by SJ Hailey
Archer replaced the phone in his safe; there was a great many US citizens in Mabalia at present. The lure of oil. Four major oil companies had interests here. The opportunity to break the stranglehold of the Persian Gulf with oil from the horn of Africa was enticing. But the wars which had enveloped the area stopped all possibility of safe oil exploration. Recent stability with the creation of Mabalia, might allow the extraction of the countries resources.
Archer was aware that interests in this adolescent country were not purely humanitarian; the facade of economic and military advisors would pass. The big business of oil would take over. He knew that President Uncotto’s intended to resist this and play America and China against each other, a dangerous tactic.
Archer would normally have taken support for a meeting, check out the location, plan all threats, but he did not have the time or inclination to brief anyone. Archer decided to go alone. A routine observation from the adjacent office building afforded him by a friendly receptionist, gave him all the peace of mind he could manage.
The hotel was old, but had survived the civil war. With recent refurbishment it was maintaining a healthy turnover in foreign businessmen, here to explore new opportunities. Archer had worn a suit, to fit in with the visitors, he had even shaved which was rare. Usually he was sporting three-day-old stubble you could sand wood with. He moved through the lobby heading for the mirrored elevator doors, checking the reflection for anyone observing or following him, there was no one.
The fourth floor lift doors opened onto a short corridor, recently wallpapered. There were fire exits at each end. A stairwell about halfway down on the right. Archer walked quietly along the corridor, checking for tell-tale shadows on the spy holes. The stairwell was deserted, as was the fire exit. It appeared to be safe, but he knew better than to presume.
He stepped into the stairwell on his return patrol and checked his firearm and knives. One in his ankle holder, one in his belt. Satisfied that he was prepared, he moved down to room 418 and knocked once. He stepped to the side of the doorframe and waited. No shadow appeared at the spy hole, no footsteps from the room. Tentatively he nudged the door; let it swing open, while he stayed in the corridor. The room revealed itself, a mass of beige and cream, standard neutral corporate décor. But the carpet was spattered with blood; some on the ceiling, arterial spray. That got his finger depressing the middle safety embedded in the trigger of his H&K Mark 23.
He scanned the room, looking around for any indication of an intruder; stealthily approaching the bathroom, his heart rate increased. He pushed the door open, while training his gun on any potential occupant. None materialised. He scanned the room again, a table lamp with a missing shade and heavy marble base, covered in blood. The heavy wooden table in the middle of the room had dents and blood spatter, indicating body parts had been crushed repeatedly. Archer’s concern for Khan appeared to be well founded; his director was very mistaken or very aware of the danger.
The room had been crudely searched, as the furniture marks in the carpet revealed its imprecise replacement. Whatever they wanted, they had not found, otherwise, the torture would not have been conducted here. So where was Khan’s body? The spray on the ceiling indicated he was dead, his friend came to him worried, and Archer failed to protect him. But he could only protect against what he knew, or expected.
He left the room, wiping the handle out of habit, doubting that the local police would even attempt to fingerprint the area. They would most likely presume a mugging gone wrong, case closed.
Archer monitored the noises coming from down the hall, another businessman enjoying local hospitality. Past the noisy room was a bathroom, Archer thought back to old habits and holstering his weapon moved into the unoccupied room. The floral scent overpowered him as he stood on the toilet seat and moved the roof tile above the cubicle; he felt exactly what he expected. Just inside the roof space was a memory card stuck in gum. Archer and Khan had used this technique in the past, when quick and dirty tactics were called for.
Archer smiled, remembering better times with his friend Khan. He placed the memory card in his jacket pocket, flushed the toilet and left.
The corridor was still empty, and he was just entering the lift, when two local police came up the stairwell, they never saw him.
Archer left the hotel opting to examine the memory card in the safety of his room. As he traversed the hotel lobby again, a tall man in a smart suit observed him.
