Bastian donned his black hiking jacket, civilian backpack and civilian smart-glasses. Private Brown wore dark blue, the other two—Privates Fenwick and Burge—wore dark green. Each had on a beanie—all dark-coloured, but civilian in style. Their assault rifles and other kit were stowed in their backpacks. Once spotted they’d have at least some chance of appearing like four hikers unaware of the military training zone they’d strayed into. More to the point, there’d been no reported cases of bots attacking civilian targets. Bastian knew from the Buckingham Palace incident that if they came up against even a single robot they’d struggle to prevail. He also knew that a closer look by knowing human eyes would peg them as Special Forces. Bastian was lean and chisel-jawed. Not short, not tall but stocky compared to the other three who were younger and more wiry, but equally tough. His hawk-like blue eyes and dark hair suggested something of the hunter, the predator looking for its prey. The hunt had just begun, and it was a mission none of them relished.
To Bastian, it was unthinkable that a British Army officer and his men could turn subversive. Something or someone has to have made them this way, he thought to himself. He knew the Paras well. Like many SAS men, he’d been drawn from their ranks after passing selection. If he had a current roster of 2 PARA, he’d no doubt know many of them. He hoped only the first objective would be necessary—the part about locating them. The follow-on mission—a potential kill or capture—was not something that filled him with joy. In reality, they wouldn’t be neutralising Becker or anyone else directly, but calling in an airstrike. The US Air Force’s strategic bomber drones out of Andrews AFB, Maryland, were supporting the op. The scramjet-propelled stealth drones were capable of mach nine, taking only two hours to reach Wales. Their time-over-theatre was around twelve hours before they’d need to make the two hour return trip.
He established the link with the small recon drone and locked the autonomous car. The real-time video feed was up and running and showed hills and escarpments flashing past below in night vision on the way to Becker’s last known location. In another eight minutes, the drone would overfly it. Next, he accessed the flight map provided by the USAF. At that moment, the flight of four bombers was midway over the Atlantic. In around an hour, they’d be orbiting over the Irish Sea ready for air strikes. The Special Forces patrol started off north towards what they hoped was a friendly unit. It’d take Bastian and his men just over two hours to reach the vantage point near Becker’s presumed location. The rain had stopped and the cool, fresh air was devoid of the sounds of strife that they’d heard in London and in other places on their way in. Bastian watched recon drone feed as it powered over the terrain. He continued north with his three men towards what he hoped was all a big misunderstanding.
***
The low cloud had lifted to above a thousand metres and the recon drone had climbed commensurately. It was small, fast, and silent to normal aural acuity at such an altitude, so it was unlikely Becker—with no known radar capability—would detect it unless he was looking up with binoculars in exactly the right place. The drone had just reached his last-known location.
The four SAS men had left the road a few minutes ago and continued due north across open country. The still-absent February sun was yet to illuminate the rolling green vistas before them, but the drone’s night vision could see clearly.
Bastian said, “Well, there’s the control unit. No sign anyone’s home though.”
22
Tuesday, February 21st, 2045 1:30am EST: Camp David, MD, United States
At 8:05am the previous morning, British Prime Minister Nigel Faraday was pronounced dead en route to hospital. The whole world knew by mid-morning, including the late Mrs Faraday and her son who’d just arrived on spaceplane from Europe. The autopsy had already been performed. The cause of death had not yet been announced, but rumour had it that the FBI had been called in. This suggested foul play. Secret service agent Lance Hammill had heard about it in the Camp David field office. It had sent shock waves through his organisation. A foreign leader had died on their watch and now the blame game would begin. But for him it was more than the oncoming wave of hand-wringing that he dreaded. He had had his own paranoid episode the previous night but it had come to nothing. Maybe he’d missed a sign, a way to help the prime minister. And now the FBI had been called in!
