaction.
‘Rank?’ Alpha asks.
‘Two,’ the woman says.
‘Do you know this premises?’ Bravo asks her.
‘I know the location from horse riding
in that area.’
‘Horse riding?’
‘Yes.’
‘International circuit?’ Alpha asks.
‘Completed. Six offices,’ the woman replies. ‘Israel: combat, surveillance and counter-surveillance. Columbia: drug-trafficking infiltration. Siberia: counter-espionage. Nigeria: combat and advanced medics course. Beijing: surveillance . . .’
‘I worked with her in Beijing,’ Delta says.
‘Final office?’ Bravo asks, having counted five of the worst deployments on the planet, and wondering what the last one is and why anyone with so many deployments is still a Two.
‘London,’ the woman says. ‘Twelve months’ diplomatic surveillance and disruption.’
The five pause. London is the worst of all the offices. Twelve months on that rotation is exceptional.
‘Name?’ Alpha asks.
‘Tango Two.’
‘Why not Tango One?’
‘I’m still Tango One,’ an operative says dully from the crowd of black-clad figures.
The five look at Tango One, then back to Tango Two as Tango One thinks maybe he should have upped his game lately.
‘Can you brief?’ Alpha asks, clocking the filthy look sent to Tango Two from the briefer.
‘I can,’ Tango Two says, ignoring the filthy look.
‘You are the briefer,’ Alpha tells her, then points at the now former briefer. ‘You are on report. Kit up. You’re going in with the main group.’
‘Knee injury,’ the former briefer says with a look of panic at the prospect of deployment on a live mission, then instantly regretting what he just said on remembering he is talking to Alpha.
‘Go away now,’ Charlie tells him.
‘Get familiar,’ Alpha tells Tango Two as the former briefer makes a point of limping away out of sight.
Four
‘You decent?’ Safa asks, tapping on Ben’s door.
‘You’re giving me a flashback saying that,’ he calls out. ‘And yes, I am . . .’ He pauses as she pushes the door open, and stands with his hands out from his body. ‘How do I look?’ he asks with a grin.
‘Your holster’s on upside down,’ she says, appraising him with one quick glance.
‘Is it?’ Ben asks, twisting to look at the holster. ‘Oh shit, so it is . . . Bollocks.’
‘And you wanted to go on your own, yeah?’
‘Ready,’ Harry says, walking from his room into the middle section of their suite.
‘Boots,’ Safa says.
‘Aye.’
‘Harry, we talked about this.’ Safa rubs her forehead to rid the increasing fug clouding her mind.
‘Aye.’
‘You can’t wear boots from 1943.’
‘Aye.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ she says, looking from Harry’s battered old boots to Ben fumbling with his holster.
‘How you feeling?’ Ben asks, glancing at Safa then Harry.
‘Like shit,’ Safa says.
‘Then don’t go. I can do it,’ Ben says.
‘Sure,’ Safa says, dropping down to open the case containing the pistols brought in from the firing range outside. ‘With your holster on upside down, yeah?’ she asks, pulling a gun out. ‘Harry.’ She waves the gun at him as the big man looks up from his boots to the pistol.
‘Nothing wrong with my boots,’ he says as he takes the gun and slides the top back to check the chamber.
‘Magazines,’ Safa says, holding a few up to him.
‘Good boots,’ Harry says, taking the magazines.
‘Old boots,’ Safa says.
‘Done it. Better?’ Ben says, presenting himself like a child on the first day of school wearing his shiny new uniform. The other two glance, appraise, grunt and go back to loading and checking guns. ‘Where’s mine?’ Ben asks, seeing Safa push one into the holster on her hip.
‘Minute,’ she says, pulling a third pistol from the container, which she starts checking.
‘I can do it,’ Ben says, holding his hand out.
‘I know. Have you used these while we were out of it?’
‘Yeah, did a few yesterday.’
‘Did you clean them?’
‘Yes!’ he says, seeing her hesitation. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Er, listen, Ben. Maybe me and Harry should go.’
‘Eh?’ He looks from Safa to Harry, who suddenly starts picking the crumbs from his clean shirt.
‘It’s different when people shoot back,’ Safa says, as blunt as ever.
‘What the fuck,’ Ben says. ‘You’ve trained me. I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve trained you to fire a gun and fight unarmed, but that’s not . . .’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s Roland and his son. It’s in and out.’
‘Exactly. So maybe you don’t need a weapon.’
‘Safa, stop being a dick.’
‘Ben, this is serious. A firefight is fucking horrible. One split-second delay and you get killed.’
‘So, got a time machine. Come back and get me . . .’
‘Stop fucking about,’ she snaps, squeezing her eyes closed at the pain in the back of her head growing steadily worse.
‘Safa,’ Ben says, lowering his tone at seeing the blood drain from her face. ‘Stay here with Harry.’
‘No,’ she snaps again, standing up to pass the pistol over.
He goes to take it, but she holds on, refusing to hand it over. ‘Listen, you keep it holstered at all times. Do not draw it unless me or Harry tell you to. Okay?’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘Ben! Listen to me. You either promise to keep it holstered or you don’t go.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. I’m team leader. You’ll stay here if I say so.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Orders are orders, Ben,’ Harry mutters.
‘Fine,’ Ben says.
‘Stays holstered,’ Safa repeats, holding her eyes on his. ‘Okay?’
‘Fine,’ he says again, smarting from her tone. He takes the pistol, his hands working fluidly and fast to slide the top, check the chamber, check the safety and listen to the moving parts. ‘Am I allowed bullets?’
‘Rounds,’ Safa snaps.
‘Safa, take it easy,’ Ben says.
‘This is a live job. Switch on.’
‘Okay, okay, sorry . . .’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she mutters, passing him several loaded magazines. She watches him like a hawk as he loads and makes ready. They both do. Harry towering, massive and quiet, but as worried as Safa at taking Ben out of the bunker into an unknown situation.
‘What?’ Ben asks, clocking the look that passes between them as he holsters the weapon and secures the spare magazines.
‘Nothing,’ Safa says quietly. ‘You okay now?’ she asks, studying him closely.
‘I’m fine. Honestly. I had ten days from when you . . . you know . . .’
‘Died?’ Harry asks.
‘Yeah, died. I had ten days . . . The doc gave me different meds, and I feel fine now. Seriously,’ he adds at the lack of assurance coming back from them.
‘Okay,’ Safa says after a pause. ‘We’ll get this done, then set up scenario training.’
‘Awesome,’ Ben says eagerly, then tuts at the hard glare. ‘Fuck’s sake . . . I’m fine. This is me now. That wasn’t me before . . . I was sick . . . Now I’m not sick. I’m me again. I’m happy. I’m happy as fuck you two are back. Seriously I am. Stop looking at me like I’m a twat . . .’ He trails off with a grin that grows wider as he spots the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘Idiot,’ she mutters, shaking her head, but at least smiling. ‘Ready then? Harry, you fit?’ She sets off, with the other two following her down the corridor to the main room. ‘Ben, when we deploy, you need to stay quiet and listen to everything we say.’
‘Yep.’
‘No messing about once we’re through.’
‘Got it.’
�
�If I say to go back, then do it straight away.’
‘Roger . . . Do I say roger? Is that the right word?’
‘Just say okay.’
‘Okay, roger.’
‘If it goes bent, then stay behind Harry and me. Do not, and I repeat, do not run in front of us if we are aiming or firing.’ She stops at the doors to the main room and looks back at Ben.
‘Roger.’
‘Stop saying roger. Harry and I will act as guards, so you go forward to make the two subjects move.’
‘Roger that.’
‘Twat. Don’t ask them to do it. Tell them to do it. Force them. Make them move.’
‘Roger wilco.’
‘You’re an idiot,’ she tuts, pushing through the doors to see Miri drinking coffee and talking to Doctor Watson.
‘Roger roger,’ Ben mumbles.
‘We’re ready,’ Safa says, watching the woman cast a look over them all.
‘Comms?’ Miri asks, seeing a lack of earpieces and radio sets on the three.
‘Negative,’ Safa says curtly.
‘None?’ Miri asks curtly.
‘Affirmative,’ Safa says curtly.
‘No time now. Go without,’ Miri says.
‘Yes,’ Safa says.
‘Roger that,’ Ben says as Safa groans inwardly.
The doctor rises from his chair with two mugs clasped in his hands. ‘Something to help with the pain and fatigue.’
‘Thought we were having shots,’ Safa says as he walks over.
‘So did I until Miri pointed out I cannot use the time machine to go and get them,’ he says with a tight smile. ‘Which means we have to make do with what we have instead.’ He comes to a stop holding the mugs out to Harry and Safa.
‘Don’t I get one?’ Ben asks.
‘What is it?’ Safa asks, peering into the mug, then up at Ben shuffling closer to join in with the visual examination.