by Baker, Adam
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Ghost Train
Danger
Five Days Earlier
The Score
Jabril
Gaunt
Ambush
Into The Desert
The Gatekeepers
The Valley
The Temple
The Convoy
The Barricade
Into The Vault
Double-Cross
Hostage
The Crypt
Starfall
The Body
Spektr
Resurrection
Konstantin
Battalion
Containment One
The Ravine
Containment Four
The Catacombs
PE4-A
Subject Nine
Juggernaut
Fuel
The Bomb
The Gauntlet
Hook-Up
The Bomb
Fallback
Voss
The Bomb
Countdown
Detonation
Departure
Cleansweep
Present Day
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Before writing his debut novel Outpost, Adam Baker worked as a gravedigger and a film projectionist. Juggernaut is his second novel.
www.facebook.com/adambakerauthor
www.darkoutpost.com
Find Adam on Twitter: @AdamBakerAuthor
JUGGERNAUT
Adam Baker
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Adam Baker 2012
The right of Adam Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library
ISBN 978 1 444 70909 4
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For Emily
Central Intelligence Agency
Near East Division TO: 12MF-3-57-8U
RESTRICTED DOS-01
SPEKTR – 12 GROUP OPERATION DOSSIER
PROJECT TO LOCATE AND
ACQUIRE SPEKTR VEHICLE
TOP SECRET/SPEKTR GROUP EYES ONLY
WARNING! This is a TOP SECRET – SPEKTR GROUP EYES ONLY document containing compartmentalised information essential to the national security of the United States. EYES ONLY ACCESS to the material herein is strictly limited to personnel possessing SPEKTR – 12 CLEARANCE LEVEL. Examination or use by unauthorised personnel is strictly forbidden and is punishable by federal law.
SPEKTR – 12 GROUP
Oct 2005
TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NO FORM
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Operations, Near East Division
Doc ID: 575JD1
Page 01/1
08/25/05
MEMORANDUM TO: Project Lead, D.Ops
SUBJECT: Spektr
Colonel,
We conducted a Predator overflight of the contamination zone at first light this morning, and I am forced to conclude that our attempts to contain the infection have failed.
Analysis of 11th Recon surveillance images confirm a fire-fight of considerable ferocity has taken place. Scorch marks and cratering suggest grenade detonations. Some of the ancient temple buildings have suffered significant blast damage. Both helicopters have been destroyed.
We have been unable to make contact with the incursion team for twenty-four hours. Their last transmission suggested exploration of the valley was proceeding as planned. We then received a series of unintelligible communications we attributed to damaged sat-com equipment.
We must conclude that the incursion team is lost. Any further attempts to retrieve the virus flask are beyond our current back-channel resources, and risk exposing agency involvement in the Spektr project.
I respectfully suggest we initiate CLEANSWEEP.
R. Koell
Field Officer
CA Special Proj, Baghdad
TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NO FORM
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Operations, Near East Division
Doc ID: 575JD10
Page 01/1
08/25/05
MEMORANDUM TO: Project Lead, D.Ops
SUBJECT: Spektr
Colonel,
Our pilot reports successful detonation of the Sentinel device over Valley 403 at 09:57.
Joint Special Operations Command has been informed that the explosion near the Syrian border was an operational matter and no further investigation is required.
The incursion team were mercenaries. A multinational squad of second tier special forces. They were not affiliated with any of the major security contractors currently operating in this sector. They had no agency connection and were unaware of the true purpose of their mission. We do not expect their disappearance to attract undue attention.
R. Koell
Field Officer
CA Special Proj, Baghdad Station
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Operations, Near East Division
FLASH CABLE – READ AND DESTROY
TO: Project Lead, D.Ops
FROM: R. Koell
08/25/05
14:46 AST
Colonel,
I have just received a bulletin from Joint Special Operations Command, Qatar. They say they have detected movement within the contamination zone. They report a locomotive heading out of the blast area along an old mine track.
JSOC have personnel in the Western Desert as part of Delta operations targeting foreign mujahedeen along the Syrian border. They have re-routed an air patrol from 160th Special Ops to intercept the locomotive.
We have made Operational Command aware of our wish to debrief the occupants of the vehicle and we are assured of their cooperation. We are currently monitoring radio traffic to determine if a member of the incursion team has survived.
IRAQ
August 25th 2005
Ghost Train
The Western Desert
The Contamination Zone
The locomotive roared headlong through a rippling, caramel sandscape. A dust-streaked behemoth jetting black diesel fumes. A plough welded to the forward buffer bar scoured the dune-choked rails in a series of sand-bursts, like a speedboat smacking through chop.
