By nine he estimated he had covered about half the circumference of the town’s outer reaches. He went a way up the next track and lifted the bike off the road, up a short bank and through some bushes to take another break. The air had chilled noticeably. He noticed fires had been lit in every occupied house. A noisy vehicle passed by along the main road. As he ate he stared at the distant mountains. They were always impressive. Jagged teeth in black gums. The stars shone brightly in the heavens. Clear and crisp. He felt the chill as a breeze found its way through his open jacket.
As he buttoned up his front, the sound of engines drifted to him on the night air. Whatever it was turned off the main road and onto the dirt track he was sitting alongside. Lights flicked across a nearby house and the treetops beyond it. He decided he was fine where he was. There was a low wall not far away, beyond that open country. The engine grew louder, the lights stronger. The track was suddenly bathed in a strong white light as the vehicle came around the bend.
It was a 4×4. A Suburban. And it was not alone. There were two of them. They were dark, probably black, with tinted windows. The second had a light on inside and he saw figures, or their foggy outlines. It also had some kind of technological apparatus on its roof.
There was a third. The same as the others but without the roof apparatus. They had to be coalition troops. His thoughts flashed to the vehicles he had seen earlier in the day, driving out of the back of the black Globemaster. The convoy continued along the road, its headlights illuminating the trees and houses ahead. Stratton walked down onto the road to watch the red tail lights disappear around a bend. They weren’t going into the camp. The track was headed in the wrong direction.
He quickly went back for the bike and dragged it onto the road and pedalled after the Suburbans. Quite quickly he couldn’t hear the sound of the engines but he could still see the glow of the rear lights, moving further away. They weren’t going that fast but after a few moments the lights disappeared too. He kept up the speed as well as he could, hoping to see the lights again. His ears were pricked for any distant sound but there was nothing.
As he took a wide bend he stopped pedalling when he saw a red glow up ahead, about a couple of hundred metres away. The light went out and he eased on the bike’s brakes, which squeaked, released them and dropped his boots to the road to stop the bike.
He didn’t get off right away and remained still. All he could hear was a distant aircraft taking off. Whoever they were, and whatever they were up to, despite their proximity to the camp, they were still in hostile territory. They would take the usual precautions, like sentries to cover obvious arcs and routes into their position.
Stratton got off the track and hid the bike, before moving deeper into the open ground. A low wall appeared to follow the track for a distance and he crossed over to the other side of it, walking lightly, his ears and eyes focused as far ahead as he could. His first worry was thermal imagers. Any sophisticated lookout would be scanning their arcs with one. But the vehicles had only just stopped. Perhaps the sentries hadn’t deployed yet.
He focused his attention on a large spread of bushes and small trees that he estimated the vehicles to be just beyond. He wanted to be in among them as soon as he could. He speeded up a little, stepping silently across the dry earth. As he approached the dark foliage, a goat bleated and scampered off a stone’s throw to his right. It paused him. Judging by the direction the animal was going, it had been disturbed by something other than him.
He eased himself down and made his way quietly into the bushes. He heard a metallic sound from half-left ahead. He stopped. He realised he was close to the road and could see the rear of a vehicle about twenty metres away. The back doors were open. There was movement, figures walking on the road, one of them heading in his direction. He eased himself back into cover. The man came to a stop in front of Stratton’s position. Then he stepped off the track into the bushes towards Stratton. He stopped again, only a couple of metres away. Stratton was surprised the man couldn’t see him. He remained still as he studied the silhouette. It was someone holding an assault rifle in one hand. The man took a step forwards, then another, and his boot came down directly on top of Stratton.
Stratton reacted like a snake that had been stepped on, grabbing the leg. He got his entire weight behind it and twisted violently around so that the man fell under him, then he pulled himself on top, forcing a hand onto the guy’s mouth to stop him squealing. The soldier went for a knife in a sheath on his thigh. Stratton planted his knees onto his chest as he grabbed the knife hand and they struggled with it. The man was strong and had the point up towards Stratton’s gut, so he released his mouth hold and hammered on the soldier’s throat with the heel of his hand. The man made a gagging sound and his limbs stiffened and he dropped the knife. Stratton hit him again and he shuddered before going limp.
Stratton felt for his carotid artery, concerned. He’d not intended to be discovered and certainly not to kill anyone. This man was more than likely an American. An ally, for Christ’s sake. All he could hope for was that he wasn’t dead. He searched for a pulse and when he couldn’t find one, he kept searching. It wasn’t always easy to find. He was also unable to fully concentrate, his senses were all about him. Someone might have heard. The others weren’t far away. He would have been in deep trouble for being in Afghanistan beforehand. Now he’d gone and bloody well killed one of his own side.
Stratton kept his hand on the man’s throat but could feel nothing. He felt around the soldier’s equipment. He was wearing the usual webbing and belt order, the pouches stuffed with magazines, a pistol in a holster. He had a larger pouch on his hip, a radio clipped to the webbing. A wire led to his earpiece which had come off in the struggle. That would be a problem when the team controller asked for a communications check.
