Aggressor

by Nick Cook

  The last of the eighty-two passengers was coming down the rear exit chute. This time, they had lost only one. Only wasn’t good enough. But it was doubtful if there was any way they could have avoided it. The officer from PsyOps had warned him of Mahmoud’s instability, but until they received political clearance, there was no way of going in. The go-ahead came, as was so often the case in real hijackings, only after the shooting had started.

  Still, Ulm thought. They were getting better. Not as good as the Soviets in all-round terms, maybe, but they were improving.

  Ulm turned to face Shabanov. ‘Did you survive your ordeal, Colonel?’

  ‘More than that, I enjoyed it,’ the Russian said.

  ‘Hardly a term I would have used.’

  Ulm couldn’t make the guy out, even after several weeks of exchange visits between their two units. Shabanov was engaging, beguiling almost, but still one of the hardest bastards he had ever come across in almost twenty years of the SOF business. Maybe he’d get that officer from PsyOps to have a look inside the Russian’s head.

  Ulm took the evening air deep into his lungs. A light wind had sprung up with the setting sun, scattering the tumbleweed across the New Mexico desert and over the crumbling concrete of the runway. The 727 was flanked a little way off by the disintegrating carcasses of combat aircraft. The sun found a single piece of shiny metal on an old F-106 and reflected it in Ulm’s face. The special forces colonel let the light dance in his eyes for a moment. The pinprick of warmth on his skin felt good, but it could not compensate for his malaise.

  An old boneyard, a scrap metal dump - the epitome of his worth in the eyes of the Pentagon. The Red Rio Range, part of the White Sands reservation in New Mexico, was a weapons training area for A-10 ground-attack aircraft. The dilapidated combat aircraft on the disused runway gave them something to aim at. Ulm’s unit, based at nearby Kirtland Air Force Base, shared the Red Rio training ground with rusting relics of the Vietnam era.

  He wondered if Shabanov had any idea to what extent the Romeo Protocol was a sham.

  A black-suited figure loomed out of the gathering darkness. Master Sergeant Nolan Jones pulled the mask and Balaclava from his head. Jones was from the Everglades, scalp and gristle above the neck line, muscle from collar to feet.

  ‘All passengers present and accounted for, Colonel. Four terrorists dead. Aircraft safe from explosives.’ He smiled at his commander, exposing a row of chipped, stubby teeth. ‘We took the mother down, sir.’

  Ulm congratulated him. ‘See you at the debrief in a half hour, Spades.’

  Shabanov watched Jones amble back to the team’s minibus, which had drawn up under the wing of the 727. ‘Spades?’ he said.

  Ulm had almost forgotten about his guest.

  ‘During his selection test, Jones listed axe-throwing as a special skill. They encourage individual talents in the special forces, so they put him to the test. During his trial they discovered he could slice a melon into halves with a trench spade at twenty yards. We look for people like that in the Pathfinders.’

  ‘I see,’ Shabanov said. ‘There is a master sergeant in my unit, Starshina Bitov, that I would like him to meet. They would be quite a team.’

  Beyond Ulm’s shoulder, Layla appeared at the doorway of the aircraft. The wet stain on her T-shirt accentuated the shape of a perfect left breast.

  Ulm caught the direction of Shabanov’s stare. ‘Normally we would put a couple of shots straight between the eyes,’ he said. ‘These training sessions are meant to sacrifice nothing for realism, only those dye-filled capsules we use can blind if they hit you in the eyes. So in training we go for the heart.’

  Shabanov followed Layla’s progress across the weeds and the concrete. ‘And where do you find your terrorists?’

  ‘Layla’s an air force captain,’ Ulm said. ‘Second-generation American. Her grandparents were Lebanese. The others are all seconded from various branches of the armed forces. They’ll go back to their units tonight.’

  As she strolled past, Layla gave Shabanov a smouldering look. Then she smiled warmly. He flexed his fingers behind his back and returned her grin. Another time, perhaps.

