The Enemy v-2

by Tom Wood

Kasakov leaned closer to Burliuk. ‘If they are as good as Yuliya says they are then cease negotiations immediately, and pay them whatever — and I mean whatever — they want. Each second Ariff breathes and Illarion does not is unacceptable. If they bring me the Egyptian’s intact head so I can mount it on my wall, I shall pay them triple. Is that clear enough?’ Burliuk nodded. ‘Just make sure that worthless dog and his family are dead. Quickly.’

  The North Koreans stopped talking and looked back across the table.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ Kasakov began, anger gone, back to business. ‘Have you made up your minds?’

  The thin North Korean interlaced his fingers. ‘What about armaments? Tell us what you intend to deliver with the planes.’

  Burliuk used his inhaler a second time and fought not to smile. Everyone, governments included, wanted something for nothing.

  ‘A hound without teeth is no good to any man,’ Kasakov said, ‘but sharp fangs cost money. You’ll be pleased to know I have near enough unlimited access to air-to-air missiles such as the R-33 and the newer R-77, as well as air-to-surface, including the X-55 anti-ship missile. Please, my dear friends, check your catalogue for a full list of prices. However, as a sign of our enduring friendship, if you would be so very kind as to buy all twenty jets then I will supply each with a full armament of your choice of missiles. No extra charge.’ He paused. ‘So, do we have a deal?’

  The thin North Korean nodded. ‘But we want assurances of quality.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kasakov said with another smile. ‘You can have a money-back guarantee.’

  CHAPTER 36

  Washington, DC, USA

  Procter met Clarke in the Smithsonian National Zoological Park. He was waiting next to the Great Cats enclosure, watching a couple of Sumatran tigers lying on the ground, doing nothing. It was a warm day, which meant it was hot for a guy of Procter’s size. He stood next to Clarke and watched the tigers. They continued to do nothing.

  ‘They look bored,’ Procter said after a moment.

  Clarke didn’t turn his way. ‘What animal built so perfectly to kill merely wants to be fed?’

  Procter nodded. Few other visitors were near but Procter spoke quietly regardless. ‘I know what you are going to say, so don’t, all right? Things didn’t go exactly as planned last week in Minsk.’

  Clarke didn’t say anything. One of the tigers yawned.

  ‘Yamout made it out of the country alive, true, but Yamout is just the bishop, we’re going after the king here. The important thing is that we struck Ariff’s network right where he’s going to really feel it. Forget the fact that Yamout survived, what matters is that Ariff is going to be furious his best pal almost ended up a corpse. He’s still going to do the two things we wanted: he’s going to be on guard against further attacks and he’s going to want to deliver a nice big fat dollop of payback to the culprit. And courtesy of Callo, both Ariff and Yamout are going to believe that Kasakov was behind it. So that’s score number one.

  ‘As for number two, Kasakov now knows the RDX that killed Farkas came out of the batch stolen from him when his nephew was killed. If he hasn’t already begun moving against Ariff, he will very soon. But now Ariff knows Kasakov is gunning for him he’s going to be that much harder to hit, so Vlad won’t just be able to wipe him off the face of the Earth like he might have if Ariff didn’t take steps to protect himself. Kasakov is already hard to hit.’ Procter paused for a second. ‘The result is exactly what we want: the world’s two most prolific arms dealers thirsting for each other’s blood and entrenched in a war for hopefully years to come. The flow of illicit arms will be damaged so badly it might never recover. We’ll save countless lives.’

  Clarke huffed. ‘I’m well aware of the strategy, Roland.’

  ‘I know you are,’ Procter agreed, ‘but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of it when things become a little less clean than we would have liked.’

  Clarke was still watching the tigers, one of which was now sleeping.

  ‘Roland,’ he began, still without looking Procter’s way. ‘I hate to be the one to break this to you, but it couldn’t have been much dirtier. Your boy managed to gun down, what was it, twelve people? And if the initial reports are correct, four people who had been staying in the next suite along are among the dead.’

