by Andy Lucas
To his own credit, he had then successfully competed in the re-running of the race, which had nothing to do with anything other than his own pride and him needing to honour the dead friends who did not make it out of the sweltering jungle alive. Like Cosmos.
For a moment, a brief image of his sister, Amanda, flashed before his eyes but he forced it away. Now was not the time to weaken and her image was one that still haunted him. Because of his own participation in the race, Cathera had ordered his pet assassin, Wolf, to murder her. Pace had received the news of her death, by phone, while preparing for the starting gun. It was a call he would never forget.
Drawn back to matter at hand, he listened for a few more minutes before taking the chance of slinking forwards on his belly to snatch a quick look around. No hidden soldier was waiting for him. The whole area around the cliff face was empty.
Pace stood up and stepped outside, gun raised. Still, nobody emerged to challenge him, or shoot at him. Just as he lowered the Sten a little, a flash of light up the cliff face, a few hundred metres away, caught his eye in the darkness. He could not make it out at such a distance, in the increasingly heavy rain, but he immediately knew what it was.
Before launching their surveillance operation, he and Hammond had analysed satellite imagery of the site. He knew there was a road and a walking path leading up from the harbour to the cliff top. The road headed south east, where it headed inland for a few miles before joining a main road. The path led the opposite direction, meandering up the steep cliff side until it reached the top where an old warehouse and workers' residential building had been commandeered by the army. It was now, they had decided, the army's base of operations while they protected the ARC site.
Pace wasted no time in running as fast as he could towards the starting point of the path, taking the couple of roughly-hewn steps leading up to the gravel surface in a single bound. Spurred on by determination and a healthy dose of fear for his friend, he ran up the path. Keeping as close as he could to the rock, slinging his gun over his shoulder so he could focus on his footing, his eyes soon ached from concentration while his clothes became soaked.
Unable to feel the cold through the heat of his exertions, Pace jogged uphill as fast as he could, slipping over a few times in his haste but determined to catch up to whoever was climbing the path. They would have Hammond with them.
At least in the storm, without using a torch, he would be shielded from view until he got very close. Of course, he wondered, if they have any kind of thermal imaging equipment to hand, the rain wasn't going to keep him hidden for too much longer; and that's if the rain decided not to stop and suddenly leave him exposed in plain sight anyway.
Sweating and panting from the creeping exhaustion, Pace gritted his teeth and forced his aching legs onwards. Without any light to guide him, his only guarantee not to run off the edge by accident was to keep his shoulder almost pressed to the rock face as he ran, which snagged his clothing and jarred his shoulder countless times as he banged into outcrops and protruding bulges. Still, he carried on, and was eventually rewarded by the sound ahead of boots crunching on gravel.
Dropping to his knees, sucking in huge lungfuls of air that burned inside him, Pace realised that sound travelled both ways. He had got too close, at a run. If he had heard their footsteps, they were bound to have heard the pounding of his own boots on the path. Opting to leave the Sten slung comfortably over his shoulder, his right hand dropped to his side, where his fingers pulled open the Velcro flap on his pistol holster. Seconds later, the reassuring weight of his Webley revolver was in a hand that trembled from over-exertion almost uncontrollably.
Steadying the gun with his other hand, Pace aimed the gun ahead of him, at the dark curtain of rain, ignoring the water that was being blown painfully into his eyes by an increasingly spiteful ocean gale.
But nobody materialised out of the darkness and he could barely believe his luck. How had they not heard him? Deciding it was probably the right time to keep the gun to hand, he stood back up and shook out his legs. Every muscle ached and shrieked in pain; his entire lower body felt leaden and glued to the path.
Forcing himself to move, keeping his steps brisk but careful to make as little sound on the gravel path as he could, Pace continued forwards. He turned another of the many hairpin bends and started up the incline again, moving back on himself but climbing inexorably towards the top of the cliff. Up ahead, somewhere close by, were the people who had taken Hammond.
