by Andy Remic
‘Oh yeah, what in? A hastily stolen Skoda that some fuckwit had just left lying around?’
Langan grinned. ‘You know Spiral has vehicle and weapons stashes all over the world. We could backtrace to the nearest SP1plot, tool you up, send you out.’
Carter shook his head. ‘One, we haven’t got the time. The Comanche is fucking fast. Two, I’m not exactly in the best physical state to be piloting some desert sand buggy over the dunes. And finally, it’s good to see you really pissed off. And watching you skip wire and dodge MIGs and missiles is a joy to behold.’
‘You’re a cunt, Carter.’
‘Better believe it.’
Langan dished out the coffee, which they drank sweet and black. Smoke drifted up into the vast void above the Rub al’Khali desert and Carter felt suddenly at peace. The pain - which he had recently grown accustomed to -had lessened and he felt almost comfortable, at ease... He could not put a finger on the reason for this sudden euphoria but the beauty of the night sky had something to do with it, and the feeling that he was doing the right thing - headed on the right course - no longer the hunted, but the hunter ... he had turned the image around in his brain, become the predator, become the one in control.
It might be limited control, but now he was calling the shots.
Send the fucking Nex, he thought. I’ll kill them all.
Let’s see what answers you have, Count Feuchter.
Let’s see what song you sing.
The dawn broke, grey light spreading across the horizon. Wrapped in blankets, the small group roused themselves, drank more coffee courtesy of Langan and then, gathering what little detritus they had created, climbed stiff-limbed back into the Comanche.
Langan warmed up the engines, then eased his baby into the air, scattering sand. Slowly, he increased the speed, and they skimmed low over the desert and rocky landscape. Occasionally they would pass low ranges of hills, mainly rounded rocks all scattered with orange sand and small scrub bushes. Occasionally they would see small groups of date palms around a life-giving oasis, but Langan avoided these outposts for they attracted local herders and villagers.
As they droned low over the desert, Carter - now fully awake, alert and seeming more like his old self after the night’s sleep, only occasionally wincing breathlessly at the stabs of pain within his battered body - took the spare HIDSS helmet from its compartment behind Langan.
‘How does it work?’
‘Pop it on,’ said Langan. ‘I’ll show you.’
Carter pulled the helmet over his head, and positioned the mike and sensors in front of his face; finally, he slid down the mounted flight-information display. The terrain ahead of the Comanche sprang to life and Carter gasped at the digital image.
‘Impressed?’
‘Fuck me.’
Data scrolled down both sides of the visor; occasionally symbols flickered into life and targets were highlighted with different colours and symbols. Carter noted the weapons-system tracker in the top right corner and he licked his lips nervously.
‘Have I got some form of control here?’
‘Only if I patch you in.’
‘Don’t.’
‘That wasn’t my intention, Mr Carter. You are a novice. You don’t even like flying - the last thing I am going to do is allow you control of my beloved Comanche.’
‘Spiral’s Comanche.’
‘That depends on your point of view.’
‘So tell me about the helmet. How does it work?’
‘What you are wearing, Mr Carter, is a helmet that provides acoustic and impact protection combined with a magnetic helmet tracker. This son of a bitch stops you going deaf, especially in battle situations when the shit hits the fan: it has a bi-ocular FOV at 53° x 30° CRT with a 1023-line refresh - that means it’s a motherfucking clear display that gives you a wide field of view, important when approaching a possible combat encounter. The HIDSS offers both flight-information and night-vision sensors on screen, and uses flight data with sensor images and piloting and targeting symbology to allow aggravated aggressive flight manoeuvring and combat, especially at night.’
‘What sort of weapons have we got on board?’
‘That’s it, Carter, get right to the important stuff. Don’t ask me how secure we are against biological or chemical weapons, don’t ask what the procedure is in a crash - straight to the guns!’
‘Well?’
