Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  Ross dives as bullets march across the car frame, smashing through the air around him. He can feel the engine running, the vibration and warmth becoming part of him as he seeks to meld with the steel, rubber and plastic down there, knowing that the warm slipperiness on the surface is Dwayne’s lifeblood. He reaches into his pocket for the phone. The text message he wrote is still up and he hits send, watching desperately as the text bubble disappears, sending his words out to those who will surely react very swiftly indeed.

  The door opens. Hands grasp his arm and clothing. Taking the phone from his hand. Pulling, dragging him out into the night, his head thumping on the ground as he goes, more gun muzzles following him, knowing that now it’s his turn to die, wondering if they will make him kneel or just shoot him where he lies.

  Ross Craven’s fear for himself evaporates when he looks across the clearing and sees Faizan, the man they called the Magician. One of only three or four men capable of wielding the cluster drones as a devastating weapon. They are the perfect delivery vehicle for any kind of WMD. He is aghast at just how perfect he has made them for the purpose of dispensing a biological or chemical agent high over a city, able to do this from five different locations and at any height up to about twelve thousand feet.

  Ross makes a decision that he has to at least try to get away and pushes into the man who holds him loosely, barging with his shoulder. Ross is a big man and it catches the gunman off balance. Then he begins to run, past the truck and towards the trees on the other side.

  Shouts, running footsteps. Then a number of gunshots close together.

  The meat of Ross’s back opens as if with a cleaver under those deadly three-shot bursts. Ross Craven dies just metres away from his creations, already being packed into the tray of a large truck.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 0415

  PJ passes the glistening, silvery surface of a series of ponds, and turns off onto yet another dirt trail. He stops at a T intersection, heart thumping as he sees twin impressions of truck tyres in the dirt. His trained eyes can clearly see the direction of travel.

  The engine of the Triumph is barely ticking over as the trees close in further, along with a thick mist that makes visibility with the twin Hella beams difficult. High beam is no better, so he keeps them on low.

  Another narrow trail, his eyes adjusting, scanning both sides of the road for anything out of the ordinary.

  The road opens up, and in a clearing, down a few hundred metres, he can see vehicle lights. PJ uses the front brake to take speed off, then releases the throttle, letting the engine idle, so soft that he can hear the sounds of voices and engines. He turns the bike into the trees, driving as far in as he can, picking the gaps, occasionally having to gun the engine to overcome an obstacle such as a young holly bush or a fallen branch.

  Finally the bike is forced to stop completely. PJ switches off the engine and dismounts, the Warlock revolver in his right hand. He uses the cover of the trees to move from trunk to trunk, his vision of the situation improving with every pace. Finally, near the fringes of the wood, he takes up a position alongside a straight silver birch tree, leaves shining like foil in the moonlight.

  The smell of diesel permeates the air, as heavy and sweet as sugar syrup. His eyes move to the Pantech truck he has been following. Two men are busy loading something into the interior. One appears to be refuelling it from a jerry can.

  PJ creeps forward until he can clearly see the shape of the things they are loading. There is just enough light to see the rotors. The realisation is like an electric shock.

  Cluster drones.

  Because the DRFS had done some security testing for Chevalier Aerospace, video footage of the cluster drone development was shown at DRFS briefings. Their potential was discussed endlessly around the water coolers and with pints in hand at the end of the working day.

  PJ was even present for an early test. He knows the shape. Knows also that these things cannot be allowed to leave this site. He hears the words ‘batteries’ from one of the men. And he understands that he is showing the others how to remove the batteries.

  How did they get them? he thinks. How will they be deployed?

  The answers come almost as quickly. Could this be the single most dangerous method of spreading biological weapons ever developed?

  PJ continues to assess the scene. Men on guard, all carrying rifles either slung or slanted crosswise on their chests. At first it appears that the closest of these is about one hundred metres distant, but then there is another just on the edge of the forest. He looks alert also, head moving as he constantly scans the trees.

