Desperate Ground

by L J Morris

  The fingerprint scanner’s power unit was now a collection of scattered electronic components and shattered plastic. Bazarov’s bullet had hit the mark. Quinn typed in the lines of code that would abort the launch, but they would still need the fingerprint and retina scans to halt it.

  While Quinn typed, one of the engineers ripped the plastic wrapping off another equipment rack. The other engineer grabbed a toolbox and joined him in searching for the right tools.

  ‘HURRY.’ Quinn was almost finished. ‘James, get over here.’

  Garrison felt like a spare wheel. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do so just stood next to Quinn like an enthusiastic schoolboy during a science experiment.

  One of the engineers pulled a handful of wires from the rack and ran to the console. ‘This should do the job. Uses the same voltage.’ He stripped the insulation from the new power supply’s cable and began jointing it to what was left of the old one. He threw the power switch and, after a flash and a spark, the scanner’s blue light stuttered to life.

  Quinn hit the key on the console. ‘Now, James, hand on the scanner and look through the scope.’

  Garrison did as he was told and his details, once again, appeared on the screen.

  Quinn typed another line of code then copied Garrison’s actions. Hand on the scanner and looking through the scope. The blue light dimmed and went out.

  ‘NO.’

  The engineer picked up a screwdriver and franticly pounded the top of the power supply. After another spark, the blue light flickered back on and scanned Quinn’s prints and retina. Her details flashed up on the screen next to Garrison’s. She turned the key in the console and slammed her hand down on the red abort button.

  The flashing launcher icons on the map had all returned to a steady green. The countdown clock was frozen at twenty seconds.

  LAUNCH ABORTED: MUZZLE HATCHES CLOSING.

  McGill puffed out his cheeks and visibly relaxed, his muscles and teeth unclenching. The engineers high-fived and Quinn held her trembling hands up to her face.

  Garrison bent over and picked up the hip flask that Vadim had dropped earlier. He sniffed the contents and took a sip. ‘That was too fucking close.’ He held out the flask to the others. ‘Drink, anyone?’

  The others started to laugh with relief but McGill had no time for laughter. This wasn’t over yet. ‘Jo. Your kids are in a cupboard in the basement. They’re safe. I’ve got to go after Ali.’

  Quinn touched his arm. ‘Thank you, Frank.’

  Outside, the marines were crouched down, a few yards from the building’s main door, as one of their number attached two small charges of C4 plastic explosive. He stepped away and into cover, his thumb hovering over the trigger. Halloran made sure that none of his own men were exposed to the blast and nodded. The marine’s thumb dropped. The C4 blew and, with a loud thud and a cloud of dust, reduced the door to a pile of smouldering wood and twisted steel.

  They heard the explosion in the control room. It was followed by the sound of boots running along the corridor. Garrison checked through the window in the door and saw the marines closing in. ‘Thank God, here come the marines.’

  Quinn turned to McGill. ‘Frank, you’re dressed like one of Bazarov’s men. If the Americans see you like that they might think you’re one of them and kill you.’

  ‘I can’t let them take me prisoner, I’ve got to help Ali.’

  ‘Please, Frank. They’ll shoot first and regret it later.’

  McGill weighed up his options. Quinn was right. It was easy for the marines to make a mistake in the heat of battle. He dropped his weapons and took off his jacket. He knelt down, facing the door, and put his hands on his head.

  Quinn and the engineers stood in front of McGill, shielding him. The first man through the control room door scanned the room then took aim at McGill, but Garrison stepped forwards, spreading out his arms. ‘It’s okay, boys. I’m Admiral James D. Garrison.’

  The marine recognised Garrison from the briefing Halloran had given.

  Garrison pointed at McGill. ‘This man is on our side, he’s friendly. We don’t want any blue on blue incidents here, son. Who’s your commander?’

  The marine lowered his aim and turned to the doors. ‘SIR.’

  Halloran made his way through the group of marines and into the control room. ‘I’m Special Agent Kurt Halloran, FBI and US Marine reserves.’

