by D C Alden
When the last person had passed him, he threw the revolver away and began crawling over Greta’s dead body towards the other end of the building.
Mike and his team took cover behind the heavy steel doors of the APC, weapons trained on the building. Inside, gunfire lit up the walls and ceilings. Shouts and screams competed with the shooting and concussive thump of stun grenades. Mike’s eyes scanned the windows as he listened to the calm, measured voices on the radio net they were dialled into. Much of it was in German. But not all of it.
‘Charlie Team, receiving.’
It was Unger. ‘Send it.’
‘Need you in here, asap.’
Mike whistled over to Finch. ‘We’re moving.’
Finch nodded, his SEALs taking point. Mike led his guys after them, weaving amongst the APCs. They squeezed past the lead vehicle, it’s nose buried in the lobby and covered in chunks of cinderblock. Mike saw a body crushed beneath the huge front tyres and kept moving. Unger and several of his men waited on the other side, spread around the walls of the lobby. The sound of gunfire was deafening.
‘What’s the deal?’
‘This place is a rat’s nest,’ Unger told him. ‘They’ve erected barricades and strong points all over the ground floor. We’re taking casualties.’
‘Any sign of Nunez?’
Unger shook his head, then pointed to the ceiling. ’Need you to clear the top floor.’
Mike nodded. ‘Roger that. Stand your snipers down.’
‘Already done. And don’t take any chances; these people are fanatics.’
Mike conferenced with Finch and the SEALs double-timed up the staircase, leapfrogging the two Austrians providing cover on the landing. Mike and his guys followed, watching the SEALs bracket the long, shadowy hallway, gun barrels sweeping for targets. Wind and rain lashed through the shattered windows, and bodies littered the blood-stained floor.
’A goddamn turkey shoot,’ Tapper whispered over the net.
Mike’s boots crunched glass as he approached the nearest window and signalled with his torch. He saw a flickering red response, then keyed his mic.
‘Objective is to secure this floor. Billy, take point, clear as we go, and watch your background. Nunez may be up here.’
Finch gave him a brief nod. ‘Roger. Moving…’
Mike left Boswell and Tapper to cover their rear and followed the SEALs down the hallway. His guys had a ton of CQB experience but the SEALs did this kind of thing in their sleep.
The hallway stretched away, shattered windows on the right, doors on the left, bodies in between them on the blood-soaked floor. The first three rooms were empty. The fourth was not. Bullets cracked through the door as Finch tested the handle, punching concrete chips out of the opposite wall. Finch turned and pointed along the line to Pat Flynn and his combat shotgun.
‘Breacher up.’
Ray leapfrogged the SEALs and studied the door. It had a cheap lock, so he covered it with his barrel. Finch counted him down with silent, gloved fingers.
Three, two, one…
The shotgun round blew out the lock, followed a half-second later by two flash-bang grenades that detonated inside the room with a blinding crack. The SEALs charged into the room, splitting left and right, firing as they moved. Mike followed them inside. He saw a young girl sprawled lifeless on the floor. Lying next to her was a grey-haired, middle-aged woman. She rolled around in pain, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her bloody stomach.
‘Hands! Hands!’ Finch yelled as he advanced towards her. Red dot lasers swarmed across her body. Her hands came up, one of them holding a revolver. Suppressed weapons chattered. Brass casings sang as they bounced across the floor. The woman died instantly, her eyes wide in death, the holes in her sweater bloodied and smoking.
‘Clear!’ Finch called.
‘Coming out!’ Mike yelled as they backed out of the room.
By the time they’d reached the end of the hallway they’d dropped another three targets. That left only one room to clear, behind a narrow door that looked like it might be a storeroom. Finch reached out and tried the handle. He shook his head. Flynn stepped up again and held the barrel of his shotgun an inch from the lock. Boom! The slug took a huge chunk out of the door and it swung inwards, shedding splintered wood.
‘Don’t shoot! Please! I’m unarmed!’
The room was small, not much more than a narrow space crammed with buckets and mops and a few shelves. And a large bearded man lying on the floor. A man with empty, bloodied hands and fear in his eyes. A man who spoke English.
Finch jammed his gun in the man’s face. ‘Do as I say and you’ll live.’
The man nodded several times, hands shaking.
‘Are you armed?’
The big beard shook violently from side to side.
‘Got a live one,’ Finch shouted over his shoulder. ‘Coming out.’
The SEAL commander backed out of the cramped space and ordered the man to crawl towards him. As soon as he was clear of the room, Mike and Flynn moved in. The prisoner’s hands and ankles were secured with plastic ties. He was searched, then hooded.
Mike hit the transmit button and spoke to Unger. ‘Upper floor is secure.’ He squatted down in front of the prisoner. ’What’s your name?’
‘Lucas,’ the hood said, twitching left and right.
Mike’s eyes narrowed behind his tactical goggles. ’Are you British?’
‘Yes.’
He yanked the prisoner’s hood off. Mike gestured to Tapper who swiped open a military-grade tablet. He pulled up the photofits, studied Lucas’s face.
‘Positive ID,’ Tapper confirmed.
