Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  And yet, she was here, just as Drake had said she would be. Whether or not there was anyone on board remained to be seen, though Hawkins doubted an operative of Anya’s experience would be foolish enough to allow herself to be boxed in like this.

  Still, if Drake was telling the truth, and this ship had been the centre of their planning phase for Pakistan, there could be a wealth of intel that could lead them to Anya.

  One thing was certain – that old tub couldn’t outrun them if this turned into a pursuit. They could make 60 knots if they pushed the electric motors to maximum. By the looks of her, the Alamo would struggle to hit 15.

  ‘Twenty seconds. Alpha Team, stand by.’

  In the second boat, weapons were checked for the last time, radios tested and equipment secured for deployment. Hawkins would have preferred to come in by chopper, but retrieving the intel on board could take time, and a helicopter hovering over a ship so close to shore would have attracted immediate and unwanted attention from the French authorities.

  The Alamo was visible even without night-vision now, the high-bowed vessel silhouetted against the moonlit horizon.

  ‘Ten seconds. Look sharp, boys,’ Hawkins advised.

  As they came within 50 yards, Hawkins’ own craft peeled off to port, the pilot slowing the engine to bring them into a holding pattern to cover the assault team. Although accustomed to leading from the front, he was content to sit back and allow the more junior members of his team handle this one.

  The second inflatable went straight for the stern, where the hull was lowest and the deck scuppers afforded easy access. Hawkins watched as the pilot cut power at the last moment, allowing the bow to drift into the side of the fishing trawler. A single grappling line was thrown onto the deck, pulling them close, and moments later a cluster of four men scurried aboard.

  ‘Deck clear,’ he heard one of them report over the radio net, his voice hushed.

  ‘Moving forward. Bow clear.’

  ‘Check the wheelhouse.’

  He heard the thump of a door being kicked in, followed by a terse confirmation. ‘Wheelhouse clear. Nobody’s home.’

  ‘Got a deck hatch here,’ another voice reported. ‘It’s secured and locked.’

  ‘Copy that, Alpha Team,’ Hawkins acknowledged. ‘Proceed below, and watch for booby traps.’

  ‘We’re on it. Telford, hydraulic cutters.’

  The high-powered cutting tool made short work of the simple steel padlock. Removing the lock, one operative gently raised the hatch half an inch while two of his comrades covered him, ready to open fire on anything or anyone that looked like it might be a threat.

  It took only a moment or two for their flashlight beams to pick out a tiny sliver of fishing wire, stretched taut by the hatch.

  ‘Got a tripwire here.’ A pause. ‘It’s not electrified. I’m cutting it now.’

  Hawkins tensed up. If the wire itself were some kind of conductor rather than just a tripwire, cutting it would interrupt whatever circuit it was rigged to maintain and likely trigger an explosive device. In which case, he could say goodbye to the assault team and any chance of retrieving whatever intel was aboard that ship.

  Anxious moments passed, broken only by the gentle lap of the waves against the inflatable hull of his boat.

  ‘Tripwire’s removed,’ the operative reported, his relief obvious. ‘I’m proceeding below deck.’

  Hawkins frowned, struck by the sudden thought that this was all playing out a little too easy. Drake was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them. Would he really have entrusted a place like this to so obvious a safeguard?

  ‘Hold up, Alpha Team,’ he commanded as the first operative ventured down through the open hatch, failing to notice the second tripwire attached to the ladder he was descending. ‘Check for secondary—’

  The bright flash of a detonation within the vessel was followed half a second later by a concussive boom that seemed to flatten the waves around them. Hawkins instinctively ducked as pieces of the wooden hull peeled backwards from the point of the explosion in a sudden blossom of fire and smoke.

  The effect on the deck was even worse, as the vessel’s midsection disintegrated in a storm of shattered wood and twisted metal. Both masts were shattered like matchsticks and thrown aside by the force of the explosion, taking with them the complex network of rigging suspended between them. Even the wheelhouse was partially caved in, as if struck by a giant fist.

