Traitor

by Duncan Falconer

  Binning became his usual light-hearted self. ‘Unlike your friend here, I don’t think this is the time to start revealing facts and admitting guilt. There’s more of this game left to play, just in case you happen to think it’s all over because you currently have the upper hand. As your friend keeps trying to warn you, we don’t have a great deal of time. You should think about taking him seriously.’

  Stratton was not about to be manipulated. ‘Before we do anything else I want you all to get down on the deck . . . on your bellies.’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Jordan pleaded. ‘We don’t have time for that.’

  Stratton took his old friend seriously. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Charges have been critically placed. We’ve just enough time to get to the lifeboats. I’m serious,’ Jordan assured him, seeing the doubt in Stratton’s face. ‘I was never in agreement with that part of the plan but it’s done—’

  ‘Don’t be such a wuss,’ Deacon interrupted.

  ‘Explain the explosives,’ Stratton commanded Deacon.

  The man shrugged. ‘Like he said. And there’s an anti-lift built into both dets that’ll take you longer than you ’ave just to find ’em.’

  ‘He has the initiator,’ Jordan said.

  ‘I ’ave to say, Jordan, I’ve lost all respect for you.’

  Stratton levelled his SMG at the former SAS man. ‘Give me the initiator.’

  Deacon shook his head. ‘I start a job, I finish it.’

  ‘I’ll kill you in five seconds if you don’t hand it to me and then he’ll search you for it,’ Stratton said, indicating Jason. He raised the business end of the SMG.

  Deacon knew that a round leaving the gun’s barrel would strike his head. And he had no doubt that Stratton was about to pull the trigger. ‘It’s in my pack.’

  Stratton didn’t move.

  Deacon reached into the bag and removed the safe-box that had contained his secret instructions. ‘It’s in here,’ he said, a smirk on his lips. He tossed the box to Jordan who caught it. ‘I’ll let the rat give it to you.’

  Binning was the first to take advantage of the distraction by suddenly grabbing Rowena, pulling her in front of him and drawing his pistol. He held its muzzle to the back of her head. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, stepping backwards, putting distance between himself and Stratton’s lethal SMG. ‘I don’t have time to play these games any more. I’m going to walk down to one of the lifeboats. If anyone tries to stop me I’ll kill her. Please don’t doubt me. Time is running out.’

  ‘Stand still,’ Stratton said coldly. The confidence of his tone checked Binning. ‘Take one more step and I’ll shoot. You won’t make it to the boat whether you kill her or not,’ Stratton said. With finality.

  Whatever Binning thought about Stratton he suddenly had no doubts that the man would kill him. He couldn’t let go of Rowena but neither could he take another step towards the lifeboats.

  ‘What’s the number?’ Jordan asked Deacon.

  ‘Could take you a while to open that without it,’ Deacon chuckled.

  ‘I’m going to start shooting in three seconds,’ Stratton growled.

  ‘One, two, three, four, then the open button,’ Deacon said quickly. ‘I don’t have a memory for complicated numbers.’

  Jordan punched in the first number on the digital keyboard.

  Deacon watched. He took a quick glance at Stratton, who was watching him, jaw tight and finger on the trigger. If Deacon moved he knew the SBS man would shoot him.

  Binning held Rowena tightly to him, desperately wondering how to get out of this situation. Freedom was only metres away but Stratton would kill him and maybe Rowena if he moved, he was sure of it.

  Deacon’s stare flicked back to Jordan. There was less explosive in the box than in a hand grenade and since it was made of toughened plastic, which the heat would soften, there would be less lethal shrapnel. But the blast would be enough to injure all of them, perhaps seriously. Jordan would die, of course. All Deacon had to do was survive it, get the upper hand and escape. There was time.

  Jordan touched the number three on the pad. Deacon tensed himself for four.

  Jason was watching Jordan but a glance at Deacon suddenly warned him of something. The way the man’s stare bored into Jordan’s fingers, his body trying to lean away.

