Desperate Ground

by L J Morris

  ‘You’re telling me there’s no way to switch it off?’

  ‘Once the protocol is implemented, all US control panels are disabled. Control passes to the panels in the other countries that have bought into the system.’

  ‘But no other country has it yet.’

  ‘Exactly, there is only one of those panels in existence. It was used to test the process for handing over the nuclear trigger to another country. Even destroying the panel doesn’t stop the missiles from launching. The launch can only be stopped from the panel that started it.’

  Carter took off his glasses as he realised, with horror, what Kinsella was telling him. ‘That other panel is at Leatherback Cay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Surely there’s something they can do to stop him? Switch the whole system off, disable the missiles, something?’

  Kinsella pointed at the time and date on the printout. ‘This kidnap took place yesterday. They’ve had enough time to get Garrison to the island. I might be too late already.’

  ‘What the hell are we going to do, Danny?’

  ‘You have to get hold of the Americans yourself, Simeon. Fill them in on the details. Lancaster’s hands are tied by his bosses. They’ll sit on the info. They won’t want our involvement known, it might cause a diplomatic incident. We have to bypass them. You must have some friends in the CIA left over from the old days.’

  ‘I have a few that I can contact, off the record. They still have enough swing in Washington to get access to the executive.’

  ‘I think off the record is good. Don’t forget about Vadim. If we accept he is connected to Bazarov, he must know about all of this. Yet, I haven’t been able to find out anything about him. That means two things.’ Kinsella held up his right forefinger. ‘One. He’s high up. High enough to get rid of any data that might point to him and high enough to get rid of us if he thinks we’re a threat.’ Kinsella held up a second finger. ‘And two. He’s willing to see this operation go ahead either for money or to cover his own arse. That makes him extremely dangerous.’

  Carter nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll start tracking down my contacts. Lancaster will understand, that’s why he’s using us in the first place.’ He got out an old address book. ‘I knew this would come in handy someday.’

  ‘I hope your old friends can do something, Simeon. Otherwise, the only hope we’ve got is Sinclair and McGill. We don’t even know if they’re still alive.’

  Chapter 21

  Copperhead Bay was a deep-water harbour situated at the northern end of Leatherback Cay. A long spit of land protected its eastern side with a man-made breakwater curving west to complete the harbours shelter. A small lighthouse sat on the end of the breakwater and lit the way to the harbour’s single jetty. The port facilities were arranged along a thin strip of land between the bay and a steep cliff face. The jagged, jungle covered mountains rose up from the northern end of the island and sloped down to the lagoon that covered most of the island’s southern half.

  The MV San Antonio sailed into the harbour and manoeuvred itself to come alongside the jetty. Bazarov’s men threw the ropes to the shoreside dock workers who manned the island for QRL. They secured the cargo ship to the dockside bollards and prepared to unload. As far as they were concerned, this was business as usual.

  McGill felt the change in the ship’s motion and heard noises coming from the deck above. If he was going to do something, this was probably his best chance. He shuffled along the bench in the back of the van as far as his cuffs would let him, and reached across the front seat. A bundle of maps and instructions, from Bazarov to his men, lay on the dashboard. At full stretch McGill could get his fingertips to them. He pulled them closer, inch by inch, until they slid off the dashboard and into his hand.

  There was a metallic clang as the clips on the door to the hold were turned and the door opened. Someone was coming to get him. He worked quickly, taking the paperclip from the papers and opening it up. The footsteps on the metal ladder got louder as Bazarov’s henchman came closer. McGill bent the end of the paperclip into an L shape and worked it into the lock of his handcuffs. It was a party trick he’d learned years ago, but he’d never expected to have to use it for real. He looked out of the window at the guard who had now reached the bottom of the ladder and was approaching the van. He focussed on his cuffs and, after a few seconds, the lock opened. He pulled up the leg of his trousers and began ripping at the tape that was securing the Glock to his boot. He picked up the blanket they had given him and wrapped it around the weapon. As the side door of the van opened, McGill pulled the trigger and shot the guard in the chest.