  ‘And I’m deeply unhappy about those civilian deaths,’ Procter assured. ‘But Tesseract didn’t have a lot of choice with the strike point. It would have been great if Yamout and Petrenko had met in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, but they didn’t. Civilian casualties are always a possibility with these things, and we need to wait to hear from Tesseract before passing judgement.’

  Clarke scoffed. ‘Your MVP failed to kill Yamout and took out four civilians in the process and you want to hear from him before passing judgement? Roland, please. You need to accept the facts: Tesseract is not as good as you hoped he would be, and he’s an even greater liability than I feared. He managed to kill one civilian casualty for every two bad guys. We might as well have shelled the building. At least then we would have taken out Yamout as well.’

  ‘Being from the military,’ Procter commented, ‘you should be more accepting of collateral damage.’

  Clarke’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Speaking of collateral damage,’ Procter said, ‘there’s something you need to know. Regarding Saul Callo. Those Brit contractors we used contacted me after making the call to Yamout’s people. Callo tried to escape. Abbott and Blout had no choice but to neutralise him before they were compromised. I’m pissed off about it, but I’m not going to lose any sleep, and neither should you. Callo was a disgusting excuse for a human being. You know that as well as I do.’

  Clarke sighed and shook his head. ‘I vouched for Abbot and Blout, so I take responsibility for what happened with Callo. But, like you said, I won’t lose sleep over him. I wish I could say the same about Tesseract.’

  Procter rested his palms against the fence. ‘There is a lot we don’t know, Peter, so let’s not jump the gun and condemn him without all the facts. When he reports in, we can have a proper debriefing. Our primary objective was achieved, even with Yamout alive. That’s what I call a success in this game.’

  Clarke said, ‘I think it’s time we re-evaluated our relationship with this assassin.’

  The second tiger joined the first and closed its eyes. They lay side by side.

  Procter shook his head. ‘I’m having a hard time understanding why you are so quick to write him off. Need I remind you that he completed his first two assignments perfectly? If he hadn’t saved Kasakov in Bucharest we would never have been in a position to get our little war. We are only this far into our plans and able to discuss how we continue because of the work he has done. Kasakov is going after Ariff, and Ariff will be going after Kasakov. All thanks to Tesseract.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Clarke said. ‘We have set things into motion so now we can start thinking about tying off loose ends.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Peter. Things are in motion, that’s true, but we are still going to need Tesseract at least once more, don’t forget.’

  ‘If we even get to that stage. Which we won’t if Tesseract failed to get away cleanly. I’m sure the Belarusians won’t be too concerned with a bunch of dead gangsters and mercenaries, but what about those four civilians? They’ll want to know why they died and who killed them. That’s another spotlight on us. We could have a huge problem walking around out there. We can’t allow that.’

  Procter sighed. ‘I very much doubt he’s left his fingerprints all over the damn hotel. Until he has made himself into a genuine problem then I don’t want to hear another word about loose ends.’

  ‘I find this protectiveness for your new pet quite touching, Roland. But if he has or will become a liability then I expect swift and decisive action.’

  Procter nodded and said, ‘Of course. You have my word.’

  CHAPTER 37

  Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan

  The hug
e aircraft was one hundred and ninety feet long with a wingspan of over two hundred feet, and a height of more than forty. It was a Soviet-made Antonov An-22, a cargo plane, one of the largest in the world, with a payload of up to 180,000 pounds. That capacity had been reached with two partially disassembled MiG-31B jet fighters and accompanying missiles and spare parts filling the aircraft’s cargo hold.

  The Antonov was flying at an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet above sea level and its shadow passed over the snowy peaks of the Hindu Kush mountain range in north-eastern Afghanistan. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air thin and free of turbulence. The Antonov had begun its long journey at an airport outside of Novosibirsk, Russia, and since leaving the country had flown south over Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan before entering Afghan airspace. The circuitous route would also take it over Pakistan, then India, Thailand and several bodies of water before it reached its destination of North Korea. North Korea and Russia shared a border, but the international community paid far too much attention to it to risk flying over directly with illegally traded arms.

