Omega

The wind had strengthened and the men on the ridge were dusted with snow that was pluming up the incline, drowning the entire world in white haze. Here the winter often extended into April or May, whereupon much of the landscape became a radiation-and toxin-soaked quagmire with the spring thaw. Rasputitsa, the Russians called it: the roadless season.

The dashboard clock showed that they had been in the field for two hours. The original plan was to have CommandCom arrange helicopter pick-up as soon as they accomplished their mission. With the link down, they faced a long drive out of the zone and might need to scavenge extra fuel.

The drone withdrew back over the apartment area, where suddenly there were many more men emerging from the buildings. Without waiting for van Oost’s instructions, Vassall reduced its altitude to take a closer look.

“Fool,” the major muttered. “We’re upwind.”

He jerked his head out the cabin door and shouted to the corporal to pull up. But it was already too late. A squat man wearing an antique leather pilot’s helmet suddenly pointed straight up at the camera.

Vassall accelerated the drone away. There was the cracking sound of small arms’ fire as it raced towards the perimeter wall. It jerked and began flying in an erratic path up and over the wall.

One of the wings had been damaged: that much was obvious from the roll of the craft as it took in woodland, sky, woodland again. Vassall was battling to keep it in the air. At one point the picture whirled completely out of focus, as if it were somersaulting. Then it was back on course again, but with its altitude dropping.

“I see it,” Sabrioglu shouted, peering through binoculars.

Owain followed van Oost out to the ridge. He heard Sabrioglu mutter something in Turkish before saying: “It’s going to come down in the trees.”

Vassall was on his knees in front of the case screen, frantically toggling.

“A down draught took it,” he said.

“Get it higher,” van Oost told him. “If we lose it you’re in shit to your eyeballs.”

“Can’t we make do with what we’ve got?”

The major didn’t dignify this with a reply. He wanted the image-bank from the drone so that they could go home with visual evidence that was absolutely unambiguous.

Vassall furiously tapped buttons on his keypad. The drone cleared the forest and flew towards the incline, still dropping. It was going to crash straight into the ground.

“Cut the power,” the major said calmly. “Try for a soft landing.”

Vassall did as he was ordered. The drone fell, the screen picture yawing and jolting before it stabilised again. A dark line of snow obscured half of it, the rest showing ashen sky.

“It’s down in one piece,” Vassall said redundantly.

“Right,” said van Oost. “So just stroll down there and pick it up, there’s a good fellow.”

Vassall looked at him anxiously. His freckled face was flushed.

“I was given express orders to remain with the vehicle at all times. Sir.”

The corporal had been sent in to provide extra technical support, but it was obvious he wasn’t a team player. Neither did he have a sense of humour.

“You prick,” van Oost said. He told Benkis and Sabrioglu to prepare for the descent.

“Stay here with the wagon,” he instructed Owain. “Vassall will launch another drone while we’re down there and do an overfly at altitude. Make sure he keeps it high. Get some panoramic shots, and then bring it home.”

“Why another fly-over?”

The major looked at him as if the question was stupid. “In case we don’t make it back, captain. If we get into trouble you take the wagon out of here, understand?”

Vassall was already launching the second drone. Owain crouched on the bro the ridge as the men descended in loping, sideways strides, the major leading, his automatic tucked under one arm. Owain heard a familiar heart-wrenching screech. The slope exploded, snowy turf and earth flying over the brow.

Vassall had returned to the wagon, leaving the laptop unattended. Its screen showed the drone already flying over the base.

Owain raised his head over the ridge. There was no sign of van Oost and the others through the haze and smoke. Another shell erupted close to the first.

Keeping low, Owain used the toggle to send the drone in a wide arc over the plain, photographing at five-second intervals. The outlines of the tanks and trucks were clearly visible through the netting. He took a series of photographs and gave the drone the return command.

Still the incline was clotted with dirty white smoke. Nothing was visible.

Owain backtracked on elbows and knees before hoisting himself up into the Spectre’s doorway. Vassall was sitting at a workstation he’d unfolded from a compartment behind the driver’s seat. Hood and mask thrown off, he was furiously typing instructions into a keyboard. Data streams were rushing across the screen, line upon line of letters and numbers that were meaningless to Owain.

“What are you doing?” Owain shouted. “We need you out here!”