The Matt Drake Boxset 6

by David Leadbeater

  Smyth guffawed. “It’s far from a toy.”

  “No Troy. You know? Brad Pitt?”

  Alicia almost broke her neck, glancing in all directions. “What? Where?”

  “Whoa.” Kenzie laughed. “I’ve seen vipers strike slower.”

  Alicia was still scrutinizing the area. “Where, Lauren? Is he in the horse?”

  The New Yorker let out a chuckle. “Well, he was once. Remember the modern movie—Troy? Well, after filming they left the horse right where you stand, in Çanakkale.”

  “Bollocks.” Alicia vented. “I thought all my Christmases had come at once.” She shook her head.

  Drake cleared his throat. “I’m still here, love.”

  “Oh yeah. Great.”

  “And don’t worry, if Brad Pitt jumps out of the arse-end of that horse and tries to kidnap you, I’ll save you.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  Lauren’s voice cut across their chatter like the hard descent of a samurai sword. “Incoming, guys! Multiple enemies. Approaching Çanakkale right now. They must be linked into the comms as we are. Move!”

  “See that?” Drake pointed at the fortress. “Call the chopper. If we can climb the castle and defend ourselves, it can take us from there.”

  Hayden cast a glance back toward the outskirts of Çanakkale. “If we can defend a castle, in a tourist city, against six Special Forces teams.”

  Dahl hefted the box. “Only one way to find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Instinctively, they moved toward the coastal path, knowing it would wind around toward the town’s impressive fort. Lauren elicited very little information from the blasts of comms chatter and Drake heard even less from the various team overseers, but the general consensus was that they were all closing in fast.

  The path led past many white-fronted buildings: houses, shops and restaurants facing the Hellespont’s rippling blue waters. Cars stood parked to the left and beyond them, several small boats, with the high, sand-colored fort walls towering above all. Tourist coaches passed by, grumbling slowly through the narrow streets. Horns honked. Locals gathered outside a popular coffee shop, smoking and talking. The team hurried as fast as they could without attracting suspicion.

  Not easy when wearing combat gear, but purposely for this mission they wore all black and could remove and conceal those items that might attract attention. Still, a group moving as they were turned heads and Drake saw more than one phone flipped open.

  “Call the damn chopper in fast,” he said. “We’ve run out of land and bloody time here.”

  “On its way. Ten-fifteen minutes out.”

  An age in combat, he knew. Some of the other Special Forces teams would have no qualms about raising hell in the city, confident of their orders and ability to escape, knowing the authorities would usually put a terrorist spin on any intensely threatening situation.

  Sand-colored walls rose sharply right in front of them. The fort of Çanakkale had two rounded, sea-facing castle walls and a central keep and, beyond that, a sweeping arm of battlements that ran downhill back toward the sea. Drake followed the line of the first curving wall, wondering what lay at the conjunction of this and its sister. Hayden paused ahead and glanced back.

  “We go up.”

  A brave decision but one Drake agreed with. To go up meant they’d be stuck in the fort, defending from a high position but exposed, trapped. To continue meant they had other options besides running into the sea: they could hide in the city, find a car, potentially go to ground or split up for a while.

  But Hayden’s option kept them at the head of the game. There were other Horsemen out there. The chopper would find them easier. Their skills were better employed in a tactical battle.

  Rough walls gave way to an arched entrance and then a set of winding stairs. Hayden went first, followed by Dahl and Kenzie, then the others. Smyth brought up the rear. Darkness made a mantle for their eyes, hanging thick and impenetrable until they became used to it. Still, up they went, climbing the stairs and heading back to the light. Drake tried to filter all the relevant information to his brain and make sense of it.

  Hannibal. The Horseman of War. The Order of the Last Judgment and their blueprint to make a better world for those that survived. The governments of the world should be working together on this, but ruthless, greedy individuals wanted the spoils and the knowledge for themselves.

  The four corners of the earth? How did that work? And what the hell was coming next?