Mike handed back the tablet and grabbed the collar of the man’s coat. ‘Where’s the hostage, Lucas?’
‘What hostage?’
Mike pulled his pistol and jammed it in Lucas’s chest. ’Last chance.’
‘What fucking hostage!’ Lucas wailed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
Mike had seen fear before. The Brit was telling the truth. ‘What about the virus? Where’s it kept? Tell me, right now!’
‘I don’t know, I swear! Marion and Philip, they’ll know. They’re in charge — ’
Mike pulled the hood back down over Lucas’s face. ‘Don’t move, don’t speak.’
The shooting downstairs had intensified, and Mike recognised the sound for what it was, a final, desperate, defensive action. Gunfire and flash-bangs shook the walls, and then several louder, heavier concussions.
‘Grenades,’ Finch observed.
Mike swore as he listened to the sounds of battle, registering the different weapon reports, trying and failing to count the rounds. He radioed Unger several times without success.
Finch shook his head. ‘Who the hell are they engaging down there? The goddamn Taliban?’
‘Fanatics,’ Mike told him.
Finch nodded to the prisoner at their feet. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘Clear down. Ground floor is secure.’ It was Unger, breathless over the radio.
Mike gathered his team and escorted the prisoner downstairs. He left them in the lobby and went looking for the Austrian commander. He found him in a canteen at the far end of the building. Or what used to be the canteen.
Mike ignored his own rule and flipped up his goggles. He waved his torch around; the carnage in the room was incredible. Charred furniture lay in a messy pile, a pointless barricade of tables, chairs, overturned cupboards, all of it turned into Swiss cheese by hundreds of bullet holes. The walls were pockmarked and blackened by multiple explosions, the windows blown out, the rain now falling across the blood-streaked floor. And the bodies lay everywhere, some piled on top of each other, many of them limbless and mangled beyond recognition. Mike couldn’t even tell what sex they were. He saw Unger walking towards him.
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘Let’s step outside,’ the Austrian said, steering Mike towards the hallway.
‘Fine b
y me. It’s a goddamn abattoir in here.’
‘Like I said, fanatics.’
Out in the hallway the Austrian troops were picking through the debris. ‘Call the NBC teams up,’ ordered Unger.
Mike flipped his goggles back down. ‘You find Nunez?’
Unger shook his head.
‘How many live ones have you got?’
‘They’re all KIA.’
’All of them?’
Unger shrugged. ’Prisoners were not a mission objective.’
Mike glanced over the Austrian’s shoulder, at the slaughterhouse behind him. Unger wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t just blood and cordite making Mike’s nose wrinkle.
‘We bagged one.’
Beneath the rim of his black helmet, Unger raised an eyebrow. ‘You did? Okay, we’ll take custody.’
Black uniforms gathered in the gloom, watching the exchange. They were still keyed up, gun barrels hot, trigger fingers still twitchy.
‘He’s American,’ Mike lied. ‘I’ve already called it in. We’ll take it from here.’
‘Wait a minute — ’
But Mike was already moving, striding back to the lobby where his guys had gathered behind the beached APC. Miller and Boswell had a hooded Lucas between them. Mike grabbed Tapper’s arm.
‘Call up the vans and get them to meet us out on the street.’
‘Already done,’ his XO told him.
‘Nice. Move the prisoner right now. Keep his head down and his mouth shut.’ Tapper obeyed immediately. Mike turned to the SEAL commander and said in a low voice. ‘We’re moving to the street. Cover our six, okay? The atmosphere’s getting a little frosty in here.’
‘Affirmative.’
Mike followed his team outside. The rain had stopped and night had fallen. The compound was a shadowy no-mans-land and Mike imagined crosshairs on his back all the way across the wet tarmac. He clambered over the rubble of the wall and out onto the darkened street where the two Mercedes vans idled by the kerb, lights off. Tapper had already bundled the Brit inside the team vehicle. Mike waited for the SEALs to board and slammed the door shut.
‘Airport, now,’ he ordered the driver. ‘Don’t stop for anything.’
He held on tight as the van took off at speed, followed by the comms van. Finch’s SEALs had already safed their weapons and were stripping off their gear. Mike leaned across and shook Finch’s hand.
‘Thanks, Billy. Good job.’
‘No problemo. What was the deal back there?’
Mike started pulling off his coveralls, mindful of the silent, hooded prisoner in their midst. ‘Let’s just say that the quicker we’re wheels up, the safer I’ll feel.’
‘Understood.’
They lapsed into a calm, professional silence as the two Mercedes Transporters threaded through the police cordons and headed east towards Vienna International Airport.
Double Down
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.’
The James S Brady press briefing room was packed, as she’d expected it to be. Every seat was taken, the aisles jammed, the cameras broadcasting live. As she stepped up to the podium and arranged her notes, the White House Press Corps retook their seats and settled in. Coffman slipped on a pair of red-framed designer glasses, cleared her throat and began.
‘Good afternoon.’
