Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  The arms that he at first thought belonged to angels turned into a crew of Yemeni fishermen, on whose boat he spent almost a week. They spoke only Arabic, and a few words of English, yet they shared everything they had to share, rolling tiny portions of flatbread and sugar between their nimble brown fingers for him to eat.

  Now, stepping onto the dock at Aden, Yemen, it is with some portion of his faith in human kindness restored.

  A souk is in progress just above the jetty, lively crowds wandering the rows of stalls selling food, carpets, cooking implements and hardware. Despite the generosity of the fishermen, the smell of frying meat drives Rehan crazy with hunger.

  The money in his wallet was intended to get him established in the UAE, to bribe an official for a higher paying job, if possible, or to meet his basic needs before his first pay cheque came through.

  At the market he buys a traditional shawarma filled with spicy goat meat, together with a mug of tea, then sits in the shade and eats until he is satiated. Then, he picks his way through the crowds and up to a street where he uses his rudimentary Arabic to ask passers-by for directions.

  ‘Shurta — police,’ he calls, clutching at sleeves to get their attention.

  An older man with henna in his beard points back along a narrow street and babbles some instructions. Within five minutes Rehan is lost, but finally stumbles onto a small station with a hand-painted sign in Arabic out the front.

  There is a counter inside. Rehan faces an unimpressed looking, hugely moustached policeman on the other side of it. Without preamble, Rehan starts babbling out his story of the massacre in English. Trying to convey the enormity of his story seems impossible.

  ‘They took us on a ship, from Karachi, packed in a huge cabin but I was able to escape. I missed out on the poison. They started to die, all of them. I had to watch them bleed and retch and cough until they died and they were all thrown overboard. It was a crime against humanity and I saw it with my own eyes.’

  The man’s face twists angrily. ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

  ‘No, sir, I …’

  ‘Are you trying to make a name for yourself with ridiculous stories? Get out of here now, and if you keep bothering us you will be arrested for illegal entry.’

  Rehan’s eyes blaze. ‘You are a fool — you do not listen to an eyewitness account — you are supposed to be doing your job …’

  The policeman lifts a hinged section of the counter and comes through. The palm of his hand thrusts into the centre of Rehan’s chest. ‘You … an itinerant piece of shit dare call me a fool.’

  Rehan backs away, but not fast enough to escape another thrust, this one into his solar plexus. The breath escapes his lungs in a rush and he bends over in the doorway, clutching his stomach. The policeman plants his booted foot on the centre of Rehan’s chest and pushes hard, sending him on his back onto the street.

  ‘You set one foot in here again and I will lock you in a cell. Do you understand?’

  Rehan picks himself up, spits once in the direction of the policeman, then hurries off down the street.

  Still smarting from the policeman’s violent reaction, he squats on the bare ground in the park opposite the Golden Tulip hotel, watching the boats come and go around Ummul Island as he tries to collect his thoughts.

  On the way here he invested some of his funds in a local SIM card for his phone. It seems that the plastic in which he had wrapped it, along with keeping it secreted in his hat, succeeded in keeping the water out through those long days and nights in the sea. He installs the SIM by crimping out the old one with a bent nail, and sliding the new one into the holder. All the time he thinks furiously about his next step.

  After a few minutes of using a search engine, he learns that there is no American or British consulate in Aden. Only China, Russia, Germany and Turkey have representation here. He does not implicitly trust any one of them, yet … he did once meet a German tourist in Karachi.

  She was older than him, blonde-haired and pretty. They met when she asked him to take a photograph of her beside Port Fountain, the sun shining on the dramatic backdrop of Oyster Rocks. She bought Rehan lunch and asked him what his life was like. Asked him about poverty, what it was like to live in a slum. He told her he wanted to be a journalist. They spoke in English, and after a few hours she pressed a five thousand rupee note into his hand and told him to put it towards his studies.