  “Interestingly ...” Lauren’s voice crackled through the comms at that moment. “Çanakkale is situated on two continents and was one of the launching points for Gallipoli. Now, the Russians have entered the town and so have the Israelis. Don’t know where. Local police chatter is rife, though. Some of the citizens must have reported you and are now calling in the new arrivals. It won’t be long before the Turks call in their own elite forces.”

  Drake shook his head. Bollocks.

  “We’ll be long gone by then.” Hayden moved cautiously into the light above. “Ten minutes guys. C’mon.”

  The mid-morning sunshine beat down on the wide-open, sparse area of land almost at the top of the tower. The tower’s circular top lip jutted up another eight feet above their heads, but this was as high as they went without getting inside. Broken battlements lay all about, projecting like ragged fingers, and a dusty path bordered a series of low mounds off to the right. Drake saw a plethora of defensible positions and breathed a little easier.

  “We’re here,” Hayden said to Lauren. “Tell the helo to prepare for a hot pick up.”

  “Hotter than you think,” Smyth said.

  The entire team stared downward.

  “Not down,” Smyth said. “Up. Up.”

  Above the castle, the town still littered the hills. Houses stood overlooking the battlements and walls stretched high and thick toward them. It was across these walls that a team of four men ran, faces covered, guns fully exposed.

  Drake recognized the style. “Fuck, that’s trouble. SAS.”

  Dahl was first into action, but instead of loosing his weapon he tucked it away, gripped the box, and jumped up onto the battlements themselves. “British have the right idea for a change. Look ...”

  Drake followed his eye. The battlements swept in a wide arc all the way back down to the beach and the undulating sea. If they timed it right the chopper would be able to pluck them right off the top or at the very end. Drake took the responsibility of firing a couple of shots into the craggy concrete under the British feet, slowing them and allowing the team time to climb onto the top of the slightly roll-topped fortifications.

  Alicia wobbled. “Not keen on heights!”

  “Do you ever stop whining?” Kenzie intentionally squeezed past her, giving her a tiny nudge on the way.

  “Ooh bitch, you’ll pay for that.” Alicia sounded unsure.

  “Will I? Just make sure you stay behind me. That way when they shoot you and I hear you scream I’ll know to pick up the pace.”

  Alicia fumed. Drake steadied her. “Just Mossad banter.” He spread his arms.

  “Right. Well when we get down from here I’m gonna properly Mossad her ass.”

  Drake guided her the first few steps. “Is that supposed to sound arousing?”

  “Fuck off, Drake.”

  He thought it best not to mention that the battlements, far below, turned into spaced crenellations where they would have to jump from one to the other. Dahl jogged down the three-foot-wide wall first, leading the team. Kinimaka relieved Smyth at the back for once, observing the British. Drake and the rest kept eyes open for any other signs of enemies.

  The race down the battlements began. The SAS soldiers kept formation and came in pursuit, weapons raised but silent. Of course, professional leniency might be only one of the reasons; in addition to tourists, locals, the preference toward secrecy, and highly secure orders.

  Drake found he needed full concentration for his feet. The dro
p to each side and the gradual descent to the sea didn’t matter, only the safe zone beneath his feet. It wound gradually, gracefully even, in a steady curve. Nobody slowed, nobody slipped. They were halfway to their goal when the sound of thudding rotors filled their ears.

  Drake slowed, looked to the skies. “Not ours,” he shouted. “Bloody French!”

  It wasn’t a definitive deduction but would explain their absence until now. Swooping in at the last minute. Team SPEAR were forced to slow their pace. Drake saw the faces of two soldiers leering out the windows, whilst two more dangled from the half-open doors, weapons coming around to get a proper lock.

  “Truth be told,” Dahl panted. “This might not have been the best idea. Bloody British bell-ends.”

  As one, Drake, Smyth, Hayden and Mai elevated their guns and opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the approaching chopper. Glass smashed and one man fell from his rope, smashing hard to the ground below. The chopper veered away, chased by Hayden’s bullets.

  “The French are not fans,” she said grimly.

