00:21
00:22
Schofield jumped back into the jeep beside Mother.
‘Put her into neutral and buckle up!’ he said.
00:23
00:24
Mother snatched up her seatbelt, clicked it on. Schofield did the same.
00:25
Then he drew his MP-7 and levelled it at the nearby catapult controls, long since abandoned during the Black Raven’s attack . . .
00:26
. . . and fired.
00:27
Ping!
The bullet slammed into the launch lever, triggering the catapult.
And the jeep shot off the mark at a speed that no humble jeep had ever gone before.
Ninety metres in 2.2 seconds.
Schofield and Mother were thrust into their seats, felt their eyeballs ram into the backs of their sockets.
The jeep shot down the runway at unbelievable speed.
The deck blurred with motion.
The jeep’s front tyres blew out after fifty metres.
But it still kept rocketing forward—like a cannonball out of a cannon—propelled by the tremendous force of the catapult.
Truth be told, they weren’t travelling as fast as a fighter jet on take-off, since a fighter is also propelled by its own thrusters.
But Schofield didn’t want to fly.
He just wanted to get off this aircraft carrier before she—
Blew.
The jeep hit the edge of the runway . . . and shoomed straight off it . . . blasting out into the sky . . . nose up, wheels spinning . . . just as the entire aircraft carrier behind it shattered spontaneously.
There was no fire.
No billowing clouds.
There was just a mighty, mighty BANG! as every exterior steel wall of the aircraft carrier instantaneously expanded outward—pushed out by the tremendous pressure of ignited hydrogen—bursting at the seams like the Incredible Hulk busting out of his clothes.
A starburst of a billion rivets was thrown high into the sky.
The rivets were thrown for miles, and rained down for the next whole minute. A helicopter that had just taken off from the rear of the carrier was shredded by the sudden rivet-wave, destroyed in mid-flight.
Dislodged pieces of the carrier—including entire plates of steel—flew out into the air and slammed down into the surrounding French destroyers, denting their sides, smashing their bridge windows.
The greatest damage to the Richelieu occurred at the aft end of the carrier, around the epicentre of the blast: the cooling vents.
The exterior walls there were simply ripped apart at the seams—at the vertical rivet joints—opening up wide gashes on both sides of the carrier, gashes into which the Atlantic Ocean flowed without mercy.
And the Richelieu—the largest and greatest aircraft carrier ever built by France—began to sink unceremoniously into the ocean.
Schofield and Mother’s jeep, however, flew off the bow of the massive carrier.
As it soared through the air in front of the ship, they unclipped their seatbelts and pushed themselves up and out of the jeep, allowing themselves to sail through the sky above it.
The drop from the flight deck to the water level was about twenty-five metres.
The jeep hit the water first. A large foamy explosion of spray.
Schofield and Mother hit it next. Twin splashes.
It hurt, but they angled their bodies as they entered the water—so that they entered it boots-first and knifed under the surface not a moment before the carrier erupted and its storm of rivets blasted across the surface of the ocean like a rain of deadly shrapnel.
The mighty aircraft carrier was sinking fast, ass-end first.
It was a truly spectacular sight.
And then, as its hapless crew hurried for the lifeboats or simply leapt for their lives into the ocean, the great warship went vertical—its bow rising high, its aft section completely submerged.
The rest of the French carrier group was frozen in shock.
Outside full-scale war, this sort of thing was unthinkable. No country had lost an aircraft carrier since World War II.
Which was probably why they were slow to react when, a minute after the explosion, the Black Raven swung into a hovering position ten feet above the waves of the Atlantic and plucked two tiny figures from the chop, raising them up on a cable-harness into its rear bomb bay.
Once the two figures were safely inside it, the sleek Sukhoi rose into the air and blasted off into the sky, away from the shattered remains of the Richelieu carrier group.
Aloysius Knight strode back into the holding cell of the Black Raven, saw Schofield and Mother lying there looking like a pair of drowned rats.
Schofield glanced up at Knight as he entered. ‘Set a course for the English Channel, off Cherbourg. That’s where the first Kormoran ship is. We have to find it before it launches its missiles on Europe.’
Knight nodded. ‘I’ve already told Rufus to take us there.’
Schofield paused.
Knight appeared unusually sombre, almost . . . sensitive. What was going on?
Schofield looked around the tight confines of the holding cell, and it hit him.
‘Where’s Gant?’ he asked.
It was then that, behind his amber-tinted glasses, Knight’s eyes wavered—just slightly. Schofield saw it and at that moment, he felt something inside him that he had never felt before.
Absolute, total dread.
Aloysius Knight swallowed.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘we have to talk.’
SIXTH ATTACK
ENGLAND CHANNEL–USA
26 OCTOBER 1700 HOURS (E. CHANNEL)
E.S.T. (NEW YORK, USA) 1100 HOURS
40 (a) (ii) In the event of a conflict involving the major global powers, it is highly likely that the poverty-stricken populations of Africa, the Middle East and Central America—some of which outnumber the populations of their Western neighbours by a ratio of 100-to-1—will flood over Western borders and overwhelm Western city centres.