  He takes a step to the right, then begins to move cautiously, turning away to minimise the risk of his pale face reflecting the misty light. A moment later he feels what might have been a light twig brush against the tops of his ankles.

  PJ freezes. He doesn’t need to look down to know that he’s just triggered a trip wire. He waits in that nanosecond for a blinding explosion, steel ball bearings propelled by a charge of C4 that will tear through his legs and bowel.

  No explosion, but an alarm monitored via cell phones. He can hear the devices across the clearing. Men in black sweaters start to converge on him, the nearby sentries first, but then three more from over near the truck, carrying flashlights with oversized lenses, shouting in a patois of Arabic and English as they come.

  PJ knows that they can’t be sure he’s there. There are fallow deer and muntjac in Epping Forest, as well as a herd of privately owned longhorn cattle. Any one of them might have triggered the trip wire.

  Yet these people are taking no chances. PJ hears the distinctive click-clack of charging handles. In response he reaches for the Warlock, moulds his body around the tree, then waits with only one eye and gun hand emerging.

  The frontrunner is a stocky man, eyes huge and white. Steamy breath shoots from his nostrils with every pace.

  PJ holds the Warlock with one hand, steady as a rock, and shoots him in the chest, the muzzle flash strobe-lighting both the victim and the bullet’s effect on the man in dramatic fashion. Frank was right, PJ thinks, the .41 Magnum round is a man-stopper. Gravity takes over his body and limbs, dragging him earthward as if with unseen weights.

  Still holding the revolver, PJ turns and darts away, using the confusion that follows his gunshot as a smokescreen. Exactly three seconds, counted in his head, passes before one of the hostiles gets his weapon deployed and fires a burst that scatters splinters of wood, small branches and leaves in all directions.

  PJ doesn’t stop, blundering forehead first into a branch that thumps into his skull like a thrown brick. He almost falls, but recovers swiftly, splashing through a small, freezing brook. He finds a thick oak on the other side, and moves close into the encircling arms of its branches, standing with his back against the rough bark.

  More shouts, then another burst, some rounds striking the tree. The trunk shudders with each strike as if it were being hit with an axe. He hears feet blundering through water, somewhere nearby.

  This oak, being mature, has a maze of branches, some of which are at a gentle angle, wide enough to walk on. PJ climbs swiftly, but silently, careful not to shake the bough he’s on, keeping close to the main trunk so as not to be silhouetted out on a branch.

  Then, at the juncture of two branches some twenty metres up, PJ stops in a superb position, completely screened from the ground. Oak is one of the most resistant of all woods to bullets. Anyone who wants to get him will have to climb, then face him and the Warlock, which he removes, breaks open, removes the spent case and inserts a fresh one from his pocket so he will have all six rounds ready to fire.

  Down below PJ can hear voices, curses, see beams of flashlight cutting through the night as most of the men move away towards the truck.

  By lifting himself half out of his perch he can see back over most of the other treetops to the clearing. The truck engine rumbles to life. Doors slam. Twin cones of white lig
ht probe across the foggy morning. PJ hears the clunk of gears and climbing revolutions as the truck moves away.

  PJ climbs down from his perch, heads back through the cold water and into the clearing. He can hear choppers now, heading this way from the north east. No point getting back on the bike now — the gunners on the Apaches might just decide to take out anything that moves.

  As he walks further into the open space, he can see two bodies. The face of Ross Craven staring blankly at the sky. PJ had only met him once, but his death seems so callous that he feels a renewed rage for the perpetrators.

  A Lynx AW159 Wildcat looms out of the misty dawn light like a black vampire. The landing wheels kiss the earth, and PJ runs for the door and looks inside. ‘There’s a Pantech truck,’ he yells. ‘Not far ahead. They’ve stolen five UAVs — cluster drones. We’ve got dead men here too.’

  The clamour is increasing as two Apaches dart to and fro over the area like hunting dogs looking for prey. The image of that truck is implanted in his mind. Destroying it has now become more important than his own survival.