  Jordan had pressed the four button. Only ‘open’ to go now. Deacon was trembling with the urge to dive away. If he did so too soon Jordan could stop, and Stratton would shoot him.

  The operative saw the change in Deacon, the tension in his expression and the way he was leaning backwards. He didn’t know whether to shoot him or shout at Jordan to stop. Either alternative would have been too late to save Jordan.

  As Jordan’s finger hit the final button Deacon launched himself backwards. Stratton crouched instinctively and tightened his finger on the trigger. The explosion lifted each of them away from Jordan, a wall of heat sending them reeling across the deck.

  Jason came to crumpled against a piece of machinery, his head spinning, unsure of where in the world he was. All he knew was that he was in a dangerous place. He fought to pull his thoughts together. The seconds before the blast came back to him and he pushed himself up onto his hands. He realised that he couldn’t see out of one eye and in a fit of panic he felt for it, expecting to find that he had lost it. The skin was sticky but the eyeball felt like it was there. He wiped it and blinked furiously. He realised blood was flowing from a cut across his forehead.

  Jordan lay still, his smouldering upper body cruelly distorted by the blast. It had taken off both his arms and removed his face completely. Against the rails Stratton heaved in lungfuls of air and tried to bring his knees beneath him, to get up. Deacon was on all fours, shaking his head like a deranged drunk. The Japanese mercenary lay planted across a tool bench and, although dazed, his face peppered in bloody cuts, he was stretching an arm towards his weapon that was a foot away.

  Jason could see no sign of Binning and Rowena. He got shakily to his feet and saw the Japanese man going for the weapon. If either thug regained control of the situation it would not be ideal.

  Jason aimed himself at the man, put a foot on the weapon as Banzi took hold of the barrel to pull it closer, then dropped onto him. The mercenary was no slouch when it came to self-defence and with a lift of his knee somersaulted Jason over him and onto his back. Banzi got to his knees and picked up the weapon but Jason kicked him in the face from where he lay and sent the mercenary rolling.

  Both men scrambled for the gun, both grabbing it at the same time, and a fierce battle for its control ensued.

  Stratton had absorbed a heavy impact from the explosion. His vision was askew and he fought to control it. Oddly the blast brought back memories of other explosions that he had survived. In a strange way the memories helped him. He knew it had only been seconds since the detonation and that he had to get to his feet. If he did not gain control of himself, someone else might. He became aware of two men slamming into a piece of nearby machinery, fighting over possession of a rifle. As the rain pelted his face he saw a man on his knees a few metres away reaching for a backpack on the soaked metal deck, his hand rooting inside it. Deacon. Stratton had to get to him before he got what he wanted out of the pack.

  The operative put all his weight onto his toes and hands and shoved off like a sprinter. He managed to stay on track after tottering slightly and barrelled into his target, hurting himself in the process but sending the man reeling. The pistol that Deacon had in his hand clattered along the gridded floor and dropped through a gap to the deck below.

  Stratton pressed home the attack with little ambition beyond smothering his adversary and controlling him. But Deacon had taken less of the blast. He flipped over and swung a punch that connected with Stratton’s face. Stratton held him like a boxer hanging on to an opponent to gain breathing space. But the man fought feverishly, raining blow after blow onto Stratton and, finally freeing himself, rolled away to the top of a stairwa
y and scrambled down the steps.

  Despite the blows, Stratton could feel his senses returning, perhaps due to a combination of the cold rain and the adrenalin shooting through him. He grabbed a rail and pulled himself to his feet at the top of the steps.

  Deacon had nearly reached the bottom and Stratton did the only thing he could think of: he launched himself from the top and let gravity do the rest. He hit Deacon square in the back, propelling him along the rails and into one of the lifeboat cradles. Both of them were winded but Stratton more so than the ex-SAS man. Deacon held Stratton around the neck in a powerful grip and began to force his head onto one of the guides so that the swinging vessel above might crush it. Stratton avoided the first roll but his face ended up back on the guide. Deacon held him firm and reached for the boat’s release lever that if pulled would sever Stratton’s head. As Stratton twisted free his harness strap got caught on a bolt-head. Deacon yanked the lever. The lifeboat swung down on its rollers along the guides and out above the water in preparation for lowering. Stratton threw himself out of the way with less than a second to spare.

