Carter bulleted north on a ramrod-straight road for six kilometres. Foot to the pedal, white-knuckled hands gripping the wheel. Driven by a compulsive determination to stop Vann once and for all. Vann, and Bill Ramsey. The man who heard God whispering in his ear, telling him to blow up tens of thousands of civilians to prevent the Armageddon. Hard to believe that a guy like that had once been in charge of the CIA, Carter reflected. Had spent the past three years stalking the corridors of the White House, advising the president, setting the agenda on China.
Then again, maybe not.
As he closed in on the airfield, Carter kept glancing at the dashboard clock. Two fifty-nine. By his calculation he was eight kilometres from his destination. Eleven or twelve minutes out. Four or perhaps five minutes behind the truck. Valuable time had been lost searching the slotted Tajiks. But Vann and Ramsey would be unlikely to be moving at top speed towards the airfield, Carter thought. Partly because of the appalling state of the roads in Tajikistan. But also because they had five nuclear warheads rattling around in the back of the truck. Minds would be concentrated. Nobody wanted an accident in transit. Carter felt confident he could close the gap before they reached the airfield.
Put a couple of bursts in the tyres with the Dragunov.
Disable the vehicle.
Then drop Vann and Ramsey.
He bowled on for another kilometre before he hit a T-junction beside a truck stop.
Then his plan went to shit.
There were no road signs on the approach to the T. Nothing to indicate which way to go for the airfield. No signs at all.
Fuck.
Carter pumped the brakes and pulled over. He had to waste more precious minutes digging the map out from his rucksack and orientating himself. He found the route, took off again, made the right turn at the T, and then stamped down on the accelerator as he nosed the G-Wagon down a rough-hewn road. The route took him past a ruined landscape of dust-brown valleys and desolate fields. In the distance, he saw steep mountains, snow-covered peaks like neatly filed teeth. He saw no signs of habitation anywhere, no villages or petrol stations or market stalls. Just a vast expanse of nothingness.
The emptiest place in the world.
Five minutes out from the airfield.
Not long to go now.
Almost there.
Christ, it’s gonna be fucking close.
He pushed the G-Wagon as fast as it would go, desperate to make up the lost ground on Vann and Ramsey. The engine sounded its beast-like roar as the speedometer upticked above a hundred per. Carter felt the shudder in his bones as the SUV lurched over crater-deep potholes. At the same time he scanned the horizon. He was three minutes from the airfield now, but there was still no sign of the truck ahead. Which could only mean one thing, he knew. The truck had already arrived at the airstrip.
I’ve still got time, Carter told himself.
The jet would need to refuel before take-off, he reasoned. A long-haul flight to Taiwan. It would take a few minutes to unload the backpack nukes and transfer them to the private jet. There would have to be pre-flight checks. All of that. It would be incredibly tight, but there was still a chance he could make it.
Sixty seconds later, he crossed a concrete girder bridge over a narrow river, and then he caught sight of the airfield, four hundred metres to the north, separated from the road by a wide dirt field. The airfield was situated at the bottom of a narrow valley, surrounded by a flimsy chain-link fence, with steep scree-covered mountains on either side of the vale.
From his map study Carter knew that the single airstrip ran for about two kilometres on a north-east to south-west axis. Long enough to land a medium-sized jet. Built at the request of the domestic elite, Carter presumed. The president and his family would need a decent runway to fly in and out of the country on their private jollies.
A hundred metres further west he noticed that a section of the chain-link fence had been smashed apart. Tyre tracks ran through the dirt, stretching from the roadside to the breach in the perimeter, before they carried on again towards the north-eastern end of the runway two kilometres away. Carter knew then that Ramsey and Vann had gone off-road, crashing through the fence and cutting across the dirt field. Shaving off valuable seconds in their mad rush to make their getaway.
At the far end of the strip Carter descried a mid-sized jet, a white truck parked up beside it. He gripped the wheel even tighter and felt a hot surge of anticipation in his chest.
They’re still here. Thank Christ.
I’m still in the game.
He willed the G-Wagon on, pushing the engine hard as the road skirted in a clockwise direction around the edge of the airfield for several hundred metres. He hit the turn-off for the entrance, hung a sharp right and arrowed the vehicle east down the narrow access road.
There was no security presence at the airfield, no checkpoint or guardhouse. Just a gap in the chain-link fence leading to the tarmac apron at the far end of the access road.
Carter pelted past the entry point and stuck to the access road for four hundred metres. He highballed past the parking lot and stomped on the brakes just before he reached the row of sheds and hangars on the western fringes of the apron, skidding to a halt ten metres from the nearest shed. He sprang the side handle and dived out of the Benz, boots thudding against the asphalt. Scooted round to the rear door, popped it open and took out the Dragunov. Then he dashed towards the apron.
Carter was running on fumes now. He’d been pushing himself to the very limits of his endurance for almost two days, with virtually no sleep and hardly any sustenance. His muscles ached with tiredness, every cell in his body craved rest, but none of that mattered now. This was it.
Win or lose.
Do or fucking die.
He heard the blood rushing in his ears, felt his heart hammering inside his chest. Carter spurred his exhausted body forward. Summoning his inner reserves of strength for one last effort.
Keep moving.
Hurry.
Whatever happens, I’ve got to stop that jet from leaving.
He hit the south-eastern corner of the apron in two brisk strides and stepped out of cover from behind the nearest shed. In front of him was a tarmac stand the size of two football pitches. On the left, at his eleven o’clock, stood a line of low aircraft buildings. Hangars and run-down sheds and workshops. In one hangar he saw a bunch of maintenance equipment: air stands, tyre dollies, aviation tools, the exposed innards of a disembodied turbofan engine.
