Lethal Sky

by Greg Barron

  Badi glances up at her, still chewing. ‘You sleep like a corpse. I’ve been back for many hours.’

  Cassie comes to sit on his lap, places an arm around his neck then starts to gently massage his upper back.

  ‘Stop it, Cassandra. I have more important things on my mind. Pack your things. We are leaving soon.’

  She sags back on the chair. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

  ‘Away from here.’

  There is a knock on the cabin door and it opens. Faizan stands in the doorway. ‘Sayyid, the units are ready. The payloads are full, and they are fully programmed. The cluster drones will carry out their mission and defend themselves from any threat. Once they go up, nothing can stop them.’

  ‘You have programmed them to release their payloads tomorrow morning as we discussed?’

  ‘Yes, sayyid, just when the workers of the great cities are making their way to their office buildings like the slaves they are.’

  ‘Then let us unleash them now, and may history take its course.’

  BOOK THREE

  Smash Islamism, smash the far-Left. We are Generation X, and we will fucking reclaim our nations.

  Posted on Twitter by @EnglishAtt

  2300(Z) English Channel / Alt 19100m — Vis range 29769m / Wind S 10–15 knots — Visibility 20000m — Temp (ground) 12°C /

  Police Aeryon SkyRanger drones hover over crowds at street protests, using their integrated imaging payload, known as SR-EO/IR, along with facial recognition software, to add faces and names to ‘hunted’ lists. Military versions of the same technologies are infinitely more frightening.

  Just as motor vehicles changed the face of warfare between world wars one and two, and helicopters before Vietnam, Unmanned Aerial Systems mean that war will never be the same again.

  This is a new arms race, with dozens of ‘players.’ With stealth capabilities built into new-generation craft, no border will ever be immune.

  Britain’s Taranis UAV, built by BAE Systems is a stealth fighter-bomber, able to arrive undetected in foreign airspace, fire missile and smart-bomb munitions on multiple targets, including, conceivably using tactical nuclear weapons. This futuristic craft was, like so many of Britain’s new weapons, tested in the ‘empty’ expanse of Woomera Range, South Australia.

  In suburban streets, commonly available ‘toy’ drones, equipped with increasingly powerful cameras, are used by the paparazzi, voyeurs and hobbyists. Millions of these small drones, such as the Parrot AR, are sold every year. Equipped with HD-video cameras, their over-the-counter ranges are less than a couple of hundred metres, but optional parts available online can push this out to several kilometres.

  Regulators hurry to catch up with the exploding technologies. UAVs get cheaper, more powerful, and stay in the air longer. They hover over beaches, beaming high-definition video back to sophisticated receiver units operated by deviants in basements. Images of children. Women. Backyards with walls are no longer an enclave.

  The predictable congestion in the air leads to countless collisions, the resulting footage popular on YouTube. Machine–person accidents such as the crash of a sports-channel camera drone into a packed stadium in Brazil become common.

  Battlefield commanders have access to backpack portable micro-drones called Wasps, the latest variants of which are whisper quiet, and have a wingspan of just fifty centimetres. Wasp can fly up to six kilometres, ten to two hundred metres above the ground, beaming video back to the operator from its EO or IR payload camera.

  The CMUAS, Combat Medic Unmanned Aircraft Systems, carries a payload of medical supplies including Life Support for Trauma and Transport Systems. New VTOL (Vertical Take-off and Landing) drones, for the first time, convey casualties back behind the lines.

  An unmanned helicopter called a Maverick can fly for seven hours and is almost ten metres long. An autonomous glider/parafoil called Onyx can be launched from an aircraft at thirty-five thousand feet then glide unerringly to land on a football-field-sized target fifty kilometres away, dropping more than a tonne of critical battlefield supplies to Special Forces troops behind enemy lines without risking a pilot.

  Some UAVs, such as the XPV-2 Mako, are so cheap to make that they are essentially disposable.

  Combat drones are nowhere near as sophisticated to produce as fighter aircraft, meaning local production proliferates around the world. Argentina builds the Mantis, China the CH-series attack drones and the ‘sharp sword’ stealth UAVs. Iran has a Karrar long-range attack drone, Israel more than twenty models with defence capabilities. Pakistan’s National Engineering and Scientific Commission has developed the home-grown Burraq combat drone.