  Deacon was about to move in for another attack when he saw the pistol lying on the deck between several duct pipes. He decided it was his best chance. Stratton recovered to see the mercenary grabbing a firm hold of the gun. He was too far away to charge the man. As Deacon turned to shoot, Stratton launched himself in between a dense section of piping and, bouncing between one and another, scrambled for all he was worth as the first bullet exploded from the gun and slammed into metal, ricocheting several times. A high-pressure pipe burst loudly, spurting black oily liquid in all directions. Stratton hit so much metal with his body as he ran recklessly that he could not be sure if he’d been struck by the bullet. But as long as he could still move that was what he would fight to do.

  He ducked beneath spars, grabbed ahead for pipes to pull himself on. He darted between pieces of machinery, trying not to allow his pursuer a clean shot. Deacon stalked him deliberately, moving confidently over pipes, around valves, between machines, not taking his eye off his prey flitting in and out of sight and only barely managing to deny him a clean shot.

  Deacon knew that he would get his man if he remained calm and controlled. He had been in similar situations before, all in the desert, following up failed ambushers or opportunist attackers who had underestimated their intended victim until it was too late. None of those past experiences would be as satisfying as this one. Not only was there more at stake but his prey was a professional like him. A man of pedigree. A member of the SBS. It would be a worthy kill.

  Stratton could sense the ability of his pursuer and desperately fought through the obstacles, first one way, then another. He grabbed a steaming-hot pipe, groaned with the pain and pulled himself forward anyway. One clean shot was all the bastard would need and it would be over.

  Stratton risked a glance back, only to see the muzzle flash of the gun as Deacon fired. Inches wide. Stratton searched ahead. It was going to have to be over the side. Yet even that looked doubtful. He still had half the deck between him and the edge.

  Another round slammed into a girder inches from Stratton’s head. Deacon knew he had at least ten left. Another shot slammed into a storage container. Stratton suddenly emerged from the nest of piping to find himself in open space. A round sliced across his arm, cutting through his dry-suit, burning the skin.

  Stratton saw his only chance: across the gap was a diving habitat, the hatch open at the end of the tube. He sprinted towards it with every ounce of strength he could muster.

  As Deacon stepped out from the pipes and came up on aim, fancying his chance at a moving target, Stratton dived into the manhole-sized hatch and bounced into the tube. Deacon’s shot slammed into the steel pipe. Unperturbed, he walked briskly towards the housing. As far as he could see, Stratton had run into some kind of diving bell and was trapped. The final moment was coming. Such was his confidence that Deacon paused to calculate the time remaining: he had around fifteen minutes before the charges went off. Ample time to blow this prick away and launch a lifeboat.

  The habitat was basically a saturation-divers’ surface-living accommodation for use between diving tasks. The entrance tube that Stratton had dived through led into a living chamber containing a couple of bunk beds and a table. A further tube led from the living chamber to another hatch that was used to connect to the actual diving bell after it was brought to the surface with the divers inside. They could remain at pressure on the platform, sleep and eat in the habitat without having to decompress, and so could go back to work the following day.

  Stratton climbed from the tube into the chamber. He turned himself around and began to reach along the tube to shut the hatch, which opened inwards. As he did so Deacon appeared. Stratton knew he wouldn’t make it and shuffled back into the cramped accommodation section, looking around for anything he could use. When Deacon leaned in through the hatch with his pistol gripped in his outstretched hand Stratton hit a switch on the wall and the light went out. The boom of the gun echoed loudly in the bell. The bullet struck the metal skin and bounced around inside several times before its energy dissipated.

  Deacon listened for any clue that he had struck his man. ‘Come on, matey. All you’re doin’ is delayin’ the end. Let me finish you off cleanly so I can get about my business.’

