41,000 feet above Maine
From the co-pilot’s seat of the commandeered passenger jet, Jack Tate watched the August sky. It was a sea of blue. Sailing through it, he could have been forgiven for believing the events of the last twelve hours had not taken place, were just a false memory or a bad dream. The United States of America had been attacked by a Russo-Chinese private military contractor. The course of history and humanity had been forever changed by an electromagnetic pulse bomb, and he was bang in the middle of it all. Tate prodded the Chinese pilot with his Glock 17. ‘Tell me what you know.’
‘About what?’ the pilot replied.
‘Start with simple facts. What type of jet is this?’
‘It’s a Gulfstream G650ER.’
‘What’s its maximum range?’
‘At Mach 0.85, 13,890 kilometres.’
Tate calculated the distance. ‘So that’s Beijing to Houlton, with give or take 3,500 k in reserve?’
‘Yes.’
‘You came from China directly to Maine?’
The pilot didn’t reply.
Tate nudged him with the Glock. ‘Did you fly directly from China to Maine?’
‘Yes.’
Tate didn’t believe him; there had been no tanker waiting to refuel the jet but he let it go for the moment. ‘What were your orders?’
‘Collect the Russians.’
‘And take them where?’
‘Moscow.’
Now Tate knew the man was lying. Without refuelling he’d fall out of the sky. ‘This jet is configured to seat fourteen passengers. How many men were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who did?’
‘The man you shot.’
‘He shouldn’t have pulled a submachine gun on me.’ The man had sealed his own fate. ‘Where are your parachutes?’
‘W … why?’
‘Because I can’t fly.’
‘There is a locker behind my seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Tate opened the cabinet. Inside he saw two parachutes, two life preservers, and a flare gun. He bundled a chute under his left arm. ‘Now I’m going to ask you more questions and you are going to answer. And if you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’m going to put a bullet in your left leg, then I’ll move on to your right and if you still don’t answer I’ll shoot a hole in the instrument panel.’ The pilot visibly stiffened, his face a mask of worry as Tate struggled into the snug harness. ‘I can’t fly a plane but I can fly a parachute, and I won’t hesitate to open the emergency exit and jump if I have to. Do you understand me?’
‘Y … yes.’
‘Good.’ Tate sat. ‘Now, let’s start with an easy question: what’s your name?’
‘Chi Kong Pang.’
‘Which unit are you with, Pang?’
‘Please, I’m just a pilot. My orders were to fly to Maine.’
‘We both know that’s not true.’
‘I’m telling you the truth.’
Tate nodded. The man’s hands were shaking on the controls, and sweat dripped down his face. ‘Where are you from, Pang?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Shanghai.’
‘How many pilots born in China speak English well enough to pass as Americans?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You fly a plane, you’re part of a clandestine mission, and you speak English like a US native? That makes you MSS – Ministry of State Security?’
‘No!’ The pilot’s eyes became wide. He took a moment to recover his senses. And then his mouth went into overdrive. ‘Please I’m not with the MSS – you’re wrong! I’m not a spy. I would never spy. I’m just a pilot. I used to work for Air China. The man you shot, he was ex-Chinese Air force – fast jets, not me. He had the gun – look at me? I’m just trying to fly this and to stay alive.’
‘What’s the airline code for Air China?’
‘The IATA code is CA. And the ICAO code is CCA.’
‘OK. Explain to me then why you are here.’
‘The money of course.’
‘And why is your English so good?’
‘I studied at the Beijing Normal University, with the Princetown in Beijing programme.’
‘OK, Pang.’ He didn’t want the man to lose control of the plane. ‘I believe you. Now tell me about the EMP.’
‘I swear, I didn’t pilot that plane.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘The weapon was released at a specific point into the atmosphere in order to cover the continental United States.’
‘What about Canada?’
‘The splash radius will affect some parts of Canada and Mexico.’
‘Are there any more, or was this a one-off attack?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are there plans to attack the UK or Europe?’
‘I do not know. I’m a pilot. I just fly the plane.’