‘We have a stowable three-barrelled 20mm turreted Gatling nose gun, coming in at 1500 rounds a minute. We have a fully retractable missile armament system called I-RAMS - where missiles are hidden in bays; you get various different configurations of heavy-shit rockets. We are presently carrying 36 standard 70mm rockets, 18 Stinger air-to-air missiles and 6 Hellfire anti-tank missiles which, as I am sure you know, are programmed to control their own targeting destinations, once fired. We’re not carrying a full load which means we’re a little more manoeuvrable than you would expect when fully loaded.’ ‘That’s some fucking firepower.’
‘This is a war machine, Carter. What do you expect? Smarties?’
‘They pick some shit names, don’t you think?’
‘You mean Stinger and Hellfire? I suppose so, but what would you call them?’
Carter shrugged, still entranced by the HIDSS display. ‘You want a go, Nats?’
‘No, I’ll leave the playing and toy-fetish stuff to you boys.’
‘Don’t be like that, Nats.’
‘You should hear you two! Hellcat stinging 900mm bollocks to smash a tank straight up the I-RAMS. God, you’re like a couple of kids with a new plastic soldier.’
‘Women never understand,’ said Langan conspiratorially.
Carter nodded.
‘Probably because they’re brought up with dolls.’
‘I can hear you,’ said Natasha testily.
‘Oooh, she can hear us,’ said Langan.
An alarm sounded. Langan cursed, the Comanche suddenly banked sharply and dipped towards the ground, the LHTec engines whining down. He turned the helicopter around and they headed back the way they had just come.
‘What is it?’
‘You see the orange blip on your screen? Way bad news. Air-defence base - missiles, fighter jets - the full fucking monty. We’re twenty kms from it. I think we need to rethink our cross-land strategy.’
After some distance, Langan brought the Comanche down in a small bowl valley amid barren hills which were formed completely from gently rounded rock, with very little vegetation and no trees, no water - no people.
The rotors whined down.
Carter and Natasha climbed from the cockpit and Langan flicked a few switches, then jumped down. He carried a roll of plastic and a small black cube. ‘You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.’
Carter eased himself to the ground, hand pressed against his stitched flesh. ‘Surprise me.’
‘The path we need to take is crawling with aerial defences, probably in place in case Saudi falls out with its neighbours. They’ll also be linked to White Guard bases -Saudi Arabia’s army. Now, we could get past them - easy. But I’m not sure if we could get past them undetected. Do you want to arrive at Spiral-Q to find it deserted? Or your main man vanished?’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Before, when I mentioned the SP1plot, the vehicle and weapons stashes - well, I wasn’t joking. There are usually stealth vehicles of some sort. It depends what your priority is - speed or stealth? I could get us there in the Comanche but we might trigger some of their more sophisticated sensors - just depends what they’ve got!’
Carter chewed his lip. ‘Show me on the digital map.’
Langan unrolled the length of map - made from some kind of thin clear plastic that could be updated with information from the Comanche’s computers - on the sand and knelt on the edge to stop the wind from curling it. Carter squatted, wincing and holding his side, and his gaze roved across the detailed and illuminated terrain.
‘Where is Spi
ral_Q?’
Langan pointed. ‘There; or within a couple of kilometres. It can’t be that easy to hide, although they do try. By Spiral accounts it is a fucking huge base.’
‘Couldn’t you take us around via a quieter, more circuitous route? Without the air defences?’
‘I think something is going down in Rub al’Khali, to be honest. The reports I’ve just logged from the back end of Spiral say that military concentration in the area is building, although they don’t know why. We could try - but when we’re outrunning missiles and Feuchter’s done a vanishing act, don’t go blaming poor old Langan.’
‘Great. Any other good news?’
‘I can take you to the vehicles depot; or near to. I can also wait for you, although that is more than you deserve.’
‘Hmmm.’ Carter scratched at the stubble on his chin, and decided that he needed both a bath and a shave. Sweat rolled down his nose and dripped to the sand and rock. He could feel the sun burning his back.
‘We haven’t got the right equipment. Money. Clothes. Nothing.’
‘You could say that we left a little unprepared,’ added Langan softly.