  ‘One day you will be a great journalist,’ she promised, and walked away, leaving him with strong memories of fair skin and white teeth.

  Now, seeing that the German Consulate is in nearby Radfan Street, he decides to trust the memory of a friendly encounter. He sends an email to Fehmida telling her that he is alive and safe but nothing else, and starts walking. She has no web access at home, but will receive the message later at an internet café. He had considered pouring out the full story to her — but something tells him that she would have as much difficulty as him in getting someone in authority to listen.

  He reaches Radfan Street within ten minutes. There are several consulates, an international school and a few banks. All the buildings appear to have high security, some even an armed guard in a box outside. Finally, he reaches a sign identifying the consulate in both English and German.

  Now he becomes frightened, wondering if he will be turned away again. Even so, he walks through the door. The counter is unattended and he rings the bell. A young man appears from a side room, looking harried and busy. In contrast to the Teutonic stereotype of blond hair and blue eyes, he is swarthy, even dark, with a five o’clock shadow.

  ‘Guten Morgen, kann ich ihnen helfen?’

  ‘Sorry, do you speak English?’

  ‘Certainly. Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to see the consul, please.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Rehan.’

  ‘Seeing the consul is not usually permitted without an appointment. What is your business?’

  ‘Please, I need to report a grave violation of human rights, and a terrible crime.’

  The German says nothing, just points to a row of hard-looking antique chairs against one wall, seemingly too fine for Rehan’s poor Pakistani bottom. ‘Wait over there, if you please.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate your time.’

  ‘I’ll tell her you’re here, but she is very busy today.’

  A middle-aged woman, however, returns with the receptionist just minutes later, light grey hair tied back, and glasses secured by a plastic chain.

  ‘Hello, er, Rehan. You say you want to report a violation of human rights?’

  ‘Yes. I need help. Something terrible happened, and I don’t know who to tell.’

  A pause, then; ‘You’d better come into my office.’

  She leads him down a corridor into an office, invites him to sit in yet another fine chair opposite her desk. The room is expansive, with ornate cornices, a ceiling rose and crystal light holders. Dark timber panelling rises to waist height, and a bookcase of the same grain and colour fills one wall.

  The consul opens her pad to a new page and picks up a pen. ‘I must first ask you whether the situation you wish to report concerns German citizens.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then why have you come here?’

  ‘Because, I …’ he clears his throat. ‘I once knew a German who was good to me. No one else will listen to my story.’

  ‘Very well then, let’s hear it.’

  The tale, starting from his recruitment by the Sikh agent, takes less than ten minutes to tell. ‘If I had not left the hold,’ he says finally, ‘I too would be dead on the bottom of the sea.’

  The consul pushes aside her spectacles and shakes her head. ‘How extraordinarily awful. I wonder if it was some kind of pandemic.’

  ‘It seemed deliberate. The crew had suits and masks.’

  ‘You had a phone, why didn’t you take photos or videos?’

  ‘The camera does not work. It’s very old and
has been dropped several times. Can you do anything?’

  ‘There’re two ways I can do this, through official channels or — a friend of mine is an American. It might be best if I give him a call. He works for … an intelligence agency. They have a small presence here, out at Aden Airport. Is that agreeable?’

  Rehan feels short of breath. Of course such a man would know what to do. ‘Please, yes, call him.’

  ‘Would you mind waiting outside for a minute?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  He waits back out in the lobby, so quiet he can hear street vendors as they pass, and in between, the click of the young reception clerk’s fingers on a keyboard.

  The sound of the consul’s heels on the linoleum floor announces her return. ‘My friend is very interested in your story. He’s coming in to see you. Do you mind waiting? I can have some food sent in for you.’

  Rehan almost faints with relief.

  The American arrives by car, the driver bringing him near to the door before speeding off to park. He walks into the consulate, eyes fixing quickly on Rehan.

