by Greg Barron
Julian shakes his head. ‘The Magician must have souped-up the circuits, given them some more tricks.’
The drones are machines, yet they are like independent creatures. The three, dull white in their glare-resistant coatings, fly not away from, but towards the chopper, surrounding it like bull terriers.
‘I’m in.’ Julian calls. ‘I’ve cracked it. I just have to learn to talk to them.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ the pilot screams, ‘they’re engaging us — they’ve ambushed us.’
‘What the fuck?’
Ronnie looks out to see the missile trail flying from the drone, a fizzing line of vapour and exhaust across the sky. These are, he knows from the specs thrown up on his GU, part of a new generation of micro-missiles, packed with C4 explosives. These ones are designed to fly into a turbine-air intake, dividing into thirty or more tiny bomblets. Resistant to just about every conventional preventative device except perhaps for the new high-tech directed energy beams.
There is a clatter, followed by a burst of explosive and a mechanical roar.
‘We’ve taken a hit.’
The chopper rocks from side to side, then plunges for a few metres before stopping, tilting dangerously in the air, trying to steady up on one engine.
Ronnie feels surprisingly calm. He’s seen these birds fall out of the sky before, most of the time rather quickly. The pilot of this one, however, is managing to coax some thrust out of the machine. Julian’s face, white as a ghost, turns his way.
The AN/APG-78 Fire Control System, housed in a dome atop the rotors, is still tracking the drones.
The starboard gunner on one of the Apaches opens up on the drone nearest with the 30mm M230E1 chain guns. Ronnie watches the tracer streak out, and the drone goes into defensive mode — pre-programmed responses that see it complete a series of manoeuvres so fast that no human pilot would have the reflexes to control.
‘You cowboys in the Apaches, don’t fire on them,’ Ronnie orders into the comms. ‘If you destroy it you’ll broadcast the spores all over London.’
‘Roger, sorry.’
Right here, right now, Ronnie thinks to himself, I’m seeing the future of warfare. We developed it, and they’re using it against us. He doesn’t see the drone launch another missile, only the shout from the co-pilot: ‘Another one inbound.’
‘Locked on, locked on,’ Ronnie screams and the THOR beam takes out the missile in flight. It drops away. ‘I thought you said you could stop the damn things,’ Ronnie yells at Julian.
‘I’m trying … just give me a minute, for God’s sake.’
A moment earlier the chopper had seemed certain to crash, but the pilot is able to ease the Apache upwards. The clattering sound is dying away now, and Ronnie realises that they are flying on one engine. Speed is out of the question, but some manoeuvring is now possible.
One of the drones is intent on trying to engage the Apaches. The system locks on. Ronnie holds down the trigger and meets it with a beam of heat that is somewhere in the vicinity of one thousand degrees Centigrade. ‘One, two, three …’
SEVENTY-THREE
ATLANTIC OCEAN
LONDON TIME: 0800
Badi takes a cigarette from a gold case, lights it and streams smoke into the air through pursed lips. ‘You are privileged to know me, Marika Hartmann. I will lead a new world empire. And before you die I will tell you everything you need to know. It will amuse me to kill you at the same time as I bring death to tens of millions of Westerners.
‘My mission is simple.’ He points down at the blue ocean. ‘Across this sea, three hours’ flying time from here, there is a city. The greatest example of excess and Western greed on the planet. The five boroughs of New York City are home to ten million people. The land was stolen from its true owners — the American Indian. New York is the home of every sin. The Jew-dominated Broadway that has promoted Zionist values for so long. The publishers of New York spreading their immoral poison across the world.
‘When we reach American airspace we will fly over the city at thirty thousand feet. From there I intend to release one hundred kilograms of the most virulent biological agent in human history. Enough to spread over much of the state of New York. Then we will fly south to Washington DC and beyond until the spore tanks are empty. All the way to Florida if we can. I want you to watch it happen, then die knowing I have won.’
‘You will die also,’ Marika says grimly.