The engine looked like it tore out of hell. A shattered cyclopean nose lamp. Bodywork pitted, scarred, scorched black. Maintenance panels ripped away. Cables trailed and sparked.
The windshield was smashed. The cab was empty. The throttle was jammed at full power and lashed with rope. Rev needles at max. A tool box wedged the trip-brake pedal open. Every surface dusted in sand: the console,
the driver’s bar-stool seat, the plate floor.
The track ahead was blocked by a high fence half submerged in sand. Rusted chain-link propped up by metal stakes. The barrier stretched to vanishing point north and south.
Corroded stencil signs. Alternate English/Arabic. A warning to coalition troops and camel-driving Bedouin:
DANGER
TOXIC HAZARD
KEEP OUT
USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORISED
IN ACCORDANCE WITH PA DIRECTIVE 84–4643
The locomotive punched through the barrier. It wrenched fence stakes from the sand. The plough blade sheering through chain-link like it was paper.
The Blackhawk flew low over dunes, chasing its shadow. It drew parallel with the locomotive.
Captain Flores held the chopper steady. She lifted her visor and surveyed the cab. Smashed windows. An empty driver’s chair. She adjusted her helmet mike.
‘The bridge at Anah is out. That thing is going to drop into the fucking ravine.’
Sergeant Tate sat in the cargo compartment. He had a goatee, and a big tattoo on his forearm: the Pegasus insignia of the 160th SOAR. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.
He tossed his rifle to Frost, the combat medic. He unbuckled his harness. He pulled on sand goggles and adjusted the earpiece of his radio.
‘Put me down on the roof.’
The Blackhawk banked and hovered over the five-hundred-ton juggernaut. Flores adjusted airspeed, lowered the collective and nudged the cyclic forward.
The starboard tyre of the chopper gently touched down on the locomotive roof. Tate stepped onto the blackened, wind-scoured metal and the chopper pulled back. He crouched, lashed by downwash.
Tate crawled on his hands and knees along the cambered cowling. He climbed over louvered intake grilles and belching exhaust stacks.
He reached the roof of the cab. He climbed down onto the nose, holding the smashed air horn for support. He spat sand, crouched and peered through the broken windshield.
‘Anything?’
‘Ghost train.’
He swung his legs through the windshield. He slid across the engineer console into the cab.
Suede desert boots crunched on broken glass. He crouched and inspected debris that littered the floor. He examined Glock pistol clips and US STANAG magazines. He scooped up a handful of brass cartridge cases and let them spill through gloved fingers.
‘Spent rounds. Plenty of them. AK. Nine mil. Muzzle burn round each window. Fucking war zone.’
‘Better cut the power. Few more miles you are going to run out of track.’
Tate pulled off his goggles. He examined the lashed controls. He reached for the combat knife strapped to his webbing. Then he noticed the door ajar at the back of the cab. An access hatch with a big voltage zag. The engine compartment. He drew the Sig from his quick-release chest holster. He flicked the safety and chambered the pistol.
He kicked open the metal hatch. Deafening machine-howl from the cramped engine bay. A huge turbo-charged twelve-cylinder generator. Massive alternators and rectifiers. Pounding motive power.
He let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Sunlight shafted through roof vents. Fan blades projected swirling cartwheel shadows.
‘Hold on. I’ve found something.’
A dusty boot protruding from behind the power plant. Tate edged along the wall of the tight engine compartment. A crouched shuffle.
Two figures in combat fatigues slumped in the corner, positioned beneath the down-draft of an overhead vent.
Ripped, ragged clothes. Blood spatters and sweat salt.
‘What can you see?’
‘Couple of bodies.’
Tate leant forward. He pulled aside the lapel of a prairie coat and examined dog tags.
S9346448
WHYTE
LUCY
NON AFF
O POS
MAR
He brushed black hair aside.
Lucy opened her eyes. Blue, like ice chips.
‘You all right?’ asked Tate. She snatched the knife from his chest rig. He caught her hand as she slammed the blade at his throat.
The locomotive at a standstill. Tate carried Lucy in his arms. He kicked open the slide door and jumped from the cab.
The Blackhawk performed a steep combat landing and set down among the dunes. Tyres settled in soft sand. Lucy and Tate were engulfed in a cyclone of rotor-wash.
