Total Blackout

by Alex Shaw

  The two men dived as best they could from the still-moving, but rapidly slowing SUV. Chang landed heavily and was barely able to drag himself onto the grass. Hunter, more athletic but injured, collapsed beside him. The pair looked on, powerless, as the Tahoe finally came to a halt in the middle of the runway. The Gulfstream was seconds away from colliding with it when its undercarriage left contact with the ground and it soared into the air.

  Chang pulled the Beretta from his pocket and emptied the magazine at the retreating target. But the Gulfstream continued to climb, immune it seemed until it was out of small-arms range. Chang’s chest was tight. He fell onto his back. He’d failed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Chang said.

  ‘You didn’t let him go. You didn’t give up.’

  Chang didn’t know what to say.

  *

  The jet went into a steep climb. Tate was pushed back against a chair and managed to clamber into it. Over the roar of the blood in his ears and the jet turbines he could hear another sound, a hiss. He saw the Perspex on the porthole nearest to him vibrate. He smiled at Oleniuk, whose expression had turned to anger.

  Oleniuk bounded from his seat even before the jet had attempted to level out. He still had a cigar in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Tate saw that the Beretta was hastily pushed into the waistband of his suit trousers. It poked into his stomach in the gap his ballistic vest left exposed. He closed the distance to Tate. ‘And now, Jack Tate, I shall enjoy my booze and smokes whilst watching you die!’

  Tate opened his mouth to reply; however, then a sudden, searing rush of air slammed into his face and whistled in his ears. The oval, panoramic porthole just in front of his head had given way. Oleniuk’s head snapped to his right and his jaw opened, the cigar falling to the floor. Tate now saw what he was looking at. Several small holes had appeared in the next porthole, which was in the door of the over wing emergency exit. Akulov’s rounds! The firefight in the hangar. The integrity of at least two of the aircraft’s sixteen, twenty-eight-inch-wide portholes had been compromised.

  Tate sprang up at Oleniuk and barged him back into and over the table. The Russian rolled until he fell onto the floor trapped between the table and a seat. Tate followed him over the table, landed on top of him in the confined spaced and pummelled his face with heavy fists. He felt Oleniuk’s nose give way, and his jaw click, but the Russian was not finished yet. Oleniuk twisted to his left and pinned Tate against the huge, leather seat.

  Oleniuk still had the vodka bottle in his hand. He raised it to strike Tate, the dregs of the alcohol splashing over both men. There was a cracking sound and then a second, larger rush of air. The bottle was torn from Oleniuk’s hand and sailed out of the failed porthole of the emergency exit. Tate could hear a warning claxon sound from the cockpit and the Gulfstream suddenly dropped and turned to starboard.

  Tate bucked away from Oleniuk and pulled himself to his feet. But Oleniuk was also standing. Both men were of equal height but the Russian was the heavier, and not all of that was flab. They stood facing each other, their heads inches away from the interior ceiling. As the jet tilted and the air continued to rush in, Oleniuk came at Tate with his fists raised. His eyes were wild and his face a bloody mess, but he was grinning.

  ‘I boxed at school, Tate, I was undefeated.’ He threw a quick jab in Tate’s direction and then tried to land a left hook.

  Tate defended, mirrored the boxing stance but not quickly enough as Oleniuk shot out another jab, hitting him on the jaw. Tate absorbed the extra pain and now brought his fists back up to his face. Oleniuk saw the schoolboy error and stepped in ready to deliver a blow to Tate’s unprotected body, but Tate had changed the game, and the sport. He threw a hard, straight, karate kick at Oleniuk with his right leg. Tate’s foot connected with his target’s groin. The Russian crumpled.

  Tate held on to the nearest chair to steady himself, his left leg slick with fresh blood and threatening to give way, then he saw Oleniuk’s hand move shakily towards an object lying under the table. The Beretta. Tate fell on the hand with his knees, crushing it into the carpet and grabbed the gun first. He pulled the trigger, the raucous retort momentarily competing with the whistling air. The round buried itself in Oleniuk’s stomach, in the exposed gap below his ballistic vest.