Tate dug the Glock harder into Pang, who winced. ‘I won’t ask you again. Where did you fly in from?’
‘Washington.’
‘Thank you.’ It made sense; a full tank of fuel would get the jet from Washington to Houlton and then to Beijing, or Moscow, and they’d just escaped the Russians in Houlton … ‘Is there a second Russian base in Washington?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really? Don’t lie. That’s where you flew in from.’
Pang sighed, his defences defeated. ‘College Park Airport.’
Tate frowned. ‘Where?’
‘It’s outside the city, a small commercial place with a museum.’
‘What were the targets in Washington?’
‘The targets? I don’t understand; the EMP targeted everyone.’
‘OK. Take me to College Park, and remember, Pang, I have a chute on.’
‘Please, you must understand! I am just like you. I am a working man, a professional just following orders.’
‘That’s what the Nazis said.’ Orders, the word rolled around in Tate’s head. ‘How do you talk to the outside world?’
‘The radio, of course.’
‘No good,’ Tate mused. The range was too short and it was hard to encrypt. ‘Do you have a sat phone?’
‘Of course.’
‘Give it to me.’
Pang deliberately reached under his seat and pulled a large handset out from a Velcro pocket.
Tate grabbed the phone with his left hand, powered it up, and tapped in a number he knew by heart.
Pamela answered on the second ring: ‘Newman.’
‘It’s Tate.’
‘Jack, where are you?’ Her voice sounded strained.
‘I’m in a stolen Gulfstream somewhere above Maine.’
‘Did you say stolen?’
Tate explained events since he had last spoken to her, mere minutes before the EMP hit the USA, and his suspicions of a Russian “wet” operation, the reappearance of Maksim Oleniuk and finally the loss of his witness, Oleg Sokol.
There was a pause as Tate imagined she processed what he had told her and then Newman’s voice sounded hoarse as she replied. ‘We have no contact with any of our staff at the embassy. GCHQ has detected a few transmissions from ham radios but apart from that, the airwaves are dead.’ She paused; Tate could hear her sip what he knew would be chamomile tea. ‘I imagine “the opposition” are listening in to this call, but I have no other choice. Jack, you are the only asset we are in contact with in theatre. We need you to re-establish contact with Opening Bat.’
‘Got that.’ Tate allowed himself a smile. SIS had given each member of the Washington Embassy staff code names derived from cricket, a sport that very few outside of the British Commonwealth understood and many within were baffled by. Opening Bat was the code name for Simon Hunter, stationed at the British Embassy.
‘We have credible intel that Wicket Keeper is at risk.’ The British Ambassador to Washington, Anthony Tudor, code name Wicket Keeper had been based in Moscow when Russia annexed Crimea. He had not held back on his disdain for the Kremlin’s new foreign adventures and actively supported economic sanctions.
‘Got that,’ Tate said again.
‘Jack, our closest asset to you is HMS Daring. She’s attending festivities at Nelson’s dockyard, Antigua. If I can re-task her, she’s two days’ sailing out of Norfolk Naval Base. Jack, this is down to you. Locate Opening Bat, extract Wicket Keeper and all other UK personnel.’
A thin, sardonic smile creased Tate’s face. It was a huge task. His boss made it all sound so easy, but he did have a stolen executive jet. ‘Will do.’
‘Good luck,’ Newman said, and the line went dead.
Houlton, Maine
Before the Chinese jet had approached, there had been no interest from the local population of Houlton, some five miles away, but the noise of its approach and departure had caused a steady stream of townspeople to descend upon the airport. They milled around outside the perimeter and a couple had attempted to clamber over the wrecked Chevy Tahoe positioned strategically in place of the shattered entrance gates. The Blackline team had withdrawn their serviceable vehicle into the voluminous hangar and kept watch from behind darkened observation windows. The door was secured, as was the team in their EMP-proofed operations centre.
