by Leigh Barker
Shaun manoeuvred the agile bike through the traffic and onto Jamaica Road, a fast A-road that would take them right to the shooter’s position. He carefully jumped several sets of lights, avoiding crossing traffic and drivers who seemed to be deaf or indifferent to police lights and siren. But even with the siren, he wasn’t stupid enough to shoot the lights at the first truly hairy junction and edged to the front, ready to go the instant an opportunity arose. And that opportunity arose when a truck left a few feet clearance from the car in front, and Shaun stood the bike on its back wheel and took off.
Harry clamped his eyes shut and wished he’d thought of a plan that didn’t involve getting mashed. He hung onto Shaun, clamping his arms around his waist, grateful at least that none of the boys could see him hugging the policeman.
A few insane minutes later, the bike roared up to the front of the high rise, and Shaun waited for Harry to dismount before dropping it on its side and running for the doors. Somebody’s going to have a bunch of paperwork to do, Harry thought crazily as he followed him into the building. The two men exchanged frustrated looks as the lift clunked upwards painfully slowly, as it is supposed to when its occupants are in a desperate hurry.
“Okay,” Shaun said, punching the top floor button as if that would make it go faster. “I got you here, now what’s the plan?”
Harry got his head together, took a breath, and let it out slowly. Okay. “I’m counting on the shooters setting up overlapping positions.”
“Because you would,” Shaun said before Harry could.
“I would,” Harry said anyway.
“And if they have?”
“Then I’m hoping I’ll be able to see the other shooter,” Harry said.
Shaun shook his head and stared. “Is that it? Is that your ace-military plan?”
Harry shrugged. It was.
“You’re hoping they’ll be in overlapping positions. You’re hoping you’ll be able to see the other shooter?” Shaun sighed heavily. “Holy Mary, mother of God.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, “say one for me, we gonna need it.”
And they truly were.
The chances of this half-arsed plan working were somewhere around those of him winning the lottery. The dignitaries were going to get shot, well, at least two of them. Shaun decided he’d try to save the US president, not because he liked him any better that the others, but he liked Ethan. He took out his phone and pressed Ethan’s speed dial number.
Ethan and Sam were in the back seat of the SUV parked on the walkway of Westminster Bridge, watching the barge and its outriders disappearing slowly round the bend in the river. Ethan took the cell from his inside pocket and listened to Shaun tell him that one shooter was down, with the other one imminent — which he said with more optimism than he really felt.
“One down, one to go,” Ethan said with a glance and a nod at Sam. “That’s good to know.”
“Listen,” Shaun said quietly, as if afraid he’d be overheard. “None of these assholes is going to risk upsetting the big show on my say-so. The second shooter’s going to get off two shots, tops. So you need to talk to your boys on the barge and make sure they know to keep your president out of harm’s way.”
Ethan was genuinely surprised, and that was a rare event these days. “Why are you giving me the heads up on this? Why not try to get the Brits to save your prime minister?”
If Ethan expected an intellectual discourse on the relative worth of the two men to Western civilization, he was going to be disappointed.
“He’s not my prime minister,’ Shaun said simply.
Ethan chuckled. “You’re Irish, right?”
“Well, to be sure,” Shaun said in an extra-broad Irish brogue.
“Okay, I’ll warn the suits. If they’ll pay me any more heed than your boys.”
“At least you can say you tried.”
“Yeah. All I have to do now is catch this mad terrorist, and I can take the rest of the day off,” Ethan said.
“Piece of cake, then,” Shaun said. “Shoot the bastard, then take in the sights.” He wanted to say which sights to see, but had never seen any of them, so went with, “Go see the changing of the guard at the palace, it’s spectacular.”
Ethan put the cell back in his pocket and watched the last of the flotilla disappear past Waterloo Bridge. Suddenly he jumped as if he’d touched a live outlet and leaned forward. “Chris, get us to Hyde Park, now!”
The over-muscled British Secret Service agent put the SUV in drive without a moment’s hesitation and pushed it through the crowds milling around, having watched the procession on the river. They swore, they dodged, and they almost got themselves killed, but they got the hell out of the way, like any sensible individual would with a truck-sized blacked-out SUV bearing down on them.
Sam waited and then could wait no longer. “Boss?”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Ethan said through clenched teeth. He turned to Sam. “How could I have been such a total bonehead?”
Sam’s expression remained puzzled, and he just shrugged.
“Lupus isn’t going to hit the barge,” Ethan said, grimacing in anger. “He doesn’t need to. He’s got a bioweapon!”
Sam got it. “He’s going to hit a high-value target that will drag everyone off the river or screw up the comms with panic chatter, while the shooters do their thing.”
“To start with,” Ethan said, getting his head in gear. “And I know what the high-value target is.”
And Sam demonstrated a surprising knowledge of London. “Hyde Park is west of… Buckingham Palace.” His expression hardened. “And it’s the right distance. Shit!”
“Right,” Ethan said. “Shit.” He leaned forward again. “Floor it. Anybody gets in the way, run those civilians over.”
Chris nodded once. Acceptable collateral damage came with the assignment.