Pace was summoning his thoughts and mentally preparing for the conflict that was imminent when he almost walked into the back of Farraha, even his slower speed clearly far exceeding that of his quarry.
Throwing himself backwards just enough to prevent a direct collision, Pace wobbled unsteadily on the backs of his heels for a split second before regaining his balance and making a snap decision. He had no way of knowing how far in front the next man might be, or if the man he'd nearly slammed into was the only person walking in single file. Incredibly the rain had grown more ferocious than before. Combined with the darkness, it closed down visibility to barely two metres.
Spinning the Webley expertly in his fingers, Pace reversed the gun and delivered a well-aimed blow at Farraha's neck, connecting firmly with the butt. Pace knew that head blows often bounced off and that an effective pistol-whip scene from the movies rarely worked out in real life. The most exposed, vulnerable point was the base of the neck. It was a gamble, he knew. Too much force and the neck could be broken but just enough force applied would render immediate unconsciousness.
Farraha dropped like a stone, on legs that crumpled beneath him. Stepping forward, Pace managed to slip his hands beneath the soldier's armpits and support his weight, gently lowering him to the path; pulling him in tightly against the rock wall and well away from the lethal sheer drop on the opposite side of the track. Pausing to check for a pulse in his neck, Pace smiled grimly to feel Farraha's life force blipping firmly beneath his fingertips.
Despite the rain and increasing chill he felt, as the heat from his uphill run began to dissipate, Pace stripped Farraha of his poncho and soft military cap, pulling the sodden peak down low in front of his face. He discarded Farraha's weapon over the edge of the track before slipping the unconscious man into a recovery position, allowing him to breathe freely. Pace might have needed him down but he was not a murderer.
The next three minutes seemed to last an eternity, as Pace made his way up behind each man in turn, discreetly knocking them all out with the Webley's heavy butt before manhandling them against the wall; each left in a similarly helpful breathing position. Five soldiers were unconscious, at different points along the track by the time a very welcome, and familiar, shape hove into view. Hammond was trudging along, his manner dejected and resigned. Another soldier was right behind him, prodding him irritatingly in the back with the muzzle of his automatic rifle. At each jab, Hammond made no response; not even a twitch. Pace knew that this must have been going on for a while. He also knew Hammond well enough to know that he'd never give up so easily.
Hammond decided it was time. They must nearly be at the top; they had been walking for over an hour. Summoning every last ounce of strength, he flicked his eyes down to the nearby edge of the path and the sheer death drop that lay over its side. In the next few moments, he would leap at it.
Hopefully he would manage to get clear before the guard behind him could react. Then, it was simply a matter of trying to grab on to something that might not even be there, on the way down. His chances were bleak but he stood no chance if he let them get him back to their barracks. Government figures and state security would be called, interrogations held, and his links to Doyle McEntire would come out. That, he would not allow.
At least James managed to get clear, he thought, stopping dead and throwing his impressive shoulders backwards in a surprise move that sent his sentinel's weapon skittering out of his hands and into the rainy night. Spinning on his heels, positive that he was abou
t to be gunned down by the soldiers he knew were coming up from behind, he suddenly found himself staring directly into pair of intensely blue eyes, filled with a mixture of admiration and exhilaration.
'Finally,' said Pace, voice wavering with restrained emotion. 'I come all this way and you decide not to act until I've cleared out all the bad guys. Typical,' he chuckled.
'James? What the hell?'
'Come on, no time to explain, let's get back down this path before they know what's gone on back here. How many more of them are there anyway?'
'Another half a dozen, I think,' answered Hammond, bewildered but recovering his senses and following hard on Pace's heels as his friend disappeared back into the storm, retracing their steps down the treacherous cliff trail. Every few metres, an inert form of an unconscious soldier came into view, snugly tucked in against the rock, but they did not stop. Travelling far quicker than was safe, they slipped, skidded and scrambled their way back down a dozen hairpins until they finally found themselves back in the warehouse complex.
