It had not been an easy sell for the senior mission director, getting the Prime Minister, the Joint Intelligence Committee and the Foreign Office to sign off on a red-rated assignment that would take place on the soil of an allied government, all without the DCRI’s knowledge. Cutting the French out of the operational loop was a calculated but necessary risk.
The data did not lie. There was a strong possibility that the DCRI had been penetrated by assets connected to the mission targets, and the plain fact was this operation was too important to jeopardize. Royce suggested that it would be better to seek forgiveness rather than ask permission, and so the tasking orders for Nomad had been drawn up in deep secrecy. They would deal with any repercussions if they happened, but the hope was that OpTeam Seven would complete the mission under the radar and the French would never even know they had been there.
Talia was confident that they could do the job. Nomad were a highly proficient unit. With their proactive mission mandate from the PM, Nomad and the other OpTeams had been instrumental in seeking out and neutralizing several Category A dangers to British national security interests, and tonight the Palomino was at the center of just such a threat.
Talia had known from the moment she had seen the news footage of the Barcelona explosion that this atrocity would come into the orbit of K Section. Terrorism in Europe was a cancer spreading without concern for borders or nation-states, and among the extremist cadres who claimed responsibility for the deaths in Spain, a name that rang a warning rose above all the others.
They called themselves Al Sayf. The Sword. Outwardly, the face they showed to the world was of radical Islamic origins, men sifted from the dregs of Al Qaeda, the Soldiers of God and other splinter groups, but inwardly they were a far more complex organization that MI6 were only beginning to understand, that extremist religion was only one part of. In their manifesto, they had threatened to kill a British city before the end of the year; not attack, but kill. They had used that exact word.
And they were ghosts. Al Sayf had learned well the lessons of their fellow radicals, killed running to ground in the Afghan hills or destroyed from within through subversion. These were men equally at home building improvised explosive devices in Kandahar hovels or directing cyber-attack sorties from million-dollar corporate enclaves in Dubai. The development of MI6’s OpTeam program was a direct reaction to such terrorist threats.
British Intelligence couldn’t follow the men, so they followed the weapons. Al Sayf were agile and dangerous, but they were small and scattered. They needed a support mechanism, one large enough that it would not be able to exist without showing up somewhere.
Royce was poring over the Combine file, his thoughts doubtless paralleling those of Patel. That was the name they went by inside Vauxhall Cross. Just the vaguest outline, the faint shadow of a power group on the edges of the global stage. Moving outside of issues like ideology and creed. Independent of national identity. Motivated not just by money, but by some larger design that had yet to become clear.
The weapon Al Sayf deployed in Barcelona was suspected as having come from Combine sources. They were in the business of brokering weapons technology and support capacity to terrorist and para-military groups around the planet. They were the armorers and quartermasters of desperate and ruthless men, and if Al Sayf were like ghosts, then the Combine were less than breath on the wind.
“We’ve been tracking these slippery buggers for years,” Royce said, almost to himself. “Tonight we’ve got a good scent.” He stared at the image of the Palomino again, as if he was willing it to give up some new piece of information through the strength of his scrutiny.
It represented a rare conjunction of events. The possibility of gathering new intelligence that would lead both ways along the chain of connection, to Al Sayf and to their Combine partners.
A fragmentary intercept of cell phone traffic had led them to this, the suggestion that the freighter’s cargo was a weapon in transit from the Combine to a terrorist buyer. In the wake of the Barcelona attack, the Spanish Centro Nacional de Inteligencia were still picking up the pieces and had provided precious little results from their investigation to their European partners—a sure indicator that they had nothing to give.
Somehow, an extremely powerful explosive device had been smuggled into a police station through a gauntlet of trained officers and state-of-the art metal detectors without setting off a single alarm, and a hundred people had died in the ensuing blast. If the Palomino was carrying a similar device, something invisible to conventional security methods …
Talia felt a dull chill run through her. There were a dozen major cities within hours of Dunkirk, any one of which could be an intended target. Brussels. Paris. Amsterdam. London.