  ‘In the Soviet Union we have many ethnic minorities. I myself am descended from the tribesmen of Uzbekistan in Soviet Central Asia. With so many republics, it is hardly surprising that our recruit come from different cultures and backgrounds. But I had no idea the make-up of the American services was so... diverse.’

  ‘Uzbeks. They’ve been involved in all that unrest down south, haven’t they? I was reading an article in Time about -’

  Shabanov cut him off. ‘There are many peoples in Central Asia. Turkmens, Khirgiz, Tadzhiks, Azeris, Uygurzt... There are bound to be tensions as my country moves towards democracy, Colonel,’ Shabanov said stiffly.

  ‘The march of Islam,’ Ulm said. ‘It seems unstoppable.’

  ‘And nationalism, Colonel. This is the price Moscow has to pay for giving us our democratic rights. It is not easy for us seeing our country torn apart.’

  Ulm was surprised by Shabanov’s candour. Torn apart. It was an apt description of the state of the disunion in the USSR. There were flashpoints across the country as the Russian Empire collapsed like a dying star. The last of the rioting republics were constantly in the news. During his exchange, a few weeks before, Ulm had witnessed a very vocal demonstration by Baltic separatists in Moscow. But not once had Shabanov or any other Spetsnaz officer raised the issue during his stay and so he had let the subject be. Russians were still sensitive about the August coup.

  Ulm thought he might have touched a raw nerve. ‘That was insensitive of me. As an Uzbek, you’re probably a Muslim, too, I’ll bet.’

  Shabanov remained impassive. ‘I was an Uzbek. But now I am a Russian - second generation, like your Layla, Colonel. My family has been living inside the Russian Federation for almost fifty years.’

  Ulm searched for a way out of the minefield. ‘Look, let’s drop the formalities,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s Elliot.’

  Shabanov shook it. ‘Roman Makhmadzhanovich,’ he said.

  Ulm flinched.

  ‘Roman is enough,’ the Russian said. ‘Makhmadzhanovich was my father’s name. It means son of Mohammed. The last trace of my ancestry.’

  They started back towards the airliner. ‘I wanted to extend the same courtesy when you were with us at Ryazan,’ Shabanov began. ‘But you saw how it was there. There were many people looking over my shoulder. This protocol is too adventurous for some of my countrymen.’

  The Lenin Komsomol Higher Airborne Command School was still vivid in Ulm’s mind. Nor had he shed the ignominy of shooting the wrong target at the nearby training ground. Shabanov had shown no danger of shooting women or children during his stay so far at Kirtland. From the minibus, Ulm had even seen Shabanov shepherd an elderly woman to the aircraft’s escape chute.

  Shabanov gazed at the 727 fuselage. ‘Our spetsialnoye naznacheniye - our Spetsnaz special purpose forces - could not have done this.’ He pointed at the blackened doors of the aircraft.

  Ulm suddenly pictured the life-sized cut-out of woman and child. Was Shabanov just saying that to make him feel better? The Russian was as much a diplomat as he was a soldier.

  There was a shout from the minibus, Ulm’s mobile communications wagon. The 1725th’s intelligence officer, Captain Charlie Doyle, was beckoning them from the open door. Ulm sprinted over, followed closely by Shabanov.

  ‘It’s USSOCOM, sir. General McDonald’s about to come on the line. Wants to talk to you personally.’

  Ulm hid his surprise and took the receiver. General James L. McDonald was Commander-in-Chief of US Special Operations Command. Serious shit.

  He gave Doyle a signal to distract Shabanov, get him away from the phone. He was still wondering what the general wanted with him, when the man himself came through via the satellite communications link.

  Two minutes later Ulm replaced the phone on the hook.

  Doyl
e left Shabanov to watch the sun set over the New Mexico scrub. He found his boss in a state of visible excitement.

  ‘From that look on your face, I’d say something pretty big must be going down.’

  ‘You could just be right, Charlie. I’ve got to get my ass up to Washington as if my life depended on it. A C-21’s coming into Kirtland in an hour and I’m on it.