Oleg Sokol lay on a military-style cot in the office at the rear of the hangar, which had been made into a temporary sickbay. He was conscious and due to the morphine flooding his system, felt no pain. He had overheard the team medic state he didn’t know how much time he had left. Sokol’s drug-numbed brain tried to understand what the man meant: time left for what? Was he going somewhere?
‘How are you feeling?’ a voice asked, without warmth.
‘I am great, thank you for your concern.’ His tone was jovial. The morphine made Sokol light-headed, ecstatic.
‘My concern?’ The voice belonged to Former GRU Major Valentin Volkov, a man Oleg knew reasonably well. Volkov sat on a chair next to the military cot. ‘You are a traitor to Russia. My concern only is the amount of damage you have caused. I am within my rights to have you shot, do you understand me?’
‘Da.’
‘If you cooperate, I may let you live. Who was he, the maniac who stole our airplane?’
Oleg smiled lazily. ‘His name was Jack Tate.’
Volkov leaned forward in the chair. ‘Who is Jack Tate?’
‘The manic who stole your airplane.’
‘Other than that,’ Volkov snapped, ‘who is Jack Tate?’
‘He is an Englishman.’
‘What?’ Volkov’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘He is not American?’
Oleg continued to smile; he couldn’t help it. He was drifting on an opiate-created cloud. ‘He is a British spy …’
Volkov’s face flushed with anger. ‘You have betrayed our mission to the British?’
‘He discovered the mission. He captured me. I was his prisoner.’
‘You were attempting to board the plane with him? You were trying to escape the USA!’
Oleg sighed. He couldn’t lie – the morphine had loosened his tongue. ‘I was going to fly to London and tell the British everything.’
‘Is that where Tate is heading now, to London?’
‘Perhaps; wouldn’t you? I hear the beer is rather good.’
Volkov grabbed Oleg’s head with his heavy hands. ‘You are lying to me! The transponder is switched on; we are tracking the plane. It is not heading in that direction. Where is he going?’
Oleg did not react to the vice-like grip. He could not feel it. ‘Perhaps then he is headed to Washington – his brother works in Washington.’
Volkov let go. Oleg’s head fell back onto the thin pillow. Fresh bloodstains seeped through the field dressing on his chest. ‘What have you told Jack Tate of our mission?’
‘Everything …’
Volkov clamped down on Oleg’s mouth with his thick palm. Oleg found this to be a strange act. What was Volkov doing? And then the edge of his vision started to grey out. He tried to open his eyes wider but couldn’t and then everything went black.
George Washington Medical Center, Washington, DC
Chang sat in the hospital corridor, head in hands. Both of the English women were sprawled out over several comfy chairs in the relatives’ waiting room, trying to sleep. The doctor who had operated on Eric Filler confirmed that while not directly life-threatening – no organs had been hit – Eric did need to remain immobile. Battlefield surgery was the term Chang had heard used. Eric had been given painkillers, and of course no electronic equipment was available.
The fatigue was again getting to Chang. He glanced at his mechanical wristwatch; it was now past six in the evening. An entire workday had passed since the attack and still he and the nation were not safe, and that was why he was still on duty. He’d have to remember to put in for the overtime. He had left the sat phone in the car and gone down to check it. There had been no further calls and he hoped, as had been his intention, that the location of the parking lot – underground – had blocked the signal. Still the urge to use the phone to get help had been almost overwhelming, but Chang had resisted. Besides, he had no idea who he could call. He presumed that most news organisations would have sat phones, yet none of the channels were broadcasting. The same for government agencies, but every contingency plan he had ever seen relied on the use of electronic devices, vehicles at the very least.
He felt trapped. The three Brits were alive because of him but what more could he do to protect them? Chang decided he’d outlived his helpfulness here. His duty was to the police department, to protect and serve the citizens of Washington, and that’s what he’d do. He’d report for duty, help in any way he could, use the functioning taxi as an official vehicle … but … but he had killed two men.
Chang stood, drifted to the window and gazed out at the city below. The shootings had been justified; he would write them up as such.