  Picking himself up as fragments of burning wreckage rained down all around them, Hawkins watched as the crippled trawler appeared to collapse in on itself, the hull torn into two pieces by the devastating explosion amidships. Shattered decks tilted towards the waves, causing loose gear and the shredded corpse of one of his operatives to bump down their rapidly listing surfaces.

  The stern, weighed down by the heavy engines and steering gear, went first, quickly disappearing from view amidst a sea of churning foam as the few remaining pockets of air collapsed. The forward section lingered stubbornly for a moment or two, the bow pointing defiantly skywards, before finally succumbing and sliding beneath the waves.

  As the gurgling and rumbling of the sinking vessel receded and the fires burning on the surface began to flicker out, Hawkins let out a sigh and rolled his neck to loosen the taut muscles. The casualties on the assault team meant little to him; they were grunts, of little value and easily replaceable. But one thing he couldn’t recover was the time he’d wasted on this operation.

  ‘Nice move, Ryan,’ he said under his breath, impressed by his former comrade’s audacity, if nothing else. ‘But you will pay for it.’

  It was becoming clear to him that Drake wasn’t going to give in easily. Breaking him was still perfectly possible, of course – every man could be broken, given enough time and pressure – but doing so might take longer than he had. Perhaps there was an easier way to get what he needed.

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time,’ he said, turning to the patrol boat’s pilot. ‘Get us out of here before the police show up.’

  The explosion would have been audible for miles around, and the distinctive orange flash visible to anyone who cared to look.

  ‘One of Alpha team might still be alive in the water, sir,’ the pilot protested weakly, nodding towards the floating debris field. ‘Shouldn’t we…’

  He trailed off, a look from Hawkins silencing further protests. He swung the wheel over and throttled the engine up to full power.

  Chapter 6

  Newport Beach, California, 12 June 1988

  Anya sighed as she stared up at a vast, uninterrupted afternoon sky that seemed to stretch out for ever. Only a single thin white line, as straight as an arrow, marred its pale-blue perfection. An aircraft contrail, moving slowly from east to west as if a child were drawing a careful, deliberate line across a chalkboard. And for a moment, she caught the glint of sunlight off the wings of the aircraft. Too high to make out the details, but bright and distinct all the same, reminding her of a shooting star.

  As a child, lying on the grassy slope overlooking her parents’ home, she had often enjoyed being amidst the gently swaying stalks and watching high-flying aircraft, wondering where they were heading, who they were carrying. In some part of her childish mind she even imagined them transporting her off to some distant new land. A land of far horizons and endless skies, where she could finally do something worthy of the life she’d been given.

  ‘Not interrupting, am I?’

  Glancing at the young man standing over her with an ice cream cone in each hand, Anya smiled and sat up, shaking loose sand from her hair.

  ‘Not when you come bearing gifts,’ she said.

  Grinning, Marcus Cain sat down beside her and handed her one of the cones. ‘Enjoy. The asshole running the stall wouldn’t break a twenty for me. Had to walk two blocks to get change.’ He shrugged. ‘Just saying, is all.’

  ‘My hero.’ She tilted her head in acknowledgement before taking a bite, savouring the taste that was at
once pleasing yet strangely unfamiliar to her. Such simple things as this would have been considered a luxury during her own childhood.

  ‘Well, I guess you earned it,’ he acknowledged with mock reluctance, leaning back a little on the sand. Dressed in jeans and a casual short-sleeved shirt, he was a far cry from the formally suited intelligence operative who prowled the corridors at Langley.

  And yet somehow this more relaxed look suited him, she thought, knowing in that moment that Cain’s professional life was little more than a veneer covering the real man beneath. For the first time in a long while, Marcus Cain looked at ease with himself. And in a way, Anya knew some of that was because of her. She felt a blush of warmth rise within her at the thought.

  It had been nearly three years since her unit first set foot on the war-torn soil of Afghanistan. Three years of fighting and killing, clawing for survival, trying to stay one step ahead of an enemy that was growing increasingly ruthless and desperate as the tide of battle turned against them. Three years of war. But now it seemed their war was ending.