  India has their AURA — Autonomous Unmanned Research Aircraft. Yet the word research is a misnomer. The craft can and does carry a variety of munitions, flying over Kashmir waiting for orders, ready to unleash hell below. A Hermes 900 UAV, built by Elbit Systems Ltd, was used by Brazil to provide security for the 2014 FIFA World Cup.

  Of course, not all development is in aerial vehicles, semi-autonomous unmanned ground and underwater machines are also in the final stages of development. US troops are supplied by rumbling unmanned trucks. Unmanned submarines enter harbours and take photographs or plant mines. Unmanned ground systems proliferate, rolling down busy downtown streets at night, photographing, capturing, assessing.

  The hunter-killer machines of science fiction move ever closer to fact. Phantom Eye is the biggest, the most durable. The deadliest. Now it receives orders. It moves into position high above the English Channel. The Most Wanted Man in the World is still at large and he is about to deploy a weapon.

  Phantom Eye downloads possible targets and deploys its sensors.

  FIFTY-ONE

  THAMES ESTUARY, LONDON

  LOCAL TIME: 2259

  The estuary is a dark ribbon between the lights of opposing banks. Marika grips her UMP5 in her hands, the new generation Heckler & Koch machine pistol, chambered in 9mm, her favoured weapon for close-quarters fighting.

  The chopper is dark, even the dash instruments emitting just a feeble glow. The bench seats hold two four-man fire teams, together making up Team One. Each individual carries an SA80a2, HK417 or M4 rifle according to preference. One member of each squad has their weapon fitted with an underslung grenade launcher.

  SBS frogmen are most likely already onboard the Isra, their targets the diesel generators that supply onboard power. The first chopper down will land up near the bow, disgorging two SAW teams equipped with M249 machine guns, to be sited behind the machinery of a small loading crane on the forecastle, ready to provide interlocking fields of fire across the main deck and to the towering aft deck where most of the ship’s personnel will be located.

  ‘Masks and NVG in position now, people, and go hard down there.’

  All personnel wear Saratoga first-responder suits and Draeger masks. They are using mask-integrated comms units as the GU sets are not compatible with the bulky CBRN masks.

  The Isra below looks huge, a vast expanse of rusting iron, her towering aft decks dominating the rest of the vessel. Her bow is made up of a ramp secured by chain and windlass. No lights are showing, and Marika is pleased to see that the SBS have succeeded in knocking out power. The jagged light of two muzzle flashes appears from near the stern of the ship as someone fires back up at the choppers.

  ‘This landing is hot,’ Marika shouts through the comms system, ‘we are taking fire.’

  Agreement comes back in an electronic crackle as she watches Wildcat One disgorge the SAW teams. That bird lifts off and the next swoops in.

  ‘We’re next after this one. Get ready to dismount the second we hit the deck.’

  Theirs is probably the most dangerous landing, up close to the towering aft decks, a target for grenades and small arms until they get through the door. The M249s, however, will provide close-fire support. Besides, they will be in the open for mere seconds.

  The door gunner opens fire as the Lynx drops, spraying the enemy-
fire positions, the sound hammering in even through the mask and comms systems. The gunfire transports her into the combat ‘zone’, initiating that mix of adrenalin buzz, desire for self-preservation and focus on the mission.

  The wheels hit, and Marika is out as if propelled via a catapult. The door into the iron tower is ahead. A storm of automatic fire from the other end of the ship sweeps across the upper decks.

  PJ’s team merges with hers, their task to clear the lower deck, the crew’s quarters and galley, then work their way up.

  Marika grasps for the handle and wrenches it outwards. PJ sends a burst into the corridor, while someone lobs a flash-bang grenade inside. They all turn away, and wait for the concussive burst that will follow. The intense light will render it impossible for anyone inside to see for five or ten seconds, and the sound is loud enough to play havoc with aural fluids. Most people are unable to balance after such a shock, or take coherent action.

  As soon as the sound has faded, the first of four fire teams, leaving one to control the door, moves decisively into the corridor.