Lucy turned her head. She wondered if the helicopter was a vivid hallucination. A vision of deliverance. Earlier that day, as temperatures peaked and she took shelter in the fan-blasted cool of the engine compartment, she succumbed to a lucid dream in which she explored the paths and arbours of a perfumed garden. She picked invisible flowers and wore them in her hair.
The main rotor slowed to a standstill. The sandstorm began to subside.
The side door of the chopper slid open. Three Delta jumped out, faces masked by sand goggles and scarves.
‘There’s another girl in the engine compartment,’ said Tate. ‘I think she’s alive.’
He laid Lucy on the ground. A medic crouched beside her. He checked her pupils, checked the pulse in her neck.
‘Severe dehydration. Bad heatstroke. Let’s get her on a drip.’
He unfolded a litter. They lifted Lucy onto the stretcher and laid her in the cramped cabin of the Blackhawk.
They brought a second girl from the locomotive. Blonde. Unconscious. They strapped her to a litter and laid her next to Lucy.
Tate checked dog tags.
‘Amanda Greenwald.’
The medic examined Amanda’s bandaged leg. He pulled away crusted dressings.
‘Shot in the thigh. Looks infected. Crack me some gauze and a suture kit.’
The Delta guys climbed aboard and sat looking down at the women.
Dust-off. Escalating engine whine. Rotor spinning up to full speed. A tornado of sand.
Lucy turned her head. A doorman in a full-face visor. She looked beyond the long barrel-drum of his Dillon Gatling gun, the fuel pods and Hellfire rockets. She watched the dunes fall away beneath her, the locomotive lost in a desert so vast she could almost see the curvature of the Earth.
The medic pulled a trauma trunk from beneath a canvas bench. IV equipment packed in Ziploc backs. He drove a large-bore fourteen-gauge needle into the back of Lucy’s hand and taped it down. He uncoiled tube and plugged a bag of saline solution into her hand. He hooked the bag to overhead webbing.
The medic shouted to be heard above wind noise and rotor roar. ‘Drink.’
He held a bottle to her mouth. She gulped and coughed. He poured water on her face and washed away grime.
‘Look at me. Can you talk? How many fingers am I holding up?’
She tried to speak. Her cracked lips formed words but she couldn’t make a sound.
She tried to reach out to the stretcher beside her and take Amanda’s hand, but her arm was blocked by the centre stanchion.
‘Don’t worry. She’s alive. You’ll both be in Baghdad in no time.’
He gave Lucy more water. She gripped the bottle like it was life itself.
IBN Sina Hospital, Baghdad.
Lucy lay on a gurney. She was in some kind of triage room.
She struggled to focus. Cracked ceiling plaster. A broken light socket.
She turned her head. A smashed window. Glass on the floor. Streaks of arterial spray across the white-tiled wall, blood dried black.
A couple of Iraqi guys walked into the room. White coats, stethoscopes hung round their necks. Cheap sneakers crunched on grit and glass. They murmured in Arabic. They checked her pulse. They checked her eyes. One of them leaned into her field of vision, and switched to English. His voice was clear, educated, like he studied abroad.
‘Lucy?’ said the doctor. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. ‘Lucy, can you hear me?’
She wanted to reply, but she couldn’t turn thought to speech.
‘You’re in hospital. We’ll look after you, Lucy.
You’re safe now.’
He helped her sip water from a china cup. He helped her lie back.
They cut off her clothes. They sliced her laces with a knife and peeled off her boots. They released the press-studs of her Osprey body armour. They cut off her knee pads. They cut through her trousers and belt with trauma shears. They cut through her Union flag T-shirt. They let her keep her Nike sports bra and briefs.
They tried to remove her watch and pull the gold band from her wedding finger but she snatched her hand away.
They draped her with a sheet.
‘Get some sleep.’
Lucy lay on a hospital bed halfway between life and death. A bare room. Iron bed-frame. Iron chair.
Sometimes she was alone. Sometimes Sergeant Miller sat on the chair beside her.
Come on, Sergeant Miller would tell her. Keep fighting. You’re not done yet.
But Miller died two years ago in Afghanistan. He got fragged by a mortar round as his patrol entered a Helmand village on a meet-and-greet. Bled out from a gut wound as he lay in a ditch waiting for a medevac Chinook that took six hours to show up. Clutching his belly, panting and screaming. His coffin offloaded at RAF Lyneham, walked down the cargo ramp of a Hercules with a Union flag draped over the lid, then a slow cortège through Wootton Bassett. The battalion held a service at Camp Bastion. They laid a poppy wreath in front of the memorial wall. The padre led prayers in his sash and fatigues, until a rocket alert sent everyone running for the bunker.