Sam was checking the map and overlaying the drone’s previous flight path. “After the palace, the flight plan will take the Silver Fox out over Westminster, as well as just about every government office worth mentioning. And over the City of London Financial District.” Sam looked up. “And if that goes, it will bring down the whole financial house of cards.”
Ethan nodded, but didn’t reply. What was there to say?
Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he put it to his ear and listened for a few moments. “Drone just activated,” he said simply, putting the phone away.
Ethan looked out of the window for a moment while he thought about the logistics. When he turned back, his face showed emotion he rarely displayed. “Right,” he said through dry lips, “console power-up is what just happened.”
Sam nodded.
“Two minutes,” Ethan said, counting on his fingers, and then steadied himself as the SUV lurched left past some unseen obstruction. “Set up the drone on the catapult.” He continued counting on his fingers. “Three minutes?”
Sam inclined his head slightly. “Maybe for an experienced technician, probably more like five for Lupus.”
“Okay,” Ethan said, “five minutes, then. And to launch?”
“No time, he just has to fire it. Say one minute to be safe.”
“And then flight time?”
Sam thought about it. “The Silver Fox has a top speed of sixty knots, but that kinda speed would draw all sort of attention, so I’d say half that.”
“Then a couple of minutes flight time. That’s ten minutes to ground zero, if we’re lucky,” Ethan said with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Less the time for the tracker to notify us.” He looked at his watch. “How long to the park?” he asked Chris.
Without answering, Chris powered the SUV up the central paving, scattering the pedestrians and passing the stationary traffic backed up from the lights on Hyde Park Corner. He wrenched the SUV across in front of the traffic at the lights, clipping two tourists and sending them sprawling into the road, floored the gas, and went into the park through the arched exit gateway.
“Oka
y,” Sam said, “we might make it.”
Ethan looked at this watch. “No, we won’t.”
Shaun stepped onto the high-rise roof and crossed to what was left of Branislav. Harry took the spotter scope from his jacket and scoured the buildings up to the river, but saw nothing. He lowered the scope and bent down to check that the CheyTac was undamaged, and a .408 round screamed through the space he’d just vacated. It had been that close, but as Harry threw himself flat against the roof, it told him two things: that the shooter had to be at least eleven hundred metres away because it had taken a second for Harry to bend down, and the CheyTac round travels at eleven hundred metres per second. And the direction of the supersonic round told him where the shooter was.
He crawled up behind the rifle, now fully exposed with the loss of the non-bulletproof cardboard, and looked back to make sure Shaun wasn’t still standing and admiring the view, and saw he was flattened against the roof and making himself as small a target as possible. Cool.
Harry took out the spotter scope, knelt, and scanned the direction of the shot for anything of interest. Another round screamed over his head, but it was at least a foot high, which most people would consider a good thing.
“Give me that,” Shaun said, having crawled over from the nice safe spot on the flat, clear roof. “You do something with the big gun.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Do something with the big gun?” He shook his head. “Is that how to address this fine weapon?”
Another round clipped the edge of the roof and tore a chunk of it away.
“Okay,” Shaun said, focusing the scope. “Do something with the fine weapon.”
“I would,” Harry said, “if I knew where the little shit was hiding.”
“He’s on the top floor of those new warehouse apartments by the river.” Shaun almost pointed, but common sense caught up. “Your two o’clock. Open window.”
Harry lifted the rifle, shuffled round to face the river, and set it down, lay down prone behind it, and studied the buildings through the scope. Shaun was right, either the people in the top floor apartment were having a hot flush, or somebody needed the window wide open for nefarious purposes. He went for door B.
He adjusted the scope for the new range, as another round combed his hair. The shooter was compensating for the difference in the range he’d set for the barge to that required to blow Harry’s head off, and he was getting close.
Shaun lay down against the roof. “For Christ’s sake, shoot him!”
Harry continued to adjust the scope. He could have used the laser sight and the ballistic computer lying next to his elbow, but precise he might be, stupid he wasn’t. This was going to have to be old-fashioned skill.
The next round ended any possibility of using the ballistic computer when it turned it to plastic dust.
“How many rounds has he got?” Shaun shouted, getting seriously nervous.
“Seven,” Harry said quietly, sighting the rifle.
“Then—”
Harry fired. He put the rifle down and pushed himself up onto his elbows, while Shaun exercised good sense and stayed down. Harry stood up and watched him hiding under his hands for several seconds. “So,” he said, “you think your wrinkly old mitts are going to stop a supersonic round weighing near on a pound?”
Shaun unhooked his fingers and looked up a little sheepishly. “You got him, then?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?”
Shaun stood up slowly and looked at the sniper’s position in the distance, at least twelve hundred yards away, as Harry had estimated. “That was a hell of a shot,” he said and whistled.
“Not really,” Harry said. “I normally shoot for the body, head shots are for show-offs and the movies.”
“And?” Shaun said, taking the spotter scope off Harry.
“He moved,” Harry said, heading for the door off the damned cold rooftop. “That’s the problem with that distance, too much time.”
“Still, you hit him.”