  He grabbed the documents, shoved them in his pocket, and jumped out of the van. The shot was muffled but still loud enough for someone to hear, he had to get out. The man lying at his feet stared up at him with wide, questioning eyes; blood frothed around his mouth as he tried to breathe. There was no need to finish him off, he wasn’t a threat any more and McGill didn’t want to risk being heard, or waste a bullet.

  He reached down and pulled off the man’s combat jacket. In the pockets there were extra magazines for the Glock and the assault rifle that all the guards carried. McGill put the jacket on and slung the assault rifle over his shoulder. On the guard’s webbing belt hung a holster containing his Glock and a Russian Kizlyar knife. McGill unfastened the belt and placed it around his own waist. He looked down at the man – he felt no sympathy for him: this was business. As the guard coughed up his dying breath with a spray of blood, McGill took off towards the upper deck.

  At the top of the hold’s ladder he turned the clips on the hatch and opened it just enough to peer through the gap. Everyone was busy – either securing the ship or preparing the containers to be lifted by the dockside crane. He pulled up his collar to hide his face, kept his head down and slipped through the door. He stopped, with his back to the superstructure on the dark side of the ship, away from the shouting dockers and guards. He checked left and right, there was no one watching or patrolling, they weren’t expecting him to escape. He took two steps forwards, climbed over the guardrail, and hung down the side of the ship. After one more check below, he dropped the remaining fifteen feet into the water.

  He stayed beneath the surface as much as possible, working his way along the length of the ship and over to the jetty. He looked up, it was twenty feet to the dockside. He had to climb up and get away before the Russians realised he was gone.

  At regular intervals along the dock, metal ladders reached up from the water. McGill put his weight on one of the rungs and tested it. There was no creak of rusted metal – it was solid – and he climbed, carefully, checking for movement above as he went.

  Stopping, with his body in darkness and his head just clearing the top of the ladder, he surveyed the scene. The waterfront floodlights created multiple shadows behind wooden crates and tarpaulin covered piles of equipment that sat on the dock. The crane was lifting the first container from the ship, and swinging it over onto a large, flatbed railway truck, to be transported around the coast to the test facility. The top of the ladder was well lit but all the dockers were watching the container as it hung from the crane, none of them were looking in his direction.

  He completed the climb onto the jetty and rolled behind a large drum of cable. Crouching down, he worked out his options. There weren’t enough of Bazarov’s men for them to launch a manhunt through the jungle. Once he was away from the docks, they were likely to concentrate on keeping him away from the facility. Alone in the jungle he couldn’t do anything to disrupt their plans. As long as they thought that, it suited him fine.

  Water ran from his clothes and trickled in rivulets across the concrete, he needed to find some shelter and build a fire to dry off. He looked up at the cliff face; it looked climbable, but only if there was nothing else. He would use up too much time and energy he didn’t have going that way. He could follow the railway tracks but there was a chance he’d be spotted. His best option
was the train. If he could hide on board until it was clear of the cliffs, he could jump off and set up camp close to the test facility compound. The engine pulling the trucks was small so he didn’t think the speed of the train would be a problem. Once he was set up, he’d monitor the buildings until Sinclair arrived – if she wasn’t here already.

  He stayed low and kept to the shadows, closing in on the railway tracks. As he reached the back of the train there was a sudden commotion on board the ship. From the look of it, they had discovered his handiwork in the hold. He climbed under the chassis of the truck and readied his Glock, if all else failed he’d have to shoot his way out.

  Bazarov’s guards ran down the gangplank, torches scanning the jetty. The beams lit up the cliff and the surface of the water. McGill watched as they systematically searched along the dock and found the puddle behind the cable drum. He looked down; water was still dripping from his jacket and forming small pools on the oily railway sleepers. He needed to move but it was too late. As he lowered himself to the ground, two guards approached. They shone their torches under the chassis of the train, beginning with the engine, moving towards the rear and McGill’s hiding place.

