WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller

by J. T. Brannan

  He rolled into the support leg in the same movement, taking Quraishi down, but the man quickly lashed out again and caught Cole across the jaw, making his head spin. He was moving more slowly than normal, he knew; but it was the fatigue of the past few minutes which had sapped him completely and left him sluggish.

  Cole shook his head clear and clambered across the floor towards Quraishi, who seemed to anticipate the movement; and instead of knocking him down, the other man instead struck Cole in the face with an open palm, fingers then closing, gripping hard into Cole’s eyes and cheeks, forcing his head back . . .

  Cole could feel the burning heat on the back of his head, and knew what Quraishi was doing; he was trying to force Cole’s head onto the burner unit, the flames arcing high up in the balloon above them.

  Cole’s balance was gone, and he felt the flames from the burner shockingly, painfully close, threatening to burn the skin from the back of his head.

  Cole’s head pulled forward away from the red hot burner in a powerful reflex action, his bare foot coming up into Quraishi’s groin instinctively, making the man instantly release his hold on him.

  Cole dove forward, taking Quraishi violently down to the floor, the impact jarring the breath from his opponent. Cole quickly capitalized on the situation, forcing the cords which bound his wrists towards Quraishi’s throat to strangle him.

  Quraishi’s chin came down quickly to block the cords from getting to his neck, and Cole let the cords instead come up under Quraishi’s nose, forcing the head back painfully, grinding upwards until the man had to turn his head away. Waiting for the movement, Cole immediately moved the cords back to Quraishi’s neck, this time getting them into his throat, pushing down and cutting off the man’s air supply.

  Cole forced his hands down on either side of Quraishi’s neck, pushing into it with his bodyweight, letting the cords dig deep into his throat.

  Quraishi gagged, his eyes bulging from his head as he struggled to breathe, panic setting in, the whites of his eyes started to turn red.

  It was then that Cole looked up, sensing the presence of something massive, something unavoidable, something immovable.

  And then all he could do was close his eyes as the balloon – pilotless and completely out of control – flew straight towards the upper floors of a gigantic skyscraper.

  11

  The Al Faisaliyah Center, at eight hundred and seventy six feet, and forty-four floors high, was the third tallest building in Saudi Arabia.

  Designed by the world-renowned architectural firm Foster and Partners, it contained a hotel, commercial offices, and a shopping center. It resembled a gigantic ballpoint pen, four huge corner beams joining together at the top above a huge golden ball.

  The golden geodesic orb itself, suspended over six hundred feet in the air, was three stories high and housed The Globe restaurant, a fine dining venue with incredible views across the Saudi capital.

  And it was this luxurious restaurant that the balloon’s basket hit first, smashing into the strengthened glass at fifteen knots.

  Cole felt the impact jarring on his body and was immediately thrown clear from Quraishi’s prostrate form. He heard twisting, screeching metal and looked up; above him, the twin burner was bent and broken, the balloon itself rapidly deflating.

  The basket whipped about in the wind as the silken mass of the balloon tangled itself around one of the huge corner beams and its network of steel cross-struts. Cole felt the basket drop, threatening to plummet down to the streets below, and his stomach gave an involuntary lurch; but then the deflated balloon settled above them, and the basket hung secure, bumping gently against the glass of The Globe.

  It was only then that Cole heard the helicopter.

  At last! Quraishi didn’t know what had taken them so long, but the chopper was finally here.

  And as he peered over the rim of the mercifully near-stationary basket, he smiled; it was even better than he’d hoped. His friend at the Ministry must have pulled some serious strings, for although there was only a single helicopter approaching, it was perhaps the most advanced combat aircraft the world had ever seen.

  The AH-64D Apache Longbow had been in service with the Saudi military for years, but was still the finest weapon in its armory. With laser-guided precision Hellfire missiles, 70mm rockets and 30mm cannon with 1,200 high-explosive rounds, the Apache could classify and threat-prioritize up to 128 different targets in less than a minute, no matter what the conditions were like.

