ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS
Page 19
Swanson liked it. She considered what she’d have done if she was the hunter. She’d have thrown a cordon around the city, checking every car, expecting them to have changed from the Land Rover. She wouldn’t have thought of a train from Baltimore - a different mode of transport from an opposite direction.
Checking into the Red Rug Inn, all thoughts of liking Butler’s plans dissipated. The place looked run down from the outside and positively uninhabitable from the inside. Butler paid for one room. She threw him a look that made it very clear that they weren’t sharing anything other than the room. Had she had any money of her own, she would have requested another room but with Butler holding all the cash and the room key, she had little option but to play along. When they reached the room, it became very clear why Butler had booked one room. The phone was unceremoniously yanked from the wall, breaking the connector and hence any chance of being used. Butler pushed one of the two queen-sized beds in front of the door, and with the rifles huddled against his body fell into a deep sleep.
Swanson looked on in disbelief. She had stood like some helpless, defenseless woman while Butler had literally imprisoned her in front of her eyes. Why she had stood helpless she didn’t know. He wasn’t going to shoot her but it was clear he wasn’t going to let her alert anyone to their plight. As his breathing settled into a rhythmic drone, she checked the bathroom and windows for possible exit routes. Both were possibilities but only if she didn’t mind a couple of broken limbs. She turned on the TV, it was 2:30 a.m. Subconsciously the reason she probably hadn’t put up a fight was that the people she needed to talk to, the ones she knew she could trust, wouldn’t be in the office until 8:00 a.m.
She pulled back the bed cover and found the sheets underneath almost white with a hint of sexual and periodic activity. She itched all over at the mere thought of getting anywhere near them. She checked the bathroom. The towels were threadbare and barely large enough to wrap around herself, never mind double as a bed cover. With only a few stains to speak of, the chair seemed the best option and after a few adjustments to her position, she joined Butler in a deep and well needed sleep.
The first sign that their plan was going awry was being wakened by the deep clack-clacking of a heavy machine gun. The sound of a .50 caliber machine-gun, even in the depths of Baltimore depravity, stood out above all else. Butler jumped from the bed, his assault rifle at the ready. The sight of their Land Rover screeching to a halt in the lot below was not a welcome sight. As promised, it had indeed changed color and was sporting the most ridiculous pair of shiny wheels that continued to spin even when the car was stopped. What was particularly unwelcome about its appearance were the two Black Humvees sporting roof-mounted Browning M2 .50 caliber machine-guns that were in hot pursuit.
Chapter 38
The reason they knew it was theirs, apart from the fact that two Land Rovers in that particular zip code was almost a statistical impossibility, was the appearance of the drug boss and three of his minions, jumping from the vehicle and raising their hands in the air. The satisfied smiles on their faces made it clear that whatever illegal contraband they had had in their possession had been dumped during the chase. They were clean and more than happy to give themselves up to the cops.
“I thought they had sold us out,” said Swanson, relieved as the four stood proudly with their hands in the air.
Butler nodded. He had had the exact same thought, although it had been tempered by remembering that the drug boss had only sent them in the general direction of the motel and was unlikely to think for a second that Butler and Swanson would stay at the flea-pit Red Rug Inn, known best for its hourly rates. The drug boss kept his hands in the air and sauntered casually towards the Humvees while the gunners atop covered his every move with the absurdly over-powerful M2s. Butler winced. The drug boss had assumed that the men chasing them in the Humvees were some type of law enforcement.
“What’s up boss?” drawled the drug boss, loud enough for Swanson and Butler to hear through the cheap single pane windows of their room. They were both peeking through their respective sides of the window, careful to stay out of sight to those down below.
“This isn’t going to end well,” said Butler, his eyes narrowing.
Swanson was debating whether she could actually watch. She had been fortunate not to have witnessed firsthand the devastation the same guns had caused back at the storage area. Butler had warned her not to look. A very brief glimpse had afforded a mush of red but beyond that, she had managed not to look. The drug boss’ question was rewarded by a Humvee door opening and the appearance of two men dressed in full tactical assault suits, armed with MP-5 submachine-guns and standard Special Forces type equipment.
“The Land Rover, where did you get it?” asked one of the Special Forces soldiers. His tone was clipped, loud and commanding.
“Do you like my baby?” said the drug boss cockily, smiling back at his men, who began to laugh.
The soldier turned to the gunner atop his Humvee and raised one finger. A bullet exploded from the mini cannon and cut one of the drug boss’ minions almost in two. The laughter and smiling was instantly gone.
“I said, where did you get it?” repeated the soldier emotionlessly.
The drug boss was still looking at the mess that had been a cousin. He wasn’t a man not to fight back but another six soldiers had disembarked from the Humvees and the two massive machine-guns were pointing directly at him and his men. He was screwed.
“I bought it from a man and a woman a few hours ago,” he replied, his voice filled with trepidation.
