Fox Hunt

by James Phelan

  “Ridge is heading your way,” he told Fox and his team.

  “I see him,” Fox replied as he watched Ridge coming through the water with torpedo speed, already two-thirds of the way across the distance. In the time they had been paddling, Fox guessed they had only covered around forty metres.

  Gibbs pulled Ridge out of the water and the sopping man quickly transferred his end of the rope from his belt to the eyelet at the tip of the zodiac’s prow.

  “Ready!” he called in exhaustion.

  Sefreid turned his four-wheeled motorbike in a tight circle, away from the shore and in the direction of the airfield. He noticed that the spool of rope coiled on the ground had only two loops left to unreel—it had been that close.

  With a rev of the two-stroke engine, he let the clutch out and the wheels of the bike bit into the soft muddy bank. For a moment nothing happened, then the wide, knobbly tyres bit and the bike leapt forward. When the rope went taut the motorbike slowed, but he kept the revs high, soon changing up gears.

  The roar of heavy machine-gun fire ripped through the morning and drowned out the motorbike noise. Looking back, Fox saw the blaze of fire was coming from the muzzle of a heavy-calibre machine-gun on the deck of the pursuing boat. Jets of spray erupted in wild zigzags along the wake of the quickly escaping zodiac.

  Fox sat back in the boat and took aim with Geiger’s M16. With a squeeze of the secondary trigger, the big M203 underslung grenade launcher belched fire, but the forty-millimetre explosive projectile splashed into the water, shooting a huge geyser into the air.

  “Pump to reload and aim higher!” Geiger called out.

  With a higher inclination of the weapon, Fox fired again. This time the round flew through the air as a hail of heavy machine-gun fire churned the water to the side of the zodiac and headed straight for them.

  The grenade hit the water directly in front of the pursuing vessel, which veered off abruptly, sending several uniformed men into the water. The heavy machine-gun crew lost control of their weapon, firing off into the air.

  “That’ll give them something to think about,” Fox said with a grin. Just then, the zodiac hit the muddy embankment and slowed down. “Sefreid, keep going!” Fox shouted, as he could see the pursuing craft turning again.

  Sefreid gave the four-wheeler’s engine more juice, and soon it and the zodiac were hidden behind the tree line, travelling at around thirty kilometres per hour. The zodiac rode with incredible smoothness across the grass, which was damp with morning dew.

  Beasley gave out a hoot as they slid out of the thicket of trees and headed for the Gulfstream idling on the gravel runway.

  Goldsmith was waiting at the bottom of the retractable stairs of the jet. He grinned at the sight in front of him—Sefreid hammering the bike across the home straight, the occupants of the zodiac hanging on for their lives, and Beasley upright in the prow, wind blowing in his face, hooting like a rodeo rider.

  41

  GROZNY

  In the back of the van, Jenkins sat looking out of the rear window. In his hand was half of the tape measure, which was in fact a remote detonator. Just before they rounded a corner and the east side of the hospital was lost from view, he pressed the detonate button.

  In the old coal storeroom of the basement, the other half of the tape measure received the signal via its radio antenna and in turn sent a current down the dozen wires that led to different parts of the room. The wires each ended at the toolkits’ bolts: disguised detonators that triggered the main explosion.

  The door-three guards were thrown through the air by the exploding fireball. With a satisfied nod Jenkins turned back to face his fellow soldiers.

  “Control site number one is no more,” he said.

  “I thought the controls were encrypted, not able to be duplicated,” Farrell said to Antinov.

  “It seems that the panel is what cannot be duplicated,” Antinov replied, pulling into a nearby laneway and stopping the van by the parked Fiat he had placed there the day before.

  The four men alighted from the van, Jenkins and his Russian number stripping off their overalls before closing the van doors behind them and booby-trapping the handle with a fragmentation grenade.

  “And if our team doesn’t find the controls at the country house?” Farrell asked Antinov.

