Sacrifice

by Will Jordan

  As the Explorer roared past on the dusty road below, Kourash reached for the cellphone resting in the depression beside him. It was a specialised encrypted unit, firing off its transmissions in a randomly cycling burst of data that was next to impossible to lock down.

  Shielding the screen from the bright shafts of sunlight peeking through the camouflage netting, he powered the phone up. No numbers were stored in its digital memory – they all had to be learned and held within one’s mind. It wasn’t easy, but Kourash prided himself on his mental discipline.

  Discipline was the core of a man’s being, a source of strength more potent than the strongest arm or the stoutest heart. Kourash had learned this truth from a young age.

  His father had been a common labourer who flattered himself with dreams of success and wealth, lacking both the intelligence and the motivation to succeed. As his fledgling business failed and his money vanished, he had turned his anger and frustration on his own family.

  His mother by contrast had been a quiet, melancholy woman who endured the beatings he doled out without complaint, who would not even say a word against him when those same fists were turned against her own children. She would just get up and silently leave the room, her eyes blank, seeing nothing.

  Both of them had been weak and deserving of their miserable lives. Kourash would despise them to his dying day.

  Dredging up the familiar number from memory, he punched it in and waited for the call to be answered.

  As always, it didn’t take long.

  ‘Yes?’ came the curt greeting.

  ‘The CIA are here. They are on their way to the crash site.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘This is it. The chopper’s on the other side of that ridge,’ McKnight said, slowing the Explorer as they approached a couple of armed men up ahead, part of the security detail charged with protecting the crash site.

  One look at them was enough to confirm they weren’t US Army, or any branch of the armed forces for that matter.

  For a start they were much older than twenty-five, the average age for a US infantryman. Neither had seen less than forty years by Drake’s estimate. Still, they were serious-looking men. Both tall, both bulked up from heavy weight training, both with thick necks and grim, unsmiling faces. Neither man had shaved for several days judging by the thick growth along their jaws.

  Instead of the standard MultiCam patterned Army Combat Uniform, they were clad in black T-shirts, with sand-coloured combat trousers and body armour that was some kind of hybrid design Drake had never seen before. There were no identification marks anywhere on their clothing. No unit badge, no rank marks, not even name tags.

  Both were armed with M4A1 carbines; a modern replacement for the old M16. Designed around the modular weapons system concept, they were very much the military equivalent of Lego blocks allowing the user to add all kinds of attachments, from silencers to grenade launchers. In this case, both weapons were fitted with M68 close combat optic sights, and foregrips for easier carrying.

  ‘Who the hell are these guys?’ Keegan asked, eyeing the nearest man as he approached the Explorer, weapon at the ready.

  ‘Mercenaries,’ Drake said, an edge of disdain in his voice.

  ‘Private military contractors,’ McKnight corrected him. ‘They work for Horizon Defence. One of our biggest security companies these days.’

  ‘Creators of all things bright and beautiful, huh?’ Keegan prodded.

  She shrugged. ‘Supply and demand, I guess. We supply the war, they supply the soldiers.’

  The Explorer came to a halt, its engine ticking over. McKnight rolled down her window to speak to the perimeter guard. Both he and his companion were wearing mirrored shades, and neither man seemed inclined to remove them.

  ‘ID please, ma’am,’ the man said, sounding bored and wary at the same time.

  His gloved hand was resting on the windowsill, and as he moved a little, Drake spotted a tattoo on his forearm. A sword intersected by three lightning bolts.

  Drake recognised the tattoo well enough; it was the unit symbol for US Army Special Forces.

  McKnight handed over her ID card. ‘We’re here to inspect the crash site.’

  The guard’s head swivelled to stare at Drake and Keegan.

  ‘And your passengers? I’ll need IDs for them too.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Drake informed him.

  The man’s head snapped back towards Drake in an instant. ‘Yeah, I do. This site is locked down. Nobody gets in or out without authorisation.’

  ‘How about the Director of National Intelligence?’ Drake challenged him, irritated by the delay. ‘Is that good enough? Or should we take it up with your CO?’

