by Andy Lucas
Her right-hand man was a bruiser of a Cypriot, by the name of Yucel Battra. Yucel had actually been a paratrooper in the British army for twenty years before taking retirement and setting up his own security firm. Frustrated by the constraints of paperwork, tax and employment law, he had soon wound the business up and begun working as an independent security consultant for a number of firms.
A couple of spells guarding container ships from Somali pirates, three brief security details in Iraq and Syria, then led him into the waiting arms of ARC. That was barely two years before and he now headed up a vicious intervention team that ARC covertly deployed whenever Josephine Roche needed them to solve a business dispute.
Leaning back on an orange, plastic chair, Yucel eyed his boss with an appreciative eye. Unlike many men, he had always found muscular women to be attractive, especially those that strove to attain physical perfection by weight training for hours each day. To him, Fiona Chambers was perfect. She had a pretty face and a body that closely resembled his own. She was also a killer, which he admired.
‘This was very easy,’ he conceded. ‘Why are we still here and not already out, looking for the old science base?’
‘Rushing into anything is never advisable,’ Fiona cautioned. ‘We have been monitoring the radio and satellite feeds for twenty-four hours now and heard no hint of trouble from McEntire. That doesn’t mean that it’s not coming.’
‘We can handle anything a civilian outfit like that can throw at us. Maybe they’ll try and fly an investigation team into the area? My guess is that any action will involve surface vessels trying to locate their lost ship. I doubt they’ll even think to look as far as the ice shelf.’
Fiona eyed him evenly. She liked him too; attracted by a cold efficiency in the way he thought, and acted. The only drawback was that he tended to look at life in a very simplistic way, which worried her.
‘The McEntire Corporation is a civilian company, you are right, Yucel.’ He grinned at the use of his first name. ‘But,’ she added, ‘it is never wise to underestimate an opponent. We managed to uncover information that their ship was fitted out with the most sophisticated defence equipment available, so we were able to disable it before we launched our attack. There was no need for their ship to carry that level of protection.’
‘You think they’re running a dark side? Like us?’
Fiona chuckled at the thought. How could that overbearing, bloated, billionaire run a covert operation? He was far too used to the good life and raking in cash from business interests that stretched across the globe.
‘No. He doesn’t have it in him. I think that he’s just an obscenely wealthy man who wields great influence on the world stage by running a harem of sycophantic politicians. That makes him a highly valuable target for kidnappers and, potentially, even terrorist groups. Grabbing hold of him for ransom would be a huge coup.’
Yucel nodded. ‘That doesn’t explain what happened to our own ship. Did their vessel have any offensive capability?’
Fiona shook her head. The information they had managed to glean, from another key informant at the docks where the Sea Otter had always been berthed, just talked of the secret defensive systems that he had seen being delivered to his stores department.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she admitted. ‘If McEntire’s people did have something to do with our ship going down, then they must have rammed it, perhaps in desperation at the end? Their ship wasn’t armed.’
‘We both know that big businesses don’t allow themselves to show weakness to their competitors. In today’s trading climate, especially. All of the biggest ones have their own security teams and, McEntire’s company is clearly no exception,’ said Yucel. ‘Money can buy pretty much anything.’ He reconsidered his own earlier flippancy. ‘Maybe it isn’t wise for ARC to risk upsetting them after all,’ he said. ‘We’ve already killed two of their top people and sunk a very expensive boat, killing the entire crew.’
Fiona snorted, scowling. ‘ARC presents a very professional face to the business world, Yucel. But we always get what we want. Josephine Roche always gets what she wants, make no mistake.’
Yucel was unmoved. ‘Wasn’t it you who just told me never to underestimate an opponent? Seems to me that’s exactly what ARC might be doing right now.’
‘Then we will just have to disagree,’ sighed Fiona, growing tired of the debate.
‘You want to know something else?’ Yucel added, prophetically.
‘What’s that?‘
‘Isoroku Yamamoto.’
She eyed him quizzically. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
‘Clearly not, no,’ he replied. ‘Isoroku Yamamoto was the Second World War Japanese admiral who came up with the idea of an attack on the American fleet while they were all tucked up safely inside Pearl Harbour.’
Fiona didn’t have any clue what he was driving at, and said as much.
‘Although he invented the idea, he became very concerned about its execution. In 1941, just after the Empire launched its devastating attack on Pearl Harbour, while everyone else was back-slapping and celebrating the success of their surprise attack, he refused to join in and fell into a deep depression.’
‘But the attack was successful? Why was he depressed?’ Fiona could not help but be intrigued by Yucel’s history lesson.
‘I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve.’
‘What? Make sense, man!’
It was Yucel’s turn to chuckle now, watching her neck redden with frustration. ‘That is the quote that has been attributed to the Admiral. Some say he said it aloud, others that it was found contained within the pages of letters, or his personal war diary. Either way, what he meant was that an initial, surprise strike is by no means a guarantee of victory.’
The penny finally dropped and she felt her hackles lower. A lesson not to be over-confident.
