by Chris Ryan
‘We’re on the line to the BBC control room. Give me thirty seconds . . .’
‘We haven’t got thirty seconds. WHERE IS HE?’
There was short pause. And then, a slightly sick-sounding voice. ‘Shooter’s Hill, sir. He’s in the air. He’s over the start line.’
‘Who’s his pilot?’
‘An Alan McIntyre. We’ve got nothing on him either.’
‘Instruct the control centre to ground them. Monitor their response.’
The hubbub in the room grew louder. On one of the large screens on the far wall, a flashing red dot appeared on a map of London, south of the river, over a patch of green where Bixby knew the marathon crowds were congregating.
Twenty seconds passed.
‘Sir,’ came a voice. ‘The BBC ops room are failing to make contact.’
Bixby blinked.
‘They can’t get hold of them sir. They can’t establish comms with the chopper. What the hell do we do?’
‘Is Hereford online?’ Bixby demanded.
A voice came over the loudspeaker. ‘Roger that.’
‘Options?’ Bixby demanded.
A momentary pause.
‘We have one chopper coming in from Hereford. We have another two taking off from the Artillery Garden. They can force the target to move over the river. That gives us options, but you need to understand that we risk forcing their hand. As soon as they see three choppers coming their way, it might force them to release the bioweapon, or even crash land.’
Bixby’s eyes flickered towards the Chief. He was clutching his hair, unable to speak and seemingly incapable of making the call.
Bixby breathed deeply. ‘Can you neutralise this threat without civilian casualties?’
The reply, when it came, was tinged with contempt. ‘You bring the Regiment in if you want to fight violence with violence. It’s your call.’
Bixby closed his eyes. He breathed deeply.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Do it now.’
0758 GMT
From his vantage point above the start line, Bailey looked down on the crowds. It was a sea of people. Thousands of them, like herded sheep, just waiting to be infected.
He heard McIntyre’s voice. It had an edge of panic. ‘The control room want to ground us. Someone suspects something!’
Bailey turned away from his TV camera to look at the pilot. The time had come.
‘What’s our altitude?’ he shouted.
‘Five hundred feet.’
‘Engage the spraying arms.’
McIntyre nodded. He flicked a lever on the flight deck. There was a grinding sound from beneath the helicopter. Through the open side door, Bailey saw one of the arms move open so that it was pointing out ninety degrees from the side of the aircraft. He checked the spraying motor inside the chopper, and the rubber tube that led to it from the canister. All was well.
‘Put your rebreather on!’ he shouted.
McIntyre clumsily pulled the rebreathing hood over his head with one hand. Bailey did the same. He reached out and clutched the red lever that would engage the spraying system. Then he looked over to his pilot again.
‘Get down to one hundred and fifty feet. Do it! Go!’
Bailey’s stomach lurched as they immediately lost altitude. He clutched the side of the chopper with his free hand as he felt the helicopter bank sharply, its nose dipping. The crowd came momentarily into view through the open side door, then disappeared as the chopper straightened up again.
‘We’ve got a problem!’ McIntyre shouted. His voice was very muffled, but Bailey could hear a high-pitched tone to it. ‘We’ve got two helicopters on our tail, coming from the south! They’re going to crash into us!’
‘No they’re not!’ Bailey shouted. And when he realised his voice was too muffled, he ripped off his rebreather. ‘No they’re not! They won’t hit us, especially when we’re over these crowds. What’s our height?’
‘Two hundred and seventy-five feet.’
‘That’s too high to spray – it won’t be as effective! Get lower! A hundred and fifty feet! Get to a hundred and fifty feet!’
His hand left the lever. He looked through the windows. Sure enough, two hulking helicopters were on their tail. They were no more than twenty-five metres distant, and they were moving towards them: slowly, but implacably.
‘LOWER!’ Bailey screamed again.
But as he shouted, something else caught his eye. It was a third helicopter, speeding towards them from the direction of the river. Distance: a hundred metres, but rapidly closing. Bailey had the uncanny sensation that the helicopter’s nose was heading straight for him.