Stratton was curious about the large pouch and opened it. It held a gas mask. An odd piece of kit to carry. He went back to the man’s uniform, which wasn’t usual camouflage material but it felt familiar. The gas mask provided the clue. The man was wearing a chemical warfare suit. The material was made of several layers of carbon-impregnated cloth designed to absorb highly toxic vapour elements in the air. Stratton felt for a pulse again just to be sure.
Nothing.
‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself. It could easily have been the other way around. But that didn’t justify it. The soldier was only doing his job. Stratton removed the radio, put it in one of his pockets and clipped in the earpiece. He eased his way through the bushes until he was close to the edge of the road again.
He could just about make out all three vehicles. Most of the movement was happening beyond the furthest one, where a dozen or so men stood. All of them seemed to be wearing the same outfits as the man he’d just killed. Stratton took a good look at the centre vehicle with the unusual gantry fitted to its roof. It looked like a couple of metre-long probes. They were white and could best be described as giant cigarettes. One was pointing straight up and the other across the track into the darkness.
Two or three people sat inside the vehicle. It contained some kind of control panel with dozens of LEDs. Someone climbed out of the back and hurried to the lead vehicle. There appeared to be a brief conversation with the occupants, who then got out and walked to the back of the central vehicle and leaned inside. After a couple of minutes one of the men went up the track to the group. His conversation with them was brief. Whatever it was, they were suddenly energised.
Stratton watched as several of the men broke away and went to the backs of the front and rear vehicles. They collected several items each, the size of wine bottles, and headed along the road in both directions away from the vehicles. Two of the men were heading towards Stratton. He ducked back as they walked past. One paused a few metres away before continuing on for another thirty metres. They were placing the objects onto the track at intervals. When they were finished, they headed back to the vehicles.
Stratton strained to look at the object neare
st to him. It looked like a canister. That might explain the gas masks. He plucked a piece of grass and released it into the gentle breeze. It blew from his back and across the track. His radio suddenly came to life, a man’s voice asking for a communications check. Three other voices replied in sequence. They were all American and each used the letters Tango, Quebec and November. There was a silence followed by the controller asking a Victor call-sign to report. That had to be the man lying nearby.
‘Victor, Victor, this is Solas, do you copy?’ the voice asked again.
Stratton went for it, in his best American accent, and could only pray that it was even close to what it was supposed to be. ‘Victor’s good,’ he said.
‘You fallin’ asleep, Victor?’
‘Bad earpiece,’ Stratton replied.
‘Copy that,’ the controller said. ‘This is a general standby. Looks like we’ve had a positive read. Remote interdiction will commence within five. Out.’
A man left the lead vehicle and headed along the track in Stratton’s direction. He pulled his gas mask over his face as he went to the far canister and crouched by it.
‘All stations, this is Solas. Commence lockdown,’ the controller said over the radio. ‘I repeat, all stations lockdown.’
Stratton didn’t need to guess its meaning. He went back to the body, removed the gas mask from its pouch and pulled it on.
Back at the road the man initiated the furthest canister from the trucks and went to the next one to repeat the process. In less than a minute every canister, a dozen of them, had been activated. A loud hissing sound filled the air and a jet of vapour issued from every canister, rising up in an increasingly broad cone shape for several metres before bending under the influence of the breeze. The smoke dispersed into the darkness. Stratton leaned out of the bushes to get a better look at the activity around the vehicles. The group of men were still standing there.
The canisters steamed away for a couple of minutes. It suddenly occurred to Stratton that he might be missing an opportunity. For what, he was not sure. But his instincts urged him to go with the flow. All of them were in full NBC suits that included gloves, hoods and of course, gas masks. They were all identical. He quickly went back to the sentry, the sound of his movements now masked by the hissing canisters. He unbuckled the webbing and rolled the man from one side to the other to remove his jacket. By the time he had the suit off the canisters were almost out.
As he pulled on the suit he was aware of a different sound. A gentle voice. He paused to listen. It was distant. He suddenly realised it was coming from the earpiece that had fallen from his ear.
He shoved it back in, in time to hear his call-sign being called.
‘Victor here,’ he said in a low voice.
‘You need to fix that earpiece,’ the voice said. ‘Stand by. The teams’ll be moving in one minute.’
‘Copy that.’
Stratton tightened the hood around his gas mask and pulled on the webbing, weapons and ammunition, clipping the radio into a webbing strap. As he got to his feet and took a deep breath, he was reminded how much he hated gas masks. He moved to the track and looked at the Suburbans. The gas canisters had reduced to a fizz. He was just in time. The men were heading along the track away from him and he hurried to catch up.
As he went past the three Suburbans, he glanced in the centre one at the two men still inside. There was no one else about. The track took a sharp turn to the right. He guessed the gas would have gone along it at that point. He saw men up ahead and slowed as he reached them. He wanted to remain in the rear. Beyond them were lights and a high mud wall. The men at the front approached a pair of metal gates.
