Assassin (John Stratton) (27 page)

He couldn’t tell them about Bullfrog. He’d given his word to her. He would have to say Chandos told him everything. The man was dead and couldn’t get into any trouble. But it didn’t explain all of his actions. They would want to know why he hadn’t reported what he’d learned.

The more he thought about it, the less he was looking forward to arriving in the US. He lay down across several seats and got himself comfortable. Perhaps he could come up with a plausible explanation, but his gut feeling told him he wasn’t going to find one. He closed his eyes. The air was chilly and he pulled his fleece around him.

Within a few moments he had drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Stratton opened his eyes. He’d slept in a state of semi-consciousness, always aware of the constant drone and vibrations of the engines, the cold air and the crew passing him every so often.

He checked his watch and was surprised to see he’d managed to remain comatose for several hours. He sat up, dropped his feet onto the metal floor and rubbed the sleep from his face. His mouth tasted bad. He needed a drink of water. Hetta wasn’t in her seat. He looked down the hold but the only thing he could see was the pallet. Maybe she’d decided to lie down somewhere. The only other place she could be was the cockpit, or in the little kitchen. Perhaps she was making that communication she mentioned.

He got to his feet and glanced again towards the back of the cargo hold. He had to do a double take. Someone was lying on the floor behind the pallet. Two people were in fact – he could see two sets of feet. He made his way down the tail and saw both crewmen, tied up like the Sunday roast with tape around their mouths. The one called Jim was looking at him with a vexed expression. The crate
containing the nuclear warhead lay undisturbed on the pallet.

Stratton looked back towards the cockpit, wondering what he’d find in there. This was undoubtedly Hetta’s handiwork. But why?

Jim made a squeak, hoping Stratton might release him.

Stratton walked the length of the plane. As he approached the cockpit he saw the pilot, lying on the floor on the other side of the door, tied up like his crewmen. His eyes were open and he looked at Stratton with a frown, as if his predicament were every bit as much Stratton’s fault. Stratton stepped over him into the cockpit.

Hetta was flying the plane.

‘Didn’t you like the service?’ he asked.

‘They were landing in Houston,’ she said. ‘My orders are to take the device to New York. It was a lot easier to take control of the aircraft myself than get them to change their flight plans.’

‘New York?’ he said, surprised. ‘We’re taking this into JFK?’

‘No. A small airfield upstate.’

‘Why?’

‘Those were my orders.’

He wondered what military facility was near New York. ‘I take it you’ve filed a new flight plan,’ he said.

‘Everything has been taken care of.’

She switched on the autopilot and released the controls.

He wanted to think on that for a moment. ‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ he said. ‘You want one?’

‘OK.’

As he passed Doug, Stratton looked down at the pilot lying on the floor and decided he couldn’t leave the man there for the rest of the flight. He also didn’t want to have a discussion with Hetta in front of him. He got behind him, sat him up, lifted him to his feet and part-carried, part-dragged him into the hold and over to the seats. He laid him down across several seats and stood up to check the guy was OK. Doug stared up at him with a frown.

‘It’s all for a good cause,’ Stratton said. ‘You and your crew will be fine.’

That didn’t appear to do anything to improve the pilot’s mood. Stratton didn’t like the thought of the pilot looking at him that way every time he walked past. He saw a CAMCO hat on the floor, so he picked it up and fitted it over Doug’s face. Then he went to the galley outside the cockpit and set about making some coffee.

When he went back into the cockpit, Hetta was getting a message over her headphones, which she replied to briefly and made some adjustments to the controls. The plane changed direction a few degrees.

He thought he could detect a level of contentment in her manner. ‘What are you so happy about?’ he asked, handing her the coffee.

She shrugged, as if not entirely sure herself. ‘I’ll soon be going home, I suppose.’

He continued to be bothered about the warhead, as well as her. He couldn’t give up all control over it, not yet.

‘Who are you handing that thing over to?’ he asked.

‘The authorities.’

‘What authorities?’

She gave him a look as if to suggest he was interfering. She put the cup of coffee to her lips.

‘I asked you a question. And I want an answer.’

She flashed him a threatening look.

He wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. He’d been impressed by her fighting skills since the nomad camp, and he respected the fact that she had more of a will to shoot him than he did her. At the time. But now the tide had shifted. The lack of answers from her up until then suited him because they were both headed in the same direction with similar ambitions for the bomb. Yet suddenly he no longer knew where he was going exactly.

He set down his coffee and put the end of the barrel of his handgun to her head. ‘Tell me who you’re delivering this bomb to or I’ll put a bullet through your skull. I’m not a qualified pilot but I can fly this crate well enough to put it on the ground.’

Her expression went to ice. She didn’t move.

‘If you doubt I’ll shoot, let me assure you there’s too much at stake for me not to,’ he said. He tilted the barrel down to aim into her torso. ‘At this angle there’s too much body mass for the bullet to damage the plane. I’ll ask you one last time, which authorities are you handing this nuclear warhead over to?’

She turned to look at him and saw something in his unwavering green eyes that she hadn’t been aware of before.

Suddenly, something appeared at the window. They both
looked out at an F-22 Raptor jet fighter, clearly US Air Force. The pilot was looking over at them and waving. Another F-22 appeared on the other side of the cargo plane.

‘Those are our escorts,’ she said. ‘I’m not entirely sure who will be taking control of the device, but they work for the same authority that owns those aircraft.’

Stratton looked at the jets and saw the pilot indicate for them to keep on their heading.

‘That’s fine then,’ he said, putting the pistol back in his holster and giving her a little smile. ‘Carry on.’

The USAF was good enough for him. They were difficult to argue with. It also made sense, a powerful escort to guide such a dangerous cargo into the country. He glanced at her. She was looking straight ahead and didn’t look pleased. He didn’t feel apologetic because she was far too arrogant and needed a wake-up call.

They broke through cloud at twenty-two thousand feet and he saw a patchwork of fields and woodland scarred by roads and dotted with towns. It was a nice day. She controlled the aircraft expertly as they continued to descend and an airfield eventually came into view on her side. It didn’t look very big to Stratton. He wondered how far it was from New York City. He couldn’t see any sign of skyscrapers on the horizon. Perhaps the city was behind them.

As they turned and approached the runway, Stratton could pick out the main buildings alongside the tower and several vehicles parked up around them. The place appeared
to be deserted otherwise. The airfield buildings looked like they could have done with a refurbish. There were no other aircraft, save a couple of small Boeings parked beyond the buildings out to one side and looking like they hadn’t flown in years.

Hetta raised the nose slightly and brought the plane smoothly down onto the runway, reversing the thrust of the engines immediately. The runway seemed just long enough and she applied the brakes hard before they could run off the end onto the grass, then turned it around and headed back towards the buildings.

As they got closer, Stratton had a good look at the vehicles, large, shiny Suburban-type SUVs, much like the ones the spooks had used in Bagram. He saw a couple of suited men wearing sunglasses standing by them and several other men in black fatigues or jumpsuits climbing out as the cargo plane nosed past.

Hetta brought the craft to a stop and shut off the engines, whose whining rapidly decreased as if they were deflating. Stratton stayed in his seat while she opened the cabin’s forward side door. He heard voices. They sounded cordial. He heard several people climb on board. As they entered the main cabin, they turned towards the hold, ignoring the cockpit. After a minute, Stratton heard the shrill electric whine of the rear ramp opening.

His reluctance to meet the authorities remained, but he couldn’t put it off for ever. He sighed inwardly as he got out of his seat and stepped from the cockpit. Four of the men were unfastening the netting on the pallet. He went
down the steps onto the asphalt. One of the suits had his back to Stratton, talking to several of the other men. There was something familiar about him. They all looked heavy set and a couple of them looked past the man they were talking to at Stratton. Their eyes were inexpressive.

The suit stopped talking and turned, and Stratton found himself looking at Jeff Wheeland. He was momentarily stunned. Wheeland had a long, fresh scar across one of his cheeks and an ugly matching bruise on his forehead.

‘You look as surprised as I was when I heard you’d joined the team, Stratton,’ Wheeland said. He had the air of a man who knew everything that had taken place and was in complete control of it all.

