by Angus McLean
Travis was further down, a dead female terrorist at his feet. He gave a thumbs up and Archer nodded.
He glanced down at the guy beneath him. He was no longer breathing. The pool of blood soaking into the carpet was getting larger.
No more shots sounded.
He could see Susie standing over the body of a dead terrorist, the body half-fallen onto an empty seat. Her pistol was in her hands and she was talking to the passengers around her, calming them.
Erika was getting to her feet. Travis approached down the aisle, his Sig still in his hand.
‘We got two X-rays,’ he said, ‘both down. No casualties.’
‘We got three,’ Archer replied. He got to his feet. ‘Stay here, I’ll clear from the back forwards.’
He moved down the back, stepping over the body of the female terrorist. She’d been shot in the chest and lay on her back. A woman sitting in the seat beside her was sobbing loudly. A man beside just stared at the body, ashen-faced.
‘Heads down,’ Archer reminded them, ‘don’t look up.’
The man complied immediately, too shocked to do anything else. The woman continued sobbing.
It was a long, slow process to clear every seat and every passenger until they were satisfied there no further threats. They took their time and worked methodically.
A squadron of US F-18s escorted them all the way, ready to blow the airliner out of the sky if it presented a threat to LAX.
By the time the aircraft began its descent to Los Angeles International Airport, some semblance of order had been restored. The bodies of the terrorists had been removed to a galley and secured. The crew served drinks and attended to the passengers who were suffering shock, of which there were a number, along with the Iraqi woman Brad had KO’d.
There would be a huge inquisition into the incident, of that Archer had no doubt. Skyjackings were not commonplace.
There should also, all things being equal, be a few pats on the back for a job well done. That was about as much as they could expect in the world they operated in.
But all he wanted right now, he decided, taking a crew seat beside Erika, was a good strong drink. He ran an appreciative eye over her toned calves and reconsidered that.
Maybe not just a drink, he decided.
Chapter 2
The only window in the room was made of one-way glass, and Archer assumed they were being watched from the other side.
The air-con was cool on his skin but the atmosphere still felt heavy. No surprise, considering the number of people gathering around the conference table. Aside from himself, Travis, Susie Q and Brad, the others were all American.
The only one to identify himself properly was a tall, lean man in his early fifties. What little hair he had remaining was clipped short and mostly grey. He had a weathered complexion. To Archer he resembled a Marine Corps drill sergeant, an impression that was strengthened by the bone-crushing handshake he received.
‘Rawlins, CIA,’ the man said, ushering them into the room.
Archer nodded and said nothing. He spied four empty seats around the end of the table. The rest of them were occupied and, he noticed, angled towards the empty chairs. He led the way and took a seat.
As he looked around now, he counted fourteen attendees at the table. All in business attire aside from two men in casuals. Beards, diving watches, tanned. Obviously operators. Delta, he guessed. The others were probably CIA too, maybe DIA or FBI thrown in for good measure. A regular alphabet soup, he thought wryly. Hopefully no STDs though.
He glanced at Travis who took the seat beside him. Travis’ face was expressionless. The people facing them were all silent. Rawlins moved to the head of the table. The table was polished pine.
A glass of water sat in front of each of them. Archer picked his up and took a sip. It was tepid. He drained the glass and put it back down.
He heard a clunk as Brad did likewise and glanced to his left. The silence was broken when Brad spoke.
‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a beer,’ he rasped. ‘I’m pretty parched, to be fair.’
Archer saw the two Delta guys crack grins but everyone else remained stony silent.
‘Perhaps later,’ Rawlins said, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table. He had a large notepad in front of him.
Beside him sat a woman with jet black hair and a serious expression. Her suit was charcoal and looked expensive. She had light green eyes and her lipstick was a subtle deep red. He felt her eyes running across him. She reached his face and Archer met her gaze. It was cool and appraising.
He looked away when Rawlins began to speak.