  He shuffled backwards, away from the probing lights, trying to melt into the framework. With the Glock in his right hand he sucked in a lungful of air and held his breath.

  As the guards’ torchlight hit the underside of the truck, one of the dockers began shouting, half in English, half in Spanish. ‘Peligroso, danger ... you move, ahora ... now.’ He pointed up at the second container, which was now being lowered onto the rear truck, and back at the searchers. ‘You, danger.’

  Bazarov’s two goons decided they weren’t being paid enough to risk being crushed under the container. The pair backed off and McGill breathed out, loosening his grip on the trucks metalwork. He watched as all the guards came together at the end of the gangplank. Several of them shook their heads and one pointed upwards at the cliffs. McGill was right. They didn’t have enough people to carry out Bazarov’s instructions and a manhunt at the same time. He wasn’t worth the effort.

  Once the containers were secured, the workers on the jetty rounded up the guards and shepherded them into a carriage at the front of the train. The engine fired up and the truck jolted as the train pulled away. They moved out of the reach of the dockside floodlights and McGill’s eyes adjusted to what little light there was. He could make out the cliffs on one side, and the sea on the other, as the train trundled the five miles around the coast to the test facility.

  After a short but bumpy ride, McGill began to see the floodlights flickering through the foliage that covered most of the island. The buildings of the test facility were surrounded by a razor wire topped security fence. Outside the fence were lattice floodlight towers that lit up the test facility and the surrounding area. The main gate was manned by armed guards and a second entrance beside it was opening up to allow the train access. As the train slowed, McGill dropped down from his position under the truck and onto the railway tracks. Once the train had moved over him, he rolled off the tracks and disappeared into the jungle.

  The train carried on to the compound’s station. The dockers from the jetty reappeared and a small fleet of forklift trucks began unloading the containers’ contents. McGill watched as wooden crates and tarpaulin covered pallets were taken inside the large warehouse next to the tracks. Most of the crates had military markings on them, probably weapons of some sort. Some of the pallets were piled high with ammunition boxes and others with tinned food. Bazarov was well stocked to hold out for some time. McGill couldn’t get close enough to make out any real details but, even at this distance, he did recognise a worrying shape. In a raised position, just outside the compound fence, he could make out the unmistakable outline of a Rapier surface to air missile launcher. Bazarov was expecting, and ready to repel, an aerial attack.

  McGill couldn’t do anything yet, there were too many people about and he still had to confirm if Bazarov and Sinclair were on the island. He needed shelter, fire, and food. He’d checked the pockets of his jacket when he’d taken it off the guard and all he had found was ammunition. The webbing belt had the Glock and the knife but also a small pouch that he hadn’t checked yet. He opened the flap on it and removed a small tin box that contained the kind of survival equipment you might find in a store that catered for weekend warriors and survivalists. Some of it was pointless in this particular situation, but you never knew what might come in handy later. As his most urgent need was warmth, he was happy to see a flint and striker in the box. At least he could get a fire going and dry out his clothes. With any luck he would find a small cave or rock overhang where he could hide out. He left the guards and dockers to finish their work and walked back through the jungle towards the cliffs.

  * * *

  Simeon Carter sat in an office on the second floor of the US Embassy on Grosvenor Square. He’d arrived early to make sure he made it through security in plenty of time. He stood in line to be searched in the security hut outside the main entrance then made his way up the steps past the throng of people trying to apply for a visa. His identity was checked before he was escorted to the office of William Easter, an old friend from the Cold War days. There was no nameplate on the office door but Carter didn’t need one. He knew Easter was chief of station for the CIA in London.

  Carter stood up as Easter entered the room. ‘Bill. You haven’t changed a bit.’