  ‘Get in,’ shouts the pilot. ‘They can sort out the bodies later. We’ll get after the truck.’

  PJ settles into a seat before he sees that Ronnie Booth is sitting next to him, in full battle kit, his SA80 planted butt first on the deck like a crutch.

  ‘Dead men can wait, eh,’ Ronnie says, then holds out a GU. ‘Lost something?’

  ‘Yeah, damn it.’

  ‘Pity your girlfriend wasn’t there to pick it up for you.’

  ‘Piss off, Ronnie. Don’t you ever stop needling people?’

  PJ slips the thing onto his head, knowing that Tom Mossel will be desperate for an update.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ARABIAN SEA

  LOCAL TIME: 0930

  US Navy Diver, First Class, Jeff Farruchi drives his arms like pistons through the effervescent salt water, kicking strongly at the same time. The red mine hazard buoy is visible when he lifts his head, still a good distance away, and the tall lanky civvy champion, Emil Melker, is a good ten yards ahead.

  Faintly, over the splash of his plunging arms and laboured breathing, Jeff can hear chants and yells from the crowd lining the rails of the ship. The race has been planned for some weeks, and significant amounts of money have changed hands.

  The USS Ponce, though an old tub, is a relatively new concept in the US Navy, officially termed an AFSBI — Afloat Forward Staging Base Interim. It is indeed a floating base, staffed primarily with civilian contractors, but also elements of the Marines, Navy Air Wing MH-53 Minesweeping choppers, and a small squad of the US Navy’s Deep Sea Team.

  The rivalry between groups is intense but fun, and this race pits the best swimmers in each service category against each other. The stroke is freestyle, the course over a thousand metres. Melker is a powerful swimmer, and the civilian crew had by far the biggest pool of talent to draw from. The big money is coming from that camp, making the champion almost unbackable.

  Jeff starts to work harder. It would be good to see the smug sons-of-bitches lose. Melker would be unbeatable in a swimming pool, but the ocean is Jeff’s element. Even now the current is working them wide of the buoy, and he has been compensating for it without even thinking. His competitor, however, will round the buoy wide, and that will cost him ground.

  The buoy nears, and Jeff’s arms continue to churn through the water. The pain is starting to bite, but that’s part of it all. His action becomes more and more machine-like — rolls the head for breath, flutter kick, arms plunging through, hand held like a flat blade.

  He risks a quick lift and turn. The other three swimmers are well behind, dropping back and also not planning well for the current.

  The buoy is three or four body lengths away now, and Melker is rounding it already, but wide, trying to cut his angle, realising his mistake, but Jeff hits the buoy cleanly, rounds it, and is in open water heading back for the ship half a length ahead. He can hear the roar from the watchers.

  His shoulders are on fire now, and he consciously forces himself to slow a little, take deeper breaths, knowing that there is still a long swim in front of him. Melker’s head is now almost level with his waist, but Jeff knows that there are no prizes for times. Crossing the finish line first is the only criteria. Better to conserve his strength, stay just a little ahead, then sprint at the end with everything he has.

  Jeff is twenty-eight years old, about average in the US Navy Divers Deep Sea Team. The punishing physical regimen that forms part of the entrance requirements keeps most of the members to around this age, though recruits can be up to thirty years at entry.

  Jeff’s posting to the USS Ponce as part of a six-man team has been the latest in overseas deployments that have included Diego Garcia, East Africa and Oman. Shipboard life is interesting, though there has been little to do here apart from defouling brass props on destroyers and skill maintenance training.

  By the halfway mark, with Ponce now growing in size until Jeff can see the faces of the men lining the rail, Melker is almost at his shoulders. Instinctively Jeff knows that it is too early to start burning the final reserves, but still he increases his rate just a fraction, arms churning through the water a touch faster.

