Total Blackout

by Alex Shaw

  Tate frowned. ‘Was I?’

  Donoghue nodded. ‘That’s why I couldn’t get much on you. It was classified, but the three lines I did eventually get from my buddy, who is connected, really opened my eyes.’ Donoghue looked down at the paper for effect. ‘You joined the Parachute Regiment straight from school and then three years later passed SAS selection. After seventeen years you left the army and took a job with Hush Hearing. And that is as much as I got. So the question I still have is this, why is a former member of an elite Special Forces unit in my town at the same time as a gunman?’

  ‘Happenchance.’

  ‘You see, Tate, I still have an issue here. The tracker on your Tahoe says you were near the scene of the Piper shooting. Care to explain?’

  ‘This morning I drove from Bangor to Camden.’

  ‘And did you stop anywhere?’

  ‘Yes. I needed a piss.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘I hope not; I was pissing in the bushes.’

  ‘You think this is funny, Tate? Some type of joke?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Tate fixed Donoghue with his steel-grey eyes. ‘But I do think that your belief I had anything to do with this is hilarious. I insist that you call the British Embassy in Washington and notify them that I am being held, without charge.’

  ‘Now you’re giving me orders?’ Donoghue folded his arms in an attempt to curb his irritation. ‘OK, we’ll do as you say and call them, like you were a US citizen with constitutional rights.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Who do you really work for?’

  ‘Ask for Simon Hunter; he’s the Commercial Attaché. I met him on a trade mission last year. He’ll vouch for me.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ A thin smile appeared on Donoghue’s lips. ‘You see, I looked at your tracker data twice, in fact, after it was brought to my attention that you were near Piper’s place and that you did stop. But then I realised that you couldn’t be the shooter, as you were stationary for less than a minute.’

  ‘I see.’ Tate was annoyed; Donoghue had been fishing and now knew about Simon Hunter.

  ‘And then, of course, your tracker had the SUV outside a pizza parlour thirty miles away at the time of the first shooting.’

  ‘First shooting?’ Tate said, surprised.

  Donoghue ignored the interruption. ‘We contacted the restaurant and sent them your mugshot. They confirmed you were there eating the entire time the tracker shows the Tahoe as stationary.’

  ‘That’s because I was.’ Tate was terse. ‘How many shootings have there been?’

  ‘Two. One yesterday and one today with the same MO – a single .338-calibre round. You see, whilst you were cooling your jets in my holding cell we got the second round identified. It’s a confirmed match to the first. Not a .50 cal, as you said, but a .338, and still big enough to all but split the victims in two.’ Donoghue shook his head. ‘No one ever gets shot in Maine, but now we’ve got a maniac on the loose with a Magnum calibre rifle.’

  Tate nodded. He’d made a mistake. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course what?’

  ‘Of course it was a .338. I wasn’t thinking earlier.’

  The police chief folded his arms across his large chest. ‘OK, I’ll bite. Go on.’

  ‘Two shootings, in two days with the same rifle, so unless this was some type of “tag team” operation, it’s reasonable to assume both were carried out by the same shooter. Correct?’

  The police chief nodded.

  ‘And the targets were in urban environments?’

  ‘Well, as urban as small-town Maine gets. The men were at home, in their gardens, nice green places. What’s your point?’

  ‘The shooter may have been able to conceal himself, and subdue the sound of the kill shot, but how did he hide his rifle?’

  ‘You mean as he moved to and from where he took the shot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He carried it in a bag?’

  ‘But how big was the bag? Rifles aren’t known as “longs” in the British Army for nothing. A guy carrying a bag as long as a pool cue would be noticed.’

  ‘Simple. He disassembled it.’

  Tate closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, visualising and then carried on, ‘But, as far as I know, there are only two types of precision rifles that can be broken down in the field quickly and reassembled. One is used by the US Army and another by about a dozen different international police units.’

  ‘So that narrows down the weapon used and where it came from? But, Tate, there has to be millions of the one used by the US Army floating around.’

