Deep Trouble

by Rob Stevens

  ‘Mode Foxtrot!’ Barney exclaimed. ‘That’s so cool.’

  Gemma fixed Barney with a heavy-lidded gaze. ‘Do you even know what a Mode F comms kit is, Zulu?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Barney replied cockily. ‘Pretty much. More or less.’

  ‘Do you or not?’

  Barney puffed out his cheeks. ‘Nope.’

  ‘It’s a dedicated network offering two way communication with any MI6-controlled station, including classified databases and satellites,’ lectured Gemma.

  ‘So I was right.’ Barney smiled nervously. ‘That is so cool.’

  Richard Hunt tapped one of the screens on the instrument panel in front of him. ‘This is normally the co-pilot’s navigation display but it easily converts into the Mode F interface.’ Archie’s father pushed a square black button on the overhead panel and a slim computer keyboard slid out from under the screen, which flicked from its normal map display to show a long list of different options. Halfway down the screen Archie noticed the words ‘Access Satellite Control Menu’.

  ‘Whoa!’ he grinned. ‘Don’t tell me we can actually control satellites with this thing?’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Gemma patted him on the shoulder. ‘But I definitely can.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Archie said.

  ‘I won’t let it go to my head,’ Gemma smiled.

  ‘Not you. I meant the comms kit.’

  ‘I think we all know what you meant,’ Gemma replied, inspecting her deep purple nail polish.

  Archie pretended to study one of the plane’s switches, his cheeks burning.

  ‘OK,’ Richard Hunt interjected. ‘You’re all up to speed with the new features so I’d better let you get to wherever it is you’re going.’

  Archie felt sudden panic sucking at his insides as he watched his father clamber out of the plane. Last time he’d flown the Dragonfly solo he’d been so fired up with adrenalin he hadn’t stopped to consider the responsibility he was taking on. As he watched his father walk round the front of the aircraft a voice in his head was saying, ‘You can’t fly this without him. You need him in case things go wrong. Twelve-year-olds can’t fly jet planes, you wally. Twelve-year-olds build Lego and play football.’

  Archie’s father approached the aircraft next to Archie’s seat.

  ‘Your route’s already loaded into the nav box,’ he said. ‘MI6 sent it through remotely this morning. Just type in your mission password and away you go.’

  Feeling strangely sick, Archie nodded. He tried to smile but he seemed to have lost control of his face. His father took a step closer, stepped into the foothold in the fuselage and pulled himself up.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ he said, leaning into the cockpit. ‘Down here in your footwell is the auxiliary fuel-tank shut-off valve.’

  Archie leaned over and peered at his feet, so that his head almost touched his father’s.

  ‘Believe in yourself, Archie. You can do this,’ Richard Hunt whispered. ‘I wouldn’t let you go if I didn’t think you could hack it.’

  Archie gave his father a single nod.

  ‘Take care, kiddo.’ Richard winked and lowered himself to the floor. ‘Good luck, STINKBOMB,’ he added as he walked out of the hangar.

  Archie took a deep breath, willing himself to take his dad’s advice. He stared at the array of buttons and switches on the instrument panels around him – all of which looked strangely baffling.

  ‘Come on then, ace. Let’s hit the sky.’

  Archie turned to see that Gemma had jumped into the front seat next to his. Her crooked fringe was masking one eye but the other was twinkling and she was actually smiling.

  Archie nodded and reached over his head to slide the canopy shut. ‘Let’s do this,’ he said as confidently as he could.

  Within a minute he had run through his pre-take-off checks and the Dragonfly’s two jet engines were whining eagerly. He released the parking brake and the plane rolled out of the hangar on to the grass outside. Stopping in the middle of the field Archie pulled the nozzle lever to the hover stop and the engines’ nozzles swivelled until they were directing their thrust straight downward. Archie took another deep breath.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ he asked.

  ‘You bet,’ said Gemma.

  ‘That’s a roger, over,’ replied Barney.

  ‘OK then. Let’s go.’ Archie swallowed hard – then he slammed the thrust levers forward and the plane’s engines began to roar. ‘Look out, London, here we come.’