He approached the chief’s corner office and tapped reluctantly on the door. The grey-haired veteran, complete with copstash moustache, motioned him in. It was hardly surprising that he looked stone-faced serious, far from his usual easy-going manner. Hammill closed the door gently and took a seat.
“Yes, Agent Hammill,” said the chief in his rich West-Coast-somewhere voice. “What’d you have for me?”
“Sir, I got something I need to share. Something from last night.”
“Go on…”
“I thought it was nothing at the time. Just paranoia. Just gut-feel. You know; a hunch.”
The chief nodded as if to legitimise Hammill’s faltering explanation.
Hammill continued, “Anyway, so I was keeping sentry outside of Mr Faraday’s suite. Malik Khan—the British Home Secretary—”
“It’s okay, I know who’s staying here, Hammill.”
“Sure. So Khan was visiting Faraday last night. Stayed about two hours in all. Nothing strange in that.”
“Like you say, Hammill. Nothing strange.”
“Right. Well, then Khan leaves and I don’t know... Like I say, a hunch. So I go in and check on Mr Faraday.”
“And?”
“Well, he was sitting in his chair sleeping like a baby. I even checked his pulse. He didn’t stir.”
“Okay … and can we get to the point here?”
“Well, then I left.”
“And that’s what you wanted to tell me? That the late British PM was sleeping?”
“No, it’s what I’ve just seen on the security camera hidden in his suite.”
“You’ve reviewed it already?”
“Yes, sir. And you need to take a look at it right now.”
The chief brought up the footage on his display, Hammill standing next to him, guiding him to the right time. The fact that there were tiny hidden security cameras located throughout the accommodation was highly classified. The footage would be incendiary if it should ever see light of day. The chief and Hammill watched from above as Khan first drugged Faraday. They skipped forward until he started drifting off to sleep. Soon afterwards, Khan cracked open the mineral water bottle, took some sort of capsule from his pocket and went over to Faraday. He put it down the older man’s throat, washing it down with some water. He didn’t wait around after that and left the suite. A minute later, in came Hammill who did what he said he did.
The chief paused the footage. For a few moments he sat there, staring into space, his face betraying the reasoning going on behind his eyes.
Then he spoke three words, “Delayed-release toxin.”
“Should we arrest Khan, sir?”
“Yes, it certainly seems like we should … but unfortunately he has diplomatic immunity.”
Hammill lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“Before you get all downhearted on me, let me finish. Just because he has diplomatic immunity, that doesn’t mean it can’t be revoked. Using the law changes introduced after the spate of abuses last decade we can get an exception order. But first I need to consult the director and the attorney general. We need this thing done by the book Hammill. Close surveillance until they give the word. This is a high-ranking foreign official suspected of murder. We need to tread carefully here, Hammill.”
23
Tuesday, February 21st, 2045 7:45am: Near Pen y Fan, Brecon Beacons, Wales, UK
The sun had risen above the cloud-obscured horizon half an hour ago. The rain had stayed away, but the wind was more noticeable up there on the vantage point. Bastian and his SAS patrol crouched between two rocky outcrops a kilometre from Becker’s mobile control unit. They were to its east an
d three hundred metres vertically above the deserted location. There were tents and vehicles and crates of equipment—pretty much exactly what the recon drone’s night vision had shown them two hours before. The only signs of recent activity were the faint heat signature of one of the 4x4 light military vehicles—a jeep—and the brighter thermal shows from the control unit. Someone had used the jeep’s electric motor in the last few hours. Then it had cooled and continued to do so as they watched. The control unit’s heat signature was constant though, indicating it was still operational. The recon drone had been systematically searching the area ever since it arrived there. It looked like nothing had changed on the drone’s video feed but for the jeep’s IR signature—still no men, still no Becker, but something was happening in the control unit.
Private Brown said, “They’re good at concealment are the Paras—but not that good...”
Bastian said, “My thoughts exactly. Drone would have spotted someone either visually or with IR by now. But, out of over six hundred men, nothing except the IR shows. Doesn’t make any sense.”