The tall man was Chui Enzi the head of Internal Security for Mabalia, not a fan of Archer Mathias or Darney as he knew him. He had been watching Archer since his arrival seven months ago. He was able to report to the President that he respected the expertise and experience of Mr Darney. In reality he resented the presence of an outsider that limited the freedom of operation he was accustomed too.
After observing the torture of Archer’s friend Khan and discovering nothing, except a tolerance for pain, he presumed that Mr Khan had passed information on. As he expected the President’s head of security was nothing more than another American spy, like his former friend, whose body was being disposed of by his men now. The manager of the hotel and the local police would require some persuasion that they need not pursue nor investigate the blood and disturbance in room 418. With their knowledge of Enzi’s previous atrocities, there would be no issue.
Confident that the information his colleagues required would soon be within his possession, Enzi enjoyed his iced mineral water with lemon and opened his phone.
‘My friend, your operative may be a problem, will you allow me to resolve it for us?’
The answer was welcomed and, Enzi anticipated the enjoyment of disposing of Mr Darney with a smug smile.
THREE
West Coast of Ecuador, South America
No one was flying the plane twenty thousand feet above the lush steaming Ecuador rainforest. Katherine Shotbolt the pilot and sole occupant was in the rear, monitoring the complex aerial surveying equipment. She was in her element, unperturbed by the vacant pilot’s seat, fully confident in the GPS guided point to point navigation software. She had every right, having helped test and design it after leaving the United States Air Force four years ago. By the USAF standards the software was now out of date, a newer more effective version was probably in use. But this civilian version served her purposes.
She glanced over its update screen, the place markers clearly showing over a full colour map. Indicators of wind speed and other affecting conditions updated on the side of the display. At a glance she could see everything she needed. The sun invaded the porthole on the left side of the Global Surveyor, the grandiose title she had emblazoned on its wings; her helmet visor diffused the glare. To the casual observer her aircraft appeared alien, but then the team at Scaled Composites had some of the most dynamic and unique aircraft designs in the world. Most people did not know the company name, but when you said Global Flyer, or Spaceship One, most people had seen one of their aircraft, and perhaps not realized. When on the ground the Global Surveyor appeared cumbersome, but in the air, she was a ballerina.
There was an H shape forming the wings, and the cross section part of the body. She had two booms extending rearward, with the rudders stretched like shark fins. Between these two booms, the exhaust from the two body-mounted turbofans could provide the economical thrust to allow her to cruise at altitude for up to eighteen hours. Katherine always joked that while the plane could go for eighteen hours without a break, she could not. The rear wings were the widest at seventy-eight feet. The front wings a mere fifty-five feet, but they were thin, appearing fragile but the composite material giving them strength and low weight.
The porthole the sun was rudely invading was one of three spaced out across the rear compartment. The two larger portholes in the front allowed the pilot and co-pilot, when there was one, greater visibility even when landing. The body of the plane narrowed to the rear of the passenger compartment, containing the masses of complex and expensive survey equipment, l
inked to the scanners themselves, firmly strapped to the belly of the plane.
This was far more accommodating than the Apache gunships she had flown, and a damn sight cooler. Her reminiscing was interrupted by the base station calling in, ‘ROBBIE come in ROBBIE this is base, over’
She sighed, ‘How many times have I told you Laurent, you do not have to say over, this is not CB radio!’
‘What is CB radio?’
‘Never mind, what do you need?’
‘The area in grid four. Can you re-send the data, we lost power, and transmission was interrupted.’
‘Yeah no problem, give it ten minutes should be back up, anything else?’
‘Now is that anyway to speak to your fiancé?’
‘Sorry, just getting cranky, eight hours looking at screens will do that to you’
‘I thought you loved flying my sweet?’
‘I do ‘my sweet’ but this is not flying, it is more being chauffeured through the sky.’
‘Well almost done, just two more grids and I will make it up to you, promise’
That French accent melted her every time, though she rarely let him know it. ‘Okay what do I have to do for this make up favour?’