McIntyre was edging the chopper north, away from the two choppers closing in on them. He was panicking. Bailey felt his blood burn. He was going to mess the whole thing up!
‘THEY WON’T HIT US!’ he screamed. ‘THEY WON’T HIT US ABOVE THESE CROWDS. GET LOWER!’
But even as he gave this final instruction, the third helicopter drew up alongside them. As it hovered thirty metres from their Twin Squirrel, it rotated ninety degrees so that its nose was pointing in the same direction.
Bailey’s hot blood ran cold. He saw, quite clearly, a figure leaning at the open side door of this third helicopter. He wore a helmet and boom mike. Black body armour. And he had his eyes lined up with the sights of his rifle, pointing directly towards Bailey, ready to take a shot.
Bailey had no choice. They were still higher than 150 feet, but this was his last chance.
‘MOVE LOWER! MOVE LOWER!’ he screamed.
Then he stretched out to grab the lever that would engage the bioweapon.
The others hadn’t been fast enough.
When the order had come in over their headset that one of them was to prepare to take a shot at the target chopper, Spud’s companions had heard just that: an instruction.
Spud had heard far more. He’d heard Tony Wiseman: Could be worse. Could be a bleedin’ desk jockey, hey, Spud? He’d heard Eleanor the spook: Your army days are over, Spud. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. He’d heard Ray Hammond: We’re doing our fucking best for you, but there’s a limit to how much dead weight we can carry . . .
Before any of the others could move, he’d installed himself at the open side door of the chopper, one knee down in the firing position, weapon cocked and switched to semi-automatic, butt pressed into his shoulder, one eye closed, the other looking directly down the sights.
As the Agusta rotated ninety degrees, the camera chopper came into sight. Spud immediately recognised it as a Twin Squirrel. Distance thirty metres, but through the sight of the weapon it looked right next door. The thunder of the two choppers, 275 feet above the ground, roared in his ears, and a strong backdraught blasted towards him.
Spud kept firm. His crosshairs panned across the interior. He immediately settled on the coarse, blurry image of the figure of a man. He was wearing a white all-in-one.
‘Target in sight,’ Spud spoke into his microphone, even as the vibrations of the Agusta knocked his sights off-target. The crosshairs settled on a tall canister. Spud thought he could make out Chinese lettering on the side.
He yanked the sights back to target, but the Twin Squirrel was moving too, and a second later he had to re-aim again. ‘He’s wearing a hazmat suit. No mask. I can see a TV camera and two canisters. Possibly Chinese lettering.’
A voice in his ear. ‘Can you take the shot without downing the chopper?’
From one moving, vibrating platform to another? It would be the most difficult shot he’d ever taken. If a round went loose and hit the body of the Twin Squirrel, there was a very real possibility it would plummet to the ground, where it would take out hundreds, maybe thousands of people.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Wait for the order.’
The crosshairs juddered to the left. Spud realigned. He could see the target screaming at his pilot.
And he could see him stretching out his hand to grab something.
Spud knew he couldn’t wait even for a fraction of a second. The target’s head was in his sights. He might not get another chance. He couldn’t wait for the order.
He fired.
He knew, the very second that his round left the barrel, that he’d missed his target.
Bailey’s fingertips were just brushing against the lever that would switch on the spraying system, when the round shot through the open side door of the Twin Squirrel. He felt the rush of air as it whizzed inches from his head. The proximity of the bullet made his whole body lurch. He threw himself back, and shouted in pain as his shoulder banged hard against the floor of the chopper. The round slammed into the far window of the helicopter, shattering it.
Bailey’s face creased with frustration. He knew he couldn’t rely on McIntyre any more. His pilot had lost his nerve. He had to get to that lever now.
He lurched forward again, towards the mechanism, his arm stretched out.
The Agusta juddered. It meant Spud didn’t see the moment the round smashed into the far window of the Twin Squirrel.
Commotion behind him. Guys shouting. Urgent, panicked questions and reprimands in his earpiece.