  The Dragonfly soared into the air, powering vertically towards the stars.

  ‘I’d forgotten how wicked this thing is. It’s like being in a lift,’ Gemma marvelled, watching the square field shrinking below her.

  Archie gently worked the Dragonfly’s controls, coordinating small movements of the joystick and the rudder pedals. He suddenly realised that his nerves had vanished. He could feel what the plane was doing in the tips of his fingers and toes and he instinctively knew how to control it. Archie flicked the gear lever to the up position, retracting the plane’s undercarriage, then slid the nozzle lever fully forward. As the engine nozzles rotated they directed their hot exhaust gas rearwards, accelerating the aircraft forward at a terrific rate and forcing its three occupants back in their seats.

  ‘Nice work, Agent Yankee,’ Gemma chuckled.

  Archie couldn’t help smiling to himself as he eased the stick back and the Dragonfly’s nose climbed eastward, towards the gently glowing horizon.

  ‘So what’s the mission password?’ asked Archie, his hand poised over the flight computer’s keypad.

  ‘You’re supposed to have learned all the mission protocols by now,’ Gemma replied, looking smug.

  ‘Boys are rubbish,’ Barney piped up from the back seat.

  ‘Sorry, Agent Zulu?’ said Gemma. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘I said, “Boys are rubbish,”’ Barney said obligingly. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s right. Yeah. Definitely. Boys are rubbish.’

  ‘Thank you, Agent Zulu,’ smiled Gemma. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  With a weary sigh Archie typed the words Boys are rubbish into the computer and a list of radio beacons instantly appeared on the screen. Clicking the transmit switch he spoke into the microphone on his headset.

  ‘London control, this is Sulphur One, reaching six thousand feet heading east. Request further climb and airways clearance.’

  ‘Sulphur One, this is London control. Climb to flight level one-five-zero and route to Southampton VOR.’

  Archie repeated his instructions and banked to the left.

  ‘So are all our passwords and codes for this mission going to be about girls being better than boys?’ he enquired.

  Gemma stared at the orange sun rapidly emerging from behind the horizon as the aircraft rocketed higher and higher. ‘The passwords are set in stone,’ she said. ‘I’m not authorised to change them.’

  ‘What about codes for secret communication between agents?’ Barney suggested. ‘I noticed you don’t have any of those in place yet. What if I needed a secret code to warn another agent to hit the deck.’

  ‘Right,’ Gemma said warily. ‘I guess IC didn’t think that was a situation we’re likely to face during Gumshield. She just briefed me on more general stuff like “Girls rule”, which means All agents report to the rendezvous point.’

  ‘Sure,’ Barney agreed. ‘But imagine one of us has discovered that Evelyn Tension is about to detonate some sort of device that sends out a pulse at waist height and takes out everything in its path?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ Gemma teased. ‘I can’t believe we haven’t agreed a protocol for such a regular, everyday situation.’

  ‘Actually I don’t think it’s a bad idea,’ said Archie. ‘Having a signal for other agents to take immediate cover sounds pretty sensible to me.’

  Gemma was thoughtful for a moment, then, ‘Have it your way,’ she said grudgingly.

  Barney leaned forward so that
his head was between Archie and Gemma’s shoulders. ‘So, how should we warn our fellow agents and make sure they get down low?’

  ‘How about something fiendishly simple?’ suggested Gemma. ‘Like, oh I don’t know, “Get down”?’

  Barney shook his head dismissively. ‘It has to be coded otherwise Miss Tension will realise we’re taking evasive action and alter the angle of sweep of her weapon’s deadly pulse.’

  ‘I see.’ Archie raised his eyebrows and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I didn’t realise this type of imaginary weapon has an adjustable sweep angle.’

  ‘This one does,’ Barney stated categorically. ‘I’m thinking we could use the code “I’m having a blast”.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Archie said. ‘What do you think, Agent X-ray?’

  ‘Yeah, wicked, whatever.’ Gemma rolled her eyes.

