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, but 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 his pistol into his stomach and pulled the trigger. The report, muffled against his 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 C4?
Then he saw noticed something that made his gut recoil. One of the phones was wrapped in packaging tape, and attached to it was a dark pack of C4. 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 further 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, whereas 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 while Malak had been 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 been accessed.
He 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 in homing coordinates into each one, and selected concealment locations which 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 camera 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.
‘Asim! They come!’ It was Bilal. He was pointing towards the area where the presidential party was gathering ready for the visit. Cars were arriving and parking under the directions of military police personnel, and a sizeable crowd had accumulated along with media vans and reporting crews around the wooden podium that had been placed there earlier. ‘They are here!’
Malak looked surprised and swore softly. ‘They are early. But no matter – the result will be the same.’
James looked too, and breathed a sigh of relief as the focus turned away from himself. Sure enough the presidential convoy was drawing up at the freedom field site, a line of black cars gleaming in the sun.
‘Get the drones here – now!’ Malak ordered him. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Two minutes.’ James felt sick. ‘No more than that.’ He wondered if the security cordon around the president would spot the drones, and if so, what they would do.
‘Who are they?’ It was Bilal again, now standing by the open rear door and pointing off to one side. ‘Is it a news team?’
Malak looked through the side window, and swore. One of the small civilian helicopters they’d seen overflying the area earlier was coming in to land not far away. Its descent was steep, and at the last second, just as it appeared about to smash into the ground, it flared level and hovered, the skids barely touching the coarse grass.
If Malak was expecting a news reporter or camera team to exit the craft, it was not to be. A man and a woman leapt out either side of the helicopter and ran in opposite directions, while the aircraft rose sharply back in the air. But instead of moving away, it held station at a hundred feet or so, a cloud of dust and foliage billowing from the downdraft of the rotors.
‘What is it doing?’ Bilal asked, his mouth open. ‘Asim?’
But Malak’s eyes were glued on the two people who had landed from the helicopter, his face expressing utter astonishment. James looked, too, and felt a jolt of hope. They were carrying weapons! And Malak had clearly recognised them.
And they were now heading in this direction.
‘Get them!’ Malak screamed, and reached out and slapped Bilal’s shoulder to jolt him into action. ‘Stop them now!’
For a second Bilal seemed rooted to the spot. Then he shook himself and lumbered out from behind the patrol vehicle and dropped to one knee, ready to open fire.
James felt powerless, his gut churning with fear. He had to do something – but what? He turned back to the video screen as the first of the drones headed towards the designated target area, the ground flashing by in a blur. He thought about simply making the drones dump into the ground, but knew he’d never get past downing the first one before Malak would shoot him dead.
He looked up through the front window towards the gathered crowd in the distance, and thought he saw a familiar figure stepping up to the podium and the assembled press microphones and cameras, amid a volley of flash-bulbs.
The US president.