Spiral

by Andy Remic

  ‘Come on in,’ said Carter, forcing another grin through his mild depression. ‘I’m ready for some breakfast, if I can entice three of my old friends to join me?’

  ‘Slater is hungry,’ rumbled Slater, kneeling and wrestling with Samson who began to growl and bark, play-fighting with the large man who pinned the Labrador to the ground and tickled the fur between his pads.

  ‘I seem to remember that you’re always hungry, Slater.’

  ‘Aye. I’m a growing lad.’

  ‘You are forty-six years old, Slater.’

  ‘Aye. Like I said, still growing.’

  ‘You don’t often pay me a visit, Jam. I assume there is a reason?’ Carter’s eyes were hooded, his mouth a grim line. Recent events had removed much of his humour, and this unsummoned gathering felt somehow ominous.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Jam softly. He lit a cigarette, rested his head back and rubbed at tired eyes. ‘Something bad is going down, old friend. Have you logged on with your ECube? Checked out the coded info on your escapades in Germany?’

  Carter shook his head. ‘No, not yet, I don’t like bad reviews.’

  ‘Something doesn’t add up. It doesn’t fit. Spiral seem to have no answers on how German Special Forces were infiltrated. And Feuchter - our friendly Spiral_H QIII coordinator - has disappeared and is presumed dead. They pulled the fried corpse of his niece - and the bodies of all the guests from the party - from the wreckage after the fire had been brought under control. Dog meat. But, mysteriously, no sign of Mr Feuchter himself. Strange, eh, considering you put a bullet in the cunt? I do find it disconcerting that our faithful employers have no answers for these questions - after all, their surveillance and technology budgets must exceed NASA’s.’

  Carter shrugged. ‘They’re not God. They can’t know everything.’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ grunted Slater, busy picking pieces of bacon rind from his remaining teeth. ‘Go on, Jam, tell him about the Squads.’

  Jam sighed, and Carter caught the resignation in the man. Strange, for sure, because they had survived some tough campaigns together. They had crossed the desert during the Battle of Cairo7, performed TankerRuns after a designer plague - the Grey Death - had wiped out 58 million people and devastated the economies, and of course populations, of Europe, North Africa and North and South America, and fought several pitched battles against the terrorist resurgence after the Anti-NBC Laws were passed.

  Jam’s face was stern. ‘A DemolSquad, number 14, has been wiped out.’

  ‘I know,’ said Carter softly. ‘But things like this can happen. It is a probability in our line of work. Men and women die. Life’s a bitch, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s even worse is that Spiral have not published the information. I found out by hacking Cuban Special Circumstances computers, stumbled across the information by accident. So, me and Nicky set out to find out a few things, keep a few tabs on several of our other brother Squads, including members of the Core. Two more DemolSquads are missing, 77 and S-4.’

  ‘The sniper squad? Rex, Scope and Amber?’

  ‘Hmm,’ nodded Jam, blowing the room full of smoke. ‘Coincidence? I thought to myself. Then we get a real bad job in London; the sort that makes you regret ever even thinking about signing that fucking pink form by which you gave up your freedom. And guess what...’

  ‘Set-up?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jam finished his cigarette, and immediately lit another. ‘They were waiting for us. I went in on foot to scope ahead; bastards almost tagged me. Six of them. Very professional: well armed, hard as fuck, intelligent, swift movers.’

  ‘And you also think I was set up?’ said Carter softly.

  ‘Did occur to me, old buddy.’

  Carter scratched at his stubble, and accepted a cigarette from Nicky. ‘It’s funny ... I had a call from Nats this morning. She’s on her way up here. She sounded a little panicked.’

  ‘Be careful with her,’ said Slater. ‘She’s one of the TacSquads, a Tactical Officer. Old School. Crafty as a fucking bitch.’

  ‘I’ve known her for years. We’re good friends...’

