Juggernaut

Both men were ex-GROM. Polish ‘thunderbolt’ special forces. Recruited by the CIA seven years ago. Training and indoctrination at the US Army School of the Americas, Fort Benning. Seven years’ billet in downtown Columbus. Part of a language immersion programme. Taught to speak American, think American. They were currently on retainer contracts running covert ops for the Office of Technical Services. Prisoner transports. Rendition flights. Hooded, hog-tied detainees flown to black interrogation centres in Eastern Europe and North Africa.

Tomasz checked his watch.

‘How long to the objective?’

‘Hour. Hour and a half, maybe. Return journey will be quicker. Should gain about thirty knots, once we’ve dumped the payload.’

There was a sat-com unit bolted to the flight control panel. A hi-tec addition to antique gauges and dials.

A faint voice:

‘Incoming plane, do you copy, over? Angel Flight can you hear me?’

Jakub put on headphones. He adjusted volume.

‘Angel Flight, do you copy, over?’

‘There they go again,’ said Jakub.

‘Same guy?’

‘No. He sounds South African. He’s using our channel, our encryption key. He must be for real.’

‘Angel Flight, this is fire support team Bravo Bravo Lima Two. There are men on the ground. Do you copy, over? Do not bomb this site. There are men on the ground requesting urgent assistance. We require immediate evacuation. Please respond.’

‘Maybe we should radio Koell,’ said Jakub. ‘Let him know there are people on site.’

‘He won’t give a shit.’

‘I think we should talk to him.’

‘Don’t be weak. You’ve got your orders. Just sit tight and fly the plane.’

‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Jakub. ‘Doesn’t seem right.’

Tomasz unbuckled his harness.

‘I’m going to check on our passenger.’

He ducked through the cabin door. He climbed down a short steel ladder into the hold. A wide cargo space ribbed with girders. A couple of overhead bulbs.

He blinked, tried to adjust to windowless cave-dark.

A huge object, a cylinder big as a van, beneath a canvas shroud.

Tomasz swayed, like a sailor crossing a deck in high seas. He untied rope and began to pull back the tarp.

‘Time to do your thing, baby.’

A giant thermobaric device. Twelve tons of high explosive.

White paint on black metal:

UNCHAINED MELODY

Tomasz patted the steel hull of the bomb.

‘Let’s make sweet music.’

The Gauntlet

Republican Guard. A button-popping fat guy with no arms. He fell, and struggled to his feet. He wove between burned-out sedans.

Voss shouldered his shotgun and braced his legs.

‘Gaan fok jouself,’ murmured Voss, as he lined up the shot.

The fat guy’s head exploded. Brain-splash. He toppled to the ground, half his head ripped away. His legs pedalled like he was still trying to walk. He churned circles in the dirt.

Gaunt checked his watch. He kicked the burned hubs of the fuel truck.

‘She’s got to be towed. Hitched to something big, and dragged to the locomotive.’

Voss pointed at the sky.

‘What the fuck is that?’

A distant, dove-grey plane circling like a vulture.

‘It’s the drone I told you about. Koell’s eye in the sky. We’re being surveilled. Watching us the whole time we’ve been out here.’

Voss took off his jacket and waved it back and forth.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Koell isn’t going to send the cavalry. He’s going to tape your death and post it online.’

Gaunt looked towards the Predator and flipped the bird.

‘Get that in infra-red, you fuck.’

Lucy stood at the carriage window and watched the drone through binoculars. The ghost-grey airframe of a UAV. Rolls-Royce turbofan tail engine. Eyeless, bulbous head. The Predator slow-circled the valley at high altitude.

‘You think it’s been up there this whole time?’ asked Amanda. ‘How long can those things stay airborne? Think it’s been shadowing us this past couple of days?’

‘Maybe.’

‘How much do you reckon it cost? A thing like that?’

‘Three-, four-million-dollar optics package. Doesn’t take much to run. Guy in a pilot van toggling a joystick, watching a screen.’

‘Shoot it.’

‘Too far out. Might as well throw rocks at the bastard.’

Lucy lowered her binoculars and turned her attention back to the truck. She adjusted focus.

‘Come on, guys,’ murmured Lucy. ‘Get your shit together. Move the damn truck.’

Gaunt opened the tool compartment above the rear fender. He found yellow canvas tow straps wound in a coil.

‘All right. Here’s the plan,’ said Gaunt. ‘We fire up the cash truck. Drive it from the temple. Use it to tow the tanker.’

They jogged across sand towards the citadel entrance. They passed between the twin gate towers. The burned-out choppers still smouldered in the central courtyard. The air was still bitter with the taint of burnt plastic.