  The silence within the grim habitat persisted, the only sound the wind whistling past the hatch opening. Deacon checked his watch. He still had twelve or so minutes before detonation. There was time to finish the job in hand. With an irritated sigh, he lifted himself inside the tube.

  He inched his way along, keeping the pistol close in front of him, confident he could get the shot in even in the darkness.

  A heavy metal object flew into the tube, bounced off the side and struck Deacon hard in the face, only serving to rile the man further. ‘You bleedin’ twat!’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavelike dwelling. ‘Right,’ he muttered, more determined than ever to get the bastard. He stopped before the end of the pipe and fired into the blackness of the accommodation. The round ricocheted across the metal room. He fired again and again in different directions, certain that he would hit the man eventually. Deacon was well aware of the risks of being struck himself but his obsession with killing Stratton was muddying his judgement. ‘Come on, you little shit! The SAS are ’ere now. The boss men. The numero unos! Your betters! Accept it and take it like a man!’

  Deacon fired again and as the echoes of the gun’s discharge and the bullet’s ricochet subsided he could hear a sound. A change in the dim light came from the opening of another tunnel at the other side of the accommodation section. Deacon squinted, wondering what it could be. He realised there was movement in the tunnel and that the light was coming from outside. Stratton was climbing out through another hatch.

  Deacon fired wildly towards it and scrambled as quickly as he could. He dropped onto the floor of the habitat and ran across it to the other tube. He struck the table with his hip and cursed, lunging into the pipe. In the dim light he saw a hand reach in to grab the handle in the middle of the hatch. Deacon struggled to bring the weapon up on aim, then changed his mind and grabbed for the edge of the hatch before it closed. It was ripped from his hand and slammed shut. He lunged for the internal wheel in the darkness but it spun in his hand and bolts moved into grooves to lock the hatch solidly into place.

  Deacon pulled as hard as he could on the wheel but it would not budge. The bastard had blocked it with something. The implications of his predicament filled him with panic. He had been outsmarted. But there was still the original entrance. He slid back into the living chamber as quickly as he could.

  Stratton finished hammering the cleat into the hatch wheel and ran around the outside of the habitat. He paused at the control panel and quickly scanned the valves and gauges. Time was running out. He identified the valve he needed and turned it brutally several times. Something behind the panel began to hiss. He rushed to the original
entrance hatch to complete the manoeuvre, reaching inside as Deacon scrambled into the tube.

  Deacon raised his gun to fire and as Stratton pulled the wheel of the hatch towards himself the pistol went off.The round bounced off the inside of the hatch. Deacon lunged forward, grabbing for the wheel, this time getting hold of it before Stratton could close it. They began a desperate tug-of-war.

  Stratton raised a knee up against the outer seal as Deacon hooked his feet around the edge of the tube. Stratton almost had the hatch closed but he could not pull it that last inch to turn the wheel. The gas building up inside the chamber began to escape through the hatch. Stratton put all he had into one big effort and almost managed to close the opening. It was the escaping gas that eventually worked in his favour and the hatch suddenly slammed shut like a safe door under the internal pressure.

  Stratton slumped limply, hanging from the wheel in pain. He did not need to turn the handle to lock the hatch. The increasing pressure inside would ensure it remained firmly shut. Just a few pounds’ difference in pressure between the inside and outside was enough to keep the door closed against the strength of a team of horses.

  Stratton was in pain, his bullet wounds giving him hell after his efforts. None had penetrated deeply since all had been third- or fourth-generation ricochets. But they had done some damage.

  He forced himself to his feet, all too aware of the imminence of the explosion. He checked the pressure gauges on the control panel and felt the side of his chest and dug a flattened bullet out of his dry-bag.

  As he was about to set off to the main deck there came a crash nearby as a body landed from above. It was a hellish fall and if the person hadn’t been dead beforehand they had to be close to it now.

  Another figure scurried down a duct pipe to land nearby. Jason walked over to inspect his work, then realised the presence of someone close to him and prepared to face another attacker.