  Garrison held out his hand. ‘Good to see you guys. I’m Admiral Garrison and this is Josephine Quinn. I take it you knew we were here?’

  Halloran took Garrison’s hand. ‘Yes, Admiral. The brass will be happy you’re both unhurt.’ He looked at McGill and gestured for him to stand. ‘You must be Frank McGill.’

  McGill nodded. ‘I need you to help me find Sinclair. She went after Bazarov on her own. He was heading for the chopper.’

  Halloran turned to his men. ‘Go with him. Bring back Bazarov.’

  McGill picked up his weapon and set off running up the corridor. He led the marines out through the smouldering hole where the door used to be and across the compound towards the helicopter pad. Before they were halfway there, the twin rotors beat the air and blew up dust as the Chinook climbed unsteadily, rocking and dipping as the pilot struggled to control it.

  McGill watched it go. There was nothing more he could do. If Sinclair was on the chopper with Bazarov, she was on her own.

  * * *

  In the back of the aircraft Bazarov and Sinclair faced each other square on. Each of them held a knife, waiting for the other to make the first move. Sinclair was up on the balls of her feet, balanced, counteracting the movement of the Chinook. Bazarov was much older and more flat-footed, but he was ex-Spetsnaz and no mug when it came to hand-to-hand combat. She knew that Spetsnaz were famed for their ability with bladed weapons. It was a big part of their training.

  Bazarov steadied himself against the airframe. ‘It was a valiant effort, Miss Sinclair, but you’re finished now.’

  Sinclair smiled. ‘On the contrary. You’re the one who’s finished. Your whole plan was a disaster. Your boss ran off and left you, and all of your men are dead.’

  ‘I’ll live to fight another day. There’s no stopping us, Miss Sinclair. The East will rise again. This is just the beginning.’

  ‘If you think you’re going to be around to see it, Viktor, I can assure you that you’re wrong. It doesn’t matter if I die. All that matters is that I kill you first.’

  ‘We’d better get on with it then.’

  Bazarov raised his knife and rushed towards Sinclair. She was surprised by his sudden attack but her balance and speed easily spun her out of his reach.

  ‘You’re getting old, Viktor. Not as good as you used to be.’

  She had to keep him off guard. He was dangerous and, although she was good in a fight, knives weren’t her speciality. She stayed on her toes and danced round him, jabbing in punches and slashing with her blade.

  Bazarov kept his distance as much as he could. Sinclair was right, he wasn’t fast on his feet any more. His age and his old combat injuries were against him. All he had left was power and experience. He blocked most of Sinclair’s punches. The attacks he couldn’t evade didn’t land cleanly or hurt him too much. Sinclair could punch but he’d had much worse. Her knife attacks weren’t getting through either. The slashes that were making contact weren’t getting through the layers of clothing he had on.

  Sinclair had to get through his defence. She threw two quick punches and drove her shoulder into his ribcage, which knocked him backwards against the airframe.

  Bazarov absorbed the attack and drove the point of his elbow into Sinclair’s spine. Her knees buckled and he threw her across the hold like a soft toy. She landed hard and her knife bounced away from her. The Russian followed up with a powerful kick to her ribs.

  She felt one of her ribs crack and pain shoot along her body. It looked like she was about to end her unbeaten streak. She tried to get to her feet but Bazarov stood on
her left hand with all of his weight, pinning her to the floor. Sinclair screamed as one of her fingers broke.

  The Chinook’s pilot was losing his fight with the bucking aircraft and his own blood loss. His vision was darkening, his senses failing. They’d travelled most of the distance to the mainland but now they were coming down. ‘Sir. I can’t hold it. We’re going to crash.’

  Bazarov looked through the cockpit window. There was a beach about a mile ahead of them; if the chopper came down there they could all die. They weren’t too high up; he’d take his chances in the sea, but first he had to kill Sinclair. ‘Open the tailgate.’

  He grabbed a handful of Sinclair’s hair and dragged her to her feet. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Sinclair, you die in the crash.’ He raised his knife above his head, ready to strike the fatal blow.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Sinclair brought her right hand up, with all her remaining energy, and drove her fingers, upwards, into Bazarov’s eye socket.