It looked like a pretty big compound.
15
The lead group didn’t appear to care how much noise they made pulling the gates apart. Time seemed to be the factor. The team entered the compound and Stratton slowed so as not to get too close to the men immediately in front of him. No one looked back. They were all focused ahead and anxious to get into the compound. They had good reason not to care about their backs.
Stratton walked through the open gates after the rest of the team. A chain with a large padlock attached lay on the ground. The men were heading up the central path to the far end, past homes on either side. They seemed to know exactly where they wanted to go. As he walked across the compound, he saw an animal lying on the ground on its side. When he got closer, he realised it was a goat. Its eyes were open and its tongue hung from its mouth as froth bubbled out. Another goat was lying in the same condition a few feet away.
Stratton crouched to inspect it, putting a hand on its chest. The animal was dead. He looked further along the track and saw a man lying still against a wall. Stratton went over to him. He had wide-open eyes and slime oozing out of his mouth, just like the goats.
Stratton stepped to the nearest mud house, which had a light on, and he looked in through the window at a man seated at a dining table. A kerosene lamp in front of him lit his dead face on the table, his arms hanging limp by his side. Beyond him two children lay on a bed as though asleep. Stratton looked away.
He continued up the path past bodies on the ground to the biggest house in the compound. He could see the head and shoulders of a figure on the roof, slumped over the parapet in what appeared to be a gun emplacement. The front door of the house was open. The team were all inside.
Stratton understood the rationale of using gas. The compound was heavily guarded. A surprise attack, even with silent weapons, would be a risk if the guards were vigilant. But that was not enough of a reason to use a gas like the one that had been used here. It could only be warranted if those in the compound had the capability to react in dangerous ways if aware of an attack. But then, gas would never be used if there was a chance of killing innocent civilians. That could only happen if the risks were immediately life-threatening on another scale.
Stratton had a good idea what was inside the building.
Two of the men walked up behind him. He kept still, hoping they’d pass by. One of them patted him on the shoulder. ‘Inside,’ the man said, his voice muffled by the gas mask.
The soldier moved ahead to enter the house and the other waited for Stratton to let him go in. He was silent. Stratton walked through the front door and followed the first into a large, nearly empty living room. Dim electric lights bathed everything in an orange glow.
Two bodies lay on the floor, one a young boy, the other a man with a greying beard. Their eyes were open and saliva streamed from their mouths. Stratton looked to his left at another body slumped in a chair by the window. This one was well-dressed and wore a silk cravat. Stratton wondered how strong the gas was and how far it could travel before dispersing to a safe concentration. It had been virulent enough to be immediately effective at two to three hundred metres just filtering into these houses. That suggested it could remain potent for several hundred metres more at least. He wondered how many more innocent people had died. But then, if he’d guessed right about why the men were here, many more would have died anyway.
The man who had ordered him into the house stood on the other side of the room with several of the others around a large wooden table. He appeared to be the operation leader and was examining a substantial black plastic container on the table. He raised the lid of the container and, with the help of one of the other men, opened the sides.
Stratton got a glimpse of what looked like a beer keg connected to a smaller black box beside it with cables. He had never been that close to an atomic weapon before. One of the men, presumably a technician, set about unscrewing the panel. Everyone else waited patiently. The technician carefully raised up the panel flap to expose the shiny innards. A small keypad and a row of glowing LEDs indicated power.
Stratton looked behind him at the sound of wheels moving across the floor and stepped clear of a trolley being pushed by two more of the team. It had a more sophisticated-looking black plastic box on it. The technician took the ends of the cable
attached to the black box on the trolley, brought it to the table and connected it to the nuclear device. He removed an electrical cable from a wall socket that was connected to the now-surplus small power box on the table.
The technician closed the panel on the bomb and set about returning the screws. When he was finished he nodded to the head man.
‘Let’s transfer it to the support habitat,’ the man said.
Stratton couldn’t be sure, but he thought he recognised the voice.
Four of the men surrounded the box on the table and reached inside to take hold of the device. Someone gave a command and they lifted it out of the box, grunting as they raised it off the table and shuffled it over to the trolley.
‘Easy,’ the commander said.
They lowered it down into the new box. It fitted like a glove. The men closed and latched the box tight, as the head man headed across the lounge and out through the door. The trolley followed him. The others walked behind as if in attendance and Stratton joined them.
The group went slowly back to the Suburbans and the box was lifted into the back and the technician gave it a cursory inspection before latching it to the floor of the car. The doors of the vehicle closed and the men began to disperse. A man who wasn’t wearing a gas mask stepped from the centre vehicle, walked up to the leader, who was talking to another of the men, and tapped him on the shoulder. The leader turned, then reached for the bottom of his own mask and raised it up over his head.
It was Jeff Wheeland. He rubbed his face and took a cigar from a pouch.
The man he was talking to removed his mask. Spinter.
‘You can take your mask off, son,’ Wheeland said to Stratton.
Assassin (John Stratton) Page 13