  Each member of the crew was highly experienced in the extra-long flights necessary to deliver weapons to Kasakov’s customers around the globe. They numbered five: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and two flight engineers. All Russians, except the Ukrainian pilot. He had flown An-22s in the Soviet air force and made almost a hundred times more money now working for Vladimir Kasakov than he had for the communists. The other four crew members were too young to have flown for the Soviet Union and had been poached from the private sector. What they flew for the arms dealer, and to whom, never bothered them. All that mattered was their generous salaries.

  The plane cruised near to its maximum ceiling but the mountain peaks and ridgelines were only a few thousand feet below. The shaking of the fuselage and monstrous whine of the Antonov’s four massive engines prevented the flight from being peaceful, but the view of the snowy peaks glowing from unfiltered sunlight was a beautiful one.

  The pilot was grey-haired, perpetually unshaven and forever chewing an unlit cigar. He’d flown Antonovs into Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion and all this time later the country was no different. It was a cursed place, destined to be a battlefield for the rest of time. Why the Soviet Union had ever wanted to add it to the empire was beyond him. Soon the West would finally be driven out and the land could revert back to its natural barbarism.

  He glanced casually at his flight instruments for a quick check, but he rarely paid too much real attention to them. For him, flying was more about instincts than dials and levels. It was, and always had been, his life, and he did his job with a confidence born from long familiarity. In his experience, worse things happened on firm ground than in thin air.

  He popped open a can of his favourite German beer and took a long swig. Wiping foam from his chin, he offered the two other men in the cockpit a can each from the six-pack. The co-pilot grabbed one and had a similarly long drink. The navigator, boring as always, turned down the offer.

  Both drinkers belched happily.

  Ten thousand feet below, two Afghan men with binoculars stood on a mountainside. Despite the hot sun it was cold twelve thousand feet above sea level and they wore Pakol hats and long coats to stay warm. Their binoculars were American-made and donated by the military to be used by the then-Northern Alliance. The Taliban had long been overthrown, but the Afghans had kept their useful gifts. A donkey stood nearby, chewing dry grass.

  ‘That’s it,’ one said and lowered his binoculars. ‘Heading this way.’

  The other Afghan nodded. ‘Right on schedule.’

  The Stinger was already set up and waiting, carefully leaning against a nearby boulder. The older Afghan handled it easily and hoisted the weapon on to his shoulder. It was just under five feet in length and weighed thirty-three pounds. The Afghan’s proudest moment was when he had last used a Stinger to shoot down a Soviet Hind helicopter gunship during the late eighties. This feat was still talked about today, and the young were awed whenever he told the increasingly exaggerated tale. Of the hundreds of Stingers supplied to the Mujahideen during the conflict with the Soviets, around sixty per cent had been purchased back by the US as part of a fifty-five-million-dollar programme. This Stinger was part of the forty per cent unaccounted for.

  The Afghan inserted a battery coolant unit into the hand guard and pressed a button. Nothing happened. Cursing, but not surprised, the Afghan released the battery and was handed another by the second man, who had spare batteries ready and waiting. Again, nothing happened when he pushed the button. The Stinger and its launcher were decades old and all of the original battery coolant units had ceased working after a few years. These units had been recently supplied, but were still far from brand new. The Afghan inserted a third battery into the hand guard and this time it worked correctly, spraying argon gas into the launcher tube to cool the missile’s seeker head, making it sensitive enough to infrared to stay on target.

  The Antonov grew larger in the sky as it neared the two Afghans.

  It took a few seconds for the gyro spin-up to complete and electronics to activate, during which time the Afghan removed the protective lens cap from the end of the launcher and set his eye to the sighting scope. The field of view was narrow and he searched the sky to locate the plane.

  ‘To your right,’ the second Afghan said to help, ‘and up.’

  The older Afghan adjusted the launcher as directed. ‘I’ve got him.’

  A second later, he heard the distinctive tone telling him the seeker had locked on to the target.

