by A P Bateman
Mac got the other weapon ready and jettisoned the door on his side. It had the effect of alleviating the air pressure inside as the wind blew straight through.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Caroline shouted above the noise.
“Romanovitch had a lift organised to take them to Bulgaria,” King said. “I’m guessing that was it. He must have known all about our chopper and the weapons Flymo added to it from Alaina, or whoever the hell she was. He raised the stakes.”
King looked behind them and saw the attack helicopter banking hard above the trees behind them. He heard the cannons over the wind noise and the Bell’s rotors and engine. Tracer fire streaked past them to the sides and carried on for what looked like forever ahead of them. Every tenth 20mm bullet was packed with phosphorus and lit up in the sky like laser blasters in a sci-fi movie, and there were enough of those to be concerned about, let alone the other nine bullets following the same path. Flymo heaved back on the controls and the helicopter climbed and banked and the rotors sounded as if they were straining under full throttle. An alarm sounded and kept sounding until the turn levelled out.
“Oh god, no…” Flymo did not finish his sentence, but he sent the craft down vertically and everyone lifted in their seats.
King and Rashid kept Goldie’s body pinned to the deck, but their steep dive at once turned into a steep climb and a victory roll which ended in a hard banked turn so violent that the body shot out of the open door and was gone in an instant.
“No!” Rashid shouted and banged his fist on the bulkhead.
The attack helicopter was now directly in front of them, the missiles fishtailing back on course with the heat signature. Flymo opened fire with the 7.62mm gatling gun and the attack helicopter veered to port. Flymo kept on course and sparks lit up all over the hull of the beast, but the Vulcan soon whirled soundlessly, its ammunition spent.
“Bugger!” Flymo shouted. “I used up too much on the forest.”
They hadn’t slowed and were gaining on the enemy and being nimbler they countered its turns and as the attack helicopter banked and then straightened, they were close enough to feel its rotor wash. Both missiles streaked past, climbed high into the sky and self-detonated. The attack helicopter carried a beacon which emitted an electronic code that was paired with its own missiles. It simply couldn’t shoot itself down. It had been quick thinking on Flymo’s part, and a gamble to say the least.
“Stay on his rear!” King shouted. “I have an idea!” He looked at Mac and said, “Switch to the rear-facing seat.”
Mac frowned, but he undid the harness, caught hold of the opposite harness, and tentatively stepped past the doorless opening and fell into the seat, buckling himself up. He kept the AK-74 across his knees, looking at King incredulously.
King looked at Caroline and shouted, “Get into Mac’s seat!”
Caroline undid her belt and scooted over, but the helicopter dipped and banked, and she stumbled forwards towards the doorway. King unclipped his belt and grabbed hold of her ankle as she fell, and Rashid bent forwards and gripped onto King’s leg.
“Fucking hell, Flymo!” Mac yelled. “She’s out the door, help get her back!”
The attack helicopter was firing flack behind it – an incendiary countermeasure against missiles. Like fireworks filled with white-hot shrapnel which would home missiles onto the intense heat and away from the aircraft. The onslaught was creating super-heated debris and they were flying straight into it.
King gritted his teeth, every fibre of strength gripping Caroline around the ankle and taking all her weight in one hand, as he battled to heave her back in, while holding on with his left hand gripping the seatbelt harness of the empty middle seat. Mac dropped the rifle and it clattered out of the open doorway. He cursed, but caught hold of Caroline’s other ankle and heaved, and as they were gradually bringing her back inside, Flymo dipped the controls and banked, and the inertia threw her back inside. King heaved her into his arms, hugging her close, then helped her into Mac’s vacated seat and helped her on with the harness. Rashid kept a vice-like grip on King’s leg as he lifted the middle seat and pulled out a large canvas duffle bag, with a hose attached. It was considerably heavy, and he struggled to get it out and onto the deck, especially as Flymo was countering every move the attack helicopter made in front. He whipped out his knife and cut the hose, spilling fuel all over the deck.