  The guard stared at him a moment longer, saying nothing. Drake was quite certain the man was glaring at him behind those mirrored sunglasses, though he returned the stare with equal intensity.

  Without saying a word, he turned away, retreated several paces and spoke into his radio, keeping his back to them. His companion stood in front of the vehicle, barring their way and making sure his assault rifle was plainly visible.

  Several seconds passed, during which no words were spoken. Drake glanced at McKnight but said nothing. Now wasn’t the time for voicing his thoughts.

  Then, just like that, the guard turned to face them, marched over to the driver’s side window and handed McKnight her ID back.

  ‘Go on through, ma’am,’ he said, practically spitting the words at them.

  ‘Appreciate it,’ McKnight returned as she revved the engine and hit the gas, forcing the other perimeter guard to dodge aside as the big vehicle lurched forwards.

  ‘What an asshole,’ Keegan remarked, glancing back at the two men from his window seat.

  Drake had been thinking along similar lines. ‘Is it always like this, dealing with PMCs?’

  McKnight shook her head. ‘This is frontier territory. You can’t blame them for being cautious.’ She gave him a sidelong smirk. ‘Anyway, I thought you Brits were all about politeness and fair play.’

  ‘Only in cricket. And I don’t play.’

  Cresting the ridge at low revs to keep from skidding on the loose dirt, the Explorer’s nose dipped and they began their descent of the reverse slope.

  At last they saw the crash site.

  The Black Hawk, or what was left of it, lay about 50 yards from the base of the slope, having come down in flat open ground that had once been a broad floodplain in wetter times. These days it was a barren expanse of rocks, dirt and dry scrub, all of it blending to the same washed-out brown as everything else.

  All of it, except a wide swathe around the wreckage. There the stones had been blackened, the brush incinerated, the dusty ground itself charred by the intense heat. Bits of twisted wreckage lay everywhere, most so badly burned and deformed in the explosion that it was impossible to tell what they had once been.

  The airframe itself was still recognisable, barely. Two of the massive rotor blades had sheared off, probably during the crash, but the other two remained attached to the engine assembly.

  Clustered around the wreck were half a dozen men in similar attire to the two guards they’d just encountered, all armed with a mixture of assault rifles and sub-machine guns. The protection detail was backed up by a couple of armoured 4x4s that Drake recognised as RG-33s.

  Made in South Africa, they were popular with the UN and other peacekeeping forces because of the excellent protection they offered, and it seemed Horizon felt the same way. These ones both had 50-calibre remote weapons stations mounted on their roofs, allowing operators inside the vehicles to track and engage targets without ever having to leave their seats.

  These weapon mounts were much sought after by US Army vehicle crews, though the cost per unit made them as rare as gold dust.

  McKnight brought them to a halt at the edge of the debris field and killed the engine. Hauling his door open, Drake stepped out, his boots crunching on the dry rocky ground.

  The he
at seemed to have grown more intense as the sun rose towards its zenith, the feeling amplified by their sudden exit from the air-conditioned vehicle. Drake checked his watch – 10:46.

  His thoughts were interrupted when he noticed one of the Horizon security men coming their way, presumably the leader of the protection detail.

  He was a big guy, not so much tall as broad. He couldn’t have been more than 5 foot 10, yet Drake guessed his weight at perhaps 220, maybe 230 pounds of solid muscle. He had the look of a rugby player: short and stocky, rugged and powerful.

  His head was covered with a sweat-stained bandanna, his deeply lined face darkened by several days’ growth. He looked to be in his late forties, and judging by the confidence in his stride, he was no stranger to places like Afghanistan.

  ‘My name’s Vermaak,’ he began. ‘I’m in charge here.’

  Drake was surprised by his heavy South African accent, though perhaps he shouldn’t have been. A lot of their operatives had drifted into mercenary work after the end of apartheid. Vermaak looked as if he belonged to that generation.

  ‘Ryan Drake, CIA,’ he replied, shaking hands with him. The man’s grip was strong enough to crush boulders.

