by Alex Shaw
Oleg Sokol lay on a military-style cot in the office at the rear of the hangar, which had been made into a temporary sickbay. He was conscious and due to the morphine flooding his system, felt no pain. He had overheard the team medic state he didn’t know how much time he had left. Sokol’s drug-numbed brain tried to understand what the man meant: time left for what? Was he going somewhere?
‘How are you feeling?’ a voice asked, without warmth.
‘I am great, thank you for your concern.’ His tone was jovial. The morphine made Sokol light-headed, ecstatic.
‘My concern?’ The voice belonged to Former GRU Major Valentin Volkov, a man Oleg knew reasonably well. Volkov sat on a chair next to the military cot. ‘You are a traitor to Russia. My concern only is the amount of damage you have caused. I am within my rights to have you shot, do you understand me?’
‘Da.’
‘If you cooperate, I may let you live. Who was he, the maniac who stole our airplane?’
Oleg smiled lazily. ‘His name was Jack Tate.’
Volkov leaned forward in the chair. ‘Who is Jack Tate?’
‘The manic who stole your airplane.’
‘Other than that,’ Volkov snapped, ‘who is Jack Tate?’
‘He is an Englishman.’
‘What?’ Volkov’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘He is not American?’
Oleg continued to smile; he couldn’t help it. He was drifting on an opiate-created cloud. ‘He is a British spy …’
Volkov’s face flushed with anger. ‘You have betrayed our mission to the British?’
‘He discovered the mission. He captured me. I was his prisoner.’
‘You were attempting to board the plane with him? You were trying to escape the USA!’
Oleg sighed. He couldn’t lie – the morphine had loosened his tongue. ‘I was going to fly to London and tell the British everything.’
‘Is that where Tate is heading now, to London?’
‘Perhaps; wouldn’t you? I hear the beer is rather good.’
Volkov grabbed Oleg’s head with his heavy hands. ‘You are lying to me! The transponder is switched on; we are tracking the plane. It is not heading in that direction. Where is he going?’
Oleg did not react to the vice-like grip. He could not feel it. ‘Perhaps then he is headed to Washington – his brother works in Washington.’
Volkov let go. Oleg’s head fell back onto the thin pillow. Fresh bloodstains seeped through the field dressing on his chest. ‘What have you told Jack Tate of our mission?’
‘Everything …’
Volkov clamped down on Oleg’s mouth with his thick palm. Oleg found this to be a strange act. What was Volkov doing? And then the edge of his vision started to grey out. He tried to open his eyes wider but couldn’t and then everything went black.
George Washington Medical Center, Washington, DC
Chang sat in the hospital corridor, head in hands. Both of the English women were sprawled out over several comfy chairs in the relatives’ waiting room, trying to sleep. The doctor who had operated on Eric Filler confirmed that while not directly life-threatening – no organs had been hit – Eric did need to remain immobile. Battlefield surgery was the term Chang had heard used. Eric had been given painkillers, and of course no electronic equipment was available.
The fatigue was again getting to Chang. He glanced at his mechanical wristwatch; it was now past six in the evening. An entire workday had passed since the attack and still he and the nation were not safe, and that was why he was still on duty. He’d have to remember to put in for the overtime. He had left the sat phone in the car and gone down to check it. There had been no further calls and he hoped, as had been his intention, that the location of the parking lot – underground – had blocked the signal. Still the urge to use the phone to get help had been almost overwhelming, but Chang had resisted. Besides, he had no idea who he could call. He presumed that most news organisations would have sat phones, yet none of the channels were broadcasting. The same for government agencies, but every contingency plan he had ever seen relied on the use of electronic devices, vehicles at the very least.
He felt trapped. The three Brits were alive because of him but what more could he do to protect them? Chang decided he’d outlived his helpfulness here. His duty was to the police department, to protect and serve the citizens of Washington, and that’s what he’d do. He’d report for duty, help in any way he could, use the functioning taxi as an official vehicle … but … but he had killed two men.