  Oleniuk then did something that took Tate completely by surprise. He started to talk. His voice was barely audible above the rush of the air. ‘Listen to me, there is something I need to say.’

  Tate looked the Russian square in the eyes. Was this where the madman begged for his life? Tried to justify his actions? Momentarily it appeared as though Oleniuk had shrugged off his injuries as his eyes seemed to shine. ‘I am responsible for the Camden bombing that killed your parents …’

  Tate felt as though he’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. Using a surge of strength created by pure, primeval rage and hatred, he grabbed the Russian by the neck, hauled him to his feet, all but slamming his head into the ceiling. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I killed your parents.’ A large smile split Oleniuk’s battered and bloodied face. ‘It was my plan, and it was my men. You had to pay for the death of my daughter …’ Oleniuk started to cough.

  ‘Who planted the bomb?’

  Oleniuk’s eyes were wide. ‘You do not know?’

  ‘Tell me.’ Tate now grabbed a hold of the Russian’s hair with his left hand and thrust the Beretta tight into the underside of his jaw.

  ‘I want you to live the rest of your unimportant life knowing that my man did this, and you let him escape …’

  ‘Who!’ Tate demanded, breaking Oleniuk’s skin with the Beretta’s barrel.

  ‘He designed the bomb and he drove the van that day …’

  ‘Give me a name!’

  ‘Ruslan Akulov!’

  Tate dropped Oleniuk and stumbled back against a seat. ‘Akulov.’

  ‘My assassin, my Werewolf …’ Oleniuk started to cough; blood foamed around his lips. ‘What is it like, to know you have been played for a fool? You have the blood of your parents and all of those innocents from the market on your hands all because your brother killed my daughter …’

  ‘Simon did not kill her!’ Tate was shaking. He knew his body was about to shut down, as was the plane, which was juddering erratically.

  Oleniuk continued, ‘And then you did my bidding in Chechnya by liquidating such a troublesome terror group! That was pure ecstasy to me … I’ve beaten you, Jack, and I’ve beaten your pathetic brother, and now I shall soon see my daughter again.’

  Tate raised the Beretta, his hand shaking.

  ‘Do it, kill me like a man.’

  ‘No.’ Tate pocketed the Beretta and grabbed Oleniuk. He hauled him to feet his feet once more and with his vision dimming manhandled him towards the broken porthole.

  ‘What are you doing? T … Tate, are you mad?’ Oleniuk bucked and struggled, but he was a spent force.

  Tate elbowed the Russian in the gut to double him over, then slammed him against the emergency exit, jamming his head and shoulders into the gaping hole. Oleniuk’s body shook, his feet drummed on the carpet, his arms pushed weakly against the door and then his body went still. Like roadkill, like the result of a bird strike, he hung suspended from the porthole.

  The roaring of the slipstream was halved. Tate again could hear the alarm from the cabin. Grabbing every single piece of furniture for purchase, Tate edged towards the cockpit door and slammed it with his fists. ‘Take us back! Get us down!’

  The door didn’t open but he felt the Gulfstream bank. He lurched to the left and fell into the nearest seat. Tate pulled the seatbelt tight around himself, snapped the clip shut, and then his vision went black …

  Epilogue

  Three months later

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  Simon Hunter gazed out of the window of his rented Georgetown townhouse as his neighbour walked his poodle in one direction and a fat man in a tracksuit wobbled in another. He sighed. Nothing had seemi
ngly changed in this sleepy, salubrious part of the capital city since the EMP attack, but he had. He’d lost a woman he had loved, a woman it turned out he didn’t know at all.

  Debriefed and then signed off to recover, Hunter mentally and Tate physically were both recuperating. Tate had recovered quicker than expected from his surgery, but unexpectedly he’d chosen to spend the rest of his downtime with Hunter. Hunter didn’t know how to thank him.