  But as the imposing, menacing chopper slowed to a hover in front of the Al Faisaliyah Center’s golden globe, doubts started to enter Quraishi’s mind. What were its crew’s orders?

  He exhaled slowly, mind racing.

  What was it going to do?

  Cole was desperately searching for cover as he asked himself the same questions. With the basket hanging six hundred feet in the air, there was a limit to what the Apache could actually do; it wasn’t rigged up for rescue operations.

  The answer came just moments later with a flash of light from its cannon pods, followed immediately by the heavy impacts of its 30mm rounds and the deafening noise of gunfire.

  Cole hugged the floor along with Quraishi – a look of surprise, then fury on the man’s face – as the basket above them was torn apart, the curved glass windows of the restaurant shattering into millions of pieces.

  Glass fell on them, and above the roar of cannon fire, Cole could hear the screams from the restaurant beyond, and could only imagine what was happening there as hundreds of high-powered rounds streamed across the sky from the combat helicopter.

  Cole wondered if they’d been ordered to kill Quraishi too, but couldn’t be sure; more likely was the fact that the crew had been told there was a terrorist in the balloon that needed taking care of. The irony, of course, was that the terrorist they had been told about was Cole, and not Quraishi.

  Still, the man would be just as dead no matter if they knew about him or not, and Cole found himself hoping for a direct hit. A single 30mm round fired by the Apache’s ferocious M230 automatic cannon would cut the terrorist leader in half.

  The thought, however, only occupied Cole’s mind for a fraction of a second; in another fraction, he analyzed his chances of waiting on the floor of the basket, and made his decision to move.

  There was a lull of cannon fire, as the pilot moved in closer to assess the damage, and Cole took the opportunity, leaping up from the floor, stamping through the remains of the wicker basket and leaping through the jagged broken glass of The Globe’s windows into the hopeful sanctity of the restaurant beyond.

  Quraishi couldn’t believe what was happening, his mind reeling. Why were they shooting at him too? What were they thinking?

  His mind flashed back to the conversation he’d had with his friend in the Ministry. ‘I need helicopters,’ he’d said. ‘There is a dangerous terrorist escaping in a hot air balloon, north across Riyadh.’

  He couldn’t believe his stupidity. Why hadn’t he mentioned the fact that he was in the same balloon? He knew the order his friend would have given – to shoot the balloon out of the sky, no matter what. The Saudi government was ruthless in its treatment of dissenters and terrorists. Quraishi knew this better than most, and yet he still hadn’t mentioned that he would be in the basket too.

  It must have been the pressure, Quraishi thought; the stress. It had been a long time since he’d been in a combat situation, and he had grown soft. The thought angered him, but there was little he could do now.

  Now he just had to try and survive.

  To his right, he saw the American moving, recognized that the sounds of the cannon had momentarily died down, knew he had one brief chance, and jumped out of the basket after him, scrabbling across the broken glass for the interior of The Globe restaurant.

  Cole tripped over a broken table and the bodies of two dead diners, a look of shock still plastered over their bloody features, but managed to regain his balance on his bare and lacerated feet a
nd keep on running.

  He raced as far into the restaurant as he could, ignoring the pain in his soles as he ran across the broken glass, hearing the heavy breathing of Quraishi behind him. But for the moment, Quraishi was the least of his concerns. Right now, he just had to concentrate on not being killed.

  Dead bodies littered the expensive five-star restaurant, staff and customers alike. Others were alive but injured, screaming and moaning as they lay on the floor or tried to hobble towards the stairs.

  The Apache opened up again, spraying the restaurant with its 30mm cannon rounds, and Cole saw more people going down, blood flying across the polished wood and marble.

  Cole crawled across the glass-strewn floor for the far side of the room, then – when he could no longer hear the sound of cannon – risked looking up.

  He saw Quraishi raising his own head to do the same, and they both saw the helicopter pulling away, arcing left – presumably to fly around the building to get a better shot at their fleeing targets.