From: United States National Security Council Planning Paper Q-309, 28 October, 2000
(UN PRESS, NEW YORK)
‘Who must do the hard things? He who can.’
Quote attributed to Confucius
ENGLISH CHANNEL COASTLINE,
NORTHERN FRANCE
26 OCTOBER, 1700 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1100 HOURS E.S.T. USA)
With a burst from its thrusters, the Black Raven landed on a cliff-top overlooking the English Channel, lashed by driving rain.
Out of its cockpit stepped Shane Schofield. He dropped to the muddy ground and staggered away from the fighter, oblivious to the storm around him.
After Knight had finished telling him about what had happened in the Shark Pit with Gant and Jonathan Killian and the guillotine, Schofield had said only three words.
‘Rufus. Land now.’
Schofield stopped at the edge of the cliff, jammed his eyes shut.
Tears mixed with the rain hammering against his face.
Gant was dead.
Dead.
And he hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been there to save her. In the past, no matter what happened, he’d always been able to save her.
But not this time.
He opened his eyes. Stared into space.
Then his legs gave way beneath him and he dropped to his knees in the mud, his shoulders heaving violently with every desperate sob.
Mother, Knight and Rufus watched him from the open cockpit of the Raven, twenty yards away.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Mother breathed. ‘What the hell is he going to do now?’
Schofield’s mind was a kaleidoscope of images.
He saw Gant—smiling at him, laughing, holding his hand as they strolled along the beach at Pearl, rolling up close against him in bed. God, he could almost feel the warmth of her body in his mind.
He saw her fighting in Antarctica and in Utah. Saving his life
with a one-in-a-million Maghook shot inside Area 7.
And then—shocking himself—he saw Killian at the castle saying, ‘I love to observe the look of pure horror that appears on a person’s face when they realise that they are, without doubt, going to die.’
And he saw the world from now on . . .
Without her.
Empty.
Meaningless.
And with that, he looked down at the Desert Eagle pistol in his holster . . . and he drew it.
‘Hey there, champ,’ a voice said from behind him. ‘Whatcha planning on doing with that gun?’
It was Mother.
Standing right behind him.
Schofield didn’t turn around when he spoke. ‘Nobody cares, Mother. We could save the world and nobody would give a shit. People would go on living their lives, completely unaware of soldiers like us. Like Gant.’
Mother’s eyes were locked on the gun in his hand. Rain dripped off it.
‘Scarecrow. Put the gun away.’
Schofield looked down at the Desert Eagle, seemed to notice it for the first time.
‘Hey,’ Mother said. Solely to distract him, she asked a question that she already knew the answer to. ‘What did she mean when she said, “Tell him, I would have said yes”?’
Schofield looked away into the distance, spoke like an automaton.
‘She could read me like a book. I could never keep anything secret from her. She knew I was going to propose in Tuscany. That’s what she was gonna say yes to.’
He shifted his grip on the gun. Bit his lip. Another tear streaked down his face. ‘Jesus, Mother. She’s dead. She’s fucking dead. There’s nothing left for me now. Screw it. The world can fight its own battles.’
With a quick move, he placed the gun under his chin and pulled the—
But Mother moved faster.
She tackled him just as the gun went off and the two of them went rolling in the mud by the cliff edge.
And they fought—Mother trying to pin his gun-hand, Schofield trying to push her clear.
Taller, stronger and far bulkier, at first Mother had the jump on him. She pinned him underneath her great weight and punched his gun-wrist. The Desert Eagle dropped out of his hand. Then she smacked him hard in the face—
The blow had a strange effect on Schofield.
It seemed to focus him.
With almost disturbing ease, he grabbed Mother’s left wrist with two fingers and twisted it. Mother roared with pain and Schofield—with perfect centre-of-gravity manipulation—threw her clear off him.
And they both stood.
Facing each other on the wind-lashed cliff, squaring off in the driving rain.
‘I won’t let you do it, Scarecrow!’ Mother yelled.
‘I’m sorry, Mother. It’s too late.’
Mother moved.
She advanced quickly, unleashing a bone-crushing right, but Schofield ducked it, hit her back, square on the nose. Mother swung again, but Schofield—perfectly balanced in the mud—avoided that blow too, and hit her again.
Mother staggered back to a standing position. ‘You’re gonna have do more than that to get rid of me!’
She lunged at him again, driving into him with her shoulders, tackling him linebacker-style, lifting him off his feet and sending them both crashing to the earth.
Over by the Black Raven, Aloysius Knight and Rufus just stood there in the rain, watching the fight like stunned spectators.
Rufus took a step forward, making to intervene—but Knight stopped him with a light hand to the chest, never taking his eyes off the battle.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is for the two of them to sort out.’
Schofield and Mother rolled in the mud, struggling.
Mother seemed to have him pinned when suddenly Schofield landed a short sharp elbow to her jaw and—again with surprising strength—rolled her clear.
He stood.
She stood.
Both were dripping with mud.
Mother staggered slightly, tiring, but she re-engaged anyway, swinging blindly.