‘Before we go any further, ladies and gentlemen, I just need to highlight two things right now. Firstly, this meeting is being recorded, audio and visual. Secondly, what happens in this room stays in this room. Everybody here has the appropriate clearance and we all need to be singing from the same hymn sheet. Am I clear on this?’
There were nods all round. Archer first glanced to his colleagues then looked back to Rawlins.
‘Just a question on that,’ he said, ‘if it all stays in this room, why is it being recorded?’
There was a low murmuring among the assembled crowd and all eyes went to Rawlins. He cleared his throat and looked bemused. Archer guessed he probably wasn’t used to being questioned.
‘For the purposes of today,’ he said, ‘we will call you Officer A.’
Archer nodded and waited.
‘This,’ Rawlins said, ‘is how we do it, Officer A. I don’t know if you’ve had dealings with our agency before?’
‘I have.’ Archer gestured towards the other people at the table. ‘Are you all the same firm?’
Rawlins gave a slight frown. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we have representatives here from various other agencies; FBI, DIA, FAMS. I can assure, Officer A, we are all on the same page, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
Archer was quietly pleased that he’d been right with his assessment of the other attendees, although he should’ve guessed the Federal Air Marshal Service would want to be involved too. He turned to his colleagues and raised a questioning eyebrow. They each shook their heads in turn.
He turned back to Rawlins.
‘With respect,’ he said, ‘we’ve just been involved in an international incident where terrorists have been killed. It would seem a bit soon to be discussing that with a room full of people.’
He saw Rawlins frown harder. The woman beside him looked faintly amused.
One of the guys that Archer had pegged as Delta turned in his chair and looked at Rawlins, interrupting as the spook began to speak.
‘He’s kinda gotta point there, Chuck,’ he drawled, before looking back to Archer. ‘I suggest we hold fire just yet, at least until these guys’ve had a chance to talk to their boss, right?’
The guy was nearly as wide as Brad but shorter. He had curly dark hair and wore a faded yellow T-shirt.
Rawlins was silent for a long moment as he weighed this up. The Delta operator glanced back to him.
‘Their boss is on the way, is he not?’
Rawlins gave a short nod. He leaned in and whispered to the woman beside him. They nodded in agreement with each other before Rawlins looked around the table.
‘Take five, people,’ he said. ‘Stay close and we’ll call you back in shortly.’
There were murmurings and looks between the people as they filed back out.
‘I think you just made some new friends, Arch,’ Travis remarked, stretching and yawning.
Archer shrugged. ‘Oh well,’ he said.
He didn’t really care; he wasn’t going to be railroaded into something just to keep others happy. He saw Rawlins and the woman still huddled together, deep in conversation.
The two operators stood and approached them.
‘Come with us,’ said the one who had spoken to Rawlins. ‘You could probably do with a cup, am I right?’
‘You’re right.’ Archer stood and
extended his hand. ‘Craig.’
‘EJ.’ The man’s shake was firm and dry. He jerked a thumb at his compadre. ‘This is Rico.’
The other man nodded a greeting.
The two men led the team of New Zealanders out a side door into a hallway, past a small kitchen where most of the other meeting attendees seemed to be gathered, and down a narrow set of back stairs. The door at the bottom of the stairs led them into a meal room with a kitchenette, tables and a variety of snack machines.
‘The coffee sucks,’ Rico commented, ‘but it’s better than hanging with those square-heads upstairs.’
While the others busied themselves getting hot drinks, Archer cornered the operator who’d taken the lead.
‘So you guys know who we are?’ he asked.
‘Close enough.’ EJ had clear blue eyes in a tanned face. He ran them over Archer, quickly appraising him. ‘I’m guessing either the Group or the Division.’
Archer gave a small smile. ‘And you guys would be either Delta or SOG?’
The Special Activities Division of the CIA was the clandestine service’s paramilitary arm. One of its two units was the Special Operations Group, or SOG, which was tasked with deniable military operations.