  Drake’s accent prompted a raised eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know the boys at Langley employed foreigners.’

  ‘They’re an equal opportunities sort of place. Just like Horizon, I imagine,’ Drake added with a pointed look at the South African.

  The older man grinned. ‘Fair enough. So what can I do for you, Mr Drake?’

  ‘We’re here to survey the crash site.’

  Vermaak glanced at the rest of the group and frowned. ‘The army forensics guys already surveyed the whole site. I know, because I spent four hours sat on my arse waiting for them to get it done.’

  ‘I understand that. But we have to make our own assessment.’

  ‘We have orders to destroy the wreck and pull out before nightfall.’ To emphasise his point, Vermaak pointed towards the ruined chopper.

  Fixed to the crumpled forward bulkhead was a cylindrical steel container the size of a small beer keg. The distinctive yellow wires trailing from the top made its purpose obvious. No doubt it was filled with high explosive – enough to vaporise the chopper and prevent anything valuable falling into the wrong hands.

  ‘Our orders come from the Director of National Intelligence, and they supersede yours.’ Drake glanced up at the sky. ‘Anyway, you’ve got at least eight hours until sunset. That’s more than enough time for us to finish up here.’

  Vermaak said nothing for a few moments. Clearly he didn’t like what he was hearing, but neither could he ignore Drake’s authority. It was rather like poker, and Drake held all the aces in this case.

  Finally he shrugged. ‘Fine. Do what you have to. But come sundown, my men and I pull out. Do we understand each other, Mr Drake?’

  Drake nodded, unperturbed by his hostile tone. He hadn’t come here looking for a new best friend; he had come to get results.

  ‘Perfectly.’

  As Vermaak strode away to confer with two of his men, Drake turned to his own two teammates. ‘John, I want you to take a look around. See if you can find any evidence of the people who did this. Boot prints, vehicle tracks … whatever.’

  In addition to his skills as a sniper, the man was an outstanding tracker, able to discern meaning from something as insignificant as a scuff mark on the ground or a few bent blades of grass. If there was anything in the vicinity worth finding, Drake felt certain he would find it.

  ‘On it, buddy,’ Keegan replied, already moving.

  ‘Sam, you’re with me. Let’s get to work.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘Wow, real garden spot,’ Frost remarked to herself as she surveyed Mitchell’s office.

  His place of work was a modest, unremarkable little office, perhaps 10 feet square, with a small window overlooking a parking lot. One desk, metal framed, with a wood laminate coating marked by coffee rings, faced the window. On it sat a dusty computer with an old-fashioned CRT monitor and a cheap inkjet printer.

  Scattered across the desk was the usual office paraphernalia, none of which sparked much interest, while a couple of filing cabinets were set against the wall.

  And that was it. All things considered, it was a bland, clinical working space that looked barely used. The only hint of personality was a framed photograph sitting on the edge of the desk. Mitchell, several years younger and with more hair, plus what Frost assumed to be Mrs Mitchell. They were standing together at a beach somewhere, his arm around her shoulder, smiling and relaxed.

  Frost glanced away, thinking it best not to get too involved. Settling herself at the desk, she fired up the computer and waited for it to start up, drumming her fingers impatiently on the cheap wood-veneer desk as the seconds dragged on.

  ‘Jesus, their IT people should be shot,’ she said.

  Realising the computer would take a while to boot up, she crossed the room to the nearest of the two filing cabinets. At least she could make a start on Mitchell’s paper trail, she thought, reaching for the first drawer.

  The drawer moved half an inch, then came to a halt, jammed on its runner. She pulled again, to little effect.

  ‘You picked the wrong day, and the wrong girl,’ the young woman said, gripping the drawer tighter and gritting her teeth, just allowing the frustration to build. ‘Come on, you son of a bitch.’

  One hard yank was enough to free up the jammed runner, and the drawer shot open with a grating rasp.

  Peering inside, she frowned in confusion. ‘What the fuck?’