  “We call our NATO comrades.” Antinov prayed the controls would be found by the other team, but he had underestimated his Chechen cousins thus far and dreaded doing so again.

  “Let’s get to a phone,” he said.

  He put the Fiat in gear and they raced off.

  42

  ITALY

  No sooner had the GSR Gulfstream X taken to the air than a notebook computer linked to the aircraft’s telephone systems flashed with an email message. Beasley tapped in the security codes and brought the message up on the screen. Sefreid read it over Beasley’s shoulder and promptly left the cabin for the cockpit where he told the pilots of their next destination. Coming out a moment later, he asked Beasley, “That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir, just a couple of lines,” Beasley responded.

  “Okay, team, listen up.” Sefreid looked about the cabin. Goldsmith was applying antiseptic to the shallow grooves cut into his face by the attacking Alsatian. Pepper and Geiger had removed the tops of their black fatigues and Ridge and Gibbs were attending to their injuries. It was already a joke amongst the team that the bite on Pepper’s arm was worse than the bullet graze sustained by Geiger.

  “We have just received word from home that mission two is a go,” Sefreid said. “We are to fly to Iran straightaway, where we will make our way to the theterium site.”

  Sefreid smiled, happy at the thought of more clandestine operations. To date his time with GSR had been mainly as a security advisor and facilitator. Wallace’s hints of more ‘hands-on’ tasks in the future were finally coming to fruition.

  “What’s in Iran?” Gammaldi asked, sitting up against a padded bulkhead. He was consuming some packaged ration bars and had drunk over a litre of sports drink.

  “Iranians.” Fox said. He was patching up his mate, using saline eye drops and an icepack to take down the swelling of his eyes.

  “Really? I think I’d rather see the sights of Italy,” Gammaldi said, regaining his humour with his strength.

  “I hear the Iranian dungeons are far more hospitable,” Fox baited, and left to have a look at the message on the computer for himself. He read it in silence; then read it over twice more, trying to think of scenarios that it could be referring to.

  Proceed mission two—employee waiting with details of takeover bid. Proceedings should not be hostile, but clock ticking fast.

  Fox turned back to his friend, now covered in blankets in a corner. He was beginning to snore, a half-eaten energy bar gripped loosely in his hand, threatening to join a pile of similar silver wrappers on the floor. Fox smiled at the sight, knowing that when his stocky little mate awoke he would be prepared for any adventure, no matter what the odds.

  43

  MINSK MILITARY AIRFIELD

  GEORGIA

  A white unmarked Airbus A400M squatted at the end of the runway like a giant bug, its stubby nose and four huge propellers painted matte black. Four curved hangars lined one side of the two parallel runways, housing a squadron of Mig 29 Fulcrum jet fighters. Outside in the elements stood a row of ageing Hind helicopters, in the process of being overhauled by the base mechanics.

  The morning sun was not visible through the cloudy sky and it looked like being another dark February day in Georgia.

  Captain Farrell alighted from the Fiat and walked the stiffness induced by the non-stop drive out of his legs. Antinov, Jenkins and the Russian did the same. Nearby, the second team of Special Forces soldiers alighted from a Volkswagen van in low spirits. Their attack on the farmhouse north of Grozny had come up with nothing—no Chechen leaders, no military guards, and certainly no Dragon firi
ng controls. Farrell had been disappointed to receive the news en route, but he and Antinov had used the trip to plan and prepare for their next task.

  Now, he and Antinov followed the base commander, a tall colonel with thinning white hair and a friendly bearded face, to a fortified concrete office where a large figure in combat fatigues stood with his back to the door examining a wall map.

  “Major Antinov, Captain Farrell, this is Captain Zimmermann of GSG-9.” The colonel made the introductions.

  Captain Zimmermann turned and smiled briefly at the two squad commanders. “Nice to see you again, Captain Farrell,” he said, and shook the SAS commander’s hand in a firm grip.

  “Likewise,” Farrell said.

