Catalyst (2 page)

“Check!”

“Okay. Still from now.”

It was standard practice when firing through a window or windshield. Two shots, one second apart. The first would take out the glass, removing any risk of deflection for the second.

Captain Randall watched the final stages of the approach through his binoculars as safeties came off and fingers gently touched the sensitive triggers ready for action. The leading vehicle stopped as it drew level with the cave, about twenty yards away from it. The first pick-up eased alongside, between the car and the cave, and the second one pulled slowly round to stop at the other side.

Luck was with the patrol; the leading car was facing directly towards them. The two occupants were clearly not intending to get out until their escort was in position, with the vehicles parked on either side.

“Okay, Mike?” asked the Major.

“Okay.”

“Count!”

The Captain called out the seconds.

“Six…five…four…three…”

Mike fired.

“…two…”

The Major fired.

“…one…zero”

Seven rifles opened up on the shocked group below them.

Mike's shot destroyed the windscreen of the Defender half a second before the bullet left the Major's rifle. The victim was thrown backwards in his seat in a double jerk as both shots found their mark. The insurgents, some of whom were still climbing down from the pick-ups, scattered from the point of the attack, running into the cave, dropping behind rocks or rolling underneath the vehicles.

“Hit!” yelled the Captain. “Complete! Near certain! And two more, perhaps three! Keep firing!”

The rest of the rebel group were trying to get into the cave, making darting runs to safety from their temporary cover and firing in the general direction where the shots were coming from. The Captain let the assault continue for another thirty seconds, and then yelled for them to stop.

“Hold fire! Let them get to cover!”

The firing stopped and the remaining rebels scrambled for the relative safety of the cave.

“Okay. Into the entrance – open fire,
now
!” His voice was calmer now that the level of excitement had reduced in the relative quiet of the last few moments.

The seven rifles barked again briefly, peppering the opening.

“Cease fire,” said the Captain. “Just to let them know we're still here, if they're thinking of coming out. Okay let's move it!”

As they made their rapid descent back from the edge of the escarpment, the euphoria of the mission's success, in spite of admirable attempts to suppress it, was unmistakable. The grins on the faces of the patrol members were evidence to that and Mike was subjected to a battery of congratulations as they headed home.

“Anyone can hit a windscreen,” said the Major.

As they neared the point where they had left their two all-terrain vehicles, the wind and snow came at them together and the light faded. At this altitude and time of the year, the temperature could drop twenty degrees Celsius in a couple of hours. They were within half a mile of their destination, half-walking, half-stumbling along a rough track through a narrow steep-sided gully. The Major was at the head of the group as they approached a blind right turn. Suddenly, he stopped, raising his right arm high to halt the column, and turned to face them.

“Wait!”

They all stopped and instinctively slipped their weapons from their shoulders, the Captain and the five soldiers behind him each throwing over the small lever on the 9mm conversion unit which effectively turned the assault rifles into SMGs.

“What is it?” said the Captain, who was third in line behind the Major and Corporal Hanson.

“Thought I heard something. Stay!”

The Major edged forward slowly to the turn in the path and peered round the corner. A few yards ahead the gully widened out into a circular flat basin, the sides still steep and high, before narrowing again into a similar passageway.

“Wait there.”

The Major's instruction was mouthed rather than spoken and reinforced by his hand outstretched towards them, palm vertical and restraining. He was about thirty yards ahead of them as he disappeared from view round the corner. The Captain stepped past the Corporal to the front of the waiting group.

A minute passed, seeming much longer.

Mike at the Captain's shoulder was becoming agitated, and edