Exit Alpha

by Clinton Smith

  A glass was tapped and Vanqua, in the centre of the room, raised his hand. ‘Now cadets have a work session and observers have one hour free before the next presentation.’

  Rhonda turned to Cain, coldly serious again. ‘Let’s talk.’

  DEBRIEF

  When they were back in her den she said to him, ‘You’re officially dead. Feel good?’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘And poor Rehana’s really dead.’ She eased her bulk into a chair. ‘A terrible death.’

  ‘And pointless.’

  She passed a hand above her head. ‘Que?’

  ‘We get our man installed, then Pak One falls out of the sky.’ He sat opposite her, wondering why she didn’t see it. ‘Was it Beg? He was the only top general not on the plane. The other fifteen died, plus the US Defence Attache. Beg took the chopper, flew over the wreckage. What’s your take on it?’

  ‘Yes, tricky one that.’ She got up, searching for something. ‘There were chemical traces in the cockpit. Could have been poison gas. I’d say the likely lads are Spetsnaz.’

  ‘Moscow knows?’

  ‘That we substituted Zia? No. We think they did it to pay him back for funnelling arms to Afghanistan. Can’t blame them. Even Washington was fed up with Zia back in ’86. I know you were fretting because I wouldn’t let you switch him sooner. But we had to wait until we were sure about the Russian withdrawal. And now I’ve got nicotine withdrawal. Where the hell are my fags?’

  ‘But he sold off half the arms he got.’ His work with Zia and the man’s puppet government still rankled. ‘That was why he blew up the Ojheri dump before the audit. A few more Stinger missiles he didn’t have to account for, tricky bastard. We could have done him six months earlier and got the other half across the border.’

  ‘The Pentagon factored that in — just gave him twice as much.’ She dropped from sight to search under the desk.

  ‘Thirty-two years of training. Four and a half more in the field. Then the whole thing up the spout. And you say it’s a success?’

  ‘A brilliant success.’ Her head popped up. ‘You made the switch right on time. Your duplicate dismissed the regime, dissolved the assemblies, announced elections . . .’

  ‘And died in a crash ten weeks later with the top brass of the army. Come on, Ron.’

  ‘Dear heart, our last state’s still more blessed than the first.’

  But he still didn’t believe her.

  ‘Oh, happy the blossom that blooms on the lea . . .’ She launched into Sullivan’s most joyous confection, the finale of Ruddigore, dancing about the room, still looking for fags but lifting piles of folders in time with the refrain. It was a curious sight — this woman who shaped the progress of nations, leaping around like an impala.

  She stopped moving and stared at him. ‘I’m not just being nice. Honestly. A tremendously difficult switch. And a wonderful result. The first female prime minister of Pakistan.’

  ‘Her government’s on the take already. The rip-off mindset in that country’s . . .’

  ‘But equilibrium’s restored.’ She laughed. ‘Poor wandering one. You still don’t believe me, do you? We’re thrilled with how it’s gone.’

  ‘Long as you’re happy,’ he shrugged. She was the strategist. Despite dregs of doubt, he felt pleased and suspected the alcohol was making him benign. ‘The link with the CIA in Islamabad helped. And he was the spitting image, right down to the tombstone teeth.’

  She was hunting again. ‘Ah! Success has crowned my efforts.’ She pounced on a half-crushed pack and came back to her chair. ‘Now. A serious question.’ She lit the fag and sucked, squinting with satisfaction. ‘The feudal heiress from 70 Clifton . . . equipped with her own generators, water tanks, security guards and tutored by daddy to rule . . . You see, I do read your reports. They say she’s arrogant and cold.’

  ‘She’s a Gemini.’

  ‘Spare me the superstition. Will she stick?’

  ‘If a despot put you under house arrest, smashed around your mother, killed your father, would you face the world with an enchanting demeanour?’

  ‘Daddy Bhutto was no paragon.’

  ‘But she cared for him, needs to vindicate him. She’s no pushover either.’

  ‘Attractive, too. Mind you, she’s still controlling the media. And there’s the chain-smoking, playboy-husband factor. Will she survive?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘Don’t fudge. What was that Hegel thing? “History teaches us that man learns nothing from history”? You’ve spent years in the country. Stop being disgustingly coy.’ She sucked the fag, eyes narrowed, waiting.

  ‘Okay. You’ve got a newly married woman with a baby. She’s in charge of a broke, illiterate, bazaar-culture theocracy where nothing works, nothing’s on time. More guns than sewers, zamindars, poverty . . . I give her three years.’ He shook his head. ‘If our man had survived, at least we’d have control.’

  ‘What I’ve been labouring to explain, dear heart . . .’ she gulped the last of her scotch, ‘. . . is he survived long enough to alter the spin. And the fetching Benazir will do very nicely for now.’

  ‘Long as you’re happy.’ He sipped his scotch, feeling good.

  ‘So Zia’s fixed. But our internal problem isn’t. In the next few hours, I may do some inconsistent things. So be warned.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And remember what I told you. Watch your step.’

  BLOW-UP

  Hunt, the drop-dead gorgeous woman with the supermodel body, managed her segment well. She began by showing a video of Gustave Raul, guru of millions and charismatic phoney who, as far as Cain could see, packaged new-age cant as entertainment.

  ‘What this cult trades on,’ she told them, ‘is a mixture of philosophies arranged in a manipulative way. It takes people’s money and turns them into sociopaths. This gives Raul enormous power. He’s ruthless but clever. He’s now infiltrating bureaucracies and political parties. I think he regards God as his favourite fictional character.’ She concluded the survey of her assignment with a tape showing devotees clustered around the master who sat on a kind of throne. Hunt herself sat at his feet, gazing at him intently and oozing carnality, in stark contrast to her attitude on the platform.

  ‘What I’ve managed to do,’ she explained, ‘is become his most trusted follower. And yes, I sleep with him, which proved the easy way in.’ She cupped her hands beneath her breasts. ‘I was trained to regard these as weapons. In my case, they have been. Now many of his manipulations are filtered through me. It’s difficult, though. You have to go along with him utterly or he’ll pick you. That means a big part of me has to believe his guff. Meanwhile my team’s getting things ready to replace him. I can’t be specific but ask general questions if you like.’

  Several cadets did.

  Then unexpectedly Zuiden spoke up. ‘You say your primary offensive installation is your tits. So why are you such a prissy bitch with us?’

  Cain looked around at him, amazed. Even coming from a crass shit like Zuiden, the comment was out of line. The man was a Grade Three. He knew better than that.

  A stunned silence in the room. Zuiden pugnaciously stared at Hunt.

  Cain glanced at Vanqua expecting the Dane to pull him into line but the surgeon head sat impassively.

  A tic of shock on Hunt’s face. Her answer was slow, deliberate. ‘When I started here, some people told me that surgeons were degraded thugs and emotionless assassins. I’ve tried to be more open-minded. Now I wonder why I bothered.’

  ‘Funny,’ Zuiden sniggered, ‘surgeons see dentists as stuck-up pricks and perverts.’ It was a direct hit at Rhonda.

  Vanqua was up. ‘No name-calling here. Session finished.’

  BULLET ENTRÉE

  Lunch was a war zone. Tables for four with place cards. And at Cain’s table, facing each other — Zuiden and Hunt. It could have been avoided. But nothing was done. Cain was opposite Spencer. That, at least, was sane.

 
; Hunt was ice, said nothing. Cain was thankful. Because, if she started, he’d have to defend her against Zuiden. And fronting a senior surgeon was as dangerous as it got.

  No one spoke. Spencer was obviously embarrassed but Zuiden seemed to be enjoying himself and attacked his oysters kilpatrick with gusto. He paused between mouthfuls to finally say to Spencer, ‘Good grub.’ Then he turned to Hunt with the deliberation of a gun turret, stared down her front and said pointedly, ‘You know, all I care about is my stomach — and the little thing that hangs on the end of it.’

  Cain said, ‘Cut it out.’

  ‘Jesus, Cain.’ Zuiden’s deprecating look. ‘Is your hand still up your arse?’

  He wasn’t ready for the stab of derision and glanced around at Rhonda. She was at the head table, with Vanqua. Why hadn’t she handled this?