  ‘It wasn’t that one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The Remington MSR has a barrel that can be removed to change the weapon’s calibre, not for concealment. And the accuracy of the Remington isn’t what I’d call that of a precision rifle because the barrel can be changed. Things get misaligned – the scope, the barrel and the action.’

  ‘I get it. It’s the other one and this helps me because it’s what, rarer?’

  ‘Especially in .338 calibre. Very rare. You’re looking for a shooter using a German sniper rifle, a Blaser R93 LRS2. It’s the LRS2 variant that uses the .338 Lapua Magnum rounds. The same as you analysed. Big holes, without the weight of a .50 cal, they were designed for the war in Afghanistan. And then getting a suppressor for this, which I imagine is not sold commercially in the US, is extremely hard.’

  ‘And what if you’re wrong again, Mr Tate?’

  ‘I never make two mistakes on the same day.’

  ‘OK.’ Donoghue flipped open his laptop and pressed a few keys with his large fingers. ‘Tell me the name of that rifle again?’

  ‘A Blaser R93 LRS2.’

  ‘I’m going to look it up as I’ve never seen one.’

  A question formed in Tate’s head as the police chief checked his Google results. ‘Are there any links between the victims?’

  Donoghue didn’t look up. ‘Not that we know of. The first was a banker by the name of Darren Sant; the second was Senator Piper.’

  ‘And these shootings happened in the Camden area?’

  ‘The first in Rockport – just down from us – and then today’s was in Camden.’ Donoghue’s expression changed. ‘Now that’s interesting.’

  ‘You’ve found something?’

  Stabbing his screen with his index finger, Donoghue spoke. ‘On Wikiwand I’ve found a list of “users” of this rifle. And the nearest to us here is the New Jersey State Police. I’m going to call them and pick their brains.’ Donoghue finally looked up. He cleared his throat. ‘Look, Mr Tate, I feel I owe you an apology.’

  ‘I see.’ Tate smiled thinly.

  Donoghue continued, ‘If a thing is too good to be true then it usually is, and hauling you in for this was just that. The FBI and the national news crews are going to be swarming all over me come lunchtime tomorrow. You are free to go, and your rental car has been brought around the front of the lot.’

  ‘Good.’ Tate stood.

  The police chief extended his hand. ‘No hard feelings? You were speeding, after all.’

  ‘OK,’ Tate said with more enthusiasm than he felt. The man had ruined his day, but he was a man in uniform and he had a job to do.

  ‘Where are you planning on going now?’

  ‘I’ve got a reservation at the Elm Street Inn.’

  Donoghue smiled wryly. ‘I live just across the road. Mind you, when I moved in, the place was called something else and they hadn’t made the bar what it is now. The wife’s not happy about it, but I am.’

  ‘If I see you there, I’ll buy you a beer.’

  ‘Would you be attempting to bribe a police officer, Mr Tate?’

  Tate smiled. ‘I don’t know. How good is the local beer?’

  ‘Good. And thanks for your help identifying the rifle, if you’re right.’

  ‘I am.’

  Chapter 3

  Camden, Maine

  Donoghue wa
ived the speeding ticket, so all Tate had to do was sign for his watch. He left the air-conditioned cool of the police station. Outside, the late afternoon was still warm, and particles of dust danced in the sun as he opened the driver’s door of the Tahoe. The built-up interior heat hit him. He sighed. It hadn’t been parked in the shade. He climbed into the stuffy cabin, powered down both front windows and switched on the satellite navigation. He was finally on holiday again.

  Fresh air blew on his face as he took Mechanic Street and then Elm before arriving at the inn minutes later. Elm Street Inn consisted of three white buildings, clad, as was the norm in New England, in white wooden planking. Two buildings were long two-storey accommodation blocks sitting at right angles to each other across a parking lot. The third, which had been the original house on the property, sat squat and heavily extended, facing the street. There was a grassy area to the right of both accommodation blocks with a screened-off section concealing a pool.