Two of his men moved either side of Stratton, who could only stare at the spook.

‘We need to have a little talk, you and I,’ Wheeland said. ‘You can tell me all about what you were doing in Bagram and how you knew about the bomb.’

If there was one spook Stratton didn’t want to speak to, it was Wheeland. But then, he never thought he would have to ever again. The men took hold of his arms and Wheeland stepped closer to him.

‘I don’t know what it is about you, Stratton,’ Wheeland said. ‘But you really do piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever known.’

Stratton had his arms twisted behind his back and secured with thick plasti-cuffs. One of the men removed his handgun and searched him for any other weaponry. Wheeland slammed a fist into Stratton’s stomach, which knocked the
wind out of him. He would have doubled over in pain if he wasn’t being held so strongly.

‘That’s for muscling in on my game, again,’ Wheeland said.

One of the men holding Stratton said something to Wheeland in Russian.

‘Oh, yeah. I almost forgot,’ Wheeland said, as he hit Stratton in the body once again. ‘That’s for Ivan, who you killed and stripped off in Bagram. His friends want you to pay the full price for that one. And they can have you, as soon as I’ve finished with you.’

Stratton fought to deal with the searing pain in his kidneys and Wheeland walked away, up the steps into the hold where his men were opening the crate. One of them had raised the inner lid and was examining the contents. After a brief inspection he looked in Wheeland’s direction and gave him a thumbs up, as the two escort jets screamed low overhead.

‘On their way home,’ Wheeland said, giving Stratton a wink.

Stratton glanced over at the SUVs to see Hetta standing beside one of them looking at him. There was something seriously wrong here. He might deserve a slapped wrist for interfering but not what Wheeland had threatened him with. And judging by the men’s voices, they were a mixture of Americans and Russians. That was all very weird.

Stratton had mixed feelings as he looked at her. He didn’t think she’d duped him. His instincts still told him she’d been straight with him, as far as she was concerned.

Wheeland stepped back onto the tarmac. ‘You look confused, Stratton,’ he said. ‘So many questions. Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to give you any answers. Take him away,’ he said to his men. ‘And hood him.’

The hood went over his head and everything went dark. He was walked to one of the vehicles and he felt a hand on his head pushing it down as he was guided inside. Whoever it was got in the seat next to him. They remained there for several minutes in silence. Then he heard a loud bang, a familiar sound to him. Not a gunshot but close to it. A rushing sound followed, like a dull roar that grew louder. Then another sharp bang. He could smell fumes. Gasoline. A waft of extreme heat came in through a window.

‘Let’s go, people,’ someone shouted. It was echoed in Russian.

The plane was on fire. Stratton was certain of it. Wheeland’s men had set it alight. He could hear the roar of the flames getting louder.

Men climbed into the vehicle and it sank with the extra weight. The engine started and the doors were slammed shut and the vehicle lurched away. He wondered if the aircrew had been taken off or left to die on board the CAMCO plane. He couldn’t fathom why the spooks had destroyed it. He couldn’t understand any of it.

The first step had to be declassifying the spooks. They weren’t spooks, not the Russians. As for the Americans, why destroy a commercial aircraft in their own country?
There was too much he didn’t know. He couldn’t begin to even guess the answers.

One thing was for sure. Wheeland wanted to know how he knew about the warhead. And then he wanted to do something very bad to him once he found out. That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting.

Stratton felt a twinge of regret sitting in the Suburban. He estimated the vehicle had driven for something like forty-five minutes through clear roads or less built-up areas before it hit the stop-go rhythm of a city. The sounds outside became those of heavy traffic, vehicles of all sizes. Horns blared, engines growled or whined, and he heard distant sirens, whistles and the occasional shout. At times they went at speed while at others they moved slowly, surrounded by vehicles.

The driver seemed anxious to get wherever they were going. Every opportunity he had to put his foot down or swerve into a gap, he appeared to do so. About two hours after leaving the airfield, Stratton felt the Suburban drop down a steep ramp and the light change, even though he was hooded. He guessed daylight had been exchanged for artificial lights and when he heard the tyres screech as they turned a corner he knew they were inside an underground car park or something like it.