  The almost imperceptible shake of her head warned him to do nothing.

  ‘So tonight,’ Spencer said to keep the peace, ‘we’re going up to vultures row to see the cats on the roof.’

  ‘Cats?’ Cain asked.

  ‘Tomcats. F–14s. They’re doing night launch and recovery cycles. The trouble is signing you out of this vault because it takes so long. So a few of us go tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll take the rest.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ He was grateful to the man for heading it off, tried to keep the conversation going. ‘The pilots must be hotshots.’

  ‘According to our surveys, they go through several stages. They’re hard-chargers up to 250 hours. Around 1200, they get careless. If they don’t goon it up and survive to 5000, they get too confident and relax again. Everything to do with fighters is pushing the envelope anyway.’

  Zuiden stared at Hunt’s cleavage and said to her with a leer, ‘They certainly lift and separate. Like to help me lose some zinc?’

  She stood bolt upright, slapped Zuiden hard across the face and walked out.

  The conversation in the room had stopped. Everyone was watching the scene. Zuiden, now half out of his chair, seemed about to follow and drop her.

  ‘You bloody disgrace. Sit down.’ Cain fingered the release off the cannon. If he had to spread the table with the surgeon’s guts, he’d do it.

  Zuiden looked at him levelly, deciding whether this was it. ‘Careful, Cain. Next time it won’t just be your toes.’

  Cain fought rage, loathing the bastard, choking on what they’d drilled into him. EMOTION IS A FORCE, NOT AN ARGUMENT. No one in the room moved, aghast at the sight of two men who could kill anyone with impunity confronting each other like pit bulls. Finally, Zuiden, one cheek reddening, sat down.

  Cain glanced at the head table. Both department heads were immobile. Then Vanqua, with measured action, passed Rhonda a bread roll. The tension in the room dropped one notch and conversation started again.

  A waiting steward, shaking with terror, slid a main course under Zuiden’s nose. The surgeon regarded it unseeingly as if debating whether to attack.

  Spencer cleared his throat. ‘You know, on the Midway it got so ugly, we had to separate whites from blacks. No-go areas. Perhaps it might work for EXIT departments.’

  Zuiden thrust his face round to him. ‘What if I separate your head from your neck?’

  ‘So,’ Cain said to Spencer, ‘I hear you’re doing a preamble before my thing.’

  Spencer looked at him nervously, sensing the volcano beside him. ‘Yes, Rhonda asked me to give a strategic summary before your talk.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that,’ Zuiden mimicked. ‘You intellectual git. I bet you’re pissing your pants.’

  Cain stared at the surgeon again. Something was wrong. Zuiden was too well trained for this. The resentments had always been there but they’d suffered each other for years. What had got into the bastard? He murmured, ‘Jan. Please don’t do this.’

  The shock of hearing his first name must have gone deep. Zuiden glanced up as if caught out, then sullenly began to eat his food.

  ATTACK IN BLACK

  Presentations continued through the afternoon and even during dinner when the rumbling-voiced head of Mossad gave a summary on: Small Arms Developments, Unpleasant to Vile. ‘. . . lasers as small as rifles that cause irreversible blindness up to a distance of 3 kilometres. And a new white phosphorus grenade that . . .’

  The details didn’t complement dessert.

  After the meal, senior staff chaired discussion groups. Cain wanted to work on his speech but was obliged to head a forum of eight awed cadets — including the black woman he’d met in the shower.

  When the session finished, she smiled up at him. ‘Fantastic to talk to someone who’s done it all.’

  ‘Glad it helped.’

  ‘So how was Pat? Good tunes on old fiddles?’

  He smiled. ‘We go back a long way.’

  ‘Whatever rings your bell.’ A flash of coal-dark eyes made it clear. She was available if he wanted her.

  Pat’s group was breaking up. She raised her eyebrows as he passed.

  He shook his head. ‘Got to work on the speech.’

  She made a face.

  ‘Only time to do it.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow night, you’re booked.’

  In the glow from his bunk-head light, he scrawled bullet points to use as prompts. After an hour, still unhappy with it, he switched off the light and slept.