A fire tender had been parked up in a large carport outside the next hangar, along with a four-wheeled snow plough and several other vehicles. North of the apron was an air traffic control tower and a fuel dump.
Carter assumed there would be a skeleton crew at the airfield. A couple of guys in the tower, maybe a few mechanics in the hangars working on one of the jets, but he doubted they would get involved once the rounds started flying.
He dropped into a prone firing position on the ground to the immediate right of the nearest shed. Carter lowered the bipod clamped to the underside of the barrel, propping the legs on the asphalt. He placed his cheek against the leather cushion fixed to the top of the stock, yanked the cocking handle to chamber the first round of 7.62 Russian. Then he peered down the PSO-1 4 x 24 telescopic sights fixed to the mounted rail. The floating reticule had a bunch of markings and lines to help the shooter correctly estimate things like range to the target, bullet drop and windage.
Carter lined up the cross hairs with the Learjet parked on the edge of the runway six hundred metres to the north-east, at his one o’clock.
He was looking at the front end of the aircraft. On the left side of the fuselage the airstair was in the lowered position, although Carter’s view was partially obscured by the cockpit. The truck was parked eight or nine metres from the bottom of the airstair, at the edge of the runway. Ramsey was pacing urgently beside the vehicle, phone glued to his ear, pausing mid-stride to check his watch.
Carter searched the area again. He couldn’t see Vann anywhere. In the main cabin, maybe. Loading one of the nukes. He considered taking a shot at Ramsey, but instantly ruled it out. He didn’t want to alert Vann and give him another chance to escape. Better to wait until he had sight of both targets.
Vann’s not getting away this time. Not a fucking chance.
Carter checked the cockpit. One of the pilots was looking down at the flight plan. He wouldn’t see Carter, not at this distance. The guy would be preoccupied with running through the checks prior to take-off. The co-pilot’s seat was empty.
Probably at the back of the jet, thought Carter. Helping to secure the nukes. A two-man job to make sure they’re strapped into place. You don’t want one of those things rolling down the aisle mid-flight.
Carter couldn’t shoot the pilot. The cockpit glass was roughly two inches thick. A 7.62 round would deflect off the surface. Like throwing a rock at a tank. If he had a .50 calibre rifle, nailing the pilot might have been an option. But not now.
So he waited.
Bided his time.
One chance to get this right.
Three seconds later, a figure emerged from the cabin.
Carter didn’t get a clear look at him until he had cleared the treads at the bottom of the airstair. Then he saw it was Vann. He watched as Vann started towards the rear of the stationary truck, moving at a brisk trot. A man in a powerful hurry.
Ramsey was still on the phone. He made no attempt to help Vann cart the nukes aboard the cabin. Grunt work. He didn’t strike Carter as the kind of guy who liked to roll up his sleeves and muck in. Guys like Ramsey always left the heavy lifting to their subordinates.
Carter kept the optics trained on the truck.
He looked on as Vann grabbed another backpack nuke from the back of the truck. The last one. He set it down on the runway, then hopped into the front of the truck and steered it over to the side of the runway, putting it well clear of the Learjet. He jumped out again and jogged back over to Ramsey and the last nuke.
Carter tensed his finger on the Dragunov trigger.
As soon as he’d dropped Vann, he would turn his attention to Ramsey. Carter would have to clip the guy before he had a chance to run for cover or escape.
Once they were both out of the picture Carter could rush forward and secure the backpack nukes at gunpoint. He doubted the aircraft crew would put up much resistance. Then he’d use one of their phones to put a call in to Vauxhall Bridge.
Tell them what the fuck had been going on.
In the next second, Vann stooped down to pick up the drum-shaped nuclear backpack. Ramsey stood close by and lowered his phone. He said something to Vann. Had to shout to make himself heard above the constant whine of the jet engines and the low rumble of the truck. They hadn’t noticed Carter. Hadn’t even glanced back towards the apron. No reason why they should. They were preoccupied with getting out of the country.
Vann stopped and looked up at Ramsey. He shouted something back at the American. There was lots of energetic hand-waving and gesturing from both parties. Vann seemed pissed off. He started jabbing a finger at Ramsey. An argument over the money, perhaps. Terms of payment. Perhaps Vann felt he was entitled to a sizeable bonus.
Carter exhaled, relaxing his muscles as he aimed for Vann’s centre mass. The body shot. At a distance of six hundred metres you had to go for the biggest target to give yourself the best possible chance of a kill. A chest wound worked just as well as a head shot, in Carter’s experience.
He pulled the trigger.
Heard a click.
Nothing happened.
Shit.
Stoppage.
Carter lifted the lever and pulled it back, ejecting the 7.62 round. He pushed the handle forward and down again, chambering the next bullet from the box mag. Looked down the sights and refocused on Vann’s torso. Vann was still standing beside the truck, continuing his heated exchange with Ramsey.
He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Same result.
He recocked the weapon a second time, panic and confusion quickly spreading through his body. Carter jerked his head back from the sights. He looked down at the last ejected round. The percussion cap on the base of the bullet hadn’t been struck by the rifle’s firing pin. Therefore not a stoppage, but a defective pin. Doctored by someone, or just plain fucked. Either way, it didn’t matter.
The Dragunov was knackered.
Carter tried to think. The Grach was no good for anything other than close-range shooting. He could rush back to the G-Wagon and retrieve the M4 components from his backpack, but there was no time to reassemble the weapon. Even if he did manage to piece it together before the jet took off, the M4 wouldn’t be very effective, not at a range of six hundred metres.
I’m fucked, Carter thought bitterly. No way of stopping these bastards from getting away.
Then he heard a crack.