by Alex Shaw
‘We do not know. He was given to you to use as you saw fit. We have had no contact with him.’
‘He is jeopardising my mission!’
There was a pause before the caller spoke. ‘The mission is completed and has been a success. My superior does not understand why you are not airborne.’
Oleniuk took a third swig of vodka. Battle lines were being drawn, which would have consequences for his Chinese partner. ‘Loose ends.’
‘Is that all?’ the caller asked again.
‘Yes.’ Oleniuk pressed the “end call” button. No one cut him off.
*
Akulov was having to take increased care now with the roads, as more confused locals had taken to them. He had shot his way through a roadblock and used the nose of his Tahoe to nudge a pair of police cruisers out of his way. He was glad for the heavy ballistic plating on the vehicle, which in effect turned the SUV into a tank. A few fires started to burn in shop fronts. Looters who darted in and out.
He turned onto the main drag and headed toward the Georgetown address; there was a body on the road. Akulov slowed as he passed but then stamped on the brakes. There was something familiar about it. Turning off the ignition, he stepped down from the SUV and approached the corpse. His fears were confirmed as he crouched. It was Vlad. Two gunshot wounds to the chest, and he hadn’t been wearing his ballistic vest. Stupid, stupid! Akulov’s shoulders fell. The Werewolves had been a tight-knit unit of twelve men; Vlad had been a brother to him. They had lived and worked together almost since the day they were taken, as conscripts from the ranks, and put into Spetsnaz training. But Vlad had always been the most foolhardy and impulsive of the twelve.
Akulov’s vision blurred. There was no shame in tears; real men wept when the situation deserved it. Vlad had not deserved this.
He returned to the Tahoe and retrieved a black body bag. Akulov manoeuvred his friend into the plastic cocoon before hefting the deadweight up and onto his shoulder. He placed him in the trunk and shut the tailgate as tears rolled down his cheeks, creating clean lines on his sweaty face.
How had this happened? Who was responsible? As Akulov dried his eyes, he knew that one man and one man alone must have done this. The taxi driver! Akulov resolved there and then that he would be the one to kill him. He climbed back into the SUV as a small crowd of pedestrians wandered toward him. Is this the way it is going to be? Every working vehicle besieged by angry mobs?
He pulled away at the same time as the first hands touched the rear of the Tahoe. He had to call this in. He had to explain to Oleniuk that Vlad had been murdered … but before he could, Oleniuk called him and gave him Li Tam’s location.
Chapter 21
Houlton, Maine
Tate had found a site for an observation post near the airport and was now assessing the target with a pair of field glasses. He had a direct line of sight to the airfield entrance, which consisted of a barrier and a guardhouse. By the look of it, they were not expecting anyone to try and break in. There was no sign of any sentries on the perimeter and the hangar looked deserted.
‘You are really going to attack that?’ Oleg asked, pointing at the aircraft hangar.
‘I am, and you are going to help me.’ Tate continued to watch the target.
‘How?’
‘You’ll vouch that I’m SVR.’
‘Pretending to be Russian may get you inside the building, but what are you going to do once you are inside?’
‘Play it by ear.’
‘Listen?’
‘No, it means make it up as I go along.’
‘Hmm, I see. Use the SUV as a weapon. It is armoured and you can run over any opposition.’
‘That’s an idea.’
‘One question, Tate: what makes you believe that I will help you?’
‘Oleg, you are a scientist and, as such, you told me yourself that the science is the most important part in all this. I can assure you that HM Government will be eager for you to share what you know and continue your research.’
‘As a prisoner of the British?’
‘In your sealed lab in Russia were you a free man? When you return to Russia after this secret mission will you be a free man? Will you be allowed to resign or walk away?’
‘You are right. Very well, you have my word. I shall help you.’
Tate looked up at the sky; he could hear engines. ‘I think that’s your plane.’