  Something woke him. The cabin was black except for the crack of light beneath the door. The crack, a slight wedge shape, slowly became a line.

  Someone had shut the door.

  Someone now in the room.

  Only Pat knew his door code and she wasn’t coming tonight.

  He looked at the corner of the ceiling, searching with peripheral vision for movement. The breast-gun was in a drawer as the straps made it uncomfortable to sleep in. So for years he’d slept with a super-reliable SIG-Sauer automatic by his thigh.

  He aimed through the bedclothes to the left of the door. Knife? Gun? Torch beam? In the first 30 seconds you were vulnerable — had to react first.

  Nothing came. Whoever it was didn’t have night goggles or would have attacked. That gave him the advantage because the other’s eyes had to adjust. The intruder also couldn’t use his ears, because the ship’s noise drowned small sounds.

  Cain couldn’t see movement so grunted a strategic snore then sat up, thankful for dark skin and blue sheets. He moved to the foot of the bunk, cautiously slid off. Unrelieved blackness. No pale oval of face. Had whoever it was blacked up?

  Then he saw — thought he saw — the blackness of the bed intensify. Something lightly brushed his motionless leg.

  In an instant he’d fired, repositioned at the crouch.

  He heard a gasp.

  He was squatting by the door now — hand forward at the high diagonal, gun facing forward from the waist in the touch-and-fire position. Get it wrong and you lost fingers. He’d give it 30 seconds and . . .

  Another gasp. Christ. It sounded like a woman.

  Pat?

  Jesus. No!

  Jesus bleeding Christ!

  He stood up. He’d have to risk the light.

  He threw the switch, ducked, aiming at the bed.

  He needn’t have bothered.

  Blood had pooled on the floor and she was almost dead. She’d been shot in the back then had slid off the bed face down. He turned her over, exposing the mess at the front. Through her open mouth bubbled blood. She hadn’t needed to blacken her face.

  She stared at him wide-eyed.

  He said, ‘You bloody fool.’

  LAST HURRAH

  Rhonda in a nightdress seemed more physical than Rhonda naked. Her huge boobs hung as if cling-wrapped and from beneath the uneven hem her massive calves ended in feet splayed like tree roots. She scratched her rump, surveying the body on the floor. ‘We were grooming her for Nigeria. She was one of our best code-breakers. The door keypad wouldn’t stop her. She worked out the sequence.’

  He looked at the bl
ack woman’s gaping face. ‘Friend or foe?’

  Rhonda shrugged. ‘There’s no weapon. From what you’ve said, I’d say it was your fatal charm. She wanted your body and thought you were condition blue. They don’t get much fun, after all. She read this as a muck-up time.’

  He banged his fist on the bulkhead. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I put you on alert. It’s just unfortunate.’

  ‘Now I have to face the others and play hero.’

  ‘I’ll tell them she’s ill — been transferred to the ship’s hospital. Zuiden can clean this tomorrow when they’re all in the lecture room.’

  ‘Shit, what a stuff-up.’

  ‘You don’t mind sleeping with a corpse in the room?’

  ‘It’s not that. I feel sorry for her, damn it.’

  ‘Fortunes of war, love. Sweet dreams.’

  Spencer prefaced Cain’s presentation using rear-projected maps, beginning with a view of the Indian Ocean.

  ‘Most of the Arabian Peninsula’s oil bases and population are littoral — within 100 miles of the coast. Before Afghanistan, the Soviets were 700 miles from the Gulf. Now, they’re 235. A direct Soviet move on Iran and things get sticky. But right now it’s manipulate, not march.’

  Cain was grateful for the introduction although it had little to do with what he intended to say. He could still see the dead woman, staring at him from the floor that morning as he’d dressed. He tried to tune the picture out, concerned about yesterday’s fracas at lunch and the impression it had given the cadets.

  He glanced at Rhonda. Her sober face revealed how important it was to pull things together.

  ‘The North Arabian Sea,’ Spencer continued, ‘is within range of Soviet aircraft, so our carriers are deployed there to cover any air-strike on the Gulf. Both fleets are in the Indian Ocean projecting forward presence and forward pressure. It’s political, vastly expensive and supply lines are long.’