  Jam shrugged and reached across the table, patting Carter’s hand. ‘Natasha is a bird—’ Nicky gasped ... ‘No offence meant, love. You know, Carter, a bit of moist cunt and you always did think with your dick. Trust no fucker, my friend. Not Nats. Not even us. There are DemolSquads dead, others missing. You’ve been popped at, and we sure as fuck had a lot of high-velocity shots spat our way. Why do you think we came up here in the van? For fucking fun? Our ECubes have been compromised ... and if ECubes are the pinnacle of encrypted communication, then nothing is safe. You can’t fucking text me your descramble code and hope it doesn’t get compromised when the shit finally hits the very large fan ... Carter, Spiral know something and they’re not telling... you sure this place is not bugged?’

  ‘I’m sure. I have my own - shall we say custom - scanning equipment.’

  ‘Good lad.’

  ‘I still don’t believe Spiral have anything sinister to add to this. After all, they pay our wages. They employ us. I’m sure they have their special reasons for withholding information - I bet there are people on the job right now.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jam. ‘But then, we’re employed because we think. Because we trust nobody. Because we do the job ourselves. Don’t have blind faith, Carter old buddy. There will be people in Spiral just as corruptible as in the real world ... as you found out for yourself. Listen, Spiral_H is assembling a strike force to shut down Spiral_Q. Things are getting way out of hand, or so it would appear... the apparent betrayal by Feuchter when you had your little lovers’ tiff in Germany is being kept quiet so Spiral_Q can be shut down with extreme force and minimum fuss. Don’t want to give the fuckers due warning, eh, lad?’

  Carter rubbed at his stubble, then his tired eyes. ‘Feuchter. That fucker got everything he deserved.’

  There was a long, uneasy pause. Outside, snow began to fall once more, small flakes falling straight down to earth through the absence of any breeze. Jam shivered, then grinned over at Nicky. ‘You be keeping my bed warm tonight?’ He winked broadly, a cheeky grin on his face.

  ‘Only if you pay me, Jam.’

  ‘This can be arranged.’

  ‘I’ll bite it off if you even try and wave that fucking maggot near me.’

  ‘Well, I’ll look forward to it. But enough of this banter - come on, team, we’re fed and have delivered our warning. Time to move on—’

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Carter as the group stood, leaving a pile of dirty dishes.

  ‘Can’t say,’ smiled Jam. ‘Classified. Y’know how it is. Remember, don’t use your ECube - not yet; I think ours are fucked so it doesn’t matter for us. Listen, Carter, I have a bad feeling about this one. A real bad feeling.’

  ‘Your bad feelings always turned out to be sheep instead of rogue enemy soldiers when we were training in the mountains,’ said Carter.

  Jam shrugged. ‘Just advice, brother. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Let’s swap descramble codes. I have a feeling that one day soon we will need secure communication. And ECubes are surely letting us down now, my friend.’

  Jam nodded, and they memorised the information. Then Nicky led the Squad down the stairs, Samson jumping at their heels with the apparent motive of murder, and out into the snow and towards the van. They thanked Carter for breakfast and, with Jam’s grinning face mouthing the words, ‘See ya, Butcher’ from the rattling van window, in seconds through thick exhaust fames they disappeared through the snow.

  Carter’s face went hard at the name. He spat in the snow, and said, ‘Come on, Sam, back to solitary confinement.’

  ‘You earned it, Butcher,’ said Kade.

  ‘Fuck you,’ snapped Carter.

  He sat, gazing out at the snow. He toyed with the ECube, but did not activate it. The surface remained black and dead and he tossed it thoughtfully from one hand to the other, as you would with a soft ball.

  S
amson lay snoring beside his chair, and a low fire burned, crackling occasionally, the glow warming the room and contrasting cosily with the snowy wilderness outside the windows.

  Carter stared at the mountains, tracing their contours. On his lap sat a small A4 pad, and his fingers held a small knife-sharpened pencil. He dropped the ECube to the floor, and then chewed the end of the pencil thoughtfully for a moment. He wrote:

  Problem: DemolSquads missing/ murdered

  Problem: Feuchter ... and Maria’s involvement?

  Problem: German Special Forces in on the betrayal in some way/ percentage not known/ Bribed? Or other incentive??

  Question: Who was the real target? Carter? Or party guests? Or both?

  Probable that Carter a target in lieu of other Squads being wiped out. But why? And by whom?