“Here, take this and fold the end, then hold it tight,” he said to Caroline, handing her the leaking hose from under the seat. He tied the other end in a knot and tucked it inside the duffle bag. Inside was twenty-five gallons of aviation fuel in a rubber camel pack. Flymo’s hack for extra mileage. He just hoped the Bell wasn’t running on it yet. “Get us above that bastard, Flymo!” he shouted, dropping heavily into his seat, and fixing the harness around his waist only.
Rashid had let go of him, and now undid his own harness, and followed King’s lead, just clipping it over his lap. He looked at King as he helped drag the bag closer to the doorway. “I’ve missed this,” he said.
“When the hell have we ever done this?” King hollered back at him.
Caroline, who looked like she was trying to stop herself from sobbing, broke into a laugh and said, “You’re bloody crazy.”
“Fuck me, you all are!” Mac grinned.
“What’s going on? I haven’t opened my eyes in ten minutes…” Big Dave chipped in.
Flymo was directly behind the attack helicopter, following its every move. The rotor wash buffeted them, and the flak was showering the canopy with hot metal, but as the attack helicopter entered a dive, Flymo climbed first, then accelerated and followed the dive towards the mountainside below. When the attack helicopter levelled out just fifty metres above the rocky terrain, the Bell was directly above it with no more than fifty feet between them.
“Get on top of him! Squeeze him downwards!” King shouted. “Let’s see how close you can get! See if you can live up to that name of yours…”
The Bell dropped in altitude and Flymo put the skids just feet from the rotors below them.
“Tell me when its away and hang on!” Flymo shouted.
King could see the blur of the rotors below him. They were so close he could see the trees and rocks below them through the whirling rotors. He glanced up at Rashid and nodded. They dragged the bag right up to the doorway, then heaved and helped it out with their boots.
“Away!” shouted King and the helicopter banked hard to port and rose high in the air.
Behind them, the bag of fuel fell into the rotors and was instantly shredded, fuel covering the entire craft. The twin exhausts of the jet turbines, glowing red with heat ignited the fuel vapour and engulfed it in flames, the force of the ignition unbalancing the rotors with enough severity to deviate its course. Unable to correct in time, the pilot could not save it from skimming the ground and crashing heavily, bursting into flames where live ammunition and the rest of its missiles exploded moments after impact.
43
Ten days later,
Cornwall
King and Caroline had not been to Thames House for the debrief. Instead, they had returned to their cottage and reflected on a number of things. King had been stitched by Big Dave using a battlefield medi-pack to clean the wounds and suture them. Simon Mereweather had met them at Gatwick Airport and taken King to his Harley Street doctor, and the man had confirmed nothing more could be done by private medical practitioner or NHS hospital alike. King was now exercising gently, mainly walking the cliffs and thinking things through.
King had built the barbeque pit by cutting a forty-gallon oil drum with an angle grinder and using two wire baker’s trays as cooking racks. He fixed them to bricks he had cemented to the patio. It was rustic, but functional and by lighting just a small amount of charcoal in one, and having a roaring flame in the other, he could work between the two and had quite a system in place. Caroline had laboured over half a dozen various salad dishes and dips, and they remained
largely untouched as Rashid, Mac and Flymo, led by Big Dave, made light work of the steaks, chicken drumsticks, pork chops, burgers, ribs and sausages King had spread over the two grills.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Rashid, but you really are a shit Muslim when it comes to food,” King said, putting out the fire engulfing a particularly fatty piece of pork.
“The way you cook it, Allah isn’t going to know what the hell it is anyway. Everything you cook looks like burned beef, anyway.”
“And tastes like a burned shoe,” Big Dave chuckled.