  Hunter sipped his milky tea and couldn’t help a sudden smile from forming on his face. He moved to the settee and sat. His stomach rumbled as the greasy, delicious waft of a full English breakfast drifted in from the kitchen. He picked up the TV remote for his new set. It was the same brand as his old one that had been rendered useless by the EMP, but a different model. He fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons and managed to find BBC World. Milky tea and the BBC, it was like being back in Camden as a kid, but not quite.

  It was a quarter after the hour on a Friday morning. On screen a journalist reported on the continuing efforts of the international community to aid the rebuilding and re-plugging of the US after the “EMP terrorist attack of August”. The banner under the reporter’s name gave his location as Arlington Assembly, Arlington, Texas. It was where the US car giant GM manufactured, amongst other vehicles, the Tahoe.

  ‘Of course, Martin,’ the BBC correspondent replied to the studio anchor, ‘the true cost to the US economy can only at this point in time be estimated. But undaunted, the president as we know has promised to rebuild it stronger and greater than ever before.’

  The studio cut away to the well-used footage from several weeks before, which showed the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of Canada at a joint press conference. They smiled broadly and shook hands and posed for photographs all the while standing in front of a huge banner which read, “Making North America Great Again”.

  ‘MNAGA,’ Hunter said, and took another sip of tea.

  ‘Here.’ Tate appeared from the kitchen. He was holding two large plates.

  ‘Thanks.’ Hunter took one and placed it down on the coffee table in front of him. His brother sat at his side and did the same. Hunter studied his breakfast: eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread, and black pudding. Gourmet.

  The brothers ate in silence, listening yet not listening, as the news report continued. An info graphic showed the number of new businesses that had been set up, with federal government grants, to handle the huge demand for the replacement and fitting of wiring looms to salvageable vehicles. It then displayed the import volume of vehicles from manufacturing plants in Canada and Mexico. A new table depicted, with mini-flags, the percentage by country of electronic components shipped to the US. Percentage wise, the biggest winners were the Germans, the Japanese, the Koreans and the Taiwanese.

  ‘The Chinese too, have played their part,’ the correspondent stated. ‘However, with the unusual omission of one of China’s largest and most respected electronics manufactures, CY Holdings, from the US tender process, speculation has increased regarding the disappearance, of its multi-billionaire owner, Chen Yan. The Electronic Princess, as she has been dubbed by the international business press, has not been seen since late August. And now the business world is asking why.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Tate said.

  ‘She needs to be found,’ Hunter replied.

  The visual feed returned to the correspondent in Arlington. ‘Of course, it will continue to be the United States armed forces which will have the most spent on it. All branches have suffered huge technological losses, with everything from field radios to cruise missiles inoperable and aircraft carriers reduced to floating barges. But NATO and her allies have rallied round, adopting a status of high alert whilst the US remains vulnerable.’

  ‘What’s the latest from Moscow?’ the studio anchor asked, as though the question had not been rehearsed.

  The feed switched to footage, taken in September, of the President of Russia returning tanned, fit and fresh from his summer holiday at his dacha in Siberia.

  ‘Well, Martin,’ the correspondent continued, ‘the Russian president has issued an official statement that Russia is a true friend of the West and will do all it can to help its great strategic ally rebuild.’

  ‘On condition that we hugely relax sanctions against them,’ Hunter scoffed, through a mouthful of egg.

  ‘I grew out of politics,’ Tate said, as he bit into a piece of toast.

  ‘I know you haven’t grown out of this.’ Hunter changed the channel and the familiar logo of the WWE filled the screen.

  ‘Ooh yeah!’ Tate said, with an exaggerated drawl.

  ‘Wooooo!’ Hunter replied.

  *

  After losing themselves in the world of sports entertainment for the best part of an hour, Tate sat in the passenger seat of Hunter’s rewired Land Rover Defender as they weaved their way out of the city. It wouldn’t have been Tate’s choice of vehicle, but his brother always had had odd tastes.