''They must be on to us by now,' puffed Hammond, feeling the grumbles of a stitch beginning under his ribs but shrugging off the pain. He was still trying to adjust to the change in reality that meant he was actually still alive. 'I was planning to jump,' he said to Pace quickly. 'I couldn't see another way. I was going to jump and just pray I could grab a handhold or two on the way down to break my fall.'
'That rock face is pretty sheer,' responded Pace thoughtfully. 'I don't know that you'd have made it.'
'Me neither,' agreed Hammond. 'So you can see why I was so damned pleased to see you.'
'Likewise, Max,' replied Pace, feeling a lump starting to form in the back of his throat at the mental image of Hammond throwing himself off a high cliff. If Pace had been just a few moments later, it was highly likely that Hammond would now be lying dead at the base of the cliff. Swallowing it back, both men left the remainder of their thoughts unsaid; they were a close team who trusted each other with their lives. Today was just another example of that trust, they knew.
They hurried back to where they had left the Zodiac, still faithfully awaiting their return, dragged it down to the water and kicked over the outboard motor. Gunning it for all she was worth, they powered the little inflatable craft beyond the protection of the impregnable harbour wall, out into the teeth of the storm.
Greeted by an enormous wall of water, racing towards them, tipped with white and boiling with rage, the storm must have been a Force Eight by then.
'Did we bring life jackets?' shouted Hammond, struggling to be heard above the shrieking wind. His grin filled Pace with determination and renewed his intent to survive.
'Sorry, no!' he shouted back. 'Afraid we'll have to swim for it if the boat goes over.'
The first wave crashed into them, bodily lifting the Zodiac high, as Hammond throttled the engine for every horsepower, driving up over the crest and down the other side. Wave after wave was rolling in towards them, cresting at eight metres as they were drawn into the shallows. This was going to be one devil of a roller coaster ride, they both knew.
'Is it too late to turn back and ask our friends for a cup of coffee?' wondered Hammond.
'Probably.'
'Damn it. Okay,' Hammond conceded, 'I guess we'd better not hash this up then.'
The next wave hit them like an articulated truck breaking the speed limit and the Zodiac flipped over.
13
Commander Appleby was not pleased at his latest orders, especially when all the recent sea trials had been completed and the crew should have been hightailing it back to port. Instead, a priority order had come down the wire, ordering him to proceed 'with all haste' to an empty patch of ocean thirty miles off of the coast of Uruguay.
As a lifelong submariner, Appleby never failed to follow orders. He knew they were given for a reason; his liking them or not was irrelevant. When her keel was laid down, over forty years earlier, she had represented cutting edge technology and was the pride of the Royal Navy. A fast, lethal, nuclear-powered attack submarine, of the Swiftsure class, the boat had been named HMS Superb and served with distinction, and not a few mishaps, until being decommissioned in 2008, a little earlier than planned after a dry dock accident.
According to official records, her nuclear reactor had been cleanly decommissioned and the submarine had eventually been cut up for scrap, after all other traces of her technology had been removed or destroyed. Superseded by the bigger, faster Trafalgar class attack boats, HMS Superb had been consigned to the naval history books and a few lines in a Google search.
At the time of her commissioning, more than four years after her construction had begun, the boat officially needed a crew of one hundred and sixteen, although the vessel often ran slightly below this number whilst still performing admirably.
Commander Appleby had cut his teeth on the Swiftsure class, although he had never managed to serve aboard HMS Superb. As he approached retirement age, rather than leave the ocean and finish tied to some desk at the Admiralty, an offer too good to refuse had come his way. On the day he was piped off his Astute class nuclear submarine for the final time, handing over command to his fresh-faced, female successor, Appleby was by no means saying goodbye to the silent service.