Fenwick said, “What about the control unit?”
Bastian said, “Could be occupied, but could’ve just been left running, which in itself is weird. But surely we would’ve seen someone coming or going over the last two hours.”
Brown said, “Only one way to find out, Sarge...”
“Yep, I think it’s time we paid them a visit. Let’s go in prepared,” he said, removing his backpack and laying it in front of him against the weathered sandstone outcrop. They could have been the last people alive in the world. There was no traffic on the distant A-road, no overflying aircraft and no people; just the whistling wind and the sway of the far-flung tree line.
He reported in to command. They were still within mission parameters, so continued with the plan.
His men followed his lead and retrieved their weapons, checking each magazine and pocketing a couple of spares in their hiking coats. They did a comms system check, their tiny wireless earpieces sitting well out of sight in the ear canal itself.
Bastian said, “Right. Check your HUDs. Approach route beta-two as marked on the map. Down the trail, initially north, turning progressively west until the third waypoint. That’s our last cover before the control unit, then it’s thirty metres over open ground.”
They continued talking through the plan they’d had no time to rehearse, but had developed on their way over to Wales. Bastian wasn’t psyched in the way he’d been on countless other operations: missions behind enemy lines, in warzones where the price of capture was torture and interrogation with only a slim chance of escape. No, this time he was more curious and confused than pumped. Only the warmth of the jeep’s motor contradicted his initial theory that they could’ve left days ago. Now he just didn’t know what to think.
He said, “Right, let’s go b—” but stopped, held up his palm and listened. Something had changed—a distant sound, just perceptible through the breeze. His squad stayed still, clasping their assault rifles, ready to raise them at a moment’s notice. The low noise waxed and waned with the gusts.
“What is it?” whispered Brown through the comms system.
“Can you hear it? There!” said Bastian, pointing up in the sky to the northeast.
He heard a low rumble, now audible over even the peak gusts: the deep roar of jet engines, the sound waves modulated by the shifting air. Then a dark speck appeared below the cloud layer. Bastian retrieved his binoculars and focused on the aircraft—a Dragonfly VTOL tilt-jet vectored straight at them.
“Boys, it’s a V30B, heading right—”
Then Fenwick called out, “Look! Below. There they are!”
“Shit! Fenny, Burge, get your arses down that hill and stop Becker,” said Bastian. “The colonel’s the primary target. Let the others scarper if you need to ... go, go, go!”
He contacted command. “Command, this is yankee-two-zero.”
“Go ahead, yankee-two-zero,” said the calm voice of their CO, Major Harry Seddon.
“Are you getting this? We’ve sighted Becker and several others fleeing the control unit. Got an incoming V30, possibly hostile. Request fighter drone support, sir.”
“Confirm, I’m seeing your feed. That’s a negative on the air support, yankee-two-zero. We’ve nothing left to spare—all capable airfields have been overrun. We’ll call in the USAF bombers to track the V30—it’s the only way now primary radar’s so patchy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get on and help your men. Do whatever you need to do. We’d like him alive if possible, but if not... Well, you know... Good luck. Out.”
He didn’t need to be told, and was already sprinting down the slope behind Private Brown while keeping one eye on the sky. The looming form of the armoured V30 was growing at an exponential rate. It was definitely heading their way. Bastian shuddered at the thought of it ripping into them with its heavy calibre cannon. Even with the best body armour money could buy, they’d stand no chance. Sprinting onwards and downwards, he just hoped the pilotless transporter hadn’t pegged them as hostile. Hell, he didn’t know whether the V30 or Becker were hostiles. He heard Fenwick’s shout from a couple of hundred metres away, from the third waypoint with line of sight to the control unit.
“Colonel Becker, stop! We’re SAS with orders to bring you in, sir!”