She glanced at the mission clock. “Sir? They’re in position. It’s time.”
Royce didn’t look up. “Nomad is green for go.”
THREE
“Rules of engagement,” said Rix, scanning the faces of everyone in the back of the truck. “Silent kit. Weapons free, but zero local collateral if anyone comes looking. Some live captures would be useful, but that’s secondary to the main event. Find the device and secure it.”
“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” said Bell. The dark face of the taciturn ex-copper was tense with concentration.
“If it was easy, they’d have the Yanks do it for us,” muttered Marshall, his rough Black Country accent rising. “Let me guess, we’ll know it when we see it, right boss?”
“You read my mind,” Rix replied.
Marc listened with half an ear, most of his attention on the screen in front of him. Cameras embedded in the bodywork of the truck provided him with a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the exterior, and he scanned them for movement.
Nothing. The port security patrol would not pass back this way again for at least another twenty minutes.
Owen had brought the truck up to the docks, concealing it behind a low stack of freight containers. The Palomino was moored across the nearby wharf, lit by a few deck lamps.
“It’s quiet,” he announced.
“Can you send up the flying saucer, maybe?” Leon threw him a look.
“I’ll give it a go.” He glanced back at Rix, who nodded.
Marc’s slender fingers danced over the keypad of a compact portable console next to his laptop, and in answer there was a low thud above their heads.
On the roof of the Renault truck was a plastic box that resembled an air-conditioning unit typical for this kind of cargo vehicle. It opened and a motorized arm silently threw a discus-shaped device into the air, which spun into the low breeze coming in off the water.
The “saucer” was a small remote drone, the little brother to the unmanned aerial combat vehicles in use by most of the world’s larger military forces. Built from super-light polymers and aerogel compounds, it could loiter over targets of interest for up to twenty minutes. A wireless transmitter sent the live feed from a micro-camera directly back to Marc’s panel. Using a repurposed controller from a videogame console, he flew the tiny aircraft over the dock in a long loop.
“Nomad is green for go,” said a voice over the general radio channel, crackling with the hiss of a signal scrambler.
“Green light,” Rix announced, pressing his finger to the headphone at his right ear. “Soon as we’re ready, we go in.”
Marc became aware that Nash was at his shoulder. He could almost feel the man straining to be let off the leash. “Nothing out there?” he demanded.
“Nothing—” Marc began, but Nash was gone before he could finish, pulling up a mesh mask to conceal his face.
“Deploy,” snapped Rix, and he and Marshall pushed open the truck’s rear doors. In less than two seconds, the tactical squad were gone and the doors closed behind them. Sam was the last one out.
“Game on, eh?” Owen made a show of cracking his knuckles and bent forward over his panel, losing himself in the lines of frequency strength across
the monitors that listened in on radio signals and electromagnetic transmissions. Leon said nothing, the images from the screens reflecting in his glasses.
Marc watched the group appear at the bottom of the drone’s video display and his lips thinned. He nudged the tiny thumb-stick forward and flew the disc out toward the Palomino, scouting the route.
* * *
Sam snapped open the MP7’s fore grip and collapsible stock, and pulled the SMG tight to her shoulder as she moved low and fast around a wall of blue cargo containers. Halting at the corner, she crouched and peered out at the Palomino. A single gangway led up to the ship, and on the deck she could see an indistinct shadow moving.
A pinprick of red light glowed and faded. “Nomad Three,” she whispered, her voice picked up by the microphone pad pressing against her throat. “Got a smoker on the weather deck. Mobile, any others?”
“This is Mobile Three. We see two men on the bridge,” reported Marc. Sam looked up in the night sky, trying to find the drone, but she saw nothing. For a moment she thought she could hear the faint buzz of the micro-UAV’s rotors, but she couldn’t be sure. “No line of sight between targets,” he added. “Clear to engage.”
“Copy that,” Rix was behind her. “Marsh, he’s yours.”