“Where did they go?”
Butler and Swanson turned to each other. They had stupidly followed the directions offered and, on top of that, were witnessed doing exactly that.
“Let’s go,” said Butler firmly.
Swanson was already moving by the time Butler stopped talking. They wrapped their rifles in the jacket and exited the room via the door on the opposite side of the lot. The fire escape at the end of the walkway offered an escape route without having to go through the lobby and was on the blind side of the parking lot.
The sound of small arms fire crackled as they hit the bottom of the fire escape. Whatever words the drug boss had spoken were his last. The screams of dying men soon stopped as a number of single shots rang out.
The sound of the Humvee engines roared into life as Butler and Swanson ran for their lives.
Chapter 39
The president’s address to the nation was playing on an almost continuous loop. Roger watched while waiting impatiently for news from his team. The fleet manager who, having arrived on duty at 7:00 a.m. and asked why the hell one of his Land Rovers was in Baltimore, had already been rewarded with a full year’s salary as a bonus. He had no idea why his installing a fairly industry standard fleet tracking system in all of the Trust’s camp vehicles had been such a big deal but he certainly wasn’t going to complain.
Roger pulled up his calendar for the day. He always blocked off the three days for the Future Leaders’ program at the camp. He saw them as the most important three days of his working year. Building for the future. It was all bullshit of course, but the precedent of previous years meant that, despite the upheaval across the nation and the Trust’s businesses, it was not seen as anything other than business as usual, though he would spend little time with the actual program members. His diary was full of videoconferences with almost every CEO across their wide spectrum of interests. Defense was top of the list as military maneuvers involved a massive input from the Trust’s defense businesses. The Trust was responsible for moving, housing and feeding the troops that were being airlifted to bolster US interests and stave off the Russian threat. They were responsible for moving military munitions and equipment within the US to their port or place of exit. In short, they were responsible for everything bar the fighting. Even then, with their Defense Strategy Group, security consultancies and operatives, fighting was no longer technically off the table.
The call from Kenneth was a welcome one. He needed to know when to expect the president to address the program members. It was the only part of the day outside of his control.
“Kenneth, what time?” he asked, answering the call. He was a man who did not waste words.
Kenneth hesitated.
“Kenneth?” he repeated, his tone speaking a thousand words.
“Sorry, I was interrupted for a second. Ten a.m., Mr. Young,” replied Kenneth nervously, having no idea how in one hour he would convince the president to participate in a videoconference he had expressly refused to do.
Roger ended the call without so much as a goodbye. He had what he needed. The call was no longer important. Especially as the movement on the screen to his left meant that something was happening in Baltimore. The dot that had been motionless for over an hour on the screen began to move. It was the tracker fitted to the Land Rover. It was moving. And from what he could tell, it was moving pretty fast. His hand hovered over the telephone handset. He was desperate to call to find out whether the team had arrived and was in pursuit. Almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped. He zoomed in on the map. The dot was motionless once again. It was fixed next to a motel on Reisterstown Road in Baltimore.
His telephone managed a fraction of a ring before he answered it.
“Mr. Young, I just wanted to update you. Our team is on location and is currently in pursuit of the target vehicle,” began a very professional and authoritative voice. The clipped British accent added an air of trust.
“Thank you, Colonel,” replied Roger, despite having surmised most of it from the tracking screen. The Colonel was the one man employed by the Trust that Roger would think twice about upsetting. Neither British nor a colonel, the man was a chameleon.
Raised under the Soviet regime, Mikhail Petlin, had shown an aptitude for sports from an early age and, much to his brother Ivan’s protests, had been taken from his family for specialist education. Ivan had failed the same tests by a tiny margin but the pass and fail were absolute. Either you made it or you didn’t. Similarly, Mikhail had failed, only just, to make the grade for the Olympics and as a result had been sent to military college where his linguistic talents had been nurtured. He could speak Spanish like a Spaniard, French like a Frenchman and English like a well-educated Englishman. Military Intelligence snapped him up for the GRU and with his sporting talents and stamina, he was soon training with the elite Spetznaz troops. Assisting the North Koreans and Chinese to develop their special forces’ training soon followed and just as his star was rising towards being promoted to be the next head of the Spetznaz Forces and the GRU, the wall came crashing down, quite literally. The fall of the Berlin Wall created a new Russia, a Russia he had no desire to be part of. The two brothers parted sides but never their roots. Both would play their part. Ivan had done his part in shooting down the ambassador’s plane, Mikhail’s was too come.
After leaving Russia, Mikhail had picked up a number of jobs assisting various factions in training techniques before stumbling into Roger Young, who had offered Mikhail Petlin a role as Head of Specialist Military Training at the Trust’s training academy. All references to his Communist background were glossed over, helped by his strong British accent and a new name, although he preferred to be called simply “The Colonel”. It also helped that, despite his Russian sounding name, his features were more Asian than Slavic given his parents’ far Eastern ethnicity. Both were from the far reaches of the Eastern Asian continent on the Russian-Chinese border. The role with the Trust had him gaining access to the US Special Forces’ training. Six months with Delta and the SEALs only added to his already bulging experience of Special Forces’ tactics and abilities.