  ‘A Learjet?’ Doyle could not contain his surprise. ‘The 1725th must be going up in the world. What happened to that shitbox Beech they used to send? Someone must want to talk bad. So things are getting busy around here at last.’ He jabbed a finger at Shabanov. ‘What do I do with him while you’re gone?’

  ‘That’s the weirdest thing,’ Ulm said. ‘The general told me he’s coming along for the ride. He gets dropped at the Soviet Embassy and I go on to-’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I’m just going to have to find out when I get there.’

  The wind was up and it was raining heavily when Girling swung his Alfa Romeo into the drive of Rigden Court. The gravel scrunched under the tyres. It was a sound he associated with a world in which he had never felt particularly at ease.

  His parents’ house loomed tall in the moving beams of the headlights. He could not understand why his father should want to have retired to a place of such mammoth pretension. His mother, he knew, would have been happy with a small cottage somewhere in Dorset. But his father’s decree was absolute and his mother accepted it meekly.

  Girling turned off the ignition and listened to the rain drumming on the roof. He pulled up his collar and ran across the last few yards of open ground to the front door. Once inside, the flagstones in the hall rang out with the sound of his footsteps.

  He rounded the corner to find his father fixing himself a gin from the large drinks cupboard beneath the stairs. He looked up and said hello as if Girling had just come in from a walk around the garden.

  ‘Your mother’s putting the child to bed. Help yourself, won’t you.’

  His father walked back into the drawing-room, leaving Girling to hang his jacket by the other water-proofs in the hall.

  His mother stopped reading to Alia when she heard Girling’s footsteps at the top of the stairs. She appeared outside the door and greeted him with a fleeting kiss. He had never been so struck by his mother’s fragility. Her skin looked almost translucent.

  ‘She’s sleepy,’ his mother said. ‘But insisted on staying awake. I’ll leave you to chat to her.’

  It was a large room for a small child, but his mother had done her best to make it warm and cosy.

  Alia’s face peeked out from the sheets. Her eyelids flickered and she smiled drowsily when she saw him.

  He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘When am I going home?’ she asked.

  He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. ‘Soon, sweetheart.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine,’ he said.

  ‘Then why can’t I come home now?’

  ‘Because...’ His fingers scurried up the blanket like a spider and tickled her under the chin. She giggled, but he could tell it was simply to please him.

  ‘Don’t you like it here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘Except for all the walks. Grandpa loves walks. Why doesn’t he use a car like everybody else?’

  They both laughed.

  They talked a little about what she had been doing since she arrived. She enjoyed feeding carrots and apples to the horses at the end of the garden and she had made friends with some of the children who lived in the village. As she spoke, her eyelids would droop, then snap open in her determination to keep him there for as long as possible.

  Finally she turned onto her side, her face away from him, and he watched over her until he thought she was asleep.

  He turned off the light, kissed her on the top of the head and tiptoed to the door.

  ‘Please get better, Daddy.’

  The words, barely audible, made him stop before he reached the door. He turned to answer, but the tempo of her breathing told him she had been talking in her sleep.

  His parents were seated at the dinner table when he came downstairs.

  As they ate, the chink of cutlery was only interrupted occasionally by conversation. It was a familiar pattern. His mother would enquire awkwardly about the women in his life; his father would make observations about the sorry state of the world. The two would be quite separate. It was at such times that he wondered how they had stayed together.

  ‘I’d like you to look after Alia a little longer,’ Girling announced suddenly.

  ‘I thought you were taking her back with you tomorrow morning,’ his father said.

  ‘Things have changed, Pa. It’s difficult right now. I’m heavily involved in this hijacking business.’

  ‘You’re back on current affairs?’ his father exclaimed. ‘Why, that’s the best news I’ve heard in years, Tom. I never could understand why you buried yourself in all that science and technology nonsense. I always said it was kids’ stuff.’

  His mother took a sip of water. She looked as if she were going to faint. ‘I hope you won’t be going back out there, dear. We were horrified to see what happened to all those poor people on the television the other night.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’m only doing this because my editor needs some extra help right now.’ Girling turned to his father. ‘Then I’ll be going back to the kids’ stuff.’