Chang stood, drifted to the window and gazed out at the city below. The shootings had been justified; he would write them up as such.
Chang took the stairs down in the direction of the underground parking lot. With the elevators out of order, his progress was slow, as the stairwell was busy with medical staff and concerned relatives. In his light sports jacket and slacks, he looked more like a doctor than some of the white-coated staff and had to fend off an elderly gentleman enquiring about his sister.
The jostling intensified as he reached the lower, busier floors and then he froze. He recognised the face of a man climbing up toward him. Their eyes locked and Chang knew that he had less than a second to react. Chang grabbed the shoulders of the woman next to him and shamefully shunted her forward. She shrieked and fell, arms flailing towards Ruslan, one of the two Russians who had kidnapped the women.
At the same time, the Russian was reaching for his silenced Beretta. He thrust his left arm up, but it was too late to fend off the impact. The woman collided with him, causing the Russian to spin backward, hit the safety railing, and tumble down several steps.
Chang turned on his heels and pumped his legs; he was four steps away from the nearest floor and a door. He burst through and sprinted along the corridor. It was dim without its strip lights as all the doors were closed and the only light came from a window at the far end. There was a second stairwell to the left of the window; if he could reach that, he had a chance of getting away, but if the Russian caught up with him before he got there, he’d be an easy target.
Chang had an idea. He’d open the doors, use them to confuse his pursuer or perhaps draw people out into the hall. He ran, slipping and sliding on the institutional linoleum, his loafers struggling for grip. He passed the first door – it was too near to the stairwell so he ignored it – and flung open the second. The room inside was dark and seemed devoid of life. He opened the next and as he was about to open his third, the fourth door along, there was a crashing noise behind him.
Chang turned to see the stairwell door rebounding against the wall and Ruslan entering the hall, pistol in hand. In panic, Chang tried to increase his pace but careered into a medical cart he’d not spotted in the gloom and lost his footing. He went down hard. Winded, he scuttled behind the cart, now trapped in the darkness with only stacks of paper towels, bottles of surgical spirit and other supplies for cover.
Chang knew he was going to die; time seemed to slow. Chang allowed himself a resigned smile, perhaps things were preordained? Perhaps he was meant to die here as a coward running away from his duties? No. He still had time to change that; he could go out as a hero! A police officer doing his sworn duty, or he could break the rules and try to survive … An idea entered his head. It was crazy, it was dangerous and it was illegal but it was the only way he could see of getting out of this.
*
A silence hung in the air. The hall was still and dark. The last light of the day from the window at the opposite end made it hard for Akulov to pick out any detail, but he knew someone was there. The taxi driver wasn’t an athlete, he couldn’t have gotten far, and the door to this hall was the nearest and most obvious choice for an escape route. He was going to have to hunt the man.
Akulov cocked his head to one side and listened. Voices carried from the stairwell behind, but nothing from within the hall. He noticed the outlines of several open doors and cursed, silently as he realised his quarry could have hidden in any of the adjoining rooms.
He scanned the space. There were at least ten doors on each side. If he ventured into one room it gave the other man a chance to get to the opposite stairwell and away. But what if the man wasn’t running? What if he was waiting to strike?
On instinct he ignored the first door and then was about to enter the second when he froze. A noise, ahead. He edged along the wall, raised his Beretta and fired two supressed rounds at a dark outline. The first round made no noise as it impacted into something soft, and the second sparked as it hit metal and ricocheted. Akulov paused. And waited. There was still no movement. He took a chance and went through the open door into the dark room. He carved arcs with his Beretta, left to right. No target. A conference table and six chairs sat in the middle. He went prone and looked under the table. His eyes – now more and more adjusted to the half-light – confirmed that the room was empty.
Quickly, up on his feet, he swung back into the hallway and advanced, weapon up. One step, two, three, he was level with a third door … and then his eyes tracked an object arcing towards him … an object he was familiar with. It was bottle-shaped and had a flaming end.