  Weakened and drained by nearly ten years of constant fighting, the Soviets were preparing to withdraw their demoralized forces from Afghanistan, just as the British had done a century earlier. And as for Anya and the unit she had been part of, they too had been withdrawn from the field to await further orders. Given the secret nature of their work, she doubted history would ever record their names or deeds, but it would be nice to know that someone beyond their small circle of CIA handlers was aware of them.

  Still, she had to admit the orders to return home hadn’t been entirely unwelcome. Anya and her comrades had acquitted themselves admirably on the battlefield, exceeding the CIA’s wildest expectations, but the war had been almost as draining for them as it had been for their enemies.

  And none more so than for their youngest member. Her time in Afghanistan had changed her. The fire and lust for revenge that had driven Anya in the early days had cooled. She was older, perhaps a little wiser and more mature than she’d been back then, able to see the world from a different perspective. She’d even found herself pondering what she might do with her life once this was over, whether she could be more useful in peacetime than she’d been in war.

  Much of that still lay in the hands of the CIA, of course. There had been a great deal of discussion about what to do with her now, countless debriefings and interviews with intelligence experts eager to learn from her experiences against the Soviet military, and her thoughts on which of their Mujahedeen allies might be best suited to help form a post-war government. Her head was spinning from all the questions, but finally Cain had wrestled her from their clutches so that she could enjoy some proper downtime.

  And here she was, sitting on the opposite side of the country, staring out across a sandy beach to the shimmering, endless blue waters of the Pacific. It was the first time in her life that she’d seen it, and it was beautiful. It was a world away from Washington, from the Agency, from global politics and the all concerns that had defined her life for the past three years. Cain had seen to it that their journey here had gone unmarked, that there was no Agency escort or surveillance of any kind.

  No one on this beach had a clue who either of them were, and no one cared. In short, they were free.

  Shouts and laughter momentarily drew Anya’s attention to an impromptu football game unfolding off to their left, played by a big group that looked to be of college age. The beach was a popular location for sports of all kinds, but the American passion for football seemed to take precedent over everything else.

  Anya watched as one young man, catching a long, sailing pass with effortless ease, slipped his way past one of his opponents before suddenly changing direction and pushing aside a second who tried to tackle him. Flushed with his success, he turned to gloat at the two young men he’d just beaten, only for a third to barrel straight into him, knocking him flat into the soft sand, much to the amusement of the others.

  Anya couldn’t help but laugh, both at their antics and the strange, unfamiliar but wonderfully liberating situation in which she now found herself. For the first time in her adult life, she was free. Free to go where she would, eat and drink whatever she wanted, indulge whatever whim occurred to her.

  ‘Kids. A lot of testosterone, not a lot of brains,’ Cain remarked with a good-natured smile, following her gaze. ‘Not yet, at least.’

  Kids, she thought. In reality they were probably only a year or so younger than her, even if their lives were drastically different. But here they both were on the same beach, beneath the same afternoon sky. Two worlds briefly overlapping but, she sensed, never fated to join.

  ‘Believe it or not, I was like that once.’

  Pushing aside these thoughts, Anya grinned mischievously at Cain. ‘What do you mean “once”? I think you would join in if you had half a chance,’ she teased, though she soon turned a little more serious. ‘Anyway, I was just thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About how it feels, being here. Sitting on this beach eating ice cream, watching people playing games. Doing normal things.’

  ‘And?’ Cain asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head, struggling to make sense of the conflicting emotions within her. ‘There were times… out there, when I almost forgot what it could be like.’

  She didn’t say it out loud, on the unlikely chance that someone might overhear their conversation, but he knew what she meant. Afghanistan, the place where she’d spent the better part of three years – fighting, killing, risking her life on an almost daily basis, enduring hardships that the kids playing games around her could barely imagine.

  Only the man sitting beside her had some inkling.