Chang took the stairs down in the direction of the underground parking lot. With the elevators out of order, his progress was slow, as the stairwell was busy with medical staff and concerned relatives. In his light sports jacket and slacks, he looked more like a doctor than some of the white-coated staff and had to fend off an elderly gentleman enquiring about his sister.
The jostling intensified as he reached the lower, busier floors and then he froze. He recognised the face of a man climbing up toward him. Their eyes locked and Chang knew that he had less than a second to react. Chang grabbed the shoulders of the woman next to him and shamefully shunted her forward. She shrieked and fell, arms flailing towards Ruslan, one of the two Russians who had kidnapped the women.
At the same time, the Russian was reaching for his silenced Beretta. He thrust his left arm up, but it was too late to fend off the impact. The woman collided with him, causing the Russian to spin backward, hit the safety railing, and tumble down several steps.
Chang turned on his heels and pumped his legs; he was four steps away from the nearest floor and a door. He burst through and sprinted along the corridor. It was dim without its strip lights as all the doors were closed and the only light came from a window at the far end. There was a second stairwell to the left of the window; if he could reach that, he had a chance of getting away, but if the Russian caught up with him before he got there, he’d be an easy target.
Chang had an idea. He’d open the doors, use them to confuse his pursuer or perhaps draw people out into the hall. He ran, slipping and sliding on the institutional linoleum, his loafers struggling for grip. He passed the first door – it was too near to the stairwell so he ignored it – and flung open the second. The room inside was dark and seemed devoid of life. He opened the next and as he was about to open his third, the fourth door along, there was a crashing noise behind him.
Chang turned to see the stairwell door rebounding against the wall and Ruslan entering the hall, pistol in hand. In panic, Chang tried to increase his pace but careered into a medical cart he’d not spotted in the gloom and lost his footing. He went down hard. Winded, he scuttled behind the cart, now trapped in the darkness with only stacks of paper towels, bottles of surgical spirit and other supplies for cover.
Chang knew he was going to die; time seemed to slow. Chang allowed himself a resigned smile, perhaps things were preordained? Perhaps he was meant to die here as a coward running away from his duties? No. He still had time to change that; he could go out as a hero! A police officer doing his sworn duty, or he could break the rules and try to survive … An idea entered his head. It was crazy, it was dangerous and it was illegal but it was the only way he could see of getting out of this.
*
A silence hung in the air. The hall was still and dark. The last light of the day from the window at the opposite end made it hard for Akulov to pick out any detail, but he knew someone was there. The taxi driver wasn’t an athlete, he couldn’t have gotten far, and the door to this hall was the nearest and most obvious choice for an escape route. He was going to have to hunt the man.
Akulov cocked his head to one side and listened. Voices carried from the stairwell behind, but nothing from within the hall. He noticed the outlines of several open doors and cursed, silently as he realised his quarry could have hidden in any of the adjoining rooms. He scanned the space. There were at least ten doors on each side. If he ventured into one room it gave the other man a chance to get to the opposite stairwell and away. But what if the man wasn’t running? What if he was waiting to strike?
On instinct he ignored the first door and then was about to enter the second when he froze. A noise, ahead. He edged along the wall, raised his Beretta and fired two supressed rounds at a dark outline. The first round made no noise as it impacted into something soft, and the second sparked as it hit metal and ricocheted. Akulov paused. And waited. There was still no movement. He took a chance and went through the open door into the dark room. He carved arcs with his Beretta, left to right. No target. A conference table and six chairs sat in the middle. He went prone and looked under the table. His eyes – now more and more adjusted to the half-light – confirmed that the room was empty.
Quickly, up on his feet, he swung back into the hallway and advanced, weapon up. One step, two, three, he was level with a third door … and then his eyes tracked an object arcing towards him … an object he was familiar with. It was bottle-shaped and had a flaming end.
He tried the door next to him, but it was locked. As the object neared, he took three fast steps and ran at a door on the opposite side of the hall. It gave way and he crashed into the room just as the object landed on the linoleum, shattered and sent a sheet of flame racing in all directions.