  “Major Antinov,” Zimmermann said to the KRV commander, “I don’t believe we have met.”

  “No.” Antinov sized up the man in front of him. “No offence to your unit’s abilities, Comrade Captain, but when told of the German assistance in this matter I hardly expected a team of Border Police. Surely this is a military operation.”

  The base colonel excused himself and left his office in search of coffee for his guests.

  “A surprise to me as well, I assure you, Major, but orders are orders,” Zimmermann said. “My team is from Group 9/3 and has done many training exercises with Farrell and his fellow SAS soldiers over the years.” Zimmermann spoke with utmost confidence, his Aryan blue eyes probing the Russian before him.

  “Captain Zimmermann is right, Antinov,” Farrell began. “GSG-9 are one of the world’s top anti-terror units. I have personally trained with Group 9/3 members at NATO’s International Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol School and they almost whipped our butts.”

  “In that case, it will be a pleasure serving alongside you.” Antinov slapped the serious-looking German on the arm with a laugh.

  “Who will handle the explosives?” Farrell asked Zimmermann, now that everybody seemed to be getting along.

  “I have two experts from our army engineers, along with our latest explosives,” Zimmermann said, somewhat guardedly, Farrell thought.

  The base colonel entered followed by a sergeant with a tray of coffee. He was pleased to see the three Special Forces commanders smiling.

  “Thank you, Comrade Colonel,” Antinov said to his countryman. “Considering the situation, I think a brief celebration is in order to cement our alliance in the field.”

  “Yes, a celebration, of course,” replied the colonel with a gleam in his eye. He went to a drawer and produced a tall bottle of a reasonably priced Russian vodka.

  “Ah, excellent,” Antinov said as the colonel poured four glasses.

  “To a successful mission,” Farrell toasted, licking his lips in anticipation of the stomach-warming liquid.

  The four men threw their heads back in unison and emptied their glasses.

  44

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  THE LAST DAY …

  McCorkell had been in the Situation Room since before dawn, having slept the night on the comfortable couch in his office. NASA had located the Dragon over Iran in the early hours of the morning. The coordinates had been relayed to the air force, who quickly had an FA-18G Super Hornet jet in the air loaded with a Pegasus missile. The rocket that propelled the missile was capable of travelling over three hundred kilometres at Mach four and the missile’s eighty-kilo high-explosive payload would toast any satellite-sized targets.

  McCorkell was keeping close tabs on the Super Hornet’s flight, awaiting news of the Pegasus missile’s imminent launch at the Dragon. He had a quick run on the White House gym’s treadmill, followed by a shower and a fresh change of clothes, before he continued catching up on the latest reports.

  The first report he read from the stack on the conference table was of concern: the combined Russian–British Special Forces had not found the controls for the Dragon in Grozny. Both the team at the city’s hospital and the team at the northern farmhouse had come up empty-handed.

  He picked up another report. It had been decided—for obvious reasons—not to inform their allies about the theterium deposit, but now, reading a report from an operative in Moscow, it seemed the Russians might know of the location. Given the little time left until the deadline, McCorkell wasn’t too worried however. What would the EU military team do now? Whether Pugh and the resourcers mined the element or not, the site would be levelled before the pending Chechen invasion.

  McCorkell was talking to an air force ensign, getting a real time update on the Pegasus flight, when Tom Fullop and Robert Boxcell entered the room.

  “Morning, Bill,” Boxcell said as he took a seat.

  “Good morning, Rob,” McCorkell said, ignoring the Chief of Staff as he had ignored him—petty, but as common in politics as cereal for breakfast.

  “What’s the latest?” Boxcell asked.

  “The Pegasus flight is on target, but the EU team failed to find the controls. Apart from that, nothing has changed.”

  “I read a report on the controls on the drive in,” Boxcell said. “The Russians suspect they were relocated to where Ivanovich lived before taking power in Chechnya.”