‘Not at all. We have protective clothing in case some of the spores penetrate the cabin. There is a plan for me. A place to land far from this Armageddon. Then I will prepare to take my place as leader of a new world — oh, there will be more battles to fight, but the West will never recover from this.’
She studies his harsh features, but most of all the eyes, penetrating like iron nails, surrounded by bloodshot whites. She recognises megalomaniacal insanity when she sees it.
‘I know,’ he goes on, ‘that despite your appearance as a college cheerleader, you are a highly trained killer. Therefore I feel that it is prudent to restrain you again. My men might be careless, and a handgun can be quickly plucked from a holster. Even so, I will not cuff you, as we have another method.’
One of the men produces a gadget sometimes used on prisoner transport missions. It is a seatbelt lock that fits around the fastener, meaning that the seatbelt cannot be unlocked or loosened without the key. Badi’s breath on Marika’s face as he tightens the belt is unpleasant.
It might be possible for some body types to slide down and through a seatbelt, given enough leg room, but doing so takes time, and is more difficult than it looks in a crowded aircraft.
Marika looks up at Badi, who is busy tapping away on a tablet screen. ‘You won’t get near New York,’ she says. ‘We’ll be shot down twenty miles before we even get there.’
He stops, and smiles. ‘Why would they shoot us down? This is a corporate jet, carrying a group of Irish business leaders for meetings in New Jersey. Our flight plan is in order. Our pilot will politely deal with any radio communications.’
‘My people aren’t stupid. They’ll work it out sooner or later. Right now we’ll be on radar screens on both sides of the Atlantic. They might even know, or suspect, what you have onboard. They’ll take us out with a high-temperature missile.’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘No? You have more of those clever Iranian decoys that your sociopathic friend Istikaan used over Somalia? Fine, how many will you need? I’m not quite sure of the number of fighter jets based on the east coast of America, but I’m sure that including carrier-based aircraft we’d be up around the two thousand mark.’
‘Even if we are killed, you die also.’
‘Yes, but if we get taken out by a missile, you’ve lost. I’ve won. OK?’
The last traces of humour leave his face. ‘You think you can outwit me?’
She says nothing, just stares back at him.
‘If you push me I will peel the skin from your face. I will wash the floor of this aircraft with your blood.’ He spits at her, spraying her with filthy sputum, then reaches down to a holster at his side and slides out a knife, the blade as perfectly burnished as a river at dawn, with just a slight upcurve in the final third of its length. ‘When I was fifteen I was first allowed to visit the punishment rooms at Idlib Prison. The Mukhabarat had brought in a traitor — a schoolteacher called Jah-Lee who was preaching revolution.
‘The torturer, a captain in the Mukhabarat, was a methodical man. He started at Jah-Lee’s extremities, extracted his toenails, one at a time. Used a paring knife to peel the skin and flesh of each toe and finger to the bone. He let me do some simple things. Later I extracted an eye, held it up, still attached by the nerve. I asked our prisoner if he could see through it. I wanted to know, but he did not answer …’
‘What beats me,’ Marika says, ‘is how men like you can still regard yourself as pious. How you can’t see the basic hypocrisy of it. You profess to have religion, but ignore the m
ain precepts of peace and love.’
He snarls, ‘What about you? You think that because death is delivered by unmanned aircraft, and missiles, that your hands are clean? Children burned so they suffer in agony far worse than the people I’ve killed. Yet you think you are less savage than me?’
‘I don’t condone any form of war that produces civilian casualties.’
‘You don’t condone,’ he taunts. ‘You don’t condone, yet you work to perpetuate a system that does. Western warfare is waged by the few on the many — with machines and computers. Everything is done at arm’s length. Blood turns your stomach, so you buy your meat in plastic trays. When I was eight I could slaughter a goat on my own. I would hold its trembling body between my knees like this.’ He demonstrates by moving into a crouching position, knees akimbo in a strange parody of riding a horse, then turns back to her, teeth bared in a savage sneer. ‘Facing qibla I would drive my blade into its throat like this.’ He plunges his knife into an imaginary throat, accompanying the action with a hissing sound. ‘I would feel warm blood across my hands. Lay the little body down and open its cavity with a single stroke.’