  With Vermaak and his security team standing a short distance away, Drake and McKnight picked their way through the mangled remains of the Black Hawk chopper. Both had donned surgical gloves for handling any wreckage they came across, partly to avoid disturbing the scene further but mostly for their own protection. Choppers were filled with all kinds of toxic fuels and chemicals.

  ‘That’s where the missile impacted,’ McKnight said, indicating the mangled engine pod overhead.

  ‘That’s what the army forensics team concluded,’ Drake agreed. He had read their preliminary report on the flight out. ‘An RPG impact against the outer armour.’

  The RPG-7, or rocket-propelled grenade, was a Soviet-made anti-armour rocket dating back to the early 1960s. Simple, reliable and capable of punching through 12 inches of high-density armour, they had been the bane of tank crews for nearly half a century. Close to 10 million of the things had been made, with tens of thousands ending up in the hands of militias, terrorists and insurgents.

  It was easy to see why the army forensics team saw the RPG as the most likely culprit. However, it seemed McKnight didn’t agree. ‘It wasn’t an RPG round. It was a guided missile.’

  That was a bold claim to make, considering she had been here all of five minutes. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  She glanced at him, a faint smile on her lips. He was testing her, and she knew it. ‘The RPG is an anti-tank weapon. It’s designed to take out slow-moving targets from close range, not fast aircraft hundreds of feet in the air. A Black Hawk’s standard cruising speed is a hundred and fifty knots. It’s about twenty metres long and five metres high, right?’

  Drake shrugged. He wasn’t exactly an aircraft buff. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. The US Army did a hit evaluation of the RPG-7 a few years back. The chances of hitting a slow-moving target from two hundred metres were less than fifty per cent. Factor in the relative velocity and the increased range, and you’re talking about a hit probability of less than one per cent. Bad odds by anyone’s standards.’

  ‘Maybe they were lucky,’ he suggested. Just because the odds were against something, didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.

  Turning her attention back to the wrecked chopper, McKnight pointed at the engine pod again. ‘Look at it. The blast pattern’s all wrong. RPGs are designed to penetrate armour with a high-pressure jet of gas and liquid metal. In the demolitions trade, w
e call it brisance. But whatever the name, it should have crumpled the engine pod like a giant fist and burned a hole right through it. That didn’t happen here. It’s been shredded, as if some kind of fragmentation device exploded nearby. Like a missile with a proximity fuse.’

  ‘RPGs come with frag rounds,’ Drake reminded her. Though intended as an anti-tank weapon, they had been adapted over the years to a number of different purposes, from laying smokescreens to anti-personnel strikes.

  McKnight said nothing to this. Moving closer, she knelt down beside the chopper, reached out and pulled open a small hatch. The mechanism was stiff, having been either damaged in the crash or deformed by the resultant fireball, but with some effort she was able to free it up.

  The small compartment within held an empty metal rack, clearly designed to hold a number of small objects.

  ‘Flares,’ she explained. ‘Standard countermeasure against guided missiles. They’ve been used up. The pilot must have deployed them to try to lose whatever warhead was tracking him.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Still don’t believe me?’

  ‘All right. If it wasn’t an RPG, what do you think did this?’ Drake asked, amused at how easily she had dismantled his theory.

  Again she shrugged. ‘Hard to say. It would have to be some kind of man-portable device, probably heat-seeking since it struck the engine pod. Maybe a Russian SA-18 or even a Chinese FN6. The SA-18 wouldn’t be too hard to get hold of if you have cash and friends in the right places. Russians aren’t exactly shy about selling weapons under the table.’ She reached up to flick a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. ‘I want to have a look inside.’

  Taking a breath, Drake followed her, having to pick his way carefully past the blackened remains of what had once been a door-mounted minigun. The formidable six-barrelled weapon was still pointing skywards, though its breech mechanism and ammunition feed had been blasted apart when the rounds inside cooked off.

  Inside the burned-out compartment, the smell of melted plastic and other chemicals was overpowering. Even now, the stench lingered in the air, stinging his nose and making his eyes water. Wherever he stood, his boots left greasy prints on the soot-covered steel deck.