He switched to Fenwick’s camera feed and saw Becker and a stream of one, two ... nine other officers in BDU running for cover. Becker held a service pistol, the others assault rifles slung but not raised. It looked like they were trying to put the line of three jeeps between them and the two SAS troops. Fenwick and Burge stood their ground in the relative cover of the third waypoint and took aim. They were only exposed to a ninety degree field of fire to the northwest—the direction Becker and his men were fleeing in. They weren’t trying to engage, but the SAS troops kept the jeeps in their sights. As Bastian and Brown caught up with their colleagues, Becker’s group were out of sight, hiding behind the cover of the jeeps. The roar of the V30 sounded like it was almost on top of them, but it was still five hundred metres behind the ridge they’d just descended from.
Bastian said, “They’re gonna need to leave their cover once the V30 lands. We’ll nab them then. If they don’t stop, try to take out the engines—it’s about the only way we’ll ground that bird once the rear door shuts. Wait till it’s on the deck before firing—last thing we need is heat from that V30...”
“And if that doesn’t work?” said Brown.
“Then Becker and his men are to be presumed hostile and you have permission to engage. Shoot to wound unless you’ve no other choice.”
There. He said it. What he’d been dreading—but knew they might need to do—ever since he’d heard about this mission. He could not imagine Becker was going to stop now—otherwise he’d have surrendered already. No, he was waiting for his ride out of there, and the best way to avoid direct engagement was to disable the V30. If they’d been carrying a MANPAD it would have been a lot easier. Everything’s easy with hindsight, he thought.
The V30 slowed to a hover thirty metres past Becker’s cover then started its careful descent. Still no movement from Becker. The jet engines had long since drowned out the sound of the wind. Now the downdraft overpowered its flow over a fifty-metre radius. The rushing air only added to the din in Bastian’s ears while he kept focused—one eye on the V30 the other on Becker’s cover. The plane was landing with its rear-loading ramp facing Bastian and his men as well as Becker and his. That was good news as it meant the ramp—once down—would obscure them from the belly cannon. The transporter was five metres from the ground when the ramp cracked open. It powered downwards quickly and was halfway down when Becker and his men started sprinting across the open ground.
They’d reached halfway when Bastian said, “Take out the engines, boys! Open fire!”
Four streams of automatic fire converged on the two engines. Taking out one would be good enough to ground the
V30. The armoured engine cowling sparked and showed the indentations of bullet strikes but held firm. The engines sat vertically, in VTOL mode, so they couldn’t get a bead on the fan blades.
“Hold fire!” called Bastian. “We need to get closer... Fenwick, Burge ... try to pump a grenade into the engines.”
By this point Becker was five metres from the ramp. His cohort trailed him, making it difficult to target him directly. He knew they’d have to drop some of the others before targeting him, without killing them all.
“Brown, start taking them out—aim for the legs.”
Brown struck the trailing Para with a three round burst—two of them hitting his left calf, sending him flailing to the ground. He quickly moved on to the next target as Bastian opened fire himself. Becker saw the man to his right drop and turn then accelerate up the ramp and dive into the dark interior.
The soft pomf-pomf of Fenwick and Burge’s grenades sent them sailing out of the underslung launchers towards the left engine. Fenwick’s overshot and exploded on contact with the ground, spawning a fountain of earth and shrapnel. Burge’s clipped the edge of the cowling then detonated in mid-air.
The ramp started closing, shielding Becker and four others inside. Bastian and then Brown held fire. Bastian listened and observed the left engine, hoping for signs of damage, but it continued to increase in pitch with no signs of smoke or fire. The five injured Paras laid on the ground, seemingly in surrender since none went for their weapons.
“Damn it!”
Fenwick and Burge fired two more grenades. Bastian and Brown got ready with their own while the V30 started lifting off. Last chance, thought Bastian. He fired. Brown fired milliseconds later. Four grenades targeting the ascending left engine. It was hard enough getting a direct hit on the fan blades when the turbofan was stationary, now the odds were even slimmer.
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