  Tate brought the SUV to a halt at reception and stepped out. Having lost most of the day at the pleasure of the local police, he’d arrived much later than planned. He stretched and gave the inn a quick 360, noticing a large figure in jeans and a black polo shirt who seemed to be taking photographs of the parking lot. Tate squinted in the sunlight … no, the man was taking photos of the cars. Tate raised an eyebrow, entered reception and gave the old guy behind the counter his name.

  ‘Ah, our guest from England?’ the elderly guy asked in a chirpy voice and not waiting for Tate to answer said, ‘Been over a few times myself; Pop was stationed there in the war. Very pretty place, England. Which part are you from?’

  ‘Camden.’

  ‘Camden?’ the old guy said with a frown.

  ‘Camden, London. And it’s not as pretty as Camden, Maine.’

  The door behind Tate swung open and the photographer entered. He nodded at the receptionist and said in Russian-accented English, ‘Number seven.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ The receptionist handed him a key.

  Tate eyed the large man. And large was an understatement – he was huge. He had several inches on him in both height and shoulder width. His hair was cut short, but not in any way that could be called stylish. It certainly wasn’t the work of a trained barber. Tate noted his boots were well worn, whilst there were still shop-creases in his dark blue Levi’s and black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. The man nodded curtly before exiting again. Tate watched him stride away. He recognised his upright, chest-first bearing as that of a soldier, or at least someone who had until recently been one. Questions formed in Tate’s mind and as if to answer at least the first, the old man spoke.

  ‘We got a pair of Russians staying with us; came up from Portland way the day before yesterday. He’s the biggest. I’m Joe.’

  ‘Jack, Jack Tate.’

  ‘That’s lucky, because we have a reservation in your name.’ Joe smiled at his own joke as if it wasn’t the first time he had told it. ‘Well, Jack, if you’ll just let me take a look at your passport and credit card, I’ll see about giving you your room. Oh and if you can write the details of your vehicle on this form here?’

  ‘Is there anywhere to eat around here?’ Tate asked as his details were tapped into an ancient-looking computer.

  ‘Sure is; didn’t you see “Eric’s” on Elm? It’s the restaurant and bar attached to this place. Same owner, great food, great chef – I’m the chef. You like oysters?’

  ‘I do, but the last lot I had were faulty.’

  ‘Faulty?’ Joe repeated.

  ‘Yep, I had five but only three of them worked.’

  Tate watched Joe’s face go blank for a moment before he started to snigger. ‘At my age, I imagine most of ’em would have been faulty.’ He handed Tate a key. ‘Here, room number six, next to our Russian friends in the building on the left. Now you go and drop off your things, and I’ll see you a bit later at Eric’s.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Tate returned to the parking lot and drove the fifty feet to the accommodation block. Hefting out his bag from the trunk, he scanned the doors for number six. A few minutes later, he had located his room, thrown his bag on the floor, and was looking out of the window, across the car park to the view of the dense woodland. Tate shook his head and smiled; Camden, Maine, was definitely more to his liking than Camden, London, even if a rogue gunman was on the prowl.

  Tate stayed motionless and took in the scene for a minute before undressing and stepping into the bathroom. He pulled the cord for the light. The bulb flickered for a moment before it went out with a small clink. Tate sighed, relocated the waste bin, and used it to prop the door open before turning on the shower.

  *

  Oleg sighed as the bartender plonked a plate piled high with food in front of his colleague.

  ‘Double bacon cheeseburger with slaw and fries. Extra onion rings.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The large Russian rubbed his hands together in appreciation.

  ‘Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes, it is all.’

  ‘Enjoy your meal.’ The bartender retreated.

  ‘You eat far too much. You’ll be fat and unfit by the time you hit fifty,’ Oleg stated.

  Sergei sneered at his older colleague. ‘In twenty more years, Oleg, when I am old like you, I will worry. But today I will eat good, hot American food because the day after tomorrow I will not be able to.’

  Oleg glanced warily around the room. ‘You are also as discreet as a T-62 battle tank!’

  ‘I am sorry. Now can I finally eat?’