‘Mr Yamamoto was a wise man.’
‘Then pay heed to history,’ suggested Yucel, his tone suddenly urgent. ‘We have no way of knowing what will happen to ARC if we keep kicking the sleeping McEntire Corporation. And,’ he went on, ‘if we’re going to keep kicking, then we should make some preparations for what might come.’
‘Nothing is coming,’ she soothed, utterly oblivious to the lethal storm that was closing in on ARC, her frown easing into a soft smile. ‘Everything will be okay. With James Pace and that annoying side-kick of his, now dead…’
‘You mean, of course, the renowned adventurer, and accountant, Max Hammond, I assume?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she snapped. ‘With them both dead, his daughter will be grief-stricken, Doyle McEntire will be overwhelmed with the job of trying to find out what happened to his super yacht, and we will have a clear run at hunting down new specimens of Scorpion.’
Yucel realised, right at that moment, that Fiona had no intention of preparing for a McEntire response. She truly believed that the global giant was a benign, toothless entity. As an experienced fighter, he wasn’t buying it. He had done a lot of security work for squeaky-clean corporations, as had some of his ex-marine colleagues. Extortion, surveillance, direct threats, intimidation of family members and even tactical accidents to key personnel on opposing board rooms was not unheard of. He, at least, would be ready.
With the conversation over, and the mood becoming as icy as the white wasteland beyond the thick plastic windows, he decided to make himself useful by checking on his men. Even he did not believe they were at risk from reprisals in the middle of nowhere, but he didn’t want any of the civilians getting loose and possibly finding a way to raise the alarm. He knew Fiona would soon order them all to be killed, so he wouldn’t have to run a babysitting rota for too long.
8
Charlene Pringle had been ensconced within Pace’s floating home for two days but still struggled to accept the reality of living above the treetops in a large habitation disc, suspended below a ring-shaped gas envelope.
She had slept like the dead on her first night, having arrived with Sarah very late and finding herself ushered up a long ladder and climbing across a rope bridge to access the habitation disc. Although she saw nobody, Sarah had assured her that there was a guard posted down in the woods, keeping an eye on them.
Since then, the two women had settled into an easy routine, spending meal times and evenings together while keeping to themselves, pretty much, during the rest of the time. Sarah had set Charlene up in one of the spare bedrooms in the main section while she slept on the large sofa, up in the airship’s control room. They had been getting on well, mainly because conversation had been kept light and steered well clear of deeper topics.
Charlene had learned of her loss, over breakfast on the first morning. Sarah had said it was only fair to let her know so that she would understand why she might be a little withdrawn, or sad. Sarah made it clear that it had nothing to do with Charlene. For her part, Charlene relayed the events of her own ordeal and she had watched Sarah smile when she reached the part about Baker rescuing her. It was a knowing smile, tinged with wisps of regret.
Since that first chat, more information had been shared; drip-fed each mealtime. Charlene had been enthralled at the stories that Sarah recounted about how they had discovered the K-19, and how her dead lover and his friend had dived down to check it out.
Sarah knew she probably shouldn’t be telling Charlene any of this but she did not give a damn, not then. To hell with the Corporation and its secrets, she thought. Still, her inherent loyalty to her father, Baker, and the others stopped her revealing everything. The secret of the gold and Project Scorpion stayed firmly inside Sarah’s head.
It was a little after noon and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. Charlene volunteered to make lunch and quickly packed an assortment of sandwiches, fruit and snacks into a small holdall. It was easier to transport their meal this way, as she had to navigate across the top of the habitation disc to reach the main control room, where they were planning to eat. She also added a chilled bottle of Chablis and a couple of plastic tumblers before making her way around the polycarbonate observation ring that encircled the habitat, climbed up into the tunnel on the roof of the habitat, and arrived slightly breathless in the control room.
Sarah was waiting for, wearing a short floral dress that showed off her slim figure and long legs. Charlene had borrowed some of Sarah’s clothes and was wearing a pair of lilac cargo shorts and a white vest top, moving barefooted around the habitat. The shorts revealed the majority of the tattoos on her thighs. She rarely bothered with a bra and today was no exception,
Seated on one of the sofas, Sarah had been lost in thought. Images of James filled her waking hours, and harried her dreams. His bright eyes and infectious smile seemed to taunt her from beyond the grave, transforming her heart into solid lead.
‘I wondered when lunch would arrive,’ she said. ‘I am feeling really hungry today.’
‘That’s a good sign,’ replied Charlene, placing the holdall onto a small table next to the sofa. All the furniture was built into the design, and bolted to the floor. There was no chance of sliding it around in front of them. ‘Do you want it at the table or on your lap?’
‘This looks like a picnic to me, so eating at a table would be sacrilege,’ Sarah chuckled. ‘Why don’t we eat outside, up on the roof? It’s a lovely day.’
The last time she’d eaten alfresco, at the habitat, was when she and James had eaten together. Dispelling the memory, suddenly desperate for some good conversation and the feel of a fresh breeze upon her face, Sarah stood up and led the way.
