The Bid

by Adrian Magson

  Ruth looked at Vaslik, who was shaking his head. The magnitude of the task they faced was suddenly right there in front of them. They could comb this open countryside for hours without seeing Malak and Chadwick, and be none the wiser until the drones were in the air and heading for the base.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why would Malak choose to attack a small area with only a few people present? To make an impact he’d surely go for the main event—the base with the personnel, the parachute display team, and the president all in one area.”

  Vaslik nodded. “You’re right. We could spend all day checking the countryside out beyond the base and all the time he’s right inside our search perimeter.”

  Ruth said, “He must be close to Freedom Field itself. The last place anybody would look.”

  “Except the Secret Service detail.”

  “But what’s to see?” She nodded out at the flat fields below. “He’s somewhere under cover—he must be.” Her stomach tightened at the thought that right now Malak could already be close to where the president would be standing very shortly. And if the reports from Fort Sill were correct, he now had three extra men to help him. “He’s playing safe,” she said. “If he misses with the drones over the base, he and his men will be right up close where nobody expects it, to make an armed assault on Freedom Field itself.”

  Then a voice burst through on the radio, shrill with panic. “I’ve got reports of automatic gunfire between the base and the city of Altus! Two people down, possibly more. I say, automatic gunfire! We need assistance! This is not a drill. I repeat, not a drill!”

  fifty

  Vaslik said calmly, “It’s a diversion.”

  Ruth looked at him. “To do what?”

  “They’re drawing forces away from this side of the base. Malak wouldn’t risk pulling security in on himself—that would be suicidal and accomplish nothing. He’s counting on reducing the opposition to give him a clear run at the presidential party. It means he’s out here somewhere.”

  “But where?” Dave muttered and brought the machine lower until they were skimming the ground, all looking for anywhere three men might be in hiding. On the road below, the two military patrols they’d seen were racing away from the farm back towards Altus, leaving a dust cloud behind them. Barrelling down the center of the road, they were flashing their lights to push the occasional other vehicle out of their way. Farther over, the dark shape of an army helicopter rose sharply from the ground and beat a path in the same direction, a crewman sitting in the fuselage door and scanning the ground below. “That’s a Black Hawk,” Dave said automatically. “Most likely fully crewed and armed. They’re not taking chances.”

  The exchange of background voices on the radio continued unabated, a volley of instructions, reports, and transmissions cut short as more responders joined the call for assistance and others demanded information on the location and number of the attackers.

  “Two … no, three,” came the reply. “Three males, armed with automatic rifles and one carrying a launch tube. All described as of Middle Eastern appearance, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, one wearing a black head-cloth with white writing and … Jesus, it’s the IS flag! I repeat, Islamic State!”

  An AS-350 helicopter bearing the bright colours of a national TV channel logo appeared briefly on their port side before banking away towards the city to join the chase for news, the pale oval of a face appearing in the window and studying them carefully before turning away.

  “Wait.” Ruth turned to Vaslik. “They’re not in US combat uniforms?”

  “That’s what he said—” His eyes widened in surprise at the information. “Whoa. That’s not right.”

  “I know. If they have uniforms, why aren’t they wearing them? They’ve ditched their only chance to blend in.”

  “Maybe,” Dave ventured sourly, “because getting themselves killed in US uniforms is against their religion.”

  “Maybe … But I don’t think so.” She was looking through the side window at another military patrol vehicle stationed close to a line of trees a hundred yards off the road. A soldier was standing nearby, scanning the area towards Altus and the base through binoculars.

  Ruth followed the man’s line of sight. A glint of light reflected off the small lake Dave had mentioned earlier, where the president would shortly be standing to give his nod of approval to the remembrance project. A number of figures were already moving around the area, with several vehicles arriving and parking nearby and police and army vehicles blocking off the approach road. More vehicles were arriving as the time drew close for the presidential visit, including a number of black cars with tinted windows, which stopped to form a protective cordon between the other vehicles and an area marked out by a line of posts with a rope barrier.

  Ruth looked back at the army vehicle. The man with the binoculars had disappeared. But the vehicle still wasn’t moving.

  She took a pair of binoculars from an equipment pouch. There was no sign of the soldier and she thought she saw movement in the trees. “Go back! He’s there!”

  “What?” Dave looked startled and glanced across at her.

  She pointed at the vehicle and passed the binoculars to Vaslik. “Why didn’t that patrol move when the others did? A soldier was standing there and now he’s gone.”

  “Could be he’s under orders not to move.”

  “Unless that’s where the three uniforms from Fort Sill went. Malak’s passing himself, Bilal, and Chadwick off as soldiers.”

  Vaslik checked out the vehicle and the surrounding area, then nodded. “You’re right. A genuine patrol would have moved in closer just in case. And this is no time for comfort breaks.” He hesitated then said, “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a body on the ground behind the vehicle.”

  Dave began to turn back towards the area. Suddenly Brasher’s voice came over the air.

  “Okay, people—time to get out of there. The SWAT team will be overhead and ready to go in five minutes. All aircraft are being warned away to give them clear air and you should do the same.”