  Bazarov screamed. His eyeball ruptured and was forced out of its socket. He let go of Sinclair, and his knife, clasping his hands to his face. Sinclair dropped to her knees. She picked up his knife and stabbed him in the inner thigh, severing his femoral artery.

  The aircraft tipped and Bazarov slid down the wall. Propped up, with his legs sticking out in front of him, fluid from his destroyed eye ran down his cheek, and blood spurted between his fingers as he vainly tried to stem the bleeding from his leg.

  Alarms sounded in the cockpit and the helicopter rocked wildly. Sinclair came to the same conclusion as Bazarov had. She would take her chances in the sea. She ran to the back of the aircraft and looked out of the open tailgate. She thought it was about thirty feet, but it was hard to tell. It was definitely high enough to do some damage if she didn’t land right. She took a deep breath, had one last look at Bazarov, and jumped out.

  The Chinook hit the beach hard, tailgate first. The nose slammed into the hard, packed sand, and the chopper crumpled and tipped over on its side. The twin rotor blades hit the ground and shattered; fragments flew off in all directions – some embedding themselves into the ground and others flying into the air.

  Sinclair surfaced, coughing and gasping for air. The jump from the tailgate hadn’t gone to plan and she’d hit the surface like a sack of potatoes rather than an Olympic diver. She looked at the wreckage on the beach for any sign of movement. The last thing she wanted to see was Bazarov limping away to freedom. She didn’t have the energy to chase him down – even in the state he was in.

  She started the swim towards land. Just as she thought she saw someone moving in the wreckage, a huge fireball ripped through the fuselage, blowing it to pieces and killing everyone on board. Lumps of metal, and fragments of airframe and engine, flew high into the air. Sinclair felt the heat of the explosion hit her and she dipped below the surface again as pieces of wreckage splashed down around her.

  When the metal rain had ended, she resurfaced and continued her swim to the beach. By the time she got there, the fires had died down and people were approaching the crash scene. She was exhausted and bloodied. Her broken rib and fingers screamed every time she moved. She dragged herself out of the water and up the beach where she lay down in the sand and passed out.

  Chapter 29

  Simeon Carter waited in the coffee shop for Edward Lancaster to arrive. They hadn’t spoken much since the Kraken affair. They both thought it would be best to let things lie for a little while. Everything Carter and his team had done was unofficial and possibly illegal. The last thing Lancaster wanted was to drop them in any more shit.

  Some people were looking for scapegoats for the whole affair, others wanted prosecutions, but Carter had managed to use his contacts to erase all mention of his team from the records. If anyone wanted to go after them, they would have to go through him first.

  Lancaster had taken care of the official side of things. Denying that MI6 had had anything to do with the operation, and challenging his detractors to come up with evidence. Of course, they wouldn’t find any. The Americans were as keen as MI6 to keep this quiet.

  Questions were asked in parliament about what the government had known, and when, but they were able to plausibly deny everything. The opposition tried to score political points from it but the government weren’t aware of the facts; they hadn’t been kept in the loop. The Americans, of course, insisted that they never lost control of any nuclear missiles, and played down the possibility of the explosion at Quinn’s ranch being terrorist related.

  Everything died down, politicians moved on to the next crisis, and the newspapers found someone else to go after. Now it was time for Carter to look after his people.

  The coffee shop door opened and Lancaster walked in. He ordered himself a medium latte and joined Carter at the table. ‘Good morning, Simeon. It’s good to see you again. How have you been?’

  Carter took a sip of his coffee. ‘I’m okay, Edward. How are you doing? Are we all in the clear now?’

  Lancaster checked for any eavesdroppers and nodded. ‘As far as the hierarchy are concerned, none of your team are wanted for anything in connection with Kraken or the Apocalypse Protocol. It’s all been hushed up.’

  Carter was relieved. The thought of anyone being hauled over the coals, because of something he’d got them into, filled him with dread. ‘Sounds like the best thing for everyone, Edward.’