And a voice in his head. There’s a limit to how much dead weight we can carry . . .
Spud zoned it all out.
Spud knew that his target had been surprised by the loose round. That wouldn’t happen a second time.
He realigned his sights.
The target was thrusting himself to his feet again. Reaching out once more for the mechanism at the back of the chopper.
Spud’s crosshairs centred on the target’s head.
He fired.
This time, there was no mistake.
Spud clearly saw the moment of impact. A flash of red as the round slammed straight into the target’s skull, and his body slumped heavily to the floor.
‘Target down,’ Spud said tersely into his boom mike. He realised he was soaked with nervous sweat. His abdomen suddenly ripped with pain, but he ignored it and kept his eye to the sight. He panned round so that he had the pilot hazily in his sights through the cockpit glass. The guy was looking over his shoulder, shouting something, his face etched with panic. He was losing control of the Twin Squirrel, which shook and wobbled alarmingly.
The pilot looked forward again. Spud lowered his weapon. For the past thirty seconds he had zoned out the thunder and the wind. Now it hit him again with full force. He looked down. Two hundred and seventy-five feet below them he saw the swarm of marathon runners. He could see that they were trying to vacate that patch of park directly below the four low-flying choppers, but they were too many and too crushed. There was a small, open patch of green, like an impact crater. Spud couldn’t hear the screams of the crowd above the thunder of the choppers, but he knew they were there.
‘I have the pilot in my sights,’ Spud shouted. ‘He’s panicking.’
‘Hold your fire!’ instructed the voice in his ear. ‘HOLD YOUR FIRE!’
Major Ray Hammond’s voice rang across the MI6 ops room. ‘We have one target down. The pilot’s still in control of the aircraft. We think we can force him over the river.’
‘What then?’ Bixby said.
‘Evacuate Battersea helipad. We’ll force him along the river and try to ground him down there.’
‘What if he doesn’t play ball?’
‘Then we’ll take him out of the sky. He’ll hit the river.’
Bixby wheeled his chair round to face his Porton Down adviser. ‘Implications.’
‘Unpredictable. But if the bioweapon leaks into the Thames, it will probably become sufficiently dilute . . .’
‘Clear Battersea helipad,’ Bixby instructed. ‘Let’s get this bastard to land.’
Spud watched as the two choppers behind the Twin Squirrel edged forward, closing the gap between them and the enemy chopper to fifteen metres.
It was a high-risk strategy. An unexpected surge of wind would mean disaster. Not to mention that there was a good chance, in a moment of panic or martyrdom, that the pilot would just let the chopper fall. The Agusta edged a further ten metres away from it, but the Twin Squirrel, bullied into motion by the two choppers following, headed north, towards the river.
Spud didn’t move from his kneeling-down firing position. Thunder in his ears and wind in his face. From the corner of his eye he could see Canary Wharf in the distance, but he kept his attention on the chopper. The Agusta stayed alongside the Twin Squirrel as it edged north, metre by metre.
‘We’re getting him over the river,’ the voice in Spud’s earpiece stated. ‘They’re clearing the water now.’
A smart move. Bully the fucker to a safer location, and if he fails to comply . . .
It took a good ninety seconds to move clear of the marathon crowds below. They hovered over a road, and then a grid of residential housing.
Distance to the river, fifty metres.
Spud raised his weapon again. He panned his sights towards the pilot. The guy was clearly a mess. He kept looking over his shoulder, then forward again. Back, then forward. His eyes were pictures of fear and alarm.
A voice crackled in Spud’s earpiece. ‘On my order, down the aircraft. Rounds to the engine and transmission. If necessary, hit the rotor mast. Do not hit the tail rotor or boom, and do not take out the pilot. If he loses control, the chopper could hit land.’
‘Roger that,’ Spud stated.
‘Do not lay down fire until you have the order. Repeat, do not lay down fire until you have the order. There’s still a chance we can land him safely.’