From their vantage point, they saw a jet emerge out of the gloomy sky and approach the runway. As it neared the runway, lights flicked on as if the EMP had not happened almost twelve hours earlier. Tate looked back at the hangar. The large double doors opened and two SUVs tore out, heading for the runway.
‘Right, we’ve got to get on that plane.’ Tate started up the Tahoe, having already disabled the airbags and turned off the lights, and drove towards the airfield. He hit the barrier doing almost forty miles an hour and the pole splintered before bouncing up and over the roof of the SUV. Oleg let out a short yell as they carried on into the airport. Tate angled the SUV across the runway towards the oncoming jet and floored the accelerator. The plane was heading straight for them now, and unless he turned, he was going to hit it on the nose. He saw the massive tyres struggle to slow and the jet shuddered as it tried to steer away. Tate yanked the wheel to the left and passed by the jet. He was now behind one of the Tahoes and gaining.
‘I thought we were going inside.’
‘Change of plan. How good a shot are you?’
‘I can fire a gun.’
‘Then shoot out the rear tyre.’
Oleg glanced at Tate. ‘You think I can hit that?’
‘No. OK. Open the glove box and hand me a grenade.’
‘You are going to blow them up?’
‘Just the tyre, unless I am lucky.’
Oleg passed Tate the grenade.
‘Here goes.’ Tate opened the window and accelerated hard again. Up ahead, the lead Tahoe stopped dead and then turned before barrelling towards Tate. The closing speed between it and his own SUV doubled. ‘Bugger.’
Tate pulled the pin, counted to two, and then threw it out of the window with his left hand before jerking the wheel to the right. There was a moment’s pause and then an explosion. Tate didn’t look back. He now turned the wheel again and aimed for the one remaining Tahoe, which had also stopped. ‘Is there another grenade?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hand it over.’ Tate lined up again and then once more floored the accelerator. Then he had a change of mind and headed for the plane. The jet was now stationary and the passenger door had started to open. He was nearer to it than the other SUV. A crew member wearing generic black trousers, tie and white pilot shirt started to walk down the steps. He looked Chinese. He had a submachine gun in a sling at his side. Tate slammed on the Tahoe’s brakes and without pulling the pin, hurled the grenade. ‘Catch!’
The man’s eyes bulged as he saw the grenade. He dived off of the steps as it rolled inside the jet.
‘Out, now! Follow me!’ Tate leapt from the Tahoe and bounded up the stairs. He whipped the Camden-PD-issued Glock 17 from his pocket and checked the interior of the cabin. It was empty. He went back to the stairs as he saw Oleg reach the third step, and then the crewman opened fire from the tarmac. There was nothing Tate could do; a burst of rounds tore through the Russian and propelled him sideways. As Oleg fell, Tate saw the crewman and double-tapped him in the chest. More gunfire came from outside.
Tate darted back inside and sprinted for the cockpit door. He pulled the handle and ripped it open. The pilot thrust up his hands and said in American-accented English, ‘Please don’t kill me!’
Tate placed his Glock in the man’s back. ‘Raise the steps and get us airborne. Airborne now!’
The pilot nodded like a bobble head and started to turn the jet with the wingtips just missing the aircraft hangar. Once it faced the runway again, the pilot asked, ‘What about the car?’
‘Don’t hit it.’ The pi
lot did not reply as he concentrated on getting them into the air. Tate ran to check the fuselage door. He quickly searched for the grenade he had thrown, found it lodged against the underside of the nearest seat, and double-checked that the pin was still securely affixed. After making sure, he strapped himself into the empty co-pilot seat. The jet rocketed down the runway and then, engines shrieking, lifted into the sky.
Tate attempted to steady his breathing. ‘How much fuel do you have?’
‘Enough to get away from the USA,’ the pilot said.
Tate nodded. ‘Take me to Washington.’
‘Washington?’ the pilot replied, his voice concerned. ‘Why?’
Tate didn’t feel the need to explain. ‘Do it; I have the gun.’
‘Please, I am not your enemy. I didn’t attack your country.’