  ‘How’s your team holding up?’

  ‘Danny is okay. He’s spending time trying to track down this guy Vadim. It’s important we find out who he is.’

  Lancaster nodded. ‘I agree. Have you had any luck?’

  ‘Nothing yet, Edward. Whoever he is, he’s kept himself well hidden. Sinclair is the only one who can identify him and prove he’s our mole. We need her home. We need her safe.’

  ‘How is Sinclair? Have you spoken to her at all?’

  ‘The embassy in Mexico are able to pass on messages to her but I haven’t spoken to her personally. We need to get her out of there. I promised her I’d bring her home.’

  Lancaster was genuinely sorry for Sinclair but his hands were tied. ‘It was unfortunate that the beach they landed on was on the Mexican side of the border.’

  Carter banged his fist on the table. ‘Unfortunate?’

  Other customers in the café stopped their chat and looked at the two men. Carter looked around apologetically.

  ‘She saved all of our arses, Edward, and we just abandon her? We let the Mexicans cart her off back to prison?’

  Lancaster gulped another mouthful of coffee. ‘We’re doing everything we can. As you said, we need her to identify Vadim. The Americans are on our side but it’s hard when we’ve denied the operation ever took place.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one big problem though, Edward.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Carter lowered his voice and leaned forwards. ‘Frank McGill.’

  Lancaster’s expression changed to one of worry. ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘Nothing so far. I don’t know where he is. I’ve tried going to his house but he wasn’t there. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, but if he is, we should worry.’

  ‘Do you really think he would try something?’

  Carter chuckled. ‘Frank McGill killed the drug dealers who murdered his wife, all of them, the whole gang, and he didn’t do it quickly. Now Sinclair is the closest thing he has to family, and he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.’

  Lancaster knew he couldn’t afford to have a man like Frank McGill coming after him. All of the security in the world couldn’t protect him all of the time. ‘I want you to track him down, Simeon. I want him on our side.’

  ‘Why is that, Edward? Usually you’d be better off getting rid of someone like him.’

  Lancaster finished his coffee. ‘McGill is very useful for off the book wet work. His link with Sinclair makes them a perfect team. Combined with you and Danny, that’s a team I think I’m going to need.’

  Carter
knew what Lancaster meant. He wanted a team that wasn’t linked to the government or the official security services. In the current environment of leaks and witch hunts, Lancaster needed people who could work freelance.

  Lancaster passed a brown A4 envelope to Carter. ‘I’ve got some work for you and your team, Simeon – if you’re interested. In the meantime I’ll do everything I can to get Sinclair out.’

  ‘And if I’m not interested?’

  ‘Then I might not be able to help Sinclair as much as I’d like to.’

  Carter took the envelope and tucked it inside his jacket. ‘The game never really changed, did it, Edward?’

  ‘We’re all pawns, Simeon. You know that.’

  Carter picked up his cup and looked at the cold dregs of his coffee. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Edward. Watch your back.’ He stood and shook hands with his old protégé then turned and left the café.

  Outside on the pavement, Carter zipped up his jacket and put on his gloves. It looked like he was coming out of retirement. There was a new Cold War on the horizon. Russia was flexing its muscles and the West seemed to be turning a blind eye. A resurgent Russia against a West weakened by financial crisis, and seemingly incapable of keeping anything secret. Throw in the various terrorist factions and the whole world was a much more dangerous place than it had been a few years ago.

  He made his way along the streets to Danny’s flat. The way things were now, it would be best for him to stay at Danny’s full-time. He had to be close to Lancaster in order to be effective as an unofficial resource.

  * * *

  Lost in his thoughts, Carter was back at the flat before he knew it. He unlocked the door and went in. It was unusually dark inside. Normally, Kinsella would have enough lighting so he could see his keyboards. He was rarely off them when he was at home – no matter what time of day it was. Sometimes, it was like living in a data centre.

  Carter reached over and threw the light switch by the door. When the light came on, the scene in front of him wasn’t really a great surprise. He had half expected it every time he had come home for the last couple of months.