  He can hear a commotion on the ship, the sound of orders coming over the ship’s public address system. He takes a peep at the end of the stroke, rolling his head up so his eyes look through the water drops on the goggles. Men at the rail are distracted, turning away. A RIB has been launched at the stern, and appears to be speeding towards them.

  Now, damn it, he says to himself, knowing that he has to finish the race before whatever is happening takes over. He lowers his head, goes up a gear, his body twisting with effort as he gives everything to that final sprint.

  An outboard motor, however, has a very distinctive sound underwater, a high-pitched rattle. It grows louder, until he can see the hull cut through beneath the surface, trailing bubbles just ahead of him. It stops, blocking his path.

  Jeff raises his head, stops swimming; treads water, looks up at the three Navy crewmen in the RIB.

  ‘Hey, Jeff, sorry, man, but you’ve gone operational, right now.’

  Melker’s head appears next to him. ‘Shit, man, and I nearly had it won.’

  Within thirty minutes Jeff’s squad are in webbing seats aboard a Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk utility chopper, speeding over the sea, so close that the downdraught throws patterns on the surface.

  All six of them are in short neoprene spring suits, scuba tanks fitted, while a briefing continues over the headsets each of them wears. The voice belongs to a Lieutenant Commander all the way from Diego Garcia.

  Jeff’s eyes are fixed on the sea as the voice goes on: ‘… at this stage we have no verification that this story has any currency whatsoever, so before we can act on this information we are counting on you to check it out. According to our source there may be bodies. Then again there may be nothing. Expected water depth at the site will be a little over fifty metres.’

  Fifty metres, Jeff knows, is beyond the scope of most recreational divers, but a comfortable depth for the Deep Sea Team, requiring longer decompression periods and extreme care.

  ‘The squad leader will prepare an outward search pattern until such a time as we deem it prudent to stop. Good luck. Out.’

  Jeff’s eyes fall on the GPS screen, in its fully waterproof case. They are almost on site. ‘OK, guys,’ he shouts over the cacophony of the twin engines and rotors, ‘masks on. Check your air flow. Just about there.’

  Masks and flippers on, they start to line up. Two men carry long hand spears with explosive powerheads at the end. This part of the Indian Ocean is alive with big sharks, and if there are indeed fresh bodies down there …

  The Seahawk — basically a Blackhawk frame modified for the Navy, slows suddenly and hovers, descending until the landing wheels are less than a metre above the surface.

  ‘OK,’ the pilot shouts, ‘we’ll stay on station until th
e replacement arrives. Red smoke if you need extraction.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jeff watches the first man jump, holding his mask, splashing down into the sea and floating. The others follow, the chopper moving forward slowly so that the men don’t fall onto each other.

  Jeff goes last, loving the shock of hitting the water from a height, going under in a cloud of white bubbles then bursting through under the blue sky, with the chopper’s surge of power filling his face with air as it moves away.

  They congregate in a ring before they dive, Jeff making sure they are all together, gear intact and uninjured.

  ‘OK, guys, let’s go. You know the drill.’ Jeff slips the mouthpiece between his lips and slides under the surface, finning strongly downwards, helped by the belt of lead around his waist.

  The nature of light changes as they descend. Red is the first colour to be filtered from the spectrum, at about five metres’ depth, then orange and yellow. Green is the last to go, at about twenty metres. The overall brightness diminishes also, and as Jeff nears the sea floor, his flippers kicking with a steady beat, his vision is dull, despite a sea bed that appears to be made up of clean gravel and sand.

  The others spread out into a search pattern, six abreast, each keeping within sight of the next two, covering a two hundred metre swathe of the bottom, in ever increasing circles.

  For the first three hundred metres they see nothing, but then, ahead, a sight that chills Jeff’s soul. Sharks, dozens of them, sweeping through the sea. Most of them are smaller species — whalers and sand sharks — with some larger individuals among them — giant hammerheads, tigers with that fixed sickly grin. Named for the striped pattern down the sides of juvenile specimens, these ones are a uniform light grey.