Schofield parried every blow easily now, martial-arts-style. Mother roared in frustration just as he spun on one knee and swept her legs out from under her, and Mother fell unceremoniously onto her butt in the mud.
Having won for himself the distance he needed, Schofield walked back over to his gun, picked it up.
‘Scarecrow, no!’ Mother called, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Please, Shane, don’t . . .’
And for some reason, that stopped him.
Schofield paused.
Then he realised what it was.
For as long as he could remember, Mother had never called him by his first name. Not even in situations outside the Marine Corps.
He lowered the gun an inch, gazed at her.
She looked pathetic: on her knees on the ground, covered in mud, tears streaking down her face.
‘Shane,’ she called, ‘the world may not care. The world may not know that it needs people like you and Gant. But I care! And I know that I need you! Shane, I have a husband and some beautiful nieces—they’re thirteen years old and they all dress like Britney fucking Spears—and I have a mother-in-law who hates my guts.
‘But I love them all, love ’em to death, and I don’t want to see them living in a world of suffering and death that is run by a bunch of billionaire motherfuckers. But I can’t stop that from happening. I can’t. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, in the end I’m just not smart enough, not quick enough, not good enough. But you are. You can beat them. And do you know why? I do. I’ve always known it. And my little Chickadee knew it, too, and that was why she loved you. It’s because you can do things that other people can’t.’
Mother was on her knees in the mud, eyes filled with tears.
‘Shane, I ain’t the smartest kid in the class, but I know this: people are people. They’re selfish and they’re self-centred, they do stupid things and they have absolutely no idea that there are heroes like you out there looking after them every day.’
Schofield didn’t say a word.
The rain smacked against his cheeks.
But Mother had broken the spell.
Life was coming back into his eyes.
‘I don’t call you Shane,’ she said. ‘You probably know that. But do you know why?’
Schofield was rooted to the spot. Frozen.
‘No. Why?’
‘Cause you ain’t a regular fucking fella. You ain’t a “Brad” or a “Chad” or a “Warren”. You’re the Scarecrow. The fucking Scarecrow.
‘You’re more than just an ordinary guy. Which is why I’ve never treated you like an ordinary guy. You’re better than all of them. But if you off yourself now, if you take the easy way out, then you’re taking the path that Brad or Chad or Warren would take. That ain’t you. That ain’t the Scarecrow. The Scarecrow is made of tougher stuff than that. Now, I ain’t saying living is going to be easy—I don’t know if any normal person could bounce back after hearing what you just heard—but if anyone can, it’s you.’
Schofield was silent for a long time.
Then at last he spoke.
‘I’m going to kill them all, Mother,’ he said. ‘The bounty hunters who caught her. All the bounty hunters involved in this hunt. Plus everyone on Majestic-12 who made this happen. And when it’s all over—however it turns out, whether the world survives this crisis intact or whether it goes to hell on a handcart—I’m going to find Jonathan Killian and I’m going to blow his fucking brains out.’
Mother smiled through her tears. ‘Sounds good to me.’
‘But Mother,’ he added somewhat ominously, ‘I won’t guarantee what I’ll do after that.’
‘Then I guess I’ll just have to fight you again,’ Mother said.
And at that, Schofield blinked.
Life had fully returned.
Mother nodded. ‘Scarecrow. Nobody else may ever say this, so I’ll just say it for me . . . and for Ralph, and f
or the six Britney clones and my bitch from hell mother-in-law. Thank you.’
Schofield came over to her, extended his hand. Mother clasped it and let him haul her up.
Before he could move off, however, she embraced him in a mighty hug, engulfing his body in her massive frame. Then she kissed him on the forehead and guided him back to the Raven with one arm around his shoulders.
‘I miss her already,’ she said as they walked.
‘Me, too,’ Schofield said. ‘Me, too.’
They walked together.
‘Mother, I’m sorry I hit you.’
‘Hey, it’s okay. I hit you first.’
‘Thanks for fighting me. Thanks for not letting me go.’
UPPER NEW YORK BAY, USA
26 OCTOBER, 1125 HOURS LOCAL TIME
Exactly eleven minutes after his Concorde had touched down on the tarmac at JFK, Book II was sitting in the back of a Marine Corps CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter, blasting over the Statue of Liberty and Upper New York Bay, the mighty steel-and-glass mountain range of New York City spread out behind him.
Seated in the hold with him were twelve fully-armed Force Reconnaissance Marines.
‘You found terrorists at the plant?’ Book shouted into his mike, puzzled. He was talking to the leader of the Department of Defense team that had checked the Axon plant earlier, a man named Dodds.
‘Yes. All from Global Jihad, including—wait for it—Shoab Riis. Looks like it was a hell of a fight there,’ Dodds said.
‘Global Jihad,’ Book said. ‘But that just doesn’t make—’ He cut himself off.
Suddenly he understood.
Majestic-12 needed someone to blame for all this. And who better than a terrorist organisation?
For, really, how could Axon Corp help it if Global Jihad terrorists stole their missiles and ships. But where could Majestic-12 find a team of genuine Global Jihad terrorists?
Scarecrow Page 27