  Sixty miles from their destination Archie throttled back the Dragonfly’s engines to idle and lowered its nose to start the descent towards the O2 Arena. Banking hard to his left he flew north for a couple of miles, putting power back on to fly level at five hundred feet over the river Thames and following its snaking course towards the city centre.

  Archie caught glimpses of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace as they whipped past but he was concentrating on his flying too much to enjoy the view. At such a low level and travelling at over two hundred knots, a split second’s inattention could result in the plane crashing into the water.

  Gently easing the control column from side to side, Archie followed the river’s fluid sweeps and watched countless landmark bridges flash just beneath him. As he rounded the distinctive horseshoe of water that cradles London’s Docklands, his destination emerged from behind the mirrored faces of the Canary Wharf skyscrapers.

  The O2 Arena looked like a UFO that had landed on the river’s south bank, twelve bright yellow stanchions protruding from the giant saucer, like alien antennae. Archie carved a right-hand turn round the circular structure and headed towards his designated helipad. He pulled the nozzle lever fully aft and the Dragonfly’s forward momentum died, leaving it in a slow vertical descent. The plane settled gently on to the tarmac surface next to a normal helicopter and another privately owned Dragonfly.

  ‘Very smooth,’ Gemma marvelled. ‘Someone’s been practising.’

  Blushing, Archie slid the canopy back. ‘My dad’s a good teacher,’ he muttered, looking away quicky.

  ‘All stations from Zulu,’ Barney muttered, touching an imaginary earpiece. ‘Contact, Hansel and Gretel. Nine o’clock, closing fast.’

  Archie looked to his left and smiled when he saw Helen Highwater and Holden Grey approaching. They were both dressed in bright yellow jackets and black trousers – the uniform of the competition’s officials. To a casual observer they looked like two stewards greeting some more VIP passengers arriving in a private jet.

  The three agents clambered out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground, forming a line as their superiors arrived.

  ‘Good morning, agents,’ Highwater said curtly.

  ‘Word up,’ Grey offered, bumping fists with each kid in turn.

  ‘OK, X-ray,’ Highwater continued, getting straight down to business. ‘You are to report to the medical centre at the east entrance immediately. Yankee, you need to go to the competitors’ registration desks in zone eleven. As briefed, the records show that you came just outside the top sixteen boxers in the qualification process so you are here purely as a reserve and won’t actually be competing.’

  Archie signalled his understanding with a single nod.

  ‘Which leaves me with Agent Zulu.’ Highwater peered at Barney over her glasses. ‘Last but by no means . . . smallest.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Barney replied keenly.

  ‘Mr Grey has your fake press pass and camera. Just remember, say nothing and photograph everything. Understand?’

  Barney nodded and then muttered, ‘The cobra is about to enter Aladdin’s cave.’

  ‘What are you wittering on about?’ Highwater snapped.

  ‘Nothing,’ Barney replied, widening his eyes innocently.

  ‘OK, guys,’ Grey enthused. ‘Let’s bring it up.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he meant bring it on,’ Gemma whispered to Archie as they headed for the arena’s main entrance.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Archie muttered. ‘I am feeling pretty nauseous right now.’

  Barney followed a few paces behind them, peering anxiously into the distance and mumbling into his sleeve, ‘Zulu to Tac Team Bravo Seven – the hamsters are going underground. Operation Gumshield is live.’

  As the agents receded Holden Grey called after them, ‘Remember, team – stay on comms at all times. Keep talking to each other. The biggest enemy of an undercover agent is isolation. Well, apart from violent criminals I suppose. Especially trained assassins. Not to mention their evil henchmen of course – they can be vicious too. So what I’m trying to say is be careful. And if you can’t be careful then the next best thing—’

  ‘They can’t hear you,’ Highwater said flatly.

  Holden Grey pursed his lips and stroked his thin moustache. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said softly. ‘I just worry about them so.’

  ‘I know,’ Highwater replied, adding under her breath, ‘So do I . . . So do I.’

  As Archie, Barney and Gemma approached the main entrance to the arena, a burly man wearing an olive green parka stepped across their path and began taking photos of the agents, backing away from them as they advanced.

  ‘All right, kids?’ he called from behind his long lens. ‘I’m from the local paper. Who do you reckon’s going to win the boxing?’