Carter nodded; it was not a criticism, just an observation. ‘I’ll tell you what Langan. We’ll do what you say: drop us at the SP1plot and I’ll go in by vehicle, covertly, and you can wait there with Natasha—’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Natasha.
‘No.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are to order me around?’
Their glares locked. Carter shook his head. ‘I’ll work faster alone.’
‘You don’t need to fucking protect me,’ said Natasha. ‘I can do that myself. But it is my father who’s dead because of these bastards; I’m going in, Carter, and I’ll either go with you or without you. You can accompany me if you feel up to it - after all, taking a bullet must have slowed down your reflexes a little bit. And it was me who got you out of Gol’s place alive... without me you’d be Nex pulp ...’
‘Whoa.’ Carter held up his hands. ‘I stand corrected.’
‘Don’t you just hate stroppy women?’ muttered Langan.
‘She’s got a point this time,’ said Carter slowly. ‘I assume that’s a GPS you’re carrying?’
Langan nodded. ‘But this is linked to the digital map -for coordination purposes.’
‘You mean for missile attacks.’
‘Yeah, that as well.’
‘OK. How far is the nearest SP1plot?’
‘About a hundred kilometres closer to civilisation.’
Carter glanced up at the sun; it was high now, and burning down with incredible force. Beneath his clothes he was soaked with sweat. ‘Let’s do it, then.’
The Comanche sat, baking in the desert heat, the artificial wind from its rotors dying down even as they stood, staring at the wall of rock before them.
‘Where is it?’ asked Natasha.
‘You’re looking at it.’
Natasha gazed up at the jagged vertical surface of wind-weathered sandstone that cut a step from the landscape. The rock was a deep red, scarred, a section of landscape scoured by wind-blown sand over centuries. It was a desert feature, a sanctuary from the wind. It was a rock with a sense of history.
‘The wall?’
‘No, at its base.’
SP1plots were dotted all over the globe, and carried equipment specific to the sort of territory in which they were placed. Periodically they would be checked and restocked by Spiral operatives. On a thousand occasions they had made the difference between life and death.
Most SP1plots were either behind rock, or set under the ground: huge steel containers hidden away from prying eyes and accessed via ECubes. Carter pulled out the small dark cube and allowed it to sit in his palm.
‘Won’t using that give away our location?’
‘Oh yes. But if they’re that good, they know where we are, or where we’re going, anyway. We just have to concentrate on staying one step ahead. Act, don’t react, yeah?’
Carter accessed a function of the ECube. It blipped. There came a click from the ground and, raining sand, a huge rectangular section of the desert suddenly lifted - a ramp, allowing access to a deep dark cool interior.
Carter and Natasha moved forward; Langan watched from the secure confines of his Comanche, where he had lit a burner and had begun the ritual of getting a brew on. They stooped, peering into the gloom lit by triggered emergency lights set against the corrugated steel walls.
‘Let’s see what delights Pandora’s box holds.’
They descended the steep ramp; against one wall was an array of weapons, from machine guns and pistols to sniper rifles and even a couple of bazookas. All weapons were wrapped in plastic and coated in grease. Ammunition sat in wooden crates in one corner, and there were several large machines, also wrapped in thick plastic sheets. Carter moved forward and pulled one of the sheets free.
Natasha scowled.
‘A motorbike?’
‘More than that,’ said Carter, a hidden sense of joy in his voice. ‘It’s a modified desert racer - a BMW R2150 GS Adventurer, with some serious modifications and upgrades. It’s a fucking dream, Natasha.’
‘I would have preferred a jeep.’
‘No, no, these are the best things for crossing the desert - as long as you know how to control one. These bastards will eat the miles: look at the tyres! Just wait till we get on the move.’
He crossed to the bike, hand tracing the contours of the tank and seat. He crouched, his gaze roving over the engine with its curious powerful design, then stood again to survey the extra fuel tanks. He tapped them. ‘Full and raring to go; all we have to do is initiate and prime the firing sequence.’