‘Well tell me why your call sign is ROBBIE?’
Laurent had asked her this before and her answer was always the same, ‘I have told you, my call sign was given during training, following an incident in a bar in town.’
‘Yes but never more info than that. Come on tell me while I wait for this data.’
Reluctant to recount the story, Katherine gave him the clean version, ‘Well, all call signs have two meanings, usually one is for the army and one for the parent and friends, so ROBBIE is after Robert T Bakker a noted paleontologist, because I was a geology major. Not many pilots with that qualification, as I did not want to work in army when I began university.’
‘What did you want to do?’
‘Be a geologist, or dig for dinosaurs, old boyfriend’
‘Hmm, go on, the other meaning?’ Laurent did not like to think any other man had been with her prior to him. ‘You are avoiding this, just come out with it, what does ROBBIE mean really?’
Katherine was genuinely about to answer when her sensors began to sound an alarm, ‘Christophe, I am going to have to get back to you.’
‘Do not avoid this, what is it for?’
‘No Christophe I have a problem here, talk later.’ with that Katherine cut transmission to avoid further questions. Sometimes Laurent could be a pain.
Katherine knew every anomaly always sounded an alarm to investigate and this was a magnetic anomaly, something quite large. She moved to the navigation screen saving the route so far, and instructing the plane to circle over the area of interest. The plane turned as soon as she had selected execute on the touch screen. Banked left, then leveled out 180 degrees from its previous heading.
She reduced height to get better readings and clarity from the sensors. As she began her second run she felt the plane shudder. Then the screens in the cockpit went blank. She instinctively grabbed the stick, but the fly-by-wire controls were dead. She had no power, no instruments. Then she felt the engines fail.
FOUR
Canada
Jacob Mathias sat exhausted in the arrival area of St Johns airport. His strong wide hands supported his head, pepper pot spiked hair pushed against his hard skin. He was debating the best course of action before taking the flight out to Greenland; he had twelve hours to kill, on his own.
He opened his wallet, glanced at the three photos of his family. His wife had died last year, his eldest son in the first Gulf War and his second son was god knows where. Temporarily lost in remembrance his phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hello?’
‘Morning Jacob, pissed off any politicians recently? Oh yes, I just saw it on Youtube!’
‘Morning Paul, you saw the press conference then?’
Paul Stone was one of Jacob’s oldest friends from the civilian world. A financial genius he had made billions, became bored with corporate life and decided to help save what was left of the world. All the work of Jacob’s group was financed by the independent and intense Paul Stone. His focus today was on a recent conference which Jacob had made his thoughts on certain policies blatantly clear.
‘Yeah nice one, somehow I think government contracts are going to dry up.’
‘Paul he had it coming.’
‘I know the history of your relationship Jacob, but next time be a little more private. To be honest he probably did deserve it.’
Jacob suppressed a chuckle, ‘What was your favourite comment?’
‘That he would have to deploy forces in sailing ships when the oil runs out.’ Paul was amused but still angry.
When the laughter had stopped, ‘What are your plans Jacob?’
‘A bath, and then catch up on mail, then early night, flight out to the Ice Maiden off Qaanaaq.’
‘Near Karnak, that’s Egypt.’
‘No Paul, Q a a n a a q, pronounced karnak, it is in Greenland, near Thule Air force base. Weather’s good, can fly into Thule, and then helicopter out to the ship.’
‘Well I will talk to you from Quarnak, later.’
Jacob laughed, Paul financed expeditions all over the world, but could not pronounce most of them, he always had to practice before presentations to get them right, always had.
Jacob put his phone away when it began annoyingly shaking again.
‘What now Paul?’
The female voice responded hesitantly, ‘No sir it is Marie I have a video message for you from Captain Skanks, marked urgent.’
‘Sorry Marie, send it through.’