  His father put down his knife and fork and stared at him angrily from across the table. ‘You should be making your way back up the ladder. It’s time you were on a proper newspaper again.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Pa. I’m quite happy doing what I’m doing. For the moment.’

  ‘Happy? You wrote damned well when you were on The Times. You got right under the skin of the Middle East. Everybody said so. We were so proud of you.’

  His mother tried to change the subject. ‘Why can’t you take Alia home with you, Tom? You know we love having her here, but she’s been missing you terribly.’

  ‘I think she’s safer here with you right now.’

  ‘You’re not in any kind of trouble are you?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘No, Ma.’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘It’s Mona, isn’t it?’

  Girling said nothing. He looked straight ahead at one of the family portraits on the wall. ‘You have to forget, Tom,’ she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said simply.

  ‘Of course you can,’ his father said. ‘It’s all in the mind.’

  ‘I’m only too well aware of that, Pa.’

  ‘Then discipline yourself, laddie.’

  Girling felt his skin prickle. He looked his father straight in the eye. ‘I can’t forgive them for what they did, Pa. Could you?’

  His father shook his head. ‘It’s a savage part of the world. Always was, always will be. It was a risk you took when you decided to live there.’

  Girling knew that this was as close as his father came to asking why his only son had not married an English rose.

  ‘You’ve got to forge a new life for yourself,’ his father said. ‘If only for the girl’s sake.’

  He saw his mother nodding hopefully.

  Girling made his excuses shortly after dinner. He pretended that he was needed in the office early the following morning. It was better that he made the journey back to London that night.

  Before he left he crept up to Alia’s room. He replaced some of the blankets that had fallen off the bed, making sure that he did not wake her when he tucked them in.

  It began with the watch.

  The colonel stared at it intently. It showed a little after midnight. Through the silence he could hear the second hand moving across the face of the dial.

  A cicada began to sing its lone hymn to Christmas week. He wondered how it was that this cicada sounded t
he same as the ones back home, thousands of miles away. And then he thought of his wife and kids, tucked up in their beds; dreaming, perhaps, of Peace and Goodwill Towards Men.

  His ears strained beyond the noise of the tree cricket for a new sound, the aircraft sound, his signal, but he heard nothing, except for the distant song of a late-night reveller, wandering home after an early shot of the Christmas spirit. There would be no more parties in this neck of the woods that year; not if he and his countrymen had anything to do with it.

  The heat was stifling. Insects stung his flesh as he lay well down in the long grass. He did not scratch because he did not want anything to interrupt the other noises of the night. Noises that had legitimate cause to be there.

  Where was the aircraft? It was already two minutes late. Hell of a laid-back way to start a war.

  The noise started as a distant drone. At first, he thought it was another tropical insect, lumbering through the air above him. But he recognized the pitch of the Allisons and roused himself into action.

  As the colonel stood, so did the others, rising up like sleepwalkers from makeshift beds in the long grass. The black cream on their faces made them almost invisible.

  The platoon stole across the edge of Torrijos Inter-national Airport, each of the sixteen men seeking out the target, he had been assigned in the briefing.

  The colonel saw his aircraft loom out of the darkness. He froze, scouting the gloom with his portable thermal imager for guards. He couldn’t see any. The PDF had to be asleep, he thought, or drunk.

  The officer slid under the wing of the Dassault Falcon and paused, listening intently. He heard nothing but the steadily increasing drone of the AC-130 Spectre.

  The aircraft on the ground was the personal trans-port of the country’s self-styled ‘Maximum Leader’. They had seen precisely three troops of Panama’s Defense Forces since their silent vigil began.

  It had been a peach so far.

  The colonel spared a thought for the small task force of SEALs to the west who had been briefed to destroy the private jet kept on permanent alert at Paitilla Airport, a stone’s throw from the General’s HQ, the Commandancia. The aircraft here was Noriega’s back-up. Washington wanted to be sure that, for the General, there really was no escape.