On one of his final shore leaves, he had been summoned to a private meeting by Admiral Prowse; a long-time friend and confident. They had met at a small London pub, with no fanfare or more notably, any written record. The contact had been made on the secure satellite phone that all nuclear submarine commanders were now entrusted with by the Royal Navy. As the request to meet came from Prowse, he'd not questioned it and dutifully turned up at a rather dowdy establishment called the Pig and Crust, tucked down a side street near Bow.
Upon arrival, he spotted Prowse immediately, seated in a small alcove whose red velvet bench seat and wooden table had seen far better days. The Admiral was dressed in jeans and a thick woollen sweater to ward of the biting autumnal chill of an English October. He, himself, wore a long, dark blue duffel coat that completely concealed his uniform beneath.
The meeting had been brief and bizarre. The Royal Navy had sold one of its Swiftsure class boats to the security services. It had been deemed a project of national security and was, therefore, top secret. When questioned as to why the Royal Navy needed another security arm fielding a nuclear boat, Prowse had simply refused to be drawn. All he had said was that they were looking for an experienced submarine commander to run the boat now that an extensive refit had been completed. Would he be interested?
Admiral Prowse had chosen his man well. Not only had they known each other for over thirty years, but Prowse was also privy to the terrible motoring tragedy that had cost Appleby his entire family one wet Sunday afternoon a few years earlier. A drunk driver; only sixteen at the time, had lost control of a stolen vehicle at a town centre intersection whilst trying to evade a police car. Careening up onto the pavement, he had mown down eight innocent pedestrians.
Three of them were the most important people in the world to Appleby; his wife, sister and his twelve year old son. Appleby had been at sea at the time, out of contact due to being on a classified escort job for one of the Navy's ballistic missile submarines. By the time he got the message, two weeks had passed, which was probably a blessing.
British justice being what it often is, in cases like this, it gave the offender a paltry five year jail term but he was out on an electronic tag after serving barely two. Appleby, for his part, had a life sentence ahead of him.
So he'd taken the job and it was helping him cope with his loss. There was no reason to stay at home, rattling around in an empty detached house in Chipping Ongar. He rented it out, using an agent so he did not have to worry about anything. There was no mortgage to pay and the rental money was accruing in his bank account, topping up a healthy sum that he and his wife; a GP, had been squirreling away towards their planned retirement in Spain.
If any of the submarine's previous crew membe
rs, and there would have been thousands over the thirty years she saw service, had seen the submarine after her refit, none would have recognised the interior. They would, of course, have instantly recognised her from the outside. The hulking, sleek dark form that stretched eighty metres in length and nearly ten metres across, standing over three story's tall when she was in dry dock; another two if you included her impressive sail.
The insides had been gutted. The previous layout had been removed and replaced with two simple decks, each much taller and more spacious than the previous configuration. The walls in the control room sported large, moulded screens and all the consoles were touch-operated. The set up resembled a starship rather than a submarine, gleaming with polished plastic, aluminium and twinkling with a million lights across twenty-five screens, displaying sonar, radar, satellite tracking systems, weaponry and the operational status of its many stealth systems; all highly experimental.
The propulsions systems had always been reliable, as had the reactor. Upgraded a little, and with the propulsion system further shielded to bring her up to the standards of the most modern nuclear attack boats, the refit had been minimal in that area.
Accommodation would have been considered as luxurious for any serving submariner, even on an Astute or Trafalgar class submarine. No bunks and no shared hot-bunking either. The entire centre of the lower deck had been kitted out with separate cabins for officers and two large, airy dormitories for the crew. It had been an easy thing to do, seeing as how the reconfigured vessel operated with a crew of only fifteen sailors, trimming her previous compliment by over one hundred.
Her sea trials had gone better than anyone had expected. Additional strengthening of her pressure hull had increased her maximum diving depth and her performance, above and below the water, far outstripped the official specifications for the class. Appleby knew that the statistics the Royal Navy put out about the performance of their fighting vessels was always deliberately misleading, for the benefit of their enemies.