  Ronnie Booth, commanding eight men in Wildcat Three, shouts last-minute orders as the chopper swoops down towards the deck of the ship. Out through the windows he can see two Apache gunships following them in, pouring a ‘cone’ of mini-gun fire into the superstructure.

  This moment, seconds from landing, is extreme, surreal. Ronnie imagines that he can hear Metallica’s ‘To Live Is to Die’, played on some heavenly media, switching from classical beauty to chugging guitar. What a way to enter a firefight, he thinks, with Kirk Hammett’s sublime guitar in his ears.

  From four hundred feet, the journey to the ground is a matter of seconds, and in this case the landing is complicated by the superstructure and cargo on deck. Ronnie tucks his body down, head buried deep into his lap as the machine lands with all the subtlety of a hammer onto a nail.

  He waits until the titanium armoured fuselage has stopped moving before he uncoils his body and comes to his feet, exiting the chopper at a loping, deceptive speed. He looks up into the air to see a tongue of flame arcing across the sky, a couple of hundred feet up. At first he thinks it is one of the choppers firing at the ship, but then realises that the gunships are the targets.

  Despite a shower of chaff, flares and desperate manoeuvres, one of the Apaches takes a hit. Four hundred feet up in the air. Helicopters cannot glide when faced with a lack of engine power, but are instead designed to auto-rotate. They have a clutch that disengages when engine revs drop below usable power. Then, as the body drops, slipstream air flows up, spinning the rotors, slowing the craft and keeping the machine manoeuvrable, at least to a degree.

  The Apache falls, hits the side rail of the ship, then disappears into the ocean.

  The earpiece buzzes. ‘It’s the cluster drones. They’re attacking the fucking choppers.’

  ‘Who’s controlling them?’

  ‘Christ knows.’

  Two hostiles run out on the wheelhouse deck with those deadly plastic sub-machine guns, firing back at them, forcing them into cover before concentrated tracer fire cuts them to pieces. Ronnie is up and running but then a flash of light from a grenade illuminates a drone, hovering above the middle of the deck, holding station like a navigational buoy in a shipping channel.

  From what Ronnie remembers of the damn things, the other machines in the cluster will be up in the sky, analysing millions of items of data from their cameras every second, and transmitting it to the others.

  Ronnie hears a curious sound coming from the drone. A clicking sound like badly aligned gears trying to mesh, followed by a puff of smoke as the drone launches one of those deadly micro-missiles that just destroyed a gunship.

  ‘Cover,’ he shouts, and the squad dive. The missile explodes a few feet above the deck. A patter of shrapnel striking all around follows the sharp concussion. Jay looses off a burst with his SA80.

  ‘Did you hit it?’ Ronnie yells.

  ‘Yep, bullets bounced off like they’re made of rubber.’

  Jay loads the UGL grenade launcher from a pouch in his assault vest. ‘We’ll see how that thing likes white phosphorus.’

  Ronnie swivels his head and lifts his eyes. The drone is still on station. ‘Go for it.’

  Jay flips himself up and throws the weapon to his shoulder, fires. The 40mm grenade launcher has a hollow thump similar to, though louder than, a shotgun shell primer without the charge. Nothing happens for a moment, then there’s a flash of light. Not much noise as the grenade goes off, but bright light that burns away the mist and gloom for a hundred paces.

  When it’s finally safe to look, the drone can be clearly seen, streaking into the air at the rate of a launched missile.

  ‘OK, go,’ Ronnie shouts, ‘now’s our chance.’

  Team Two are on their feet, clattering down the deck towards the bottom of an iron ladder. Ronnie talks into the comms unit as they run: ‘The cluster drones appear to have already been launched, probably with payload. Right now they seem to be slipping into a defence/attack role.’

  ‘Copy that. Someone better work out a way of taking those damn things out or we’re going to be in deep shit.’

  Laying down a storm of fire, the squad reach the ladder. Ronnie hears the clicking sound again. ‘Down,’ he bawls out, and the team hit the deck seconds before nearby glass windows explode into a million shards.