A chorus of respectful responses greeted her. She glanced around the faces in the room, saw the Coffman acolytes seated in the front rows, the sympathetic others seated in the chairs behind, all fervent admirers who’d sipped the Coffman Kool-aid and decided they liked the taste. This was a long way from a tough crowd. It would make the sell that much easier, but everything was in the wind right now, and although Coffman felt nervous about the future and what it might bring, she also felt a great deal of excitement. In fact, with the fate of billions in her hands and the pieces already in play, she realised she’d never felt happier.
‘As most of you know, fourteen US personnel serving in Afghanistan recently contracted a rare form of typhoid and are currently undergoing treatment at an undisclosed military installation outside of that country. None of the affected personnel are in any immediate danger and the families have been informed.’
Coffman raised her eyes. Everyone was staring at her, pens poised over notepads.
‘Some personnel who’d been exposed to the outbreak recently returned to their units here in the United States. These men and women have since been located, checked and cleared, however, the incident has highlighted the need to provide better screening and preventative measures for our brave men and women serving overseas. To that effect, the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, in conjunction with the CDC and its corporate sponsors, has begun an extensive immunisation program to protect our troops and DOD workers both here and abroad. This will be an ongoing program, and will be incorporated into the US military’s existing health systems, to ensure our troops are protected and remain able to defend our nation.’
Coffman sipped from a glass of chilled water as hands went up around the room. She ignored them and continued.
‘Moving on, the terrible tragedy of Baghdad just a few short months ago will live long in our memories, and the courage of those who made the ultimate sacrifice should always be remembered. Good prevailed that terrible day and night, but the forces of darkness are never far away.’
She stole another glance around the room, noting the inquisitive frowns, the shared looks. They could smell it, because reporters had that kind of nose. Something big was coming. One didn’t use phrases like forces of darkness without good reason.
‘A short time ago, US and Austrian counter-terrorism forces successfully neutralised a terrorist plot in the city of Vienna, a plot devised by a previously unknown group of environmental terrorists. The group threatened to release the H-1 virus in an unnamed city somewhere in the world if their demands were not met — ’
The room erupted. Hands shot up in the air as reporters clamoured to ask questions. Coffman waited until the furore had died before she continued.
‘The plot only came to light after a series of videos were sent to the State Department, confirming the retrieval of infected materials from the wreckage of the embassy in Baghdad by a rogue element in the Iraqi security forces. The materials were subsequently sold on the black market to an environmental terrorist group known as the Global Liberation Front…’
For the next few minutes Coffman filled in most of the blanks, then finished her statement by assuring the assembled media that the international intelligence community remained vigilant to all such threats. She kept it brief, and light on detail. She took another sip of water and prepared herself for the inevitable barrage.
‘Okay, I’ll take a couple of questions, then I’ll hand off to Paula Bustamante from Homeland Security. Jon?’ She pointed to the MSNBC reporter in the front row.
‘Thank you, Madam President. What form did these infected materials take and how have the Iraqis dealt with the security breach?’
‘Paula will get into the detail, Jon, but I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the Aswad administration for their cooperation in this matter. Rebecca?’
Rebecca Adams, CNN, a gushing sycophant.
‘Madam President, can you give us any background on the terrorists?’
‘The investigation is still ongoing, however we know that they were a well-organised group of environmental extremists from a mixture of European countries, most with long histories of violence. Again, Paula will give you more detail.’ She pointed to the smart-suited hack from Al-Jazeera. ‘Kim?’
‘Has the H-1 virus been recovered?’
‘The clean-up operation is still underway. The suburb of Vienna in which the cell was operating has been cordoned off and specialist teams are combing the site for contamination. So far nothing has been found.’
‘Was Vienna the target?’ the reporter persisted.
’It’s too early to speculate,’
Coffman told her, ’but international security agencies will continue to remain vigilant to all threats. Rachel?’
Rachel Phelps, BBC. A Coffman fangirl.
‘Madam President, there are unconfirmed reports that the UK government has recently raised its threat level to Critical in response to an unspecified WMD incident. Is this related in any way to the events in Vienna?’
‘I can’t confirm or deny that at this time,’ Coffman told her. She glanced at her watch; it was time to wrap things up, and the waters had been sufficiently muddied. ’Okay, I’ll take one more question.’
She looked around the room, seeking an unrecognisable face. It wouldn’t hurt to mix it up. Then she saw him, a balding, middle-aged man in the centre row with his hand in the air. She pointed directly at him.
‘Thank you Madam President, Ray Wilson, Washington Times.’
Coffman noticed a few heads turn. She wasn’t familiar with the name, but she knew the paper’s owner, Tammy Lindberg. Not an ardent support during Coffman’s presidential campaign but pretty positive overall. She smiled in anticipation of another softball question.
‘Ma’am, with regard to the recent events in Baghdad, can you confirm that US Special Forces were in Iraq to neutralise a bioweapon facility. One that was manufacturing the Angola virus for global dispersal?’
Definitely not softball.
Coffman kept her expression neutral as a jolt of electricity passed through the room. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about that, Mister Wilson.’
‘Can I ask why not?’
Coffman glanced at her notes, knowing the answer wasn’t there. ‘It’s classified,’ she told him.
’Ma’am, was the success of that mission directly linked to the collapse of President Stein’s administration?’