  Feuchter- expert in computer processor development - The QIII Proto, developed under licence for Spiral at specially built complexes around the world, namely stations Spiral_H, Spiral_M and Spiral_Q. The QIII processor: military chip and surrounding hardware destined for implementation over the next five years. Highly classified; many Spiral members even unaware of its existence.

  Who is the enemy?

  Spiral? Unlikely.

  And where is Feuchter? How did he get out before the explosion wiped out Castle Schwalenberg?

  Carter stared at the scribbled words on the page. Spiral knew that he was alive. He had signed in, reported on events in Germany. They had okayed his return to Scotland and told him to await further communication. If they wanted him dead, he was sure as fuck he would already be dead. Unless it was somebody within Spiral operating independently, or unless they were awaiting a certain turn of events ... like Jam arriving? Or Natasha making an appearance? Had Jam been tracked?

  No. He shook his head. Spiral stood for everything that was good; they might have their own seemingly strange reasons, but everything was carried out with precision. There were no mistakes ... not usually...

  Carter followed the premise: if Spiral did want the Demolition Squads dead, why the elaborate set-ups? Why not just gather them together and murder them in one huge gas chamber? And why could they possibly want their top operatives dead in the first place? Why spend billions of pounds in recruitment, training, faking deaths -only to wipe them out?

  Something did not fit.

  And where did the QIII Proto fit into this jigsaw? This puzzle? Feuchter was in charge of development, programming and refinement of the military processor; Carter knew very little about the project because it was tightly under wraps, but Natasha had worked some long hours in the early QIII development stages before being reassigned to babysitting the DemolSquads as a Tactical Officer and seeing to their every whim and need. A year ago, when they had shared much more than just sex, she had trusted Carter implicitly; she would talk in the long warm comfortable hours after love-making, her features softened by candlelight, lips ruby and wet; she had spoken, almost aimlessly, feeding his desire for technological knowledge ... she would tell him about the advanced chip architecture, about the implementation of ProbEqs which were being drafted into CoreCalcs and the CoreClock. And despite his expertise with computing systems the jargon had flown way, way above Carter’s head. He still remembered Natasha’s bitterness at being pulled from the project, but she had finally taken it with good grace when assigned as a TacSquad officer.

  And now. Now?

  Carter wrote:

  Demolition Squads in trouble? ALL the DemolSquads?

  Assassination/ how to assassinate the world’s most professional operatives? DemolSquads are perfectly trained killers; the elite of the elite; each chosen for specific skills. DemolSquads are assassins; demolition experts.

  How to assassinate the assassins?

  And why?

  ECubes no longer secure; in Germany the ECube died, only reactivating afterwards, as if affected by some sort of power drain????? Somebody has access to Spiral mainframes????? Internal betrayals?

  Feuchter.

  Everything revolves around Feuchter; he pulled gun on Carter: therefore he was willing to throw away his position within Spiral. Who would do that? It is rare somebody wants to leave Spiral ... leave the ultimate organisation - leave the embrace of such a world-active company, who strive for peace, who genuinely set out to fuck the bad guys ? ? ? ?

  Spiral were being betrayed. Set up.

  Who better than the star military-processor development team? Feuchter, obviously ... but he is more of a puppet; he cannot be the one pulling the strings.

  So, who else?

  And Natasha ... Natasha knew Feuchter; Nats set up the protection gig in the first place. Sent Carter to his own assassination. How perfect.

  The game is larger than I realise.

  Carter rubbed at his tired eyes; it was a fucking circle and he was treading his own footprints, following his own tail. He threw down the pad and sank back into the sofa.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said softly, closing his eyes.

  Outside, the wind howled and Carter, in almost unconscious response, threw a log on the fire. It was Feuchter who worried him more than anything - the hard look in the man’s eyes, the glitter of those cold, cold orbs when the unwavering gun muzzle was pointing straight at Carter ... something in Feuchter made Carter’s soul go cold. There was something different about the man. Something strange.

  And Natasha...