They continued to move over the water. Spud flicked the safety catch of his weapon to fully automatic, and kept his sights on the area to the left of the tail boom where the engine and transmission was kept. They were ten metres from the southern shore.
Twenty metres. A flash of reflected sunlight glinted off the water, momentarily blinding Spud. But he kept his aim true.
Fifty metres.
A hundred metres from both shores. They were bang in the centre of the river.
The two choppers following the Twin Squirrels eased back about twenty metres. They started to circle round to the far, eastern side of the chopper. The Agusta changed position too, edging round to the south so that it could fly alongside the Twin Squirrel as they bullied it west along the river. As the chopper moved, the Shard, glinting in the sun, flashed across Spud’s sights. He could see the low, broad dome of the O2, then the higher one of St Paul’s cathedral in the distance, and the BT tower off to the north. As the chopper continued to turn, he could see the river snaking away, and the familiar sight of Tower Bridge, and London Bridge beyond.
He refocused on the engine and transmission area of the enemy aircraft.
And even as he did that, everything changed.
The Twin Squirrel suddenly gained height. Spud tracked it with his rifle, but as he did so, the enemy chopper twisted 180 degrees in the air so that it was facing back towards Greenwich Park where the marathon runners had congregated. It was fifty feet higher than the Agusta and the two Regiment choppers following it, and its nose was down.
Spud heard a voice behind him. ‘The fucker’s going to crash land . . .’
And in his earpiece: ‘TAKE THE SHOT! TAKE THE SHOT!’
He realigned his rifle once more, tracking the crosshairs directly over the Twin Squirrel’s engine and transmission.
‘TAKE THE SHOT!’
He fired.
A full burst from Spud’s rifle ripped into the metal body of the Twin Squirrel.
Everything seemed to slow down.
Through his sights, Spud saw scraps of shrapnel splintering away from the chopper. His rifle clicked empty, but now there was a different sound: an alarming, high-pitched clunking, grinding noise from the enemy chopper.
Spud lowered his rifle in time to see, from below, its rotors sputtering and slowing.
The Twin Squirrel twisted in the air.
A lurch from the Agusta as it surg
ed forward thirty metres to a safer patch of airspace. But as it moved, it shuddered from a rush of displaced air as the Twin Squirrel dropped, like a stone, towards the water. It thundered past the Agusta with a terminal screaming sound.
Five seconds later, it smashed into the water below.
Spud sucked in lungfuls of much-needed air. He hurled himself forward to the cockpit of the Agusta, even as a barrage of urgent shouting filled his ears. ‘The bird is down! Repeat, the bird is down! Seal the area! Seal the area!’
But these were instructions for someone other than Spud. Through the windows of the Agusta, he zoned in on the impact site two hundred feet below. There was no sign of the chopper. It had either broken up, or sunk. Peeling in, from both directions along the river, were the white trails of RIBs speeding towards the impact site. Spud could just about make out their occupants in white hazmat suits.
He winced. The pain in his abdomen was worse than ever. Guys were talking to him, but he barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere as it churned over the whirlwind of the past few days.
Al-Meghrani.
The Caliph.
And Danny. What the hell was happening with Danny?
The threat to London might have been neutralised, but somewhere, thousands of miles from here, his mate was in the shit. Spud realised he didn’t even know if Danny was dead or alive.
THIRTY-TWO
Danny Black stared at the VHF receiver. A message was coming through, distorted and indistinct, but he could just make it out.
‘Bravo Nine Zero, this is Alpha. Your message has been received and acted upon. Wait out in current location for pick-up. Ensure the safety of your source, repeat, ensure the safety of your source.’
Danny waited for the cascade of relief to wash over him. It didn’t.
He breathed deeply, then turned to look out of the stationary chopper, across the landing pad to where Tony had Ahmed at gunpoint. Tony, his face beaten, swollen and dirty, was standing two metres from the man who called himself the Caliph, rifle aimed directly at his head. On the far side of the LZ, Caitlin was down on one knee in the firing position, aiming towards the platform itself, her back to Danny and Tony.