“Well, I don’t see you queuing for Caroline’s salads,” King replied testily. “Besides, it’s better crunchy.” King loaded a burger onto his own bun and looked at Ramsay, who was picking somewhat absentmindedly at a sausage. He noticed a change in the man. He didn’t know what he had seen in Albania, but if it was anything like the burning and strafed forest after Flymo’s handiwork with the gatling gun and the Hellfire missiles, then he had a good idea. But it was more than that. King had seen it in men before, knew that Ramsay had seen, or done, something that had affected him. When Ramsay had finally returned to the farmhouse in Albania, he had thick lips and a swollen eye, and there was blood on his shirt. The man wouldn’t talk about it and King had decided that he would continue to top up the man’s glass throughout the afternoon and get him talking later.
King looked at Flymo, who was talking animatedly with Rashid. No doubt, about the money he had liberated. Flymo’s Costa Del Retirement dream had ebbed away as it had been agreed a share should be set aside for both Philosopher’s and Goldie’s next of kin, and King had suggested a donation be made to the family of Alaina and Dina Kopolova, two young women he never knew, but whom had suffered at the hands of Romanovitch. Mereweather had agreed, and the remainder would be used for clandestine operations of national importance.
A champagne cork popped and everyone except Ramsay turned and tensed, then visibly relaxed. Simon Mereweather laughed and said, “Crikey, I should learn to pick my audience!” He started pouring the champagne into glasses on the table. “Here’s to a successful mission!” He handed out the glasses, then held his own above his head in a toast. “All’s well that ends well.”
King had not been pleased when he had seen the half case of champagne. Mereweather had picked up the six bottles of Dom Perignon from Fortnum and Masons. King felt champagne was too much a celebratory drink, and while they were all glad to have got Rashid and Mac out, two men had not been so lucky. To King, champagne was for weddings, christenings, and New Year.
“No. To absent friends,” said Rashid, holding his glass in the air.
Everyone concurred, Mereweather looking slightly foolish, especially given that when Rashid and his team had gone missing King was billed as their only hope. Likewise, falling to Caroline to railroad Ramsey to help her when King went off the radar, albeit with the willing help of Dave Lomu. But like any true mandarin, he got over it quickly enough and was likely to never look back.
Mereweather walked over to where King was busy cremating some sausages, he eyed Ramsay on the way, and he followed. He wasn’t a fan of champagne and had swapped his untouched glass for a glass of Pimms that Caroline had made in a large glass jug with all the accompaniments that went with it.
“The USBs are useless,” commented Mereweather.
“Figures.”
“But Romanovitch is shut down, as are the Albanian brotherhood.” Mereweather paused. “So, all in all…”
“Two good men are dead,” said King. He looked at Ramsay and said, “What about you, Neil. Do you think it was worth it?”
“Why are you asking me?” Ramsay responded irritably.
“As liaison officer, you must have a view. Was what we, you, went through worth it?”
Ramsay raised his glass. “All good things,” he said. “For queen and country…”
“Neil…” Mereweather glanced at him awkwardly.
King turned to the deputy director. “So, Simon. Clean up time.”
“Meaning?”
“You’ve got a double agent in play,” he said. “Are you going to send a message or wait for him to align himself with the person who picks up the reins?” King rolled the sausages onto the other grill, but it was too late. All hope was lost for the flaming pork links. “Clearly, if you leave him in play then you can take the bullshit that he feeds you and shovel it back on him at a later date.”
“That was our take on it.”
“Cowboys and Indians.”
“What?”
“Games,” replied King. “I think after a hundred years of playing games with the enemy, it might be time to simply shut them down altogether. We take one of theirs and turn them, bribe them, they go back and renege on their deal, feed us a load of crap, we discover what they’re up to and change the feed. They realise and counter… Christ, it’s bloody endless! It’s just foolish games!”
“What do you suggest?” Mereweather asked, sipping his champagne.
“The Home Secretary’s husband, the SO15 Commander’s wife, for a start. They were slaughtered to send a message. A message from a mafia boss via a Russian intelligence officer.” King paused. “The SVR killed the counter terrorism police chief’s wife! And the husband of one of the top three ranking ministers!”