  Cole turned and saw armed guards on the stairs, racing upwards.

  Quraishi took his chance, leaping to his feet and pulling his ID, screaming at the men in Arabic and pointing over his shoulder at Cole.

  Quraishi was ushered into the protective phalanx of guards, pulled away down the stairs, and Cole had to physically resist the urge to follow him; there were too many guards, too many guns.

  It was no use; Quraishi was gone.

  But Cole knew he still had to get out of this place, and his mind raced furiously as he tried to come up with a plan.

  The chopper was rounding the other side, the side Cole had run to; in the restaurant, armed men were already raising their handguns and machine-pistols to him. Still on the staircase, they had blocked his only escape route.

  There was only one thing for it, Cole decided.

  Breaking into an all-out sprint, Cole raced back across the restaurant the way he had come, bullets tearing after him from the security guards on the stairs. Jumping over shattered tables and broken chairs, eviscerated bodies and bleeding casualties, Cole neared the shattered glass, increasing his pace; he knew the Apache would be opening up soon, maybe this time with more than just its cannon.

  The firing from the guards had stopped, and Cole turned his head, seeing instantly why; they had run back down the stairs, the Apache hovering outside, ominous flashes coming from its side pylons.

  Cole knew exactly what it meant; the Hellfire missiles had been fired, and The Globe was about to be completely destroyed.

  The shattered window was now only feet away, and Cole jumped for it, his body passing through the jagged tangle of broken glass even as the Hellfire missiles blasted through the other side of the restaurant, exploding in an enormous concussive blast.

  Cole’s body hit the floor of the half-destroyed basket, the force of the impact pulling the damaged, deflated silken balloon material free from its mooring around the corner support above.

  Cole felt the basket moving, and kept his head down as a wall of fire exploded above him from the restaurant, the missiles igniting inside the huge golden orb.

  The hot winds from the violent explosion served to rip the balloon completely free from where it had entangled itself, the support beams themselves breaking and toppling.

  Cole felt his stomach lurch again as the basket dropped; held for a moment; and then dropped again, this time picking up speed as it skittered down the side of the skyscraper.

  Cole held on for dear life as the damaged basket bounced its way down the side of the building, glad that its sides were not entirely vertical but rather widened out towards its base, acting like a gigantic slide for the basket.

  And then the ripped and torn balloon itself partially filled with air from the fall, billowing out and slowing his momentum yet further; then it collapsed again and the basket fell faster for a few heart-stopping moments; and then the balloon caught the hot midday air again, filled, and slowed his progress once more.

  Cole had no idea how fast he was falling, or how far; he just felt the jerking, terrifying, bumping journey as the basket slipped, slid and sailed down the angled surfaces of the Al Faisaliyah Center, his knuckles white as his fingers gripped the wicker base for all he was worth.

  And then he felt the massive impact as the basket finally reached the concrete plaza, jarring him violently and leaving him shaken and dazed.

  But alive, he thought with amazement as he looked upwards to see the silk of the balloon fluttering in the breeze above him, until it finally came to rest on the ground to one side of the basket, still giving the odd flicker of movement as the wind caught it, like a dead body twitching with the last of its nerves.

  It was the sound which drew his attention upwards again, the enormously loud screeching of metal and concrete being ripped apart, a noise of destruction and annihilation.

  And in the clear blue skies above him, he saw the entire, broken and shattered three-story golden globe of the skyscraper’s restaurant and viewing complex, hurtling down towards him, its crushing mass filling his vision completely.

  Quraishi could barely believe his eyes as he watched the carnage unfold.

  The security guards had managed to get him down the stairs, out of the suspended golden orb, and into the main bulk of the building, just in time.

  The Apache must have fired its missiles into the globe, destroying the interior completely, and Quraishi recoiled from the fortieth floor windows as the huge globe itself – presumably having been ripped from its moorings – smashed into the side of the building, before continuing its downward descent.