*
Chang, shaking now with anger rather than fear, held a second glass bottle of surgical spirit in one hand and his lighter in the other. He moved the flame towards the wad of paper towels he’d stuffed in the open end. He silently chuckled to himself. He hoped the Russian liked to drink, because he was about to be served another Molotov Cocktail!
Akulov ran from a room on the left side of the hall. Chang hurled the improvised explosive directly at the assassin and ducked back into cover. He waited for the explosion.
Immediately after hearing the “whompf” of the spirit igniting, and using every last ounce of his courage, Chang rose back to his feet and, expecting to immediately be hit in the chest with a bullet, adopted the police department’s preferred two-handed Weaver stance. His Glock pointed back down the hall, towards the wall of flames. His finger was tense on the trigger. But then barely audible above the roaring of his own blood in his ears and the crackle of the flames, two rounds flew at him.
Chang felt superheated air pass over his left cheek and something tug at the lapel of his jacket. Heart now beating in his chest, like a deranged death-metal drummer, Chang’s feet scrambled backwards across the slick, institutional linoleum and towards the door to the stairwell as he tried to escape the line of fire. He was level with it when the exit door opened and a pair of orderlies stepped out. Chang yelled, ‘Get back! Metro Police!’
Eyes wide at the scene before them, they darted back inside the stairwell. Chang’s finger overcame the second resistance on the Glock’s trigger. He fired. His unsuppressed round left the barrel with a seemingly thunderous retort that echoed off the bare walls and floor. The Russian appeared, charging at him through the flames. The round hit Ruslan in the chest. He jerked backwards and sideways, stumbling into the wall, but did not fall.
Chang’s eyes widened as the Russian carried on striding forward, his Beretta now held in one hand. Chang tried to relax and remember his training. He fired a second, a third and a fourth round. The first two went wide, as the Russian jerked sideways, contemptuously, out of their path. But the last one struck him again in the chest. The Russian fell to his knees, but as he did so, he sent a volley of rounds back at Chang. His left shoulder was jerked backwards and he collapsed onto his back. He heard the window behind him shatter as the remaining Russian rounds flew through it.
Chang felt no pain, just anger. He frantically moved his feet, pushing at the linoleum with his hands, and managed to get back to his feet. The Russian was on his feet too but bent forward. The big man charged at him like a linebacker, like a wrestler. Chang felt himself relax; he had this. He knew what to do. He took a step backwards, taking himself nearer to the broken window. The Russian was almost upon him, rage in his eyes. Chang met the much larger man, grabbed him and using his opponent’s own momentum threw him up and over his shoulders. The Russian crashed into the remaining wooden frame of the window but continued on, through the gap, and out into the night.
Chang rolled over onto all fours, panting like a crazed dog. ‘Wax on, wax off.’ He mumbled to himself. He moved his hands to get to his feet and his left one touched something. Chang shook his head. It was the thick plastic casing of a Chevrolet car key. He pocketed it and stood.
Chang looked out of the broken window, but couldn’t see the Russian’s body below. He sighed. What had he done? What was he doing? What he had to do was contain the fire. The flames in the hallway had not yet taken hold of the entire space. He had to tackle them. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from its mounting next to the exit and started to spray foam over the encroaching fire. Although the linoleum had melted, starting to release a foul-smelling smoke, and the paint on the walls had blackened, nothing else had caught fire. Chang dropped the depleted extinguisher and felt extinguished himself.
It was then that he noticed a dull ache in his shoulder and remembered he’d been shot, but he had full motion of his arm and shoulder. What had happened? Using his right hand, he probed his left shoulder. There was a tear in his jacket and through this he gingerly pushed his finger and felt his skin. He pushed gently. The pain flared but was bearable – a flesh wound.
Chang let out a sigh and looked at the broken window. He’d now murdered three people; it was getting easier and he was getting better at it. No, Chang reasoned, they had not been murders, they were justifiable homicides. All three suspects had resisted arrest and pulled weapons on him. If anything, he should get a commendation for finding and shooting the Russian killer.
Chang nodded, and said aloud, ‘Justifiable homicide.’