“Well, what are you suggesting we do?” Ramsay asked sharply. “Another mission, another fruitless operation where we lose more of our people?” He shook his head. “We know who these people are, and we can use that to our advantage.”
“Or we stand up and show we won’t take it.”
“To the nation with the second largest military on earth?” Ramsay replied.
“It’s not about military. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been playing these games with the East for the past eighty years. We have alliances with the right people, the right numbers. And we’re a nuclear power.” King paused. “But we need to be tougher. Not reckless, just tougher.”
“So, what do you suggest?” Mereweather asked quietly.
“I know where we should start.”
“We?” Ramsay shook his head. “I thought you were out?” He glanced over at Caroline, who was trying to get Big Dave to eat some of her salads. “I thought you both were.”
“We need a different approach,” said King. “We operate so much in the shadows that we have lost our perspective of how the world looks in the light of day.”
“I agree,” said Ramsay. “We should continue with our embrace of technology and cyber intelligence.”
“We have GCHQ for that.”
“And that’s the way the world is going.”
“Neil, I think after this mission you of all people know that sometimes the work on the ground is horrible, but necessary.”
Ramsay frowned, but looked vacantly into his glass. “I need a refill,” he said and headed over to the table where Caroline had given up on Big Dave and was sipping her champagne. She smiled, picked up the jug and topped up his glass.
“Something I should know about?” asked Mereweather.
“I think it’ll come out when he’s ready.”
“Where should we start, then?”
“Major Diminov of the SVR,” said King. “He didn’t pull the trigger, but he clearly organised it and that can’t stand.”
“My thoughts entirely.”
44
Three months later
Russia
Autumn had closed in and winter had announced itself with freezing winds, flurries of snow and the promise of harsher days to come. Moscow was set to retreat into itself once more.
Major Diminov had taken a leave of absence. He was suffering from exhaustion and had found it difficult to carry out his tasks. The thought of a winter in Moscow, confined to his apartment and longing for the boredom to end filled him with dread.
He had been promised the rank of Colonel and a posting at the embassy in Stockholm, Sweden. A gentle posting as a reward for his services to the Motherland, and he had
received the Orden Svjatogo Georgija I Stepeni, or Order of Saint George 1st Class, in a private ceremony with the Russian President. He had been allowed to hold his medal for a few moments before it had been taken away and put into safe storage, along with the report of achievement that would, along with the medal itself, forever remain a secret.
Diminov drank some water, but he had trouble keeping it down. He had checked his temperature. There had been so much illness in the world, that he had recently purchased his own thermometer. He made his way into the tiny bathroom, opened the cabinet, and took out a jar of paracetamol. He swallowed two of them and put his mouth under the tap to chase them down. Again, he felt sick and straightened himself, holding onto the sink. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he looked at his eyes more closely. They appeared sunken, and his eye sockets looked dark. He ran a hand through his hair but frowned when several large strands came out effortlessly. He checked again, horrified that it pulled out so easily.
Diminov padded back to the living area and switched on his laptop. He waited for it to boot up, cursed when the battery indicated it was low and he pulled the charging cable out of the drawer and plugged the device in to charge. The battery seemed to have no capability to hold charge. He guessed they never really lasted long, style over substance, lightness, and ergonomics over practicality. It smelled hot, too. Like it was about to burn out. Perhaps the fan wasn’t running properly? But it was a relatively new machine. The keypad felt hot to the touch. He needed it for work, despite being sick, he still had tasks to assign, reports to make and agents to contact. Diminov brought up Yandex and typed in his symptoms. The search engine brought up localised services offering some of the keywords he had typed in, so he went onto Google and searched again. The keys were hot to touch, and he knew he would have to either buy a new device online or get a subordinate to take his laptop off for repair. He did not hold out much hope of that. Even Russia was becoming a throwaway society these days.