  Quraishi stood breathless, the windows, walls and some of the floor in front of him entirely gone from the globe’s impact, leaving just a gash in the building’s surface, a giant hole out into the blue sky beyond.

  Quraishi backed away from the crater, instinctively gripping hold of the nearest wall, steadying himself for the impact which he knew was to come, the guards doing the same.

  And then it happened; the globe reached the concrete plaza below, the colossal impact sending a concussive shockwave back up throughout the entire structure.

  Quraishi held tight as the building shook with violent force, the office furniture of this level thrown around as if hit by a powerful earthquake.

  For a moment, Quraishi thought that the entire building might collapse, the force of the globe’s impact with the ground enough to shake the skyscraper free from its foundations, resulting in a crippling, complete failure of its structural integrity.

  But the reverberations finally settled down, and the huge skyscraper seemed to regain its equilibrium, coming to a peaceful rest.

  Quraishi looked around at the frightened guards, dust swirling through the room, and swore that he would have the Apache crew court martialed; perhaps even executed.

  But, he considered, at least the American agent was dead.

  That much was a certainty.

  Cole looked at the huge, damaged golden globe in wonder.

  Wonder that it hadn’t killed him, crushed him beneath hundreds of tons of glass and steel.

  But he had managed to get clear of the basket just in time, following the running crowds away from the base of the building as the globe hit the ground with a massive impact, then bounced and rolled down the streets after them.

  There had been so much panic, so much chaos, so much screaming and terror, that nobody realized that Cole had been the man to escape from the basket. In fact, nobody even realized that anyone had escaped from the basket; by the time Cole was moving, everyone had already seen the globe ripped from its position at the top of building, and were heading across the streets in horror.

  And now, as Cole stood amongst the crowd which was packed down the side street of Al Amiriyah, the huge gilded orb blocking the western end completely – it had finally come to rest against the two buildings on either corner – he joined them in their near-ecstatic realization that the globe hadn’t killed them, that they were still alive.r />
  And although some of the crowd started tentatively forward, to get a closer look at the globe which had almost killed them, Cole joined the vast majority which filtered away from the damaged skyscraper, east to Olaya Street and the freedom beyond.

  PART SIX

  1

  Jeb Richards sat down in one of the chairs set around the huge table in Conference Room One, nodding greetings to his colleagues.

  There had been yet another emergency meeting called, and he wondered what the hell was going on now. He shook his head, still suffering from the effects of his recent flight home from Riyadh. Couldn’t they have waited until he’d slept?

  Richards wondered if it had anything to do with Quraishi and his plan to attack the US. But how would anyone have found out? No, he thought as he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table in front of him, it couldn’t be that. He smiled. No, that was still going to surprise the hell out of everybody.

  And after the dirty bomb was set off, money would no longer be a problem for his department, for the next couple of decades at least.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ General Peter Olsen said, his face grim, ‘we have news that I think you are going to find disturbing, to say the least. Please hear me out, then we can discuss what we are going to do.’

  There were general murmurings around the large conference table, but they were quickly silenced by the president. ‘Please,’ Ellen Abrams said with a wave of her hand, ‘go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Olsen said, before turning to the assembled group. ‘For security reasons, I won’t go into how this intelligence was developed, but suffice it to say that it is reliable.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘From what we have managed to piece together so far, it appears that the Fu Yu Shan was carrying – probably without its crew’s knowledge – a crate which contained a specialized weapon. That crate was loaded on board the vessel at the port of Dalian in China, but it had arrived at Dalian airport the day before as air freight from Pyongyang, North Korea.’ He paused for emphasis, to let the message sink in. ‘We have since managed to track the origin of the crate back to a supposed political prison camp in the northern mountains known as Camp Fourteen. However, it transpires that the camp is really a development site for the weapon, and the North Korean government has been using the prisoners as experimental guinea pigs. Men, women and children,’ he said with obvious distaste.