A specialist in Soviet, Russian and Western Special Forces abilities and training, there was probably no better-trained soldier on the planet than the Colonel.
“Another update, Mr. Young. They have secured the Land Rover and eliminated the occupants,” said the Colonel following a pause.
“Excellent,” beamed Roger. He had dealt with the Butler situation in hours when it should have been done months ago.
“The occupants were not the targets,” the Colonel quickly corrected. “Four black males had purchased the vehicle some hours earlier. It is they who have been eliminated.”
Roger managed not to react. The Colonel was a slow and deliberate speaker. It was the only way he spoke English. It was infuriating but very commanding, which Roger knew was exactly why he did it.
“The occupants gave up the location of the targets before we eliminated them,” he said, before adding, “I’ll call you when they are dealt with.”
Chapter 40
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jack, addressing the National Security briefing. “Can we please have some good news today?”
The room was uncharacteristically quiet. Wall-mounted TV screens were replacing a number of the regular attendees who were videoconferencing in to the meeting safely secured in their alternate locations. As Jack took his seat to a chorus of ‘Good morning, Mr. President’, a very flustered and out of breath Kenneth Lee raced in behind him, pocketing his cell phone.
“Glad you could join us, Kenneth.” Jack nodded a greeting.
“My apologies, Mr. President.”
“Mr. President,” began the Secretary of Defense, who was on the Raven Rock video feed, along with the vice president and the director of the CIA, “I think we do have some good news.”
Jack sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Go on,” he urged.
“It would appear that our deployments are working. The Russians have been repositioning troops. However, from the satellite images, they’re being positioned defensively, not offensively.”
“The rhetoric, from everything we have been able to tap into within the Russian military,” cut in the director of National Intelligence, who had stayed in Washington, “is one of bewilderment at what is happening. We’re tapping into calls and communications with their top military and there is nothing to suggest they’re anything but surprised at the turn of events. They’re petrified we will attack them.”
“It could all be a bluff and they know we’re listening,” Kenneth halfheartedly suggested. A few nods around the table and on the TV screens showed it wasn’t just Kenneth that had considered this.
A shake of the head from the DNI suggested otherwise. “We’re listening to things they have no idea we have access to. For example, we know one Admiral has over seven million euros in an offshore tax haven and we have his internet access details. Trust me, we checked, it’s there. They don’t know we’re listening.”
The meeting progressed with the Secretary of Defense running through their deployments and progress. In short, in the space of thirty-six hours they had already moved a significant portion of the US war machine into position. Between the US Forces’ own airlift capabilities and the Trust’s commitment, in the interests of national security, to enhance the capability with its significant resources when required, a number of battalions and divisions were already in place well before anticipated.
“And our allies?” asked Jack.
The Secretary of State took over. He was on the feed beamed in from Mount Weather. “I’ve spoken with all our key allies and all have stepped up to the plate. They all appear keen to show
their support. I have a list of calls for you to make throughout the day to the key leaders, if that’s alright?”
“Absolutely,” replied Jack.
“I’d like to add, Mr. President,” interrupted the Secretary of Defense, “the Brits, the French and the Germans are really taking this situation seriously and have thrown everything they have into the pot.”
“Good to hear. Anything else?” asked Jack.
So far, he couldn’t have asked for a more encouraging update. If nothing else, the mass deployment would prove an exceptional live training exercise that would justify the trillions of dollars spent on defending the nation, and they’d find out just how resolute the NATO alliance was.
“Just one thing, Mr. President,” said Rick Holland. “The Chinese.”
“Yes?” asked Jack nervously. He was really hoping to end the meeting on a high note.
“They’ve stayed true to their word. Their forces are mounting with some volume all along the Russian borders. It would seem we really do have a new ally in the region. They’ve amassed an impressive force, in particular on the Russian-Chinese border between Kazakhstan and Mongolia. This is their nearest point to Moscow, which clearly indicates that they too are taking this very seriously, although they are still some fifteen hundred miles from Moscow.”
“Don’t forget, they have a new heavy transport aircraft, the Y-20, and from what we can tell, they’ve built hundreds of them. Combine that with all the commercial transport aircraft the Chinese airlines have been buying lately and you can shift one hell of a force fifteen hundred miles pretty damned quickly,” said the DNI.
“Exactly how many planes have they been buying?” asked Jack with concern.
“Boeing and Airbus have hardly delivered a cargo plane to anyone outside China in the last eighteen months,” replied the DNI.
Jack turned to him. “Apologies, but the production rate for Boeing and Airbus freighters appears to have slipped my mind. Any idea how many actual planes that is?”