It was EJ’s turn to grin. ‘I think it’d be safe to say that we both have served on one before moving to the other.’
Archer nodded. It was always good to know exactly who you were dealing with.
EJ gave a frown and lowered his voice. ‘Who’s the girl though? She one of yours?’
Archer was about to reply when his iPhone dinged with an incoming message. It was Ingoe.
He put the device away and turned back to his companion. ‘Sorry about that, just the boss. Yeah, she’s one of ours. You guys have female operators don’t you?’
EJ put his hands up defensively. ‘No offense, buddy, it’s just unusual is all. I meant nothing by it.’ He looked over at Susie again, watching her as she passed a coffee to Travis. ‘I can see she’s spoken for.’
Stay where you are. I’ll get this sorted.
Archer smiled but didn’t reply. Travis and Susie Q’s business was their business. He got himself a coffee while they waited.
Rico was right, the coffee did suck, but at least it was something in his belly. The adrenaline high of the incident was wearing off and he was beginning to sag. He took a seat at a table beside Brad, who had barely spoken since his crack in the boardroom.
‘Alright mate?’
The big man nodded firmly. ‘Yep. Could do with a feed though. I thought the Yanks always had plenty of supplies.’
‘Hmm.’ Archer took a sip of his coffee and checked another incoming message from Ingoe.
On my way to you.
He put the device away again and waited in silence.
Less than a minute later the door opened and three people entered. Book-ended by Rawlins and the brunette was Jed Ingoe – known as Jedi to those who dared use his nickname – the Operations Manager of Division 5. Average height and wiry with a buzz cut and hard eyes, he was a former Regimental Sergeant-Major of the NZSAS. After losing a leg to an IED in Afghanistan he had moved over to the shadowy special ops unit.
Rawlins waited until the woman had closed the door before he spoke.
‘My apologies for keeping you all waiting,’ he said. ‘We had a few things to check before we go any further. What we propose to do is for you guys to break off for an internal debrief before we reconvene upstairs. And I promise…’ he gave Archer a smooth smile, ‘the circus will be trimmed to a more efficient number, alright?’
Archer nodded his acknowledgement, and Ingoe stepped forward.
‘Team,’ he said coolly, giving a curt nod to his staff. ‘Well done today.’ He turned to the two SOG guys. ‘Thanks fellas, we’ll catch you upstairs no doubt.’
Archer could tell by the look on EJ’s and Rico’s faces that they weren’t used to being dismissed, but they filed out behind their two colleagues without further ado.
‘I’m assured this room is secure,’ Ingoe said, taking a seat at one of the tables. ‘So hit me with it.’
In ten minutes they had briefed him on the events of the hijack. It was a succinct and unemotional telling of what, Archer had no doubt, was already major international news.
When they were finished Ingoe took a further two minutes to bring them up to speed on other developments.
‘They all appear to be New Zealand citizens but originate from Syria,’ he said. ‘Our friends upstairs have more intel on that and hopefully they’ll feel like sharing it.’
Brad grunted. ‘So how long’re we gunna be sitting round here for?’ he wanted to know.
‘With any luck, not long,’ Ingoe said, indicating Travis, Susie and Brad. ‘You three have another job to get on with.’
Archer glanced at his colleagues. He wondered what he would be doing while they got to go and play. Hopefully not debriefs and meetings. He hated meetings.
In the next moment his unspoken question was answered.
‘You and I will be staying here for a while,’ Ingoe told him. ‘See what shakes out of this.’
Archer nodded. ‘What’s been given to the media?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot as yet,’ Ingoe replied, ‘however the jump has already been made to it being an op by Delta and/or the Sky Marshals.’ His cool eyes flickered with what may have been amusement. ‘It’s not being discouraged. Either way, our Government is happy to keep schtum on our involvement. Worst case scenario is the credit will go to the Group, but there’ll be no mention of us.’