  ‘You’re the guy who survived this thing, whatever it was?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rehan shakes hands with the American. He is lean, tall, with big hands, like Texans in movies.

  They settle again in the consul’s office, but the American is now firmly in charge. The reception clerk brings all three of them a weak milky coffee.

  ‘Do you mind if I record what you tell me?’ the American asks.

  ‘Not at all.’

  He places a small black device like an iPod on the desk. ‘OK, start at the beginning — back in Karachi. You were recruited for a labour force to sail to the UAE on a five-year contract?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What was the name of the agent who recruited you?’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Everything is important.’

  ‘He was a Sikh, and his name was Bhai Singh.’

  ‘The ship’s name?’

  ‘The Isra.’

  ‘What flag?’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m not sure. It was white with an orange shape — maybe an olive wreath?’

  ‘Probably Cyprus,’ the American mutters. ‘What happened when you boarded the ship?’

  Rehan tells the story with as much detail as possible. His journalism studies taught him the importance of being specific. What, where, how and when. Why, he cannot explain.

  Near the end, describing the Isra’s crew in suits and masks carrying the dead to the main deck and lining them up in rows, a dozen at a time, tears spring to his eyes and glide down the slope of his cheeks.

  When he finishes he can see that the American has taken in every word. ‘That’s one hell of a story.’

  ‘I know. It’s the truth.’

  ‘Now you say you have the GPS coordinates of where they dropped the bodies overboard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I have them, please?’

  Rehan switches on his phone and finds the app, opening the marker he had set. He reads out the digits, one by one.

  ‘Do you mind coming with me for a while? You’ll be given somewhere to sleep and be well fed, while we look into this. Then I’ll be happy to help get you back to your family in Karachi.’

  Rehan nods absently. ‘Of course.’ But going back without having earned a cent will not help his family. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The American holds his close-cropped head in his hands, rubs his fingers across his eyes. ‘The first thing I’m going to do is get some of our boys to check things out. Then the shit is going to hit the fan for these people, whoever they are. In a big way.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 0400

  Ross Craven has just dozed off again when a shout cuts through the drowsiness like a knife.

  ‘WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS GOING ON HERE?’

  Ross is up from his seat and running before he can even frame a thought. Ken Mainey’s fingers work at the control panel furiously.

  ‘What the hell?’ Ross spits out.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve just lost them.’

  ‘What do you mean lost them? Lost what?’

  Ken Mainey’s face is empty of colour. ‘I mean the drones. They’re gone.’

  Chevalier Aerospace has — like other British armaments manufacturers such as BAE Systems, BSA, Sterling and INSYS — verified ITAR compliance, which allows it to produce sophisticated weapons for the world market, as well as domestic certification. The DOD permits such companies latitude for testing and development, but a substantial responsibility for reporting when something goes wrong.

  When the five cluster drones first disappear from view, Ross Craven knows that, technically speaking, his first step should be to report it. Yet, doing so has major consequences, tantamount to, temporarily at least, shutting down the company. Defence departments baulk at spending tens of millions of dollars on assets that might suddenly decide to do their own thing and disappear. The bad publicity could push Chevalier over the edge.

  He taps out a message on his smartphone and, rereading it, knows that he has just written his own company’s obituary. He wants to press send, tries to, but stops himself. Not yet. Not until he’s sure there’s no other way. He slips the phone back into his top pocket, trying to rationalise the omission.

  In his defence, Ross decides, he can’t be sure exactly what has happened, whether this was a technical failure of massive proportions, or a spoofing attack. In the immediate aftermath, it is essential to find out which of these should be blamed for the disappearance.

  Ross stares at the control screens. The words ‘OUT OF CONTROL RANGE’ appear for all five units. This is not possible, the effective range of the control unit is beyond one hundred kilometres.