  She felt a warm hand on her arm, and looked around at Cain. ‘Then maybe it’s a good thing you came home,’ he said gently. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Home,’ she repeated, as if unfamiliar with the word. She’d had little cause to use it in her life. The home and the life she’d once known had been torn away from her as a child, replaced first with years of imprisonment in one form or another, then later by harsh and unrelenting battles to survive, to escape, and to wreak revenge on those who had taken so much from her.

  No, it had been a long time since Anya had called anywhere home.

  ‘Why not?’ Cain asked, turning more serious now. ‘This is your home now, Anya. This is where you belong. If you want it, that is,’ he added.

  He was waiting for her reply, waiting to hear her decision. She could practically feel the tension radiating from him as the moments crawled by. The choice was hers. She was free – free to choose her own path now.

  A home, a life, a future. If she wanted this place. If she wanted him.

  She didn’t think she’d ever wanted anything more.

  ‘Marcus,’ she whispered, her lips parting slightly as her breathing came faster.

  He leaned in closer, sensing her need and responding in kind. ‘Yeah?’

  Giggling, Anya reached up and touched her ice cream against his nose, leaving a smear of melted cream behind.

  ‘Hey!’ he sputtered as he wiped it away, both amused and surprised by the trick she’d played. ‘That’s gonna cost you.’

  ‘You have to catch me first,’ Anya teased, springing to her feet. ‘Come on, you said you were like those kids once. Show me, old man.’

  She felt alive, emboldened, bristling with energy she needed to expend. For the first time in a long time, she felt young. She felt like the future was a great open adventure stretching before her, as vast and perfect as the blue sky above. And it was because of him.

  As she took off down the beach, laughing with unrestrained excitement, Cain scrambled to his feet and sprinted after her.

  ‘Old man, my ass! Wait until I catch you!’ he called out.

  * * *

  Anya was awoken with a start by an exclamation from the other side of the room. ‘Yes! Get in there, my son!’ Alex called
out, punching the air in triumph.

  Anya blinked and shook her head, trying to rouse her mind from the dream that still lingered, leaving her feeling uncharacteristically disoriented and confused. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at her wrist watch, the iridium dial glowing faintly in the gloom.

  6.12 a.m. Alex had been working for nearly seven hours straight.

  ‘Have you found something?’ Anya asked, rising from the couch with difficulty. Her body, contorted into an unnatural sleeping position by the need to keep pressure off her ribs, ached as she stretched out her muscles.

  ‘Something? I’ve found everything on young Miss Cain,’ Alex explained hurriedly. ‘Only she’s going by the name Shaw these days. I knew she couldn’t hide from me for ever.’

  His eyes were wide and bloodshot, the pupils fully dilated, his words tumbling out so fast they seemed to blend together into a mass of sound. Anya caught herself wondering if he’d taken to using something stronger to keep his energy up while she was asleep, but the three crumpled cans of Red Bull lying on the floor by his computer desk offered some explanation.

  ‘Show me,’ Anya said, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep and hurrying over to review his findings.

  Grinning, he spun around to face his laptop. ‘Cain was clever, very clever. He’d wiped all digital records of her birth, medical reports, the whole lot. And that was his first fuck-up.’

  Anya frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t. But like Sun Tzu said, don’t fight the enemy where they are; fight them where they aren’t.’

  Anya folded her arms. Being well versed with The Art of War, his attempted quotation cut little ice with her. ‘Sun Tzu said nothing of the sort. Now where are you going with this?’

  ‘Well, he should have,’ Alex said with a shrug. ‘Anyway, my point is that instead of altering his daughter’s birth records, Cain just had them deleted outright. It’s brutal but lacking in subtlety. And it’s the key, you see. All I had to do was run a null-value error search for hospitals in the continental United States on that particular date, and suddenly the playing field narrows considerably.’ Bringing up a website, he pointed to the screen like a game show host touting a prize. ‘The Pinewood Hills medical centre – lovely little private clinic for the rich and famous to push mini-humans out of their—’