  Natasha had set him up with the gig. She had known Feuchter a long time ago, worked closely with him on the QIII early implementation and development drawings. And if they had wanted him, Carter, dead, then— Then Natasha had to have known.

  Carter felt suddenly miserable. Cold inside.

  He loved Natasha; and knew deep down that she loved him.

  But the facts were staring him in the face.

  She was a part of it. Integral. A cog in the machine.

  She had to be...

  Carter knew; he would have to be careful. He would have to be prepared. He would have to watch Natasha like a hawk - and if she stepped out of line?

  Then Kade would be waiting.

  Carter stepped over his snoring Labrador and moved to his study. Entering the book-lined room, he moved to the sixteen feet of desk and the five computers, all open-cased and showing a myriad of circuit boards, processor-fans whirring, monitors showing a colourful spinning collection of humorous screen savers.

  He sat down at the master system and initialised the OS. Entering the shell, he switched to his house and land defences, bypassed the encryption, and logged in—

  Nothing.

  He scanned all monitors for a two-mile radius. Nothing had been tripped or tampered with, the current and voltage meters had not been broken or hacked. He had designed and programmed the system himself, in 68000tz machine code. It had been a challenge and he had enjoyed the steep learning curve, although he still stood by his inherent hatred of mathematics.

  He finished the scan.

  Nothing. He scratched his chin, and lit a cigarette. The machines purred around him and he flicked through a variety of hidden match-head cameras but could see nothing suspicious.

  Just because it doesn’t look suspicious, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

  Carter was tempted for a while to start messing about with the equipment; it had a soothing effect on his soul, the swapping of components, the improving of performance by processor and memory enhancement. He checked his watch. Natasha would be due in a few hours and he would need to be ready.

  He walked down the hallway and pulled on his boots, lacing them tightly. Then he moved down the stairs and punched a sequence into a pad; a section of wall slid smoothly back and he stepped into the brightly lit armoury. It smelled slightly of gun oil, and he moved to the locked cabinets and pulled free his Browning HiPower 9mm. He checked all the magazines and strapped them about his body. Then he pulled free an automatic sniper rifle chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum round and slotted a scope to the weapon with a precise click. He checked the m
agazine, placed a spare one in his pocket, then dropped the rifle into a sacking bag and pulled tight the drawstring. With the gun under his arm, he locked up the room and returned to Samson, tapping the dog with his boot.

  ‘You coming with me, pal?’

  Samson grinned his dog grin.

  ‘Safer with me than in here, I think. Come on, I have a real bad feeling about Natasha’s impending visit. Let’s check she isn’t being followed by big perps in suits with machine guns.’

  Carter locked the front door and armed the trip meters. Then, breath pluming and snow settling like a shroud across his head and shoulders, he started across the grey-lit fields so free of war and violence in this distant part of Scotland, and up past the edge of the lane towards the sanctuary of the beautiful shaded woods.

  Carter was cold.

  His hands, protected by gloves, clasped the semiautomatic rifle stock and he sat shrouded by trees and bushes, staring down at the lane. A straight of one mile led away from him and he targeted the scope down the lane, picking out leaves on the trees and the fluttering of snowflakes: and he grinned. The lane made a good killing ground, and was one reason why he had purchased the house. If he was ready for danger, then this made a good spot - for raining fire from Heaven upon the Infidels.

  Samson, at his feet, was restless. He’d wandered away for a while, sniffing, but had returned to nuzzle at Carter, to whinge at the man with his whimpers of boredom. ‘Shhh,’ he soothed, rubbing the dog’s ears. ‘We shouldn’t be long.’

  He heard the engines, echoing up from the valley, before the car swung into view. And swing it did, slewing with churning tyres around the bend and smashing into the embankment with a thud, bouncing the back of the vehicle violently onto the uncleared road as the engine howled and tyres spun and the BMW 740i shot towards him—

  Carter licked his lips and lifted the scope to his eye.

  Natasha was coming - and it appeared she was in trouble.

  The BMW accelerated madly down the lane—

  A black Mercedes spun around the corner, gripping better due to its tyres’ snow chains. It must have been waiting for her, ready to attack the snow; it accelerated down the lane and began to catch the BMW.