  Each of the cluster units uses the military L2 frequency GPS signals, along with sophisticated DGPS technology to plot a position accurate to within a metre or two. There is also a second position finding unit, called a URPF (ultimate resort position finder) that can be used to recover a drone if it is damaged and lost. This signal works off a battery of its own so it is not dependent on the onboard hydrogen-fuel-cell-powered main electrical circuit to operate.

  There is no way of shutting down the URPF remotely; it can only be done at the unit. The signals are still running now, and Ross watches the blips appear on the tablet screen.

  ‘We’ve been spoofed. Someone’s bringing the units in,’ he shouts. ‘They’re moving, for Christ’s sake, let’s go.’ He calls for one of the other technicians, standing around like lost sheep. ‘Dwayne. Get over here. You drive. Ken, you stay here and keep trying.’

  Ross lopes towards the car, opening the passenger door and slamming it behind him. Dwayne, a graduate in aerospace engineering from the University of Michigan, climbs into the driver’s seat, drops the keytag from his shaking right hand, picks it up off the floor and pushes it into the slot. Finally he jabs the engine start button and eases the vehicle into drive.

  Ross points at a right fork in the road ahead. ‘Turn down there, and hurry.’

  The American is clearly disorientated, driving in the dark, rattled by the loss of control of the drones. Dwayne, Ross knows, can hold a series of complex equations in his head and compute algorithms faster than 99.99 per cent of his species, but put him in the dark, frightened and worried, and he’s like a three year old.

  ‘Stay on the road, Dwayne, that way.’

  ‘The windows are fogging up, I can’t see properly.’ There’s a whine in the other man’s voice that annoys Ross. He reaches out and flicks on the demister.

  Everything is at stake — my company, my life — everything my family has.

  Beyond that is the fear of what someone might do with his brainchild, the cluster drones. What havoc they might wreak.

  The driving improves, but Ross can hear Dwayne’s breathing over the sound of the engine, then nervous chatter. ‘Oh God, what could have happened? All t
hat work. I just can’t even believe it …’

  ‘Shut up, damn you, Dwayne, I’m trying to think.’

  ‘OK, sorry.’

  The track gets more substantial, twisting around hillocks, surrounded and screened by forest trees. They pass no other vehicles, see nothing apart from a grey squirrel eating walnuts beside a tree.

  ‘We’re close now,’ Ross says, gritting his teeth, trying to control his own fear. Up ahead he can see a light and at least one vehicle.

  The suspicion that the drones have been spoofed turns to certainty. Ross feels the first stirrings of real fear as the car glides closer. These people, whoever they are, will hardly greet their arrival with hugs and flowers.

  ‘Stop,’ he shouts, ‘turn around. Hurry.’

  ‘What … why?’

  ‘Just do as I fucking tell you.’ Ross tries to reach for his phone, but he is thrown violently against the door as the Vauxhall skids to one side of the gravel road, and Dwayne begins to spin the steering wheel hard. In his nervousness, however, he turns too wide. Heading for one of the roadside trees, he stops abruptly, the car swinging on its suspension.

  Dark figures melt out of the clearing, faces and heads cloaked in black. They carry guns, and Ross Craven has been involved in the defence industry for long enough to recognise 3D-printed firearms when he sees them.

  ‘Go!’ he shouts, screaming at Dwayne, watching his left hand fumbling on the gear lever, forcing it into reverse, jabbing at the accelerator. The Vauxhall surges backwards, wheels spinning, spraying gravel and dust then flying back across the track, thumping into an unseen oak tree so hard that Ross’s teeth take a chunk from his tongue, blood filling his mouth.

  Dwayne breathes audibly, like a diaphragm pump, faster each second. Ross feels his fear, coupled with his own, as the dust parts to reveal the gunmen still there, weapons raised.

  The car starts to move, but then the windscreen suffers what appears to be a lightning strike. Dwayne’s upper body shudders. Droplets of blood and fragments of glass fly like shooting stars through the cab. The technician’s mouth opens and the contents of his body flood out from between his lips and onto the floor as he slumps forward.