  The Afghan could taste sweat on his lips as he super-elevated the weapon by aiming it almost vertical. This ensured the launched missile would gain sufficient altitude before the main motor fired. If it didn’t, the back blast could take off the user’s face. The Afghan had seen it happen.

  He depressed the trigger and 1.7 seconds later the launch rocket propelled the missile out of the tube. The launch engine fell away from the ascending missile and the forward control fins and fixed tailfins extended. At a height of twenty feet, the solid-fuelled main motor ignited.

  A huge roar and plume of vapour emanated from the missile and within two seconds the Stinger missile had accelerated to over twice the speed of sound.

  ‘ What the hell is that? ’

  The co-pilot’s voice snapped the Ukrainian pilot from his thoughts of home and his wife’s ample bottom. He had been lounging in his seat, one hand on the controls, and dropped his can as he straightened up to look where the co-pilot was pointing. German beer sloshed across the cockpit’s floor. The pilot’s eyes widened in disbelief at the fiery speck in the distance, trailing smoke and vapour that arched down towards the mountains.

  Behind the pilot, the navigator was on his feet. ‘Is that-’

  ‘ Yes,’ the pilot snapped in answer as he grabbed hold of the controls and heaved them back towards him. ‘That’s exactly what it is, and it’s heading right for us.’

  ‘How long until it hits?’ the navigator frantically said as the fiery speck quickly grew larger.

  The pilot didn’t answer. He concentrated on pulling on the controls to make the Antonov climb.

  The navigator screamed, ‘ Turn us around.’

  Again the pilot didn’t respond. The plane’s maximum speed was four hundred and sixty miles per hour but they were cruising at around three hundred. He watched the speedometer slowly turn clockwise, the acceleration tempered by the climb, knowing that even if the Antonov was already at maximum speed there was no way he was going to outrun a missile travelling at more than double that speed.

  ‘ Turn us around,’ the navigator screamed again. ‘Why aren’t you turning us around?’

  ‘Shut up and sit down,’ the pilot yelled back. ‘I’m trying to save your life.’

  From his time in the Soviet air force the pilot knew that ground-to-air missiles had limited ranges and a comparatively low maximum ceiling. His only hope was to get the Antonov to an altit
ude where the missile, for all its speed, wouldn’t be able to reach.

  The two Afghans watched the ever-lengthening trail of white vapour shoot across the sky. The trail was a jagged curve of straight lines as the Stinger’s guidance system used proportional navigation to make adjustments to its flight path, plotting a course to where the Antonov was heading so that it could intercept it.

  ‘Why is the plane doing that?’ the younger Afghan asked as they saw the Antonov climb steeply.

  The older Afghan wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to look ignorant in front of the youngster and so answered, ‘They’re scared.’

  ‘Will it still hit?

  The older man said, ‘I don’t miss.’

  They watched as the missile sped towards the Antonov, its passive infrared seeker locked on to the heat from the aircraft’s engines. In less than three seconds it had closed the distance.

  The Stinger hit the Antonov’s starboard wing between the two engines and its three-kilogram warhead detonated. The wing was ripped in half by the explosion and the detached section tumbled earthward.

  The pilot wrestled with the controls. His clenched teeth bit through the unlit cigar and it fell into his lap. The whole plane shook violently and he fought to keep it level. The altimeter needle turned counterclockwise.

  ‘ We’ve lost engine number three,’ the co-pilot yelled. ‘ Engine number two is on fire.’

  ‘Deactivate it,’ the pilot said.

  The co-pilot operated the controls to shut down the burning engine.

  ‘Shit,’ the pilot said as he watched the altimeter swinging ever more rapidly counterclockwise.

  The ropey muscles in the pilot’s arms were hard, his knuckles white, tendons straining beneath the skin. The co-pilot was similarly fighting with his own set of controls.

  ‘We’re not going to make it,’ he said, and looked to the pilot for a counterargument. He didn’t get one.

  When the altimeter hit fifteen thousand feet the pilot said, ‘We’re going to crash. Prepare for emergency landing.’