‘Fair enough.’ It was a good call, as far as Archer was concerned. The fewer people who knew the Division even existed, the better.
Even with Ingoe’s involvement it was still another hour before the wheels started to turn. Finally the two SOG men, EJ and Rico, came and escorted Archer’s companions back through the door to begin the next leg of their journey. Where that was and what exactly it involved, Archer had no idea.
He settled for a quick handshake with each of them and a wave as they disappeared through the door, before turning to Ingoe.
‘Indonesia,’ Ingoe said without prompting.
Archer nodded and said nothing. It didn’t bother him; he didn’t need to know. He began to make himself another coffee, feeling fatigued now. He wasn’t sure how long it was since he’d slept, and he could have done with some food.
First things first, he decided as he added a token slosh of cream to his mug. Get this shit done and dusted, then sort yourself out. He glanced over to Ingoe as he took the first sip. The former warrior was pacing quietly on the far side of the room, talking quietly into his phone. Probably to the Director, Archer figured. Way over his pay grade. The Yanks always seemed to have good coffee.
The door opened and the woman stood there, one hand holding the door open, the other cocked expectantly on her hip. She looked at him coolly, her thin eyebrows arched.
‘They’re ready for you,’ she said.
Chapter 3
Fatigue had hit Archer suddenly.
The “hot debrief”, when it finally happened, was more tepid than hot, but it was exhaustive and, all things considered, it had been a long day. He made his excuses to retire early from dinner. Not that it was fine dining that he was ducking out on.
A steak that overlapped the plate it was on, a large bowl of thick-cut beer-battered fries, and a trio of Budweisers. It reminded him why he never drank Bud anymore and was nearly enough to put him to sleep in the steak house Ingoe had chosen.
His colleague had smiled wolfishly as he forked another slab of steak into his mouth, dripping meat juices onto the plate as Archer pushed back from the cheap Formica table. Blood dribbled down Ingoe’s chin as he chewed, and he paused to wipe it carefully on a napkin.
It occurred to Archer that his colleague was a beast in more ways than one. He gave a rueful grin and dug in his pocket for his wallet.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m gassed.’
Ingoe waved away the money and took a belt of Bud. At least he was enjoying it. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and get you about eight.’
‘A sleep in?’ Archer said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Ingoe was known for surviving on very little sleep.
‘I’ve got shit to do before I worry about you,’ Ingoe said bluntly. He stabbed his steak and sawed off another chunk. ‘Go get your head down.’
With that Archer was dismissed and he weaved his way through the tables of fat people chugging beer and meat to get to the door. The air outside was refreshingly normal after the air-conditioned atmosphere of the steak house. Archer ignored the cab lurking by the kerb and tucked his hands into his pockets, putting on a stride to get back to the hotel, thankful for the chance to stretch his legs and work off the meal that sat heavy in his gut.
He was halfway there, maybe a mile to go, when he felt his guts rumble. A swirl, a surge, churning over like the wash behind an outboard. It was on before he knew it, and he had just enough time to step off the footpath into a side alley before he lost it. Bracing himself against the brick wall with one hand, Archer emptied his guts down the side of a building, not even enough time to make it to a trash can.
He steadied himself, heaved again, spat, and sucked down a shuddering breath. Maybe… no, not yet. Another heave, deep and strong, and the wall took another dose of the steak house’s dinner special.
He spat, wiped his mouth, and straightened up gingerly. He spat again, emptied his nostrils with two sharp blasts, and sucked in some air.
Not as bad as it had been, but it still pissed him off. He never knew when it was going to happen. His first contact had been the worst, just a rookie officer in Timor Leste, face to face with a militia man with an AK. Archer had dropped him first, but he was so close the guy’s blood and brain matter had splattered back in his face.
Since then he’d had numerous contacts, killed a lot of bad guys, and sometimes – most times – it was fine. A debrief, some quiet time to get his head together, and it was sorted. Other times it was like this.