  The pair lapsed into silence as the large Russian devoured his meal. Oleg slowly drank his beer. The quality was good, and he had to drink it to keep up the appearance of a man on vacation, but he also knew that it dulled his senses and he did not wish to miss anything that may be of note for his mission.

  ‘And nothing has changed?’ Sergei asked, wiping his mouth with a red paper napkin.

  ‘I’ve received no call. Everything is going to plan. We stay to observe the attack and then we pull out six hours afterwards.’

  ‘And then we shall return to Russia as national heroes whilst America falls to its knees.’

  Oleg’s eyes widened. ‘You must say no more!’

  Sergei chuckled. ‘You think anyone here speaks Russian?’

  ‘They may! For the next thirty-five hours we must not let our guard down.’

  ‘In thirty-five hours, no one will be worrying about anything they overheard you or I say, even if they could understand Russian.’

  For once there was logic in Sergei’s words, but Oleg did not want to tempt fate. The man made him feel uncomfortable. Oleg drank his draught beer and continued to observe the bar and its patrons. What would happen to this place and the many thousands like it, he wondered, not just on a technical but also on a societal standpoint? A myriad of unanswered questions trooped through his mind, like soldiers at a Moscow military parade. Would the local grid or emergency generators turn on? Would the bar be used as a meeting point? Would the bar share its food and water supplies with stranded guests and needy locals? And what about criminal gangs? Would they take over and jockey for power with the powerless authorities?

  These questions were his concern. These were his part of the mission.

  *

  Refreshed after a nap, Tate entered Eric’s and took a stool at the end of the bar. It was early evening but a Saturday night nonetheless, yet fewer than half of the dozen or so tables were occupied. He spotted the big Russian sitting at a corner table with another man. They were facing out across the room. It was the exact spot he would have chosen, out of habit. It provided a clear line of sight to the exit; no one could approach without being seen. But the Russians had taken it first. It was puzzling, especially the way they were not facing each other but out across the room, almost as though they were waiting for a cabaret show.

  If the large man was military, or military trained, was the second? He was older, grey-haired yet from Tate’s swift analysis seem
ed too soft to be an officer. He eyed Tate suspiciously. So what did that make him? Tate sighed and shook his head a little. He was on holiday, and by the look of the large Russian’s brand-new clothes, so were they. Tate needed to relax and enjoy his downtime. He’d been ordered to take a month off to relax, unwind, and if he didn’t, he knew his boss wouldn’t be happy. He turned his head away slowly, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  Tate was taken aback for a moment by the barmaid. He made a conscious effort not to stare at her cleavage. ‘Just a beer will do for now.’

  ‘Draught or bottle?’

  ‘What’s best?’

  The barmaid popped a bottle and placed it on a mat in front of him.

  ‘Thanks.’ Tate studied the bottle. The beer was labelled “King Titus” and brewed by the Maine Beer Company. Tate took a sip and nodded in appreciation. ‘Will you have one?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too early for me. Are you staying here?’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a greedy slug of his beer.

  The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re the guy from London.’

  ‘Close. Camden.’ She frowned and Tate explained, ‘Camden’s a borough of London.’

  ‘Funny, I never knew that.’

  Tate took another swig. ‘There’s probably a word for people who travel to find their town’s twin. I don’t know it though.’

  ‘There’s another Camden in New Jersey, but that place is apparently the second most dangerous city in the US, and the poorest, according to an article I read.’

  ‘A bit different from here then.’

  ‘A lot different.’

  ‘I’m Jack.’

  ‘Sara.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ Sara turned away and served another customer.

  ‘Have you seen the menu yet, Jack?’ Joe asked, entering the bar from the kitchen door.

  ‘Nope. Sara didn’t give me one.’

  ‘You said you just wanted a beer,’ she snapped from the other end of the bar.

  ‘To drink, but I’m also hungry.’

  Sara smiled without sincerity and handed him a leatherette folder. ‘Here we are, sir. Please let me know what you would like to order.’