He tried the door next to him, but it was locked. As the object neared, he took three fast steps and ran at a door on the opposite side of the hall. It gave way and he crashed into the room just as the object landed on the linoleum, shattered and sent a sheet of flame racing in all directions.
*
Chang, shaking now with anger rather than fear, held a second glass bottle of surgical spirit in one hand and his lighter in the other. He moved the flame towards the wad of paper towels he’d stuffed in the open end. He silently chuckled to himself. He hoped the Russian liked to drink, because he was about to be served another Molotov Cocktail!
Akulov ran from a room on the left side of the hall. Chang hurled the improvised explosive directly at the assassin and ducked back into cover. He waited for the explosion.
Immediately after hearing the “whompf” of the spirit igniting, and using every last ounce of his courage, Chang rose back to his feet and, expecting to immediately be hit in the chest with a bullet, adopted the police department’s preferred two-handed Weaver stance. His Glock pointed back down the hall, towards the wall of flames. His finger was tense on the trigger. But then barely audible above the roaring of his own blood in his ears and the crackle of the flames, two rounds flew at him.
Chang felt superheated air pass over his left cheek and something tug at the lapel of his jacket. Heart now beating in his chest, like a deranged death-metal drummer, Chang’s feet scrambled backwards across the slick, institutional linoleum and towards the door to the stairwell as he tried to escape the line of fire. He was level with it when the exit door opened and a pair of orderlies stepped out. Chang yelled, ‘Get back! Metro Police!’
Eyes wide at the scene before them, they darted back inside the stairwell. Chang’s finger overcame the second resistance on the Glock’s trigger. He fired. His unsuppressed round left the barrel with a seemingly thunderous retort that echoed off the bare walls and floor. The Russian appeared, charging at him through the flames. The round hit Ruslan in the chest. He jerked backwards and sideways, stumbling into the wall, but did not fall.
Chang’s eyes widened as the Russian carried on striding forward, his Beretta now held in one hand. Chang tried to relax and remember his training. He fired a second, a third and a fourth round. The first two went wide, as the Russian jerked sideways, contemptuously, out of their path. But the last one struck him again in the chest. The Russian fell to his knees, but as he did so, he sent a volley of rounds back at Chang. His left shoulder was jerked backwards and he collapsed onto his back. He heard the window behind him shatter as the remaining Russian rounds flew through it.
Chang felt no pain, just anger. He frantically moved his feet, pushing at the linoleum with his hands, and managed to get back to his feet. The Russian was on his feet too but bent forward. The big man charged at him like a linebacker, like a wrestler. Chang felt himself relax; he had this. He knew what to do. He took a step backwards, taking himself nearer to the broken window. The Russian was almost upon him, rage in his eyes. Chang met the much larger man, grabbed him and using his opponent’s own momentum threw him up and over his shoulders. The Russian crashed into the remaining wooden frame of the window but continued on, through the gap, and out into the night.
Chang rolled over onto all fours, panting like a crazed dog. ‘Wax on, wax off.’ He mumbled to himself. He moved his hands to get to his feet and his left one touched something. Chang shook his head. It was the thick plastic casing of a Chevrolet car key. He pocketed it and stood.
Chang looked out of the broken window, but couldn’t see the Russian’s body below. He sighed. What had he done? What was he doing? What he had to do was contain the fire. The flames in the hallway had not yet taken hold of the entire space. He had to tackle them. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from its mounting next to the exit and started to spray foam over the encroaching fire. Although the linoleum had melted, starting to release a foul-smelling smoke, and the paint on the walls had blackened, nothing else had caught fire. Chang dropped the depleted extinguisher and felt extinguished himself.
It was then that he noticed a dull ache in his shoulder and remembered he’d been shot, but he had full motion of his arm and shoulder. What had happened? Using his right hand, he probed his left shoulder. There was a tear in his jacket and through this he gingerly pushed his finger and felt his skin. He pushed gently. The pain flared but was bearable – a flesh wound.