“Copy.” Bill Marshall growled in Sam’s ear, and she saw him emerge from behind one of the other containers a short distance away. The wiry ex-Marine was fast, coming up to the foot of the gangway in a loping run. With a delicacy and grace surprising for a man of his stature, Marshall moved up the gantry in total silence.
Sam flicked off the safety on her weapon and took aim as the red glow of the cigarette tip flared again, ready to open fire if Marshall didn’t take out the guard.
She needn’t have worried. Marshall melted into the shadows just as the smoker leaned into the light to toss his cigarette butt into the water. There was the glint of light off an anodized blade and the guard went down without a sound, swallowed by the dark.
A moment later Marshall’s voice was on the comm again. “All aboard the Skylark.”
Rix patted Sam on the shoulder and she threaded around the corner, moving swiftly toward the gantry. Nash was there a step before her, his M4 raised, and he led the way up. Rix was at her back, and the last man on to the ship was Bell. She glimpsed an untidy shape in the shadows under the flying bridge.
“Get rid of that, will ya?” said Rix, and Marshall gave a grave nod, gathering up the corpse.
“Mobile Three, advisory. We have a single target emerging on the foredeck,” Marc reported. “Armed, assault rifle.”
Rix didn’t need to give the order. All the members of the tactical team found cover immediately, going silent. Sam dropped into the shadow of a lifeboat and chanced a look forward. “No visual,” she whispered.
“Same here,” said Nash from close by. He was leaning over an oil drum, the carbine extended before him. “Mobile Three, this is Nomad Two. Need a better steer than that, yeah? Do your job.”
“Wait one.” Marc’s channel cut for a moment, and Nash turned toward where he knew she was hiding.
“What’s your boyfriend playing at?” he asked, isolating the mike so his words wouldn’t be broadcast to the rest of the team.
Sam did the same thing. “He’s not my boyfriend. What is this, junior school? Grow up, Nasher.”
There was a crackle and Marc’s voice returned. “Nomad Two, he’s coming to you. Three seconds.”
Nash nodded to himself and flicked a switch on the side of the M4. A diffuse blob of shadow moved at the edge of Sam’s vision, lost in the gloom. She watched him track in the approaching guard and pull the trigger. The M4 chugged and a spray of dark liquid haloed the air for a brief instant.
“Target neutralized.”
“Nomad One confirms,” said Rix, emerging from his cover. “Any more for any more?”
“Nobody else up here, boss,” said Bell. “Could be below, watching the package.”
“Yeah, well,” said the mission commander. “Gift horse and all that, right?” Rix shot a look toward the woman. “Sammy, you keep this deck secure—”
“I’ll back her up,” Nash broke in.
Rix accepted this with a nod. “Right. Marsh, Robby. You’re with me. We’ll sweep the cargo bays first.” He beckoned them toward him. “Quick and clever, ladies. I’d like to be home in time for a Full English.”
* * *
“Do your job,” snorted Owen, in a passable imitation of Nash’s gruff tones. “A thank you might be nice.” He had the transmitter on mute so only Marc and Leon could heard him.
“He’s a little busy, you think?” offered Leon.
Owen’s eternal grimace deepened. “Some respect is due.” He stabbed a finger toward Marc. “You could have just let that creep with the AK-47 walk up on them, and then what?” He mimed a pistol, his thumb the falling hammer. Without pausing for breath, Davies went on. “You know what Nash says. All that shit about our kit being “the toy box,” talking about us like we’re in here playing Call of Duty all the time instead of, you know, contributing. They need us.”
“Who’s saying that they don’t?” asked Leon.
“You know what I mean.” Owen’s brogue always grew thicker when he was annoyed about something, and that tended to be almost all of the time. Marc couldn’t remember when he’d seen the Welshman actually smile.
“Owen,” said Marc, tapping his monitor. “Focus, mate.”
That got him an acid look. “Look, you may not mind, but I’m not the kind of man who tolerates that sort of thing, see?” The other man looked away. “Nash keeps it up, I’ll have to sort him out.”