  ‘No comment,’ Archie replied with a tight smile.

  ‘Have you heard Toby Winchester’s due to compete today?’ the journalist persisted.

  ‘Seriously,’ Gemma said sternly. ‘No comment.’

  ‘What about my fellow photographer?’ The man aimed his camera at Barney. ‘Surely you’ve got an opinion on the PM’s son?’

  Barney shook his head vigorously and mumbled, ‘No comment.’

  The journalist lowered his camera and let the three agents past. As soon as they’d entered the arena they inserted their earpieces and split up. Barney turned left while Gemma turned right and Archie carried on, straight towards the middle of the dome.

  As he entered the central theatre Archie turned on the spot and gazed all around. He felt dwarfed by the colossal stadium with its banks of seats sweeping round the rectangular floor space and reaching way up to the domed ceiling. The stands were almost deserted now but he tried to imagine them crammed with thousands of fans screaming for the superstars who had played here in the past, like Beyoncé or Coldplay. At those concerts the floor would have been a sweaty mass of bodies jostling and dancing to their idols’ music, but today it was covered with crash mats. Four martial-arts squares were marked out on the padded floor with white tape and at the far end of the area stood two boxing rings side by side.

  Archie strode past scores of officials, busily measuring competition areas and setting out umpires’ chairs, and joined a line of boys waiting in front of a desk that was signposted ‘Boxers’ Registration’.

  The boy in front of Archie turned and peered at him from under the hood of his Lonsdale sweatshirt.

  ‘Hello,’ Archie said with a grin.

  The boy gave Archie a confused snarl.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Archie asked brightly.

  The boy said nothing but acknowledged Archie with a short upward jerk of his chin, then turned away. Another boxer joined the line. Archie turned and jerked his chin at the boy who did the same back.

  OK, Archie thought. I can do this.

  When he got to the front of the line he chin-jerked the woman sitting behind the desk.

  ‘Hello, young man,’ she said with a kind smile. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ar—’ Archie stopped himself giving his real name just in time. ‘Danny Hook,’ he said. He couldn’t believe
he’d almost blown his cover at the first hurdle and his heart was drumming.

  The lady gave him a curious frown before studying the paperwork in front of her. ‘Ah, yes. Here you are, Danny,’ she said, tapping the list of names. I see you’re down as a reserve.’

  Archie tried to look disappointed. ‘What are my chances of boxing today, d’you reckon?’

  ‘You never know,’ the lady said brightly. ‘Even if you don’t get to box, it’ll be a great experience.’

  ‘I know. I don’t want to miss a thing.’

  After registering, Archie had a pre-fight medical with the match doctor – a tall, portly man in a tweed three-piece suit. Then a dentist checked his teeth and his gumshield before a man called Ivan showed him to the boxers’ changing room.

  Archie guessed Ivan was an ex-boxer by his swollen brow and his flat nose.

  Nobody spoke in the changing room. Some boys were sitting on benches listening to their iPods while others were limbering up, stretching or shadow boxing. Archie gave a couple of boys the chin-jerk as he entered and found a space on the bench to park himself. Ivan told him he was to remain in the changing rooms or in the competitors’ designated ringside area just in case he would be required to box, adding with a snort, ‘But you’ve probably got more chance of winning the lottery.’

  Archie changed into his boxing kit and pulled his tracksuit back on over the top. Nervously he laced up his boots and wrapped his hands in crepe bandages – as all boxers do to protect their knuckles under their gloves. Although he had no intention of getting into the ring it was important to look like he knew what he was doing.

  There was still an hour to go before the boxing programme was due to start so Archie decided to take a stroll. Discreetly replacing his earpiece, which he’d taken out before his medical, he left the changing room and walked towards the arena. Although it was far from full, there suddenly seemed to be a buzz inside the stadium. The first ten rows of seats were lined with spectators, some waving flags and banners in support of the athletes already competing on the judo and karate mats. A lanky-looking kid landed a match-winning kick on his opponent and a loud cheer erupted from the crowd and echoed around the cavernous hall.