Marika’s eyes never leave his. ‘What a delightful child you must have been.’
‘You, bitch-woman, are the product of a sick system. You are immoral, and today, on a day that I will kill fifty million or more of your kind, I will take the utmost pleasure from killing you. It will give me more pleasure if I begin that task shortly. It will be a diversion on the flight. First I must think about how I will cause your death. I want you to know pain, Marika Hartmann, I want you to know it intimately. The people of the West don’t understand consequences. They think they can act with impunity. That they have the birthright to do whatever they like …’
Marika lets the building anger out in a single explosion: ‘You just told me how much you enjoy killing baby goats, then you want to lecture me about morality. If you want to kill me, go ahead. If not, just shut the hell up.’
At that moment, looking at his face, she understands that his intent to kill her is immutable. The set of her jaw hardens. Not if I kill you first, you bastard.
Badi produces a Toshiba tablet, working on it in silence for some minutes before looking up at her. ‘Interesting image I am seeing on this toy.’
‘Don’t talk to me. You can hold me captive, but you can’t make me like you.’
The Syrian raises his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps not, but I can make you listen. I can tell you about a house that sits near the seaside in a faraway country. By a trick of geography the inhabitants feel themselves safe from the ills of the world. That is an illusion. In the front yard of this house there is a fence of white timber, their ends shaped like little spears. There is a porch, with hanging plants in pots, a windchime …’
Marika swallows, and she can complete the image without even trying.
… beside it is a rocking chair, where Mum likes to sit to catch the morning sun … Dad opening the door and carrying out a cup of tea on a saucer, the way Mum likes it: milk and one sugar.
Marika cannot tear her eyes away from him. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘The unfortunate pilot, Djamil, the man you killed, was not the only man I had operating in your home town of Sydney. Another two of my loyal cadre have been waiting outside the house we both know.’
‘Listen here, you sick bastard, are you saying there’s someone at my parents’ house?’
His lips compress, the point of his jaw tightening. ‘You are not stupid, after all. Do you want proof?’ He holds out the tablet screen like a playing card. The image is taken from out on the street, looking across to the house.
‘How do I know that wasn’t taken weeks ago?’ It’s a poor response, but the best she can do right now. They both know that he is not bluffing.
The Syrian clenches his lower lip in his teeth, the closest thing to an animal snarl Marika has seen on a human being. ‘Sargon, zoom in on the front door.’ He holds the device out, and the image enlarges, focusing on the pale mahogany door with its elaborate cast-iron knocker.
‘OK,’ she says, ‘I believe you. Why do you have men at my parents’ house? You have me here, in your power. They have nothing to do with this.’
‘Because it will deepen your pain.’
‘I’d like to believe that you aren’t human — that you’re some kind of evil thing that just crawled out of some dark hole in the ground.’
‘On the contrary. I am the son of a king. But the revolution, provoked and backed by the evil governments of the West, took much of our power away. We Alawites are a people apart, we have lived in our mountain strongholds for centuries. Some say we are descended from remnants of the crusaders, others that we are a lost tribe of Canaanites. We observe Christmas, we believe in reincarnation, but most importantly we practise taqiya — secrecy in all things. My family has lived by that code. My sacred duty is revenge, and this is the day on which it will be delivered.’
Marika shivers as a wave of revulsion and fear ripples through her body.
SEVENTY-FOUR
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 0825
The drone breaks away from the beam and begins evasive action, cartwheeling away in an incredible display of agility and speed. Almost as if, Ronnie decides, it has moved to a higher level of performance.
‘Damn,’ he cries, ‘I almost had it.’