Leon gave Marc a wan look over the top of his glasses, and the two men shared a moment of silent agreement. Owen liked to talk about being a tough guy, making a big deal about his tae kwon do classes and how he wasn’t one to be easily cowed, but he always seemed to quieten down in the company of the tactical team. He was an excellent mission technician, but in everything else he could only talk a good game.
“You want I should open a private channel for you?” Leon asked mildly, reaching for the radio console. “Just you and Nash, for a nice chat?”
“He’s not worth it,” Owen replied, after a while.
“You let it bother you too much,” Marc told him. “It’s just typical ‘alpha dog’ bullshit.”
Leon and Marc had heard Owen’s complaints on many occasions. The three of them had sat in similar vehicles under similar circumstances countless times before. Taub liked to joke that their workplace was just like any other kind of office environment, only with the added detail of changing scenery and all the people with guns. Marc wished he could duplicate the older man’s casual attitude. Leon had a seemingly bottomless well of stories that stretched back to MI6’s glory days in the cold war and a laid-back, old-school skill set to match.
Owen muttered something under his breath and glared at his screen, a schematic of the Palomino copied from the vessel’s insurance files held by Lloyds of London. Overlaid across the image were blue dots, each designating the location of an OpTeam member. Two were static, while three were moving swiftly toward the bow of the ship.
The Welshman leaned in, suddenly all-business. “Nomad One, Mobile Two. Be advised. Satellite reads low-level thermal bloom on the deck below you. Could be a generator or a crew compartment.”
“Nomad One copies, Mobile Two. Proceeding.”
* * *
Bell dragged the second dead guard to the gunwale and slipped him over the side with barely a splash. The assault rifle went next, as Marshall levered open the hatch in the foredeck with Rix covering him, the black shape of his tactical shotgun aiming down into the hull spaces below.
“Clear,” said Rix.
Bell stepped past, taking the ladder down with his MP5 SD3 submachine gun in his grip. Beneath the weapon’s integral silencer was a flashlight, and he panned it around the dim interior of the corridor. Without looking up he beckoned the others, and t
hey joined him in short order.
Bell aimed his torch beam at the walls, highlighting patches of rust and other signs of general neglect. “Doesn’t look like upkeep is a big deal on this tub.”
Rix pointed ahead. “Move,” he told them.
The three men began a swift exploration of the deck, moving aft down the narrow corridors, staying in a loose cluster. The close confines of the ship’s spaces could turn any compartment into a death trap if a firefight broke out. All it would take was one alert crewman with an AK-47, and the mission would go loud and bad very fast.
The corridor split into a T-junction, one branch leading to a closed hatch, the other to one that hung open. The low mutter of a television reached them and Bell dropped into a crouch, signaling for Rix and Marshall to halt.
He sniffed the air like a hunting dog. Bell smelled cigarettes and the odor of cooked meat. He peered around the lip of the hatch and saw an open door in the corridor beyond. Blue light reflected from a screen, and as he considered the situation, the TV’s speaker gave off a rush of laugh-track noise. Voices inside the room joined in.
“Maybe they want to share the joke?” whispered Marshall.
Rix threw Bell the nod, and he was at the door in three quick steps. He went in high, panning the MP5 across the makeshift common room. He didn’t need to look back to know that Rix was covering him with the silenced Mossberg.
There were three men in there, all of them swarthy and unkempt, all in dirty bluish overalls that suggested they were part of the maintenance crew. But the pair of assault rifles propped up against the wall seemed to give the lie to that. Two were seated on a decrepit old sofa before a blurry portable television, the other was on his feet at a small stove.
“All right, lads?” said Rix, in a conversational tone.
The man at the stove reacted first, dropping the pan of soup in his hand and snatching at the butt of a heavy-framed revolver in his belt. Rix’s shotgun made a sound like a can of stones thrown against a wall, and the errant cook was blown back into the bulkhead, a bright blossom of red across his chest.
Nomad Page 3