  “Which we’ve narrowed down to somewhere in Europe, South America or the multitude of terrorist-friendly states in the Middle East,” added McCorkell.

  “It’s frustrating, but that’s what we’ve got. Tracking his plane has so far left us with no fewer than eleven possible landing sites in seven countries,” Boxcell admitted.

  “Can’t we make a strike at these sites ourselves?” Fullop asked.

  “Well, Tom, if you want to advise the President to launch cruise missiles at a number of civilian airports, go for it,” said McCorkell coldly.

  “It’s probably more proactive than the advice you’re giving him,” Fullop retorted.

  An uneasy quiet filled the room.

  45

  MARAGHEH

  IRAN

  The pilots of the Gulfstream X let out an audible sigh as they touched down on the private concrete runway of the Amahn Research Centre. Their fuel tanks were running perilously close to dry.

  Only two structures stood beside the runway: a two-storey control tower and a long squat concrete building with an aircraft hangar at one end.

  The control tower directed the GSR jet to the hangar. A tall steel door slid smoothly along runners as they neared, revealing a deep cavernous space. As the pilots shut down the twin engines, a dark-skinned Arab in khaki uniform pulled alongside in a golf cart with passenger trailer in tow.

  Sefreid was the first to alight from the Gulfstream. He shook hands with the Arab whilst the rest of the GSR team, along with Fox and Gammaldi, emptied out of the jet. In transit they had all changed into desert combat fatigues.

  “Okay, in the cart, people,” Sefreid commanded as he took a seat next to the driver in the lead electric car.

  “What the hell have you got us into?” Gammaldi asked Fox quietly. They were the last to step aboard the cart.

  “Me? It was you that dragged us into this, remember?”

  Fox took in the inside of the hangar. The roof was relatively low, only a few metres’ clearance over the Gulfstream, but it was a long narrow space—four aircraft of Gulfstream size could fit nose to tail with room to spare. In the direction they were headed, towards the far end of the hangar, sat a Lear jet in mint condition with custom chrome panelling around the twin jet engines and nose cone.

  “I seem to recall that it was your driving that got us into this,” Gammaldi said, as the cart came to a stop by an elevator.

  “Oh, you want to start on driving?” Fox said.

  “Hey, at least I can fly a plane,” Gammaldi retorted with a grin, as the team crowded into the elevator.

  “Yeah? Well, at least I can swim,” Fox said, returning the grin. Gibbs failed to suppress her laughter at the exchange.

  The elevator sank five levels below ground, opening up to a concrete platform that overlooked a ca
vernous space the size of a football field. Dozens of people in lab coats milled about below, their various skin and hair colours indicating the multinational collaboration at the research site. The centre of the open expanse held a mass of computing equipment, surrounded by work desks, chairs and various banks of control panels. Fox didn’t quite know what to make of the scene, but the answer came in the form of a tall distinguished-looking man of Arabic descent, dressed in a light grey Armani suit that matched the colouring of the hair at his temples.

  “Richard! Good to see you again,” said the man as he strode confidently towards the band of fatigue-clad figures touting weaponry.

  “Likewise, Dr Gunther,” Sefreid replied, shaking the offered hand.

  “Please, come with me. We have prepared refreshments.”

  Gunther spun on the heel of his expensive Italian shoes and led the way to a long glass-walled room that overlooked the work space below. Here a conference table had been converted to a buffet, holding piles of fresh flat breads, bowls of salads and exotically coloured dips. Trays of antipasto, with layers of different meats, pickles and cheeses, were also on offer.

  “Thank you for your hospitality—” Sefreid said, but was cut off quickly.

  “No need to thank me. Tasman and I are good friends, you know that.”

  Gunther sensed the reluctance of the GSR team to eat with a deadline ticking. “Your transport to the site is still an hour from being ready, and it will take half that time to get you to the dock,” he said. “So you see, we do have some time to kill.”

  “In that case, I’m sure my team is as famished as I am. Thank you again,” Sefreid said.