“Yeah, but the apartment owner’s going to be pissed. He took the round in the neck, and last I saw him, he was spraying the walls crimson.” He shrugged at Shaun’s questioning look. “Clashes with the carpet.”
Shaun headed for the roof exit, swearing, but glad to be alive — which surprised him. He stopped at the doorway and looked back to see Harry had swung back and was standing at the edge of the roof, his spotter scope to his eye, scouring the sky to the northwest. Shaun walked back, a puzzled look on his face. “You looking for girls sunbathing?”
“Nah,” Harry said, “too cold.” He lowered the scope and shaded his eyes with his hand, still scouring the sky. “Not too cold for a UAV full of nasty bugs.”
Shaun took the scope from Harry. “You set up the rifle, ’n’ I’ll do the injun thing.” He focused on the river and swung out slowly over the city. “If I spot it, do you think you can hit it at this distance?”
Harry put the rifle back into position facing the city and looked up. “If the target is the barge at Tower Bridge, then yes. If it’s the city, then…” He looked out at the city in the distance. “Well, that’s about three thousand yards.” He shook his head. “Even if it is in range, and that would be just about in range…” He was silent for a moment while he calculated the variables. “It’s going to take a good four seconds for the bullet to reach the target. So—”
“So the drone has to fly straight and level for over four seconds for you to have a snowball’s chance in hell of hitting it.”
“That’s about it,” Harry said, “and that assumes I’ll be able to judge its speed and direction at this distance.” Harry made an adjustment to the scope. “Thing is,” he said quietly, “it’s not enough just to bring it down.”
Shaun nodded. “Yeah, the bugs will still be released.”
“I have to destroy the electronics.”
“You’ll do fine,” Shaun lied. He gave a little start of surprise. “And here’s your chance to shine.” He pointed out at the city, as if Harry could see anything without the scope.
Harry turned the rifle to follow Shaun’s pointing finger, swung it gently left and right, and saw the drone high above the Gherkin. He took a long slow breath and wished he had his Tigger handkerchief because he’d never needed it more. He squeezed the trigger, and the .408 Cheytac round started its supersonic flight.
Lupus was also swearing in a mix of Arabic and English. The drone was being a pain, and not doing what it was supposed to when he pushed the launch button. He wished he’d waited for the piston launcher that was lighter and more reliable, but the timing would have taken the mission right to the wire. He applied the Mechanical Realignment Principle and kicked the catapult. The drone wobbled dangerously on the flimsy structure, and was saved only when he ran forward and grabbed it, much to the amusement of a couple of kids watching and spreading ice cream over their faces.
He rechecked the bungee to make sure it wasn’t caught up on anything and lifted the drone off the launcher, checked the running groove for dust or maybe rabbits, and put it back into its grooves, this time taking his time and placing it carefully in position. His nerves were still screaming at him to do it and get the hell out, but he shut that part of his mind down and concentrated on the job of getting the thing launched.
He stepped away, scowled at the kids, and pressed the switch. The Silver Fox shot off the launcher and into the sky, to gasps from the cherubs. He strode back to the console, took the joystick, and steadied the craft. Finally, he could get on with it. He looked back from the console as a black SUV skidded to a halt on the path and knew instantly what it meant.
Ethan and Sam bailed out of the car and ran the twenty metres or so to where Lupus stood behind his rental van.
“Turn around slowly, and let me see your hands,” Ethan said, levelling his Colt with steady hands. “Now!”
Lupus did as he was told, turned slowly, and showed them his hands, one of which was holding a dead man’s switch. He smiled, and it l
ooked genuine. “I assume you are familiar with this kind of detonator?” he asked casually, showing no sign of any fear he might be feeling.
Ethan was very familiar with the trigger the terrorist was holding and could see that it was armed and would fire if it was released. “I’m going to count to three—”
“Count to as many as you feel you must,” Lupus said, “but even if you shoot me, the trigger will engage and…” he shrugged, “the aerosol will be deployed right here, right now, and everybody dies. You, me…” He pointed at the kids standing over their dropped ice creams on the path. “Those kids, their mothers.” He waved the switch for emphasis. “Everyone.”
Point taken.
“Okay,” Ethan said, raising his weapon a fraction, “let’s negotiate. What do you want?”
Lupus smiled. “You see,” he said with a real smile. “My little aeroplane, forgive me… your little aeroplane, after all you did lose it, did you not?” He waved his hand to silence the answer that wasn’t coming. “Well, it’s programmed to deposit most of its little cargo over the City of London and kill all those bankers, which I’m sure you’ll agree, might not make me a bad person.” The smile again. “It will, however, cause considerable damage to your economy. Now, how much do you think that is worth?” He waved again. “And,” he said slowly, the smile disappearing, “I have saved the last drops of my little brew for the show at Buckingham Palace. A nice touch, don’t you think?” No response, but none required. “So, how much will you pay to save the bankers? After all, your government has already given them seven hundred billion dollars.”
“Boss,” Sam said quietly.
Ethan took a quick sideways glance to see Sam was in position, his weapon steady and pointing at the terrorist’s head.
“He’s just yanking our chains.”
“Copy that.”