‘What modifications does it have?’
Carter pointed to a place below the headlights; two barrels poked free. ‘Mounted sub-machine guns, with ammunition on a drum stored below the petrol tank up front. It has a built-in monitor over the handlebars, where your ECube can sit and aid navigation, along with the usual GPS set-up. It has a stealth exhaust; this baby will run silent - silent and deadly. And special mudguards which stop huge dust clouds from following you up the sides of sand dunes and signalling your position to all and sundry.’
Carter moved forward, kicked his leg over the huge machine. He fired up the bike and, true to his word, there was nothing more than a gentle murmur. ‘They use these to blast over the Paris-Dakar Rally - a true endurance race, probably one of the hardest races in the world. If anything can get us to Spiral_Q over land, then this is it.’
Natasha shook her head. ‘I remember the last time I got on the back of a bike with you.’
Carter shook his head, smiling grimly. ‘Don’t worry, love - this time it will be much, much worse.’
The BMW R2150 GS Adventurer climbed the ramp with ease, its engine note nothing more than a low croon; tyres bit into sand and Carter taxied the bike towards the Comanche. ‘Nice,’ remarked Langan, nodding as he held out a mug of tea.
Carter kicked the stand down and leaned the bike, then accepted the offered mug. ‘There’s only dried and tinned supplies down there. You wouldn’t happen to have anything fresher?’
Langan tossed Carter a satchel, which he deftly caught, wincing as the stitches in his side pulled tight. ‘Some fresh food in there, buddy. Although I’ll probably be cursing you when I’m destined to finish off the last tinned beef kebab.’
‘Cheers. There’s another thing.’
‘Hmm?’ Langan sipped his brew, his eyes suspicious.
‘I saw your rifle. In the Comanche. The Barrett .338 Lapua Magnum. With the telescopic sight. Can I borrow it?’
‘My Barrett!’ Langan scowled. ‘You’ll be wanting the gold from my fucking fillings next.’
‘No, just the rifle.’
‘What’s wrong with the weapons from the store?’
‘They’re too new; not bedded in. Last thing I need is a bloody untried and untested weapon. And anyway, I have experience with a Bar
rett rifle - those nameless unloved weapons down there, they have no soul.’
‘Carter, that rifle is my baby. That rifle is my god. It used to be my brother’s; my brother is now dead. I feel I owe it to him to make sure that it survives something more than your ham-fisted clumsiness.’
‘Don’t be so soft,’ snapped Carter. ‘I’ll take care of her. You know I look after my weapons.’
‘Yeah, right, I’ve seen the condition of your Browning.’
‘Used but not abused,’ said Carter. ‘The fact that it’s so worn is a testament to my love, care and attention. It wouldn’t have lasted this long if I’d casually tossed it aside, now would it? Go on, Langan, share.’
Langan muttered something incomprehensible.
‘Not when there are ladies present,’ said Natasha softly, moving forward. She carried a Glock, several spare mags and some boxes of ammunition. She took the satchel and dropped gun and ammo in beside the food so generously donated by Langan.
‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You have to polish it.’
‘Polish? Oh for fu— OK, OK.’ He saw the look in Langan’s eyes.
‘Once a night.’
‘I don’t intend to be gone that long,’ said Carter, smiling grimly.
The SP1plot also contained clothing necessary for the locality, in case they were separated from the bike: traditional Arab dress - white cotton robes, and a couple of shamags.
‘Wrap up, Natasha - we’ll be in disguise and they’ll at least protect us from the sun.’
‘Are there any motorbike helmets in there?’
Carter shook his head. ‘Don’t worry; we won’t be crashing. Not if I have anything to do with it.’
They spent a few minutes helping one another into the robes and shamags, giggling despite the seriousness of their predicament. When both were fully clad, they stood staring at one another and Carter’s hand reached out to cup Natasha’s chin.
‘You look beautiful.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want nothing, my love. I merely wish to give.’
‘You’re so full of crap, Carter.’
‘So a man can’t even try and be romantic?’