  “That’s a little difficult, Tom,” Dave replied. “You’ll have to cover us. We have a problem here with a vehicle and what looks like a body.” He gave directions so that a team could be sent to investigate. “They’d better hurry, too—I can see the presidential convoy approaching already.”

  He was right. A line of black cars was moving at full speed down the road from Altus, with motorcycle out-riders front and rear.

  Ruth felt her heart thumping. In spite of the tension and urgency and the pace at which events were moving, something was wrong with this whole setup.

  “Tom, is your man still with Donny?” Reports of Donny’s death in the attack had been a deliberate exercise in misinformation.

  “He is. Why?”

  “I don’t think he’s told us the whole truth. He talked of a possible chemical agent being sprayed from the drones, but he’s planning on dropping them all on a small area like this Freedom Field? It doesn’t make sense—and it’s too random. What if the tubes don’t deploy or the wind blows the spray the wrong way?”

  “What’s your point, Ruth? It’s getting a little tight here.”

  “Malak’s a planner—we know that. He’s got organisation and he’s selling this proposed strike on Altus and the president like crude oil futures. Why would he risk it all going wrong on a change of the wind? You’ve got to ask Donny what else he’s using.”

  A brief silence, then Brasher said, “I hear you. Back in two.”

  “I hope he’s quicker than that,” said Dave. He was throwing glances at the sky, where the shape of a huge cargo aircraft could be seen approaching in the distance. “We’re running shy on time here.”

  Seconds later Brasher was back. He sounded both mad and desperate enough to forget formal communications. “The l
ittle shit was playing us, all right. He says there’s only one—repeat, one—tube of chemical, because that’s all Malak could get his hands on.”

  “What about the other drones?” Rush asked. As Brasher was speaking she was watching the Globemaster lumber in closer and was sure the rear cargo ramp was already open, ready for the SWAT team to make their exit.

  “Explosives,” Brasher confirmed. “He says the plan was for each of the remaining three to be fitted with a pack of C-4, to be triggered automatically when the drone reaches the map coordinates. Coming in at twenty feet, anybody caught underneath will be wiped out. They’re also carrying red powdered dye, although I have no idea why.”

  “I do. It’s for effect. With all the television crews around, he’ll want to give his financial backers a show they’ll remember. It’ll go round the world in minutes.”

  “So which ones will he use where?” Dave asked.

  Vaslik supplied the answer. “Didn’t Donny say Malak knows how to change the coordinates? My guess is he’ll use the spray over the base for maximum damage and reserve the explosives for Freedom Field where all the broadcast media will be focussing.”

  Brasher started to say something, then came a shout in the background and his voice changed. “You’re out of time! The SWAT team’s away … you’d better land now! Out.”

  He was right. One look showed the Globemaster banking away from the drop zone, leaving behind a line of specks falling through the sky. They seemed to be dropping much too fast and too low, but it was clear they were going for a freefall deployment and a low-altitude opening in order to get on the ground as quickly as possible.

  One by one, when it seemed far too late, the parachutes began to blossom like flowers and separate from each other in a mesmerising display of skill.

  “Hold tight.” Dave took the machine down as fast as he dared, virtually standing it on its nose and hovering just above the ground a couple of hundred yards away from the army patrol vehicle. There were no signs of movement, but they could see the shape of a body on the ground nearby.

  “He must be in the trees,” said Vaslik and pulled his handgun, checking the load.

  “Can you manage?” Ruth asked, pointing at his wounded arm.

  He grinned tightly and said, “I’ve got two arms. Let’s go!”

  fifty-one

  James Chadwick watched from the interior of the patrol vehicle as the Globemaster droned overhead then banked away, leaving behind its human cargo hanging like a music score in the sky. Malak was nearby and Bilal was out of sight among the trees behind them, watching for security patrols, his assault rifle like a kid’s toy in his hand.

  Malak had made them put on combat uniform, boots, and helmets. None would stand up to close inspection by genuine military personnel, but with the vehicle they were in, they had so far survived the passing of two other patrols and a police officer, all of whom had slowed on seeing them. Each time, Malak had jumped out and stood by the hood, using binoculars as cover in a pretence of scanning the ground. He had returned a wave from one patrol, a convincing imitation of a man focussing on his job and not open to interruption, and the tactic had worked; each of the patrols had driven on by without stopping and left them alone, intent only on spotting non-military or -police vehicles.

  James glanced towards the open rear door and felt his stomach rebel. He could just see the legs of the man who had brought Malak the patrol vehicle and uniforms; he was now lying dead with a bullet in his stomach. When Malak had handed him a rifle and told him to take his place alongside Bilal on the outside and get ready to help, he had protested that he was a mechanic, not a fighter, and did not belong here.

  Malak’s response had been swift and brutal. Waiting for a passing news helicopter to go by, he’d pushed the man out of the vehicle, then jabbed the barrel of a pistol into his stomach and pulled the trigger. The report, muffled against the man’s body, had still sounded deafening to James, but the noise had gone unnoticed, drowned out by the clatter of the rotors overhead.