‘I’m not American.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the right man in the wrong war.’
Chapter 22
41,000 feet above Maine
From the co-pilot’s seat of the commandeered passenger jet, Jack Tate watched the August sky. It was a sea of blue. Sailing through it, he could have been forgiven for believing the events of the last twelve hours had not taken place, were just a false memory or a bad dream. The United States of America had been attacked by a Russo-Chinese private military contractor. The course of history and humanity had been forever changed by an electromagnetic pulse bomb, and he was bang in the middle of it all. Tate prodded the Chinese pilot with his Glock 17. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘About what?’ the pilot replied.
‘Start with simple facts. What type of jet is this?’
‘It’s a Gulfstream G650ER.’
‘What’s its maximum range?’
‘At Mach 0.85, 13,890 kilometres.’
Tate calculated the distance. ‘So that’s Beijing to Houlton, with give or take 3,500 k in reserve?’
‘Yes.’
‘You came from China directly to Maine?’
The pilot didn’t reply.
Tate nudged him with the Glock. ‘Did you fly directly from China to Maine?’
‘Yes.’
Tate didn’t believe him; there had been no tanker waiting to refuel the jet but he let it go for the moment. ‘What were your orders?’
‘Collect the Russians.’
‘And take them where?’
‘Moscow.’
Now Tate knew the man was lying. Without refuelling he’d fall out of the sky. ‘This jet is configured to seat fourteen passengers. How many men were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who did?’
‘The man you shot.’
‘He shouldn’t have pulled a submachine gun on me.’ The man had sealed his own fate. ‘Where are your parachutes?’
‘W … why?’
‘Because I can’t fly.’
‘There is a locker behind my seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Tate opened the cabinet. Inside he saw two parachutes, two life preservers, and a flare gun. He bundled a chute under his left arm. ‘Now I’m going to ask you more questions and you are going to answer. And if you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’m going to put a bullet in your left leg, then I’ll move on to your right and if you still don’t answer I’ll shoot a hole in the instrument panel.’ The pilot visibly stiffened, his face a mask of worry as Tate struggled into the snug harness. ‘I can’t fly a plane but I can fly a parachute, and I won’t hesitate to open the emergency exit and jump if I have to. Do you understand me?’
‘Y … yes.’
‘Good.’ Tate sat. ‘Now, let’s start with an easy question: what’s your name?’
‘Chi Kong Pang.’
‘Which unit are you with, Pang?’
‘Please, I’m just a pilot. My orders were to fly to Maine.’
‘We both know that’s not true.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
Tate nodded. The man’s hands were shaking on the controls, and sweat dripped down his face. ‘Where are you from, Pang?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Shanghai.’
‘How many pilots born in China speak English well enough to pass as Americans?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You fly a plane, you’re part of a clandestine mission, and you speak English like a US native? That makes you MSS – Ministry of State Security?’
‘No!’ The pilot’s eyes became wide. He took a moment to recover his senses. And then his mouth went into overdrive. ‘Please I’m not with the MSS – you’re wrong! I’m not a spy. I would never spy. I’m just a pilot. I used to work for Air China. The man you shot, he was ex-Chinese Air force – fast jets, not me. He had the gun – look at me? I’m just trying to fly this and to stay alive.’
‘What’s the airline code for Air China?’
‘The IATA code is CA. And the ICAO code is CCA.’
‘OK. Explain to me then why you are here.’
‘The money of course.’
‘And why is your English so good?’
‘I studied at the Beijing Normal University, with the Princetown in Beijing programme.’
‘OK, Pang.’ He didn’t want the man to lose control of the plane. ‘I believe you. Now tell me about the EMP.’
‘I swear, I didn’t pilot that plane.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘The weapon was released at a specific point into the atmosphere in order to cover the continental United States.’
‘What about Canada?’
‘The splash radius will affect some parts of Canada and Mexico.’
‘Are there any more, or was this a one-off attack?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are there plans to attack the UK or Europe?’