Chang let out a sigh and looked at the broken window. He’d now murdered three people; it was getting easier and he was getting better at it. No, Chang reasoned, they had not been murders, they were justifiable homicides. All three suspects had resisted arrest and pulled weapons on him. If anything, he should get a commendation for finding and shooting the Russian killer.
Chang nodded, and said aloud, ‘Justifiable homicide.’
Chapter 23
College Park Airport, Washington, DC
Oleniuk sat massaging his neck. He too had made a decision. It was all or nothing now. He would take the diplomats’ wives and Simon Hunter. They would prove to be his insurance should anyone attempt to disappear his jet. The Frenchman was of no further consequence to him; the man had insulted the President of Russia so deserved to be shot. Yes, Oleniuk decided he would do it himself, in front of the other hostages as a warning to them. The Chinese sat phone rang. Oleniuk snatched it up from his desk. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you understand what you are asking me to do?’ The caller, this time, had some emotion in his voice. ‘You are asking me to murder one of my own pilots, and shoot down a multimillion-dollar aircraft to kill a single man?’
‘I am fully aware of the consequences of my request. Blackline will compensate you for your loss.’
There was a silence, punctuated by the warbling on the encrypted line.
‘My operations centre will directly guide your helicopter in on the jet.’
‘Thank you, comrade.’ The Chinese were still communists after all.
‘Now that is all. Our cooperation is at an end. This line will no longer connect.’
Oleniuk glared at the Chinese sat phone as the call finished. Their cooperation was at an end? Hm, he’d love to see the expression on the fool’s face when Chen Yan reminded him of his duties. Oleniuk had been made to seem a fool by relaying to the Chinese the news Volkov had given him: a British spy named Jack Tate had hijacked his jet! There was no way that Oleniuk would allow this man, whoever he was, to blow his operation. No way at all.
Once he had confirmation that Tate had been eliminated and the women were returned, he would depart. Oleniuk pursed his lips. How had a member of British Intelligence or someone masquerading as one discovered the existence of his operation? At a later date he would look into it.
31,000 feet above Pennsylvania
The note of the engines changed as the executive jet started to gently descend. Both of i
ts occupants were silent. Pang focused on flying while Tate thought about the mission ahead. The flying time from Houlton to Washington was two and a half hours. His Rolex told him he had just over half an hour to go. Looking through the canopy, he took in the Appalachian Mountains stretching out below.
He’d seen his first mountains when he’d joined the British Army. As kids all he and Simon had near London were hills and on his family trips to North Wales his parents adamantly refused to take him anywhere near the Snowdonia National Park. He envied those who grew up with the great outdoors as their backyard. The Appalachians were ancient, untouched and unaltered by the march of humanity. Anyone out trekking or living amongst them was likely still unaware of the chaos in the rest of the country – a country over-reliant on electricity and digital connectivity. Perhaps when this was all over he’d quit, get a log cabin, and live by a lake.
Tate’s mind snapped back to the present and his mission. He noticed that Pang had started to look nervous; minutes out from their destination, the pilot was scanning the sky more than before. ‘Problem?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what are you looking for, Pang?’
‘We are nearing Washington. I am checking for other aircraft.’
Tate said nothing, and as they continued to lose altitude, he searched the skies for himself. International aircraft that had been en route at the time of the EMP, but out of the blast zone, would have already diverted. Was Pang looking for backup, for another Chinese aircraft? Before Tate could demand an answer from Pang, he saw a reflection off his port side, sunlight glinting on a piece of metal. He squinted, another flicker … and then he recognised the distinct shape of rotor blades. The helo climbed, the custom paintwork on its fuselage making it all but undetectable against the sky. The model he did not recognise, but what was slung underneath he did. Air-to-air missiles …
There was a flash and a sleek shape rocketed toward them.