  It was yet another sign of just how unpredictable this man was, and how unhinged his actions and attitude were fast becoming as his stress levels began to mount.

  Malak climbed back inside as if nothing had happened and focussed on the parachute team, counting the jumpers out loud. He was toying nervously with a cell phone from the box by his side, and kept checking it was powered up. James guessed that at the critical moment he would use it to give word to whoever he was working with that the strike was about to take place.

  He looked down at the box and saw that it now contained only two phones. There had been at least half a dozen yesterday, along with some strips of wire, the purpose of which had escaped him. So where had the others gone? And the packs of C-4?

  Then he saw something that made his gut recoil. One of the phones was wrapped in packaging tape, and attached to it was a dark pack of C-4. The tape had a number written on it in ink.

  “What are they doing?” Malak’s voice jerked his attention away from the box. The terrorist had stopped counting at twenty, and was scowling. “Is that all? The news reports said there would be at least double that number.” He shook his head and pulled a face in disgust. “Maybe that’s all this warmongering president deserves; twenty fools who will also die with him.”

  James said nothing; he was too busy wondering what other surprises the man had prepared for today. In any case, Malak wasn’t interested in his views, only those tumbling around in his own twisted mind. Moments later he saw something that Malak had missed: another Globemaster was lumbering into view, this one higher and farther back, on a parallel course but closer to the base. He felt a sense of excitement, even hope. He had no way of knowing for certain, but if the plane spilled another team, it could only mean that the first twenty currently dropping to earth were not trainees but … something else altogether!

  Malak grunted and moved restlessly in his seat. His instincts must have been telling him something wasn’t right. A sound like a moan came from deep in his chest, followed by slapping James’s knee with the back of his hand.

  “Get them in the air,” he said softly. “Do it now. Now!” To reinforce the point, he took out his semi-automatic and held it in his lap. “Remember—no mistakes and no tricks.”

  James picked up the control unit and took a deep breath, adjusting the video screen so that Malak couldn’t see it, pretending he was tilting it against the light. “They’re all set on the coordinates you entered,” he reminded Malak and winced; his voice had come out a little too loud in the cramped interior. He pretended to flick on the power switch and wait for the screen display to light up, but it was already showing a full array of data. His heart was thudding and his mouth felt as dry as the dusty soil outside, whereas his hands were slippery with sweat on the plastic casing.

  It had all come down to this.

  He’d taken advantage of the few minutes Malak had spent standing outside playing security man to affect the outcome of the next few minutes. In spite of his earlier claim, using the screen’s icons had been second nature to him. But it had been a close call; Malak had nearly caught him with the control unit in his hands and he hadn’t had time to switch off the screen. All it would take was for Malak to spot that it was active and he would know for sure that it had already been accessed.

  James toggled the control stick and watched as the read-out showed data coming in from each of the drones where they had been placed during the night under cover of running a security patrol, each one about a mile out and a quarter of a mile from its neighbour. Malak had made him feed homing coordinates into each one, and he selected concealment locations that were invisible in dead ground away from any of the roads criss-crossing the area. Even a careful study of the area through binoculars would not reveal them unless a security patrol went off-road and actually stumbled over them. And he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  Moskito
One. In the air.

  Two. Lifting off.

  Three. A momentary flicker of the figures, then moving up.

  Four. Nothing.

  He waited, then tapped the side of the handset and grunted. It was pure pantomime entirely for Malak’s benefit and he hoped it was convincing.

  “What is it?” Malak slid forward in his seat until he could see the read-outs. “Number four—why is there no signal? What have you done?” His voice was frantic and his face became suffused with blood. “Get me the feed for number four and the visual!” He was referring to the cameras on each drone, which would show their progress on the video screen as they lifted off, and their flight path ahead.

  “I can’t.” James moved the control but with no reaction from number four. “It’s not responding. Isn’t that the one Bilal placed closest to the base? It could be there’s a signal blocker in operation. Maybe he hid it too well.”

  Malak stared at him and James felt the full power of his gaze; the same power that the dead man outside must have experienced before being shot. He found himself counting, as if that would somehow provide a barrier against him suffering the same fate.

  Instead of pulling the trigger, Malak grabbed the control unit and tried to get a reaction, but without success. He thrust it back into James’s hands and pushed the pistol barrel hard against his forehead, grinding it into the skin.

  “You have one chance only,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour. “You will make sure the three other drones come in on target, or I will kill you. Then I will order the elimination of your wife, your son, and your filthy whore. That is my promise.” To emphasise the point, he took out his cell phone and held it in the air.

  James felt the sweat trickling down his forehead, and for the first time in his life experienced complete and utter helplessness. There would be only one outcome for himself, he was certain of that; the dead man outside was the clearest indicator. But he couldn’t even countenance the same fate for Elizabeth, Ben, or Valerie. He wasn’t sure even now if he would have the courage to do the right thing if the situation arose. Disarming drone number four had been simple, but doing something physical was altogether different, as Malak was watching him far too closely.