He saw footage from a UAV circling an iceberg, and then a still image. His thoughts were echoed by the voice message from Skanks, ‘Yes Jacob you are looking at a ship, inside an iceberg. If you want a closer look call me, you know the number.’
Jacob curiosity was piqued and he dialled Skanks without hesitation. The message on the line said the phone was out of range, but it was a satellite phone, that was impossible. He hung up and called the ships base.
‘Hi Jacob Mathias for Captain Skanks. I can’t get through on his phone?’
‘Mr Mathias, Captain Skanks is missing, so is the Sea Eagle. We have coastguard out looking now.’
Twenty minutes later Jacob was heading for the airfield. He saw a familiar blonde haired tall man by the entrance of hanger 8.
‘I need to get out into the Atlantic to find a friend, when can you take off?’
The tall man turned around, staring straight at Jacob. His piecing blue eyes the only colour on his white haired face.
‘Nice greeting Jacob and I was going to offer you a drink when you arrived.’
‘Jean, been a while.’
The two men hugged and back-slapped, the sound drew attention from a few onlookers.
‘Did I hear you right; you want to fly out? Where exactly?’
‘You know Captain Skanks, Sea Eagle captain?’
‘Yes done some supply runs with him.’
‘Well he found this in an iceberg.’
Jacob showed a still shot on his PDA, the ship’s hull circled in red.
‘And he found this? Have you called him?’
‘No answer, you got any contacts?’
Jean moved out of the wind and into the shelter of the hanger office. The mechanic continued to work on a Sea King helicopter, Jacob noticed a twin prop otter and another helicopter at the back. All the aircraft were in the same colours, Haeberli Air emblazoned on the side.
Jean returned fifteen minutes later, his face conveying what Jacob had suspected.
‘I called a friend in the Ice patrol. Sea Eagle is not at last reported position. The ice patrol did a flyover of the iceberg, and there are no ships within range of it. ’
‘You and I both know a supply tug can only disappear one way.’
‘Yes. They have tried to trigger the emergency beacon on board remo
tely, but it does not work, and the GPS tag that was dropped onto the iceberg is floating miles away.’
‘Okay we really have to get out there.’
‘I will take the Sea King, if there are survivors we can pick them up.’
Jacob knew it was a big if, even in survival suits the water temperature would kill you in hours. Without one, much less.
In less than thirty minutes they were airborne, wearing protective standard survival suits. The bulky orange clothing was awkward, but had saved Jean and Jacobs’s lives when they ditched in the Arctic some years earlier. Jacob was up linking his laptop to the satellite feed and accessing more material from the Sea Eagle UAV feed. He looked at the hull of the ship, knowing that for anything to survive the crushing pressure of ice was unusual but not unheard of.
Some years before Jacob had been involved with salvaging a World War 2 bomber in a Greenland ice sheet. After three years of work it flew again, with the original engines. He knew nothing was impossible.
The Sea King was being buffeted by a strong headwind, driven in by an approaching storm front. Jean called Jacob over his headset, ‘Jacob there is something on the radar, small aircraft circling.’ Jacob moved up and grabbed some binoculars, after scanning the sky he saw what he expected. ‘That’s the UAV from the Sea Eagle. If it loses signal it will loiter until given new commands.’
‘How long will it circle for?’
‘Until it runs out of fuel, we never designed it with the base station sinking below it. Is it going to cause a problem?’
‘No it has a wide circle and slow speed, we can move around it. Can you get control over it?’
‘I will call the institute, see if they can override it and send it back to St Johns.’
While Jacob made calls, Jean brought the Sea King into a hover near the iceberg.
‘Jacob pop the door.’
With safety line attached, Jacob slid the heavy side door open and the freezing Atlantic wind chilled his exposed skin. The hull of the ship was just a hundred feet away. He could see detail and brought his binoculars up for a closer look. The section protruding out was the stern, squared off and very wide, not like a European ship. He knew of a few expeditions that had ventured to the far north, but they were in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth centuries.