  The clicking sound comes again, multiplied. There are two of them now …

  Up and onto the poop deck, pushing through the door to the inside, skidding rubber soles on glass layered on glass. Ronnie loses his footing and almost flies headlong.

  Two dead men lie where they have fallen, spreading stains on the checkerplate steel beneath them. Ronnie opens the door. The room is beautifully furnished, but empty of people.

  ‘One more level,’ Ronnie shouts. ‘Keep it together, you people.’

  Jay takes the lead, moving carefully as if negotiating a minefield. The squad are not even halfway to the first landing when the crack of a rifle sounds, and a bullet tears itself to fragments on the iron step. The balustrade rings like a bell struck with a hammer.

  Ronnie looks up to see the man on the deck above, his form scattered by checkerplate steelwork and a heavy steel railing. The barrel of his gun is stubby and black, the muzzle flash almost white in the sharp light.

  This is one of those situations where they are exposed here, less so by moving forward. Ronnie follows Jay as he continues to climb, just in front, his SA80 held at a high angle, eye trained through the scope. The others follow close behind, halfway up the steps, all unscathed. Ronnie can’t see the target, only hears Jay fire a tap of three or four rounds, a shout of pain and a body cartwheeling from a higher rail, landing awkwardly, striking the banister and falling down onto the main deck, eyes staring roundly, dark blood seeping from two or three wounds across his chest.

  Ronnie turns to see a drone appear behind them. The clicking sound begins just as they reach the wheelhouse deck, with its down-sloping windows and electronics-filled dash.

  There is a big man at the helm of the ship, and he turns to look at Ronnie entering the wheelhouse, SA80 held at ‘patrol ready’. Ronnie recognises the ship’s captain from the briefing, a mug shot from INTERPOL files. A gun-running arrest some eight years earlier.

  Ronnie raises the rifle. ‘Get on your knees, Walid, hands on your head.’

  Walid spits on the floor, then scowls back at him. ‘Why don’t you get the fuck off my ship?’

  Ronnie steps closer, just out of range of a flying fist or boot. ‘Down now, or I’m gonna ruin your night in a big way.’

  ‘Kiss my arse, Englishman. Shoot me if you like. I piss on you and I piss on your country, and I piss on your Form 1 and Form 2 and Form 3.’

  The drone peeps like a stalker over the edge of the rail, and Ronnie shouts a warning to Jay, who swivels at the doorway and fires a grenade from the hip.

  The drone begins automatic evasive action, but is still wi
thin the impact zone when the projectile explodes. When the smoke clears it is gone, just for long enough, Ronnie suspects, to perform self-tests or repair before it locks back on.

  Even Walid turns to watch the cluster drone back off, and Ronnie makes his move. He runs in, drives the butt of his SA80 into the side of the captain’s head, forcing him to the ground.

  Once he’s down, Ronnie turns Walid, still kicking and yelling, onto his belly.

  ‘Jesus, this bastard’s got a hard head.’

  Cuffed to the wheel however, Walid is left to struggle and vocally protest.

  ‘Where’s Badi?’ Ronnie shouts. ‘I’ve got something for him. Weighs about one hundred and seventy grains and travels at two and a half thousand feet per second.’

  Walid scowls up at him. ‘Nothing. I tell you nothing. Badi has gone where you will never find him.’

  Shaking his head, Ronnie walks out of the covered wheelhouse and onto the open deck, with its view aft, across the water all the way to Foulness Island.

  As he watches, the two drones that have been engaging the ground troops and Apaches dart up and away, impossibly high in the sky where they are joined by three others.

  ‘Hey, Jay, come and watch this,’ Ronnie says.

  The five drones, now together, fly far higher into the sky and out of sight, the afterburners of a RAF jet tearing across the sky ineffectually in their wake.

  Entering the main corridor in diamond formation, Team One reaches the first door on the left, finding it closed. Marika runs with her fire team into the aft main deck, knowing that they are likely to meet with the stiffest resistance as the twenty-two-man crew’s quarters are located here.

  ‘We’re going to have to clear these cabins, one at a time,’ PJ shouts. ‘I’ll go in first.’

  Marika grips the handle. ‘You ready?’