‘I do not know. I’m a pilot. I just fly the plane.’
Tate dug the Glock harder into Pang, who winced. ‘I won’t ask you again. Where did you fly in from?’
‘Washington.’
‘Thank you.’ It made sense; a full tank of fuel would get the jet from Washington to Houlton and then to Beijing, or Moscow, and they’d just escaped the Russians in Houlton … ‘Is there a second Russian base in Washington?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really? Don’t lie. That’s where you flew in from.’
Pang sighed, his defences defeated. ‘College Park Airport.’
Tate frowned. ‘Where?’
‘It’s outside the city, a small commercial place with a museum.’
‘What were the targets in Washington?’
‘The targets? I don’t understand; the EMP targeted everyone.’
‘OK. Take me to College Park, and remember, Pang, I have a chute on.’
‘Please, you must understand! I am just like you. I am a working man, a professional just following orders.’
‘That’s what the Nazis said.’ Orders, the word rolled around in Tate’s head. ‘How do you talk to the outside world?’
‘The radio, of course.’
‘No good,’ Tate mused. The range was too short and it was hard to encrypt. ‘Do you have a sat phone?’
‘Of course.’
‘Give it to me.’
Pang deliberately reached under his seat and pulled a large handset out from a Velcro pocket.
Tate grabbed the phone with his left hand, powered it up, and tapped in a number he knew by heart.
Pamela answered on the second ring: ‘Newman.’
‘It’s Tate.’
‘Jack, where are you?’ Her voice sounded strained.
‘I’m in a stolen Gulfstream somewhere above Maine.’
‘Did you say stolen?’
Tate explained events since he had last spoken to her, mere minutes before the EMP hit the USA, and his suspicions of a Russian “wet” operation, the reappearance of Maksim Oleniuk and finall
y the loss of his witness, Oleg Sokol.
There was a pause as Tate imagined she processed what he had told her and then Newman’s voice sounded hoarse as she replied. ‘We have no contact with any of our staff at the embassy. GCHQ has detected a few transmissions from ham radios but apart from that, the airwaves are dead.’ She paused; Tate could hear her sip what he knew would be chamomile tea. ‘I imagine “the opposition” are listening in to this call, but I have no other choice. Jack, you are the only asset we are in contact with in theatre. We need you to re-establish contact with Opening Bat.’
‘Got that.’ Tate allowed himself a smile. SIS had given each member of the Washington Embassy staff code names derived from cricket, a sport that very few outside of the British Commonwealth understood and many within were baffled by. Opening Bat was the code name for Simon Hunter, stationed at the British Embassy.
‘We have credible intel that Wicket Keeper is at risk.’ The British Ambassador to Washington, Anthony Tudor, code name Wicket Keeper had been based in Moscow when Russia annexed Crimea. He had not held back on his disdain for the Kremlin’s new foreign adventures and actively supported economic sanctions.
‘Got that,’ Tate said again.
‘Jack, our closest asset to you is HMS Daring. She’s attending festivities at Nelson’s dockyard, Antigua. If I can re-task her, she’s two days’ sailing out of Norfolk Naval Base. Jack, this is down to you. Locate Opening Bat, extract Wicket Keeper and all other UK personnel.’
A thin, sardonic smile creased Tate’s face. It was a huge task. His boss made it all sound so easy, but he did have a stolen executive jet. ‘Will do.’
‘Good luck,’ Newman said, and the line went dead.
Houlton, Maine
Before the Chinese jet had approached, there had been no interest from the local population of Houlton, some five miles away, but the noise of its approach and departure had caused a steady stream of townspeople to descend upon the airport. They milled around outside the perimeter and a couple had attempted to clamber over the wrecked Chevy Tahoe positioned strategically in place of the shattered entrance gates. The Blackline team had withdrawn their serviceable vehicle into the voluminous hangar and kept watch from behind darkened observation windows. The door was secured, as was the team in their EMP-proofed operations centre.