The pilot: ‘One of the others looks like it’s deploying …’
They see it happen across a suburb-sized patch of blue sky and wispy cloud — a drone launching at close range — one of the Apaches bursting into a fireball of light that flickers inside the cabin.
‘Damn them. Launch a Stinger. Get these bastard things.’
The drone they are targeting responds immediately with a jump in height, the deployment of flares and foil chaff. Ronnie waits, finger on the trigger, hoping for it to stop moving so he can get a clear shot.
We can’t fight three of them. Not all at once.
The pilot: ‘Jesus Christ. The rotors are cavitating. We’re not going to make it.’
The sole remaining engine is at full power, the turbine roar almost deafening.
‘We’re under attack. The others are coming up behind us.’
The pilot’s voice, shaking with frustration: ‘I’m struggling to keep us up here. Hurry. Take them out.’
‘I’m almost there.’ Julian says. ‘I can stop them.’
The drones attack like a pack of dogs, as if they know the chopper is critically damaged, launching missiles simultaneously.
The pilot activates the chopper’s air-defence system, launching twenty or more counter flares before dropping suddenly. Two of the missiles turn away, chasing the false heat signatures. One of the deadly units, however, strikes the side of the GermCat’s fuselage low down. The impact is a concussive blast of tearing metal. A hole blows in the side and relative silence turns to a howling gale of wind.
‘Julian’s hit,’ Kisira shouts.
Ronnie turns to see. The young technician’s face has gone white. The wound must be on his lower body. But his attention is required elsewhere. The drones are closing in for the kill.
Kisira is already out of her seat, going towards Julian.
Ronnie growls, ‘OK Julian, you’re hit, but stop these damn things. Do your job, man. This is bigger than you.’
The answer is weak with pain. ‘I’m trying — I will.’
Julian tries not to look down at his side. A chunk of shrapnel has passed through the titanium bulkhead and struck him in the lower chest and abdomen. Deep red blood is oozing out. There is no sharp pain, just a throbbing ache. People are shouting. Kisira is beside him, using a pad of gauze to staunch the wound.
Breathing ragged, his eyes focus on the screen. A menu comes up. More submenus. Yes! I’m in at last. He feels a surge of triumph over Faizan, then a pinprick in his thigh as Kisira injects something into him. The drug flows through his body with the same potent rush of euphoria and unreality as
he experienced in the cavern of the Zaw.
Ronnie is shouting. Julian knows that he can’t let his comrades down again. He wipes at liquid running from his lips, and is not surprised to see his sleeve come away slick with red.
His fingers work on the keyboard almost without conscious thought. The seat is sodden with his blood. Kisira has bandaged his waist, but it cannot cope with the flow.
There is a menu command he is looking for. Delta-four-one. It is the quickest way to bring the drones out of autonomous defence mode. He remembers Ross Craven talking about it. He sees it finally — the effort to click the tab is almost too much, but then it is done.
They are safe. Now he can rest. He closes his eyes.
Ronnie depresses the trigger, hoping to wing one of the drones, but it’s moving too fast to lock onto as a target. All this movement has created heat, giving the machines a large infrared signature, but the evasive action is making weapon targeting all but impossible.
He watches the three drones move away, gather together for a moment as if using the sensors to plan the next move, then streak back towards the GermCat in attack formation. This time there is no hope. They will surely be destroyed.
‘This is it, everybody.’
The change happens in an instant. The three drones stop dead in the air, like obedient dogs called to heel by their master.
Ronnie turns to look at Julian, who grins drunkenly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. ‘I did it.’
The cheer is subdued. Even Ronnie has a sick taste in his mouth. Julian is dying, and an Apache and its crew have crashed and burned in the pursuit of these things.
The tracking system locks on to the drones easily now, as Ronnie chooses the nearest target. The beam streaks out. The sense of relief as he begins to count is like the first deep chord after the lone bass and drums of an intro.
One, two, three … again that puff of smoke. Four, five, six … The drone begins to glow. Nine, ten. The molten remnants drop out of the sky like stones.