  Their destination was the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. As they moved farther and farther away from the city, the Friday morning traffic began to ease. In the three months since the EMP attack only a small percentage of the population had managed to regain their independent mobility. Ironically these tended to be those at the bottom of society, with older vehicles not affected by the EMP, and those at the very top who had instantly ordered new, replacement cars. This was the new normal, for a while at least.

  They passed a roadside billboard with the slogan “Make driving great again, buy your rewired, cherished car today!”

  ‘MDGA,’ Tate said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Hunter said, with a shake of the head, ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes on the sat nav.’

  The brothers remained silent for the majority of the trip. The drive from Washington into Virginia to reach this part of the Appalachian Trail took just over an hour before they pulled into an empty car park at the bottom of the trail.

  The pair climbed out, zipped up their coats, shouldered their day sacks and set off. The trail meandered and sloped upwards, at first an easy hike but becoming increasingly difficult and Tate, used to leading from the front, pulled away.

  ‘Jack, slow down!’

  ‘Come on!’ Tate called back to his brother.

  ‘Look, I can’t keep up – you may well be bloody superhuman but I’m not!’

  ‘I thought you were a runner?’

  ‘I am, but not uphill!’

  Tate stopped and looked back down the blustery mountain trail. It was part of the same range he had flown over three months earlier in the commandeered Gulfstream jet. He wondered where the wreckage had landed, and he hoped it hadn’t injured any civilians. His leg still ached from the gunshot wound inflicted on that very same day, but it was bearable – it had to be if he was going to regain and even surpass his previous fitness levels.

  Hunter caught up, panting. ‘A normal person would now be recuperating on a desert island with a vodka martini.’

  ‘You want to look like a normal person, act like a normal person.’

  Hunter rolled his eyes. ‘Jack, stop it with the clever quotes.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t know who said that, do you?’ Tate tutted. ‘I’ll give you two guesses.’

  ‘OK,’ Hunter said, still battling to regain his breath, ‘it was either Gandhi or the Dalai Lama.’

  Tate shook his head with exaggerated slowness. ‘Mike Tyson.’

  The brothers started to laugh. Tate retrieved his water bottle, had a swig and passed it to Hunter. Hunter took a mouthful and then pulled a face. ‘This is water.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  Hunter frowned. ‘Something medicinal perhaps? We’re in the mountains so I’d have chosen bourbon; that’s what “Mountain Men” drink, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re here to get healthy, not hammered.’

  Tate put away his water bottle and looked wistfully north: the entire Appalach
ian Trail was over two thousand miles long and if they trekked the entire length, they’d end up in Maine. Perhaps he’d revisit Camden one day.

  ‘What are you thinking, Jack?’

  Tate lied. He didn’t want to mention the EMP. ‘I’m just taking in the scenery. Look around, this place hasn’t changed in millennia.’

  ‘True.’

  The brothers stood in the stillness as the November winds rolled around them and threatened to bring the first snows of the year.

  ‘I miss her, Jack.’

  Tate nodded, but remained silent, not wanting to stop his brother from opening up but also not wanting to say the wrong thing.

  ‘I loved her. I really loved her.’

  Hunter’s eyes became moist. Tate hoped it was the increasing wind but knew it was not. He wasn’t good with emotions, well apart from anger. He said all he could think of saying: ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Jack, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Oleniuk killed her, murdered her like he murdered our parents … If I had just … if I could have …’

  Tate drew his big brother close and embraced him. ‘You’ll never lose me, Simon. Not again.’

  ‘Thanks, brother.’

  Jack Tate felt his own eyes water, and this time he knew it wasn’t the wind. Regardless of who their parents had been, Jack Tate and Simon Hunter always were and always would be brothers. ‘Sod it. That’s enough for today – let’s go back down, find a bar and drink some bourbon!’

  ***

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  Acknowledgements

  Like long-distance running, writing can be a solitary process, but I have drawn both strength and inspiration from those around me who have by turns inspired and supported me along my journey.

  Firstly, I need to thank my wife Galia, for without her support I would not have been able to carry on. My sons, Alexander and Jonathan who tell everyone I’m a famous author.