Ten minutes later, they were sat on a blanket, safely away from the sheer drop represented by the lip of the habitat’s roof. Munching on tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches and sipping the deliciously cold wine from their plastic tumblers, they stared out across the treetops and away beyond to the distant, rolling green horizon. Very little conversation took place until after their hunger was sated and a second glass of wine was poured.
At the same moment, an unassuming black sedan parked out on the main road, over a mile from the entrance gates to McEntire’s sprawling estate. The driver was a large man, easily exceeding six feet, and wearing dark, loosely-fitted jogging bottoms and a sagging, ex-military jacket that concealed a honed, heavily-muscled physique.
In stark contrast to his woodsman’s attire, his skin was painfully white, as though he had not been out in the sun for years and his hair colour was difficult to judge because it had been brutally shaved back to barely a millimetre or two in length.
Alone, wearing sunglasses against the glare of the warm day, the man moved to the rear of the car and opened the back door, leaning in and straightening back up a few moments later, carrying a small, green fishing tackle box. Closing the door, he moved around to the boot, opened it, and withdrew a long fishing rod case, also green, and heavily stained with years of fish slime and maggot juice.
Checking the empty road, each way, he nonchalantly eased himself over to a thick bramble hedge that represented the boundary fence at that particular point. Another quick check and he was down on his knees, pushing through the thinner, less prickly foliage at the very base of the hedge, easily worming his way through until he came out on the other side. Pulling his cases through, he stood up and surveyed the acres of wide, open grassland, which he knew he had to avoid. An estate this expensive was bound to have surveillance equipment at key points, but he wrongly assumed they would only be up near the main house.
Skirting the hedgerow, he fixed his gaze on the distant woodland and started walking. If anyone challenged him, he would feign ignorance of where he was and spin a yarn about being a lost fisherman. There were several popular fishing lakes within a few miles of the estate’s borders so he was confident he would get away with it. Ideally, nobody would interfere with him and he would be able to get on with the job.
As one of their key security operatives in Europe, he had only arrived on a flight from Geneva three hours beforehand. Collecting the hire car from the car park at Gatwick, which was already stocked with everything he would need, the highly efficient satnav on his mobile phone had guided him to his target without a hiccup.
Against a standard target, his stealthy approach, robust disguise and two decades of experience as a private investigator would have been more than adequate. But this was the McEntire Corporation; Britain’s most secret service and one of a select few organisations that covertly protected the interests of the world’s key nations.
Completely unknown outside their own dark, international circle of players, the McEntire Corporation was a hugely successful, legitimate international powerhouse of a company. Operating in over fifty nations, with interests ranging from solar and wind power, desalination, computer software design, space exploration, oil and pharmaceuticals, right up to media and the music industry, the billions in its bank accounts were genuinely earned.
Its Chairman, and founder, was Doyle McEntire, with a personal wealth value that placed him well up on the list of the world’s richest individuals. He had started the business a quarter of a century earlier, working himself nearly to death before being introduced to the vicious, terrifying world that his company now operated within. Not accountable to the courts, or the law, because their shadow arm did not officially exist, the Corporation was tasked with keeping Britain safe, whatever that took, wherever it was needed.
Doyle McEntire relished both his jobs but, as a patriot, passionate democrat and realist, he knew Britain needed his company, and the skills his people had developed, more than ever before.
Doyle had even managed to bring his only daughter into the company, with her working in several lower jobs as she learned the ropes, moving and climbing the ladder of success through her own determination and skill, after she left university.
After a decade, Sarah McEntire had finally ended up as his PA, running his diary and expertly ensuring that he was where he needed to be, on time.
Even in such a privileged position, working cheek by jowl with her father and Max Hammond, the Corporation’s adventuring accountant, she never once got wind of the seedier side of the Corporation’s business – the security of information was just too good.
The eventual revelation, driven by the near disaster over the Race Amazon affair, had driven a wedge between father and daughter. That split was now wider than ever, agonisingly pulled apart by the icy, clawed fingers of grief. The man she loved; who had saved dozens of lives barely a few months before, battling mercenaries, deadly wildlife, a sweltering climate and a pair of evil psychopaths, was now dead. Gone from her life, he had been brutally torn from her heart because of her father.
James hadn’t walked in blindly, she knew, but he had deserved better than to die before he had really started to live. After years serving his country as a helicopter pilot in the RAF; albeit kicked out in the end for a refusal to toe the line, followed by a decade of ping-ponging from dead end job to dead end job, he had finally started to enjoy life.
Their relationship had been fresh, new and exciting but they both felt a deep connection and it had all the makings of something magical.
9
All of these thoughts ended up pouring out of her mouth, as the wine kicked in. Lunch extended into the afternoon, accompanied by intermittent tears from both of them. A second, and then third, bottle of wine was brought up from the kitchen refrigerator and the two women drank themselves into a heady, wobbling state. Charlene’s tears were partly empathy and partly a release of tension.