Blackout (2 page)

He looked up to the sky. If it was coming from one of the American subs, they'd be sending a Raytheon Tomahawk cruise missile. They were subsonic, travelling at around five

hundred miles an hour, about the same speed as a commercial passenger aircraft. If it was being fired from a sub in the Indian Ocean it could still be another ten minutes or so before the strike.

Josh started pacing, walking around in smaller and smaller circles. A breeze was starting to blow across the mountain, rustling through the white robes that hung loosely on his body. After three months without anything except a stream to wash in, or a cave to sleep in, he could feel the dirt clinging to his body. Good to get back to base, he told himself. But I don't want to go back without a notch or two on my belt.

He fingered the trigger on the AN-30. There was a just a chance he could take them himself. To risk Ashfaq's life would be unfair. The other guy was just a hired hand. Yet one man with a machine gun could do a lot of damage against a camp that was waking up. Take the guard with a single shot from here. Put down some grenades to distract them. Then go in quick, dressed like a local, and hope to getlhem all before they realise what's hit them.

No, he told himself. You can't bank on that kind of luck. It's suicide. And there's no glory in that.

'Did you hear something?' he whispered towards Ashfaq.

The Afghan nodded. 'A starter motor,' he replied. 'The white truck. It's leaving.'

Josh strained his eyes. He could see a man climbing into the passenger side, another climbing into the driver's seat, firing up the engine. It started to pull away, moving down the mountainside.

The bastard is escaping.

He peered through the AN-30's telescopic sights again. One bullet, he told himself. Blow a tyre out, and hope that sends the car crashing down the mountain. Behind him, he could hear the distant drone of the Tomahawk, like an aeroplane, except quieter, and lower in the sky. He squeezed the trigger.

The bullet smashed into empty scrubland. The truck kept on moving.

In the next instant, a blinding flash lit up the sky. A BGM 109, the Tomahawk could either be equipped with a thousand-pound high-explosive bomb, for destroying big targets or penetrating deep bunkers, or it could be equipped with a thousand pounds of cluster bomblets, which showered a camp with dozens of tiny, lethal explosives. Now Josh saw that this one had a deadly pack of cluster bombs built into its nose. The bombs were spinning out of the missile like confetti. A rain of fire drenched the camp, sucking up everything within it as the fireball gathered force. Josh could hear the pop, pop, pop of the charges exploding down in the valley, the echoes bouncing off the sides of the mountains to build a murderous wave of noise.

Josh turned his gaze back to the white truck. It was disappearing along the single-track road that led away from the valley. It's him, thought Josh grimly. They can send across as many clouds of fire as they want. It's useless unless the target is standing right beneath them.

Now Josh could hear the roar from the helicopter blades slicing through the air above him. A smell of avgas filled the air as the machine dropped out of the sky. The Black Hawk hovered a few feet above the ground. A soldier was leaning out, waving him on board.

Josh looked towards the truck. A trail of dust had been kicked up as it turned the corner and vanished from view. Just as I thought. The bastard has escaped.

Dawn was starting to break as the helicopter dropped down at the centre of the compound. Josh hopped from its side hatch, walking out across the thin strip of tarmac that led away from the landing circle. Three months, he thought to himself, looking across to the low, prefabricated row of huts that made up the mess room, the barracks, and the debriefing

centres. A long time to be out in the wilderness, with only your own wits to live on.

Some beer, some food, a shower and then some sleep. In that order, Josh thought.

'Harding?' said a young soldier, standing by the side of the road.

Josh nodded. The man was maybe nineteen or twenty, a signaller on his first proper tour of duty by the looks of him. I'm only thirty myself, reflected Josh. But already the raw recruits are starting to seem like boys to me.

'That's me,' he replied.

He could see the signaller running his gaze over him. Dressed in a long white robe, with sandals on his feet, a black beard, and with his rifle slung across his back, Josh knew that he was starting to look more like an Afghan tribesman than a British soldier. His face was tanned to a dark shade of brown, and the sweat and dirt had seeped into his skin, giving it the appearance of raw leather.

'Bruton will see you in an hour,' said the soldier. 'Room C He paused. 'You might want to have a bit of a wash before you go in.'