  The veteran spy patted his stomach, which hung over his belt and strained the buttons of his shirt. ‘If only that were true, Simeon.’

  They shook hands warmly and Easter gestured for Carter to take a seat. The American sat opposite him on a leather couch. ‘How can I help you, Simeon? I was surprised, but pleased, when you called. I thought you were out of the game?’

  ‘Maybe I am. Maybe it’s just a social call, an invitation to a party.’

  Easter smiled. ‘I know you too well, Simeon. You don’t do parties.’

  Carter sat forwards in his chair. ‘Can we talk?’

  Easter knew what his old friend meant. He was asking if the room was bugged, if their conversation was being recorded and could come back to bite them on the arse. ‘You’re free to talk in here. No one is listening.’

  ‘Good. What I’m about to tell you could cause some political fallout, but we have to get past that.’

  ‘Sound’s bad.’

  ‘As bad as it gets, Bill.’

  Easter stood up and pressed a button on the intercom that sat on his desk. After a couple of seconds his secretary’s voice answered, ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Hold all my calls please, Gina. No one comes in here, no matter who it is.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Easter sat back down on the couch. ‘Okay, Simeon, you have my full attention.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the explosion in Texas, the dead officers?’

  ‘Of course. We’re trying to figure out who’s responsible. Whether or not this is a terrorist attack.’

  ‘There was also a shootout in a motel in Houston and the kidnapping of Admiral Garrison from a golf resort. They are all linked.’

  ‘And you know this, how?’

  ‘We have an asset on the inside. Her name is Ali Sinclair.’

  Easter walked over to his desk and picked up a plain, red folder. He handed it to Carter. ‘The FBI in Houston have asked us to find out everything we can on a woman called Sinclair. They say she used to be one of yours but is currently an escaped convict. They came to the conclusion she was mixed up in all three of these events.’

  Carter opened the folder. It contained mug shots of Sinclair, the photographs from the motel, and stills from The Lone Star’s CCTV footage. ‘They’re right. She escaped from a Mexican prison and we tracked her down, put her in undercover. We thought this was no more than a possible security leak. A threat to the secrecy of the Kraken deal. We were wrong.’

  ‘How wrong? What’s the threat here, Simeon? It’s already gotten
pretty bad. The politicians are screaming for someone’s ass over this.’

  Carter held up one of the stills from the file. ‘The man with Sinclair at the resort, the one you can’t quite make out, it’s Viktor Bazarov.’

  ‘Holy shit. What the fuck is he doin’ in the US? He hasn’t raised any alarms, we thought he was in the Middle East.’

  ‘We believe he is now in QRL’s test facility on their private island in the Caribbean. He has access to a control panel for the Kraken and, in Quinn and Garrison, he has the means to launch a nuclear strike.’

  Easter ran his hands through his hair, he was stunned. ‘You waited until now to tell us this?’

  ‘Like I said, Bill, we have to avoid the political fallout. We have to take care of this before we start analysing who should have told who what, and how soon.’

  Easter picked up his phone. ‘I’ve gotta tell the Pentagon. They’ll order in an airstrike, bomb the shit out of the place.’

  ‘You can’t do that. We don’t know how close Bazarov is to launching, he may have started a countdown already. Destroying the test facility won’t stop it. The other thing we don’t know is if the island is his only option. Killing him might set off something else. Another attack we know nothing about. If you destroy the island you may lose any chance you have of preventing this.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’

  ‘You can’t go through the normal channels, it’ll take too long. If the CIA raise the alarm, the brass will want to know where the info came from and why it didn’t come to light sooner. They might even think it’s some kind of hoax, the delay could be fatal. You must make an assault on the island. Marines, SEALs, whoever you have in the area. You get them in there, as quickly as you can, and help Sinclair. She has backup from a guy called Frank McGill. A good man, ex-marine, but he’s not enough to take out Bazarov’s private army on his own.’

  ‘How can Sinclair halt the countdown?’