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” Alicia muttered.

  Yorgi sprinted nimbly ahead of Dahl, passing him on the outside lip of the wall, and reached back for the box. “Here, give it to me,” he said. “I am better on the wall, no?”

  Dahl looked like he wanted to argue, but handed the box over mid-run. The Swede wasn’t a stranger to a bit of Parkour, but Yorgi was a pro. The Russian sped off at top speed, racing down the wall and already approaching the crenellations.

  Alicia spotted them. “Oh hell, shoot me now.”

  “That may yet happen.” Drake saw the French helicopter banking and coming around. Trouble was, if they stopped to aim, the British would catch them. If they ran firing, they could possibly fall or be easily picked off.

  Dahl swung his weapon around. Both he and Hayden fired upon the chopper as it came back into play. This time the soldiers aboard fired back. Rounds stitched the castle walls in a deadly pattern, striking below the rim. Hayden’s own fire struck the helo’s cockpit, clanging off the metal struts. Drake saw the pilot clenching his teeth in a mix of anger and fear. A hyper-quick glance back showed the SAS team also sighting on the chopper—a good sign? Maybe not. They wanted the weapon of war for themselves.

  Or for somebody highly placed in their government.

  A volley of shots peppered the bird, making it dip and yaw. Dahl took advantage of the last solid hundred meters of wall to drop and slide whilst firing, but he didn’t get far. The surface was too rough. Still, his actions sent another salvo into the chopper, finally making the pilot give up the ghost and pull the bird away from the action.

  Alicia managed a faint cheer.

  “Not out of this yet.” Drake leapt the crenellations one at a time, landing safely and taking it carefully.

  Lauren’s voice slashed apart the silence that blanketed the comms. “Helo inbound. Thirty seconds.”

  “We’re on the wall,” Alicia cried.

  “Yeah, I gotcha. DC tasked a satellite to this op.”

  Drake took another moment to be shocked. “To help?” he asked quickly.

  “Why else?” Hayden shot back instantly.

  Drake almost kicked himself before realizing it was probably a bad idea given the current situation. Truth was, he didn’t know who else had heard those quiet American tones and the words SEAL Team 7.

  Clearly, not Hayden.

  The chopper came into view ahead, nose down, sweeping in fast over the sea. Yorgi was already waiting at the end of the battlements where a small round turret looked out over the narrow beach. Dahl soon reached him and then Hayden. The chopper approached.

  Drake let Alicia go, and then helped Kinimaka past. Still moving slowly, he made a point of holding out a trailing hand, signaling the SAS. Thirty feet up from the turret, he stopped.

  The SAS stopped too, another thirty feet above.

  “We don’t want casualties,” he shouted. “Not between us. We’re on the same bloody side!”

  Guns sighted on his body. From below he heard Dahl’s bellow: “Stop being a—”

  Drake tuned him out. “Please,” he said. “This is not right. We’re all soldiers here, even the friggin’ French.”

  That brought an anonymous chuckle. Finally, a deep voice said, “Orders.”

  “Mate, I know,” Drake said. “Been where you are. We got the same orders, but we’re not about to fire upon friendly Spec Ops ... unless they fire first.”

  One of the five figures rose slightly. “Cambridge,” he said.

  “Drake,” he replied. “Matt Drake.”

  The ensuing silence told the story. Drake knew the stand-off was over ... for now. At the very least he’d earned another reprieve at the next confrontation and maybe even a quiet conversation. The more of these elite soldiers they could draw together the safer it would be.

  For everyone.

  He nodded, turned, and walked away, reached up for the hand that helped pull him inside the helicopter.

  “They cool?” Alicia asked.

  Drake settled himself as the chopper banked away. “We’ll find out,” he answered. “The next time we come into conflict.”

  Surprisingly, Lauren sat opposite him. “I came with the chopper,” she said by way of explanation.

  “What? As like—an option?”

  She smiled tolerantly. “No. I came because our work here is done.” The helicopter rose high above the sun-dappled waves. “We’re heading out of Africa and toward the next corner of the world.”

  “Which is where?” Drake snapped his seat-belt shut.

  “China. And boy, do we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Another Horseman? Which one this time?”

  “Arguably the baddest of them all. Buckle in, my friends. We’re about to follow in the footsteps of Genghis Kahn.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lauren told the team to get as comfortable as they were able in the back of the large cargo chopper and shuffled a sheaf of papers. “First, let’s get the weapon of war and Hannibal out of the way. What you found in the box are the plans to build and erect Project Babylon, a one hundred meter long, two ton supergun. Commissioned by Saddam Hussein, it was based on research from the ’60s and designed in the ’80s. The entire affair had a Hollywood feel to it. Superguns that could send a payload into space. Assassinated generals. Assassinated civilians. Various purchases from a dozen countries to keep it quiet. Later schemes show that this space gun might have been adapted so that it could hit any target, anywhere, just once.”

  Dahl was leaning forward with interest. “Once? Why?”

  “It was never intended as a portable weapon. To fire it would leave a signature, which the various powers would see instantly and then obliterate it. But ... the damage might already have been done.”

  “Depending on the target.” Kenzie nodded. “Yes, many models have been built around the idea of a one-strike world war. A way to force a nuclear power into inexorable action. With modern day technology, however, the idea becomes more and more moot.”

  “Okay, okay,” Smyth rasped, still stretching muscles and checking bruises after the long, hard run. “So the first Horseman’s tomb held the plans to a massive space gun. We got that. The other countries didn’t. What’s next?”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “First, the delineation specifically says ‘resting places.’ You will hopefully remember that Hannibal was laid in an unmarked grave and may not even be there anymore. To look would be disrespectful to many. To leave it unturned is disrespectful to others.”

  Hayden sighed. “And so it goes on. Same story, different agenda, throughout the entire world.”

  “Imagine if terrorists had gotten their hands on the info. Now, I would say all of the countries currently chasing the Horsemen could build a supergun of their own, no problem. But ...”

  “It’s who certain factions of that government sell the plans to,” Drake finished. “Since we’re still unsure every team is official
ly sanctioned.” He didn’t need to add even if they think they are.

  The chopper flew through clear blue skies, free of turbulence and comfortably warm. Drake found himself able to relax for the first time in about a day. It was hard to believe that, just last night, he’d been kneeling in the resting place of the great Hannibal.

  Lauren turned to the next file. “Remember the Order of the Last Judgment? Let me refresh you. ‘At the Four Corners of the Earth we found the Four Horsemen and laid with them the blueprint of the Order of the Last Judgment. Those who survive the Judgment quest and its aftermath will rightly reign supreme. If you are reading this, we are lost, so read and follow with cautious eyes. Our last years were spent assembling the four final weapons, the world revolutions — War, Conquest, Famine and Death. Unleashed together, they will destroy all governments and unveil a new future. Be prepared. Find them. Go to the Four Corners of the Earth. Find the resting places of the Father of Strategy and then the Khagan; the Worst Indian Who Ever Lived and then the Scourge of God. But all is not as it seems. We visited the Khagan in 1960, five years after completion, placing Conquest in his coffin. We found the Scourge who guards the true last judgment. And the only kill code is when the Horsemen arose. The Father’s bones are unmarked. The Indian is surrounded by guns. The Order of the Last Judgment now live through you, and will forever reign supreme.’”

  Drake tried to glean the relevant points. “Kill code? I really don’t like the sound of that. And the ‘true last judgment.’ So even if we neutralize the first three, the last will be a true humdinger.”

  “For now,” Lauren said, referring to the research in front of her. “The DC think tank has come up with a few ideas.”

  Drake tuned out for just a second. Every time he heard a reference to research, every time the think tank was mentioned, just two words flashed through his brain like billboard-sized, red neon lights.

  Karin Blake.

  Her continued absence did not bode well. Karin might well have to be their next mission. He pushed the worry gently aside for now.