'Too much of a pong for you?' said Josh.

'Diabolical!

Josh grinned. 'There's worse smells than me in the field. You'll find that out soon enough.'

He smiled as he walked towards the mess. Khost had been an Allied base since soon after the invasion of Afghanistan. Of all the bases established by the, Allied forces, this was the roughest: up closer to Kabul, the invaders had been welcomed, or at least tolerated, but down here the American and British soldiers were hated with an intensity that only religion could inspire. They weren't just the invader. They were the infidel.

Step outside, and the chances were that you'd find one of the local kids lobbing a petrol bomb at you. It was, Josh told himself, like Ulster. But with snakes and curry.

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'Hey, it's Osama,' shouted a man from across the room.

Josh smiled again. He recognised Peter Boshell at once. Same age, and one of five Regiment men stationed at Khost. But he could �well be the only other British soldier on the base right now, because Khost was mainly an American setup and the Regiment guys were spending most of the time out on patrol. That was the way it had to be. You weren't going to catch any terrorists sitting around the base playing computer games - whatever the Americans thought.

'Nab him, boys,' continued Boshell. 'We let the fucker get away at Tora Bora. Don't want to do that again.'

Josh walked across to the bar. Boshell was sitting with a group of tough-looking American marines, their heads shaved and the tattoos bright on the huge muscles of their biceps. 'What's happening?' asked Josh.

'World War Three, by the looks of it,' said Boshell.

Josh grabbed himself a Coke and a packet of crisps and sat down. The television was tuned to Fox News, and the dozen soldiers sitting around the mess were gripped by what they were watching.

Josh turned his gaze towards the screen. 'The most dramatic day in the War on Terror since 9--11,' said the newsreader.

Josh took a swig of the Coke, and threw some of the crisps into his mouth: it was three months now since he'd had anything apart from the local curries.

'In a day of mayhem that has already been dubbed the Three Cities Attack, power supplies were today switched off in three of the world's major cities: London, Paris and New York,' continued the newsreader.

Christ, thought Josh. What's happened now?

Up on the screen, Josh could see a familiar backdrop: Trafalgar Square at twilight, the road turned into a mess of snarling traffic, and the square thronging with more people than on New Year's Eve. 'The day's events started in Paris,

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at noon local time precisely. Power systems throughout the city shut down, leaving millions of people stranded in subways and on roads, and shutting schools and offices. One hour later, at noon local time, the power went out in London, closing the city completely. The police reported widespread incidents of panic, looting and total confusion as the transport networks ground to a halt. Troops were deployed around Whitehall and Parliament Square as speculation grew of a major terrorist incident. London Mayor Ken Livingstone and Prime Minister Tony Blair appealed for calm, but to little avail. Then, in the most dramatic development of the day, precisely five hours later, again at noon local time, the power shut down in New York. Mayor Bloomberg was appealing for calm as panic-stricken New Yorkers feared another devastating strike on their city. Police had to try to restore order at several skyscrapers as workers emptied buildings that could become targets.'

Josh looked at the faces of the other men in the mess. TKey were watching the screen intently, talking among themselves. Their tone was hushed, whispering to one another, as if they were both exhilarated and appalled by the events being played out in front of them. Just as I am, Josh thought.

'Already people are speculating that the Three Cities Attack must be the work of al-Qaeda terrorists,' continued the newsreader. 'If so, it would be the most audacious coup by the organisation since 9--11.'Josh watched as the screen switched to a reporter standing^outside the Pentagon, his hair disturbed in the strong gusts of wind blowing past the building. 'Military sources are denying that this is necessarily a co-ordinated terrorist attack,' said the reporter. 'They are insisting that it is possible for the power to fail accidentally in all three cities at precisely the same time. But so far, no information is available on what caused the power failures, or how it can be prevented from happening again.' The

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reporter paused to deliver the emphasis on the final sentence. 'Outside the government, some experts are saying this is likely to be the work of alQaeda.'

'So is it a terrorist attack, or isn't it?' said the newsreader, looking towards the reporter.

'Right now, we just don't have enough information to say,' answered the reporter. 'The world may now have to get used to the terrifying possibility that somebody, somewhere, can get control of the world's power systems. And can turn off the electricity at will.'

Josh put down his Coke. Now there was silence in the room. An ad break had interrupted the news, and nobody was saying anything. 'Think it's al-Qaeda?' said Josh finally, looking towards Boshell.

Boshell shrugged. 'Who else?'

'Has to be,' said one of the Americans. 'Nobody else could pull a stunt like that.'

'The Pentagon is saying that it doesn't think so,' said Josh.

The soldier smiled, revealing a huge set of white teeth. 'Hell, I've been on,missions myself that those sons of bitches were denying before we got back to base.'

'Al-Qaeda taking control of power systems for cities around the world?' said Boshell.'Of course they're not going to own up to something like that. There'd be panic'

'Looks like we've got work to do, then,' said Josh.

He could see himself being summoned across the room by the young signaller. Josh finished his Coke and started walking towards the corridor. The walk was a short one, but he suddenly felt the energy drain out of him. It was months since he'd slept in a proper bed, or eaten a decent meal. Soldiering was like that sometimes. Your nerves held up fine while the battle was still on. But once it was all over, the exhaustion hit you: the adrenalin drained away, and every wound, knock and bruise suddenly started screaming out in pain.

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'Back to your cave, Osama,' shouted Boshell. Josh looked back and grinned. During the last three months he had missed the camaraderie of the Regiment. 'I'll get you a razor,' said Bruton as soon as Josh stepped into the room. 'You look like crap.' 'The whole country looks like crap, sir,' said Josh. 'I blend in.' Bruton was a tall man, with dark hair cropped close to his skull, a thick, round nose, and ears that stuck out from the side of his head like the handles on a jug. In the six months that he'd been under his command, Josh had not warmed to him: there were plenty of Ruperts who made stupid decisions, but few of them could do it as consistently as Bruton. 'Well, good to see you again,' continued Bruton. 'And congratulations.' Josh looked around the room. There was a detailed map of the Afghanistan-Pakistan border on the wall, and next to It a series of thirty pictures: the most wanted alQaeda terrorists believed to be operating in the area. Azim, the man The Firm reckoned was charged with delivering a major attack on Britain, was among them. There was a water cooler in the corner. Josh helped himself to a plastic beaker, then sat down on the single chair facing the desk. Bruton sat opposite him, a pad of paper spread out in front of him. He was swivelling a biro between his fingers, tapping its end against his mouth. 'We'll do a full debrief in the morning,' he said. 'But the good news is that the strike was a success. Azim is dead. The boys inVauxhall are going to be pleased with that one.' Josh looked at him, scrutinising his face. He could see no trace of hesitation or doubt there. 'Azim's not dead.' He paused, his eyes flicking upwards. 'Sir.' Bruton leant forward. 'The Tomahawk went into the precise location you gave us,' he said firmly. 'A drone flew

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overhead and took some pictures. Everything in that camp was burned to a cinder.'

'There was a truck,' said Josh. 'A white one. It left the camp a few minutes before the missile came in. Azim was in it. He escaped.'

Bruton shook his head. 'The mission was a success, Harding. That's what it's going to say in the files.'

Josh took a deep breath. Anger management, he told himself. 'It took too long,' he said, his voice steely. 'If we'd got the missile in sooner, we'd have got him. But I'm telling you, he escaped.'

'Listen to me, Harding,' said Bruton. He stood up and walked across the room, standing in front of Azim's picture and tearing it from the wall. 'When I say a man's dead, he's dead. And he stays dead. Got it?'

Josh stood up.'Then we'll just have to wait until the bugger comes back with a different name. And then kill him again.'

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ONE

Monday, June 1st. Morning.

The smell drifted past Josh's nostrils. His senses twitched, coming slowly back to life as he struggled to regain consciousness. A faint musty smell mixing lavender with some kind of spice. I know it, thought Josh. I know that perfume. It's on the tip of my tongue.

If only I could remember the name.

For a moment, Josh struggled, annoyed with himself for not being able to dredge up the name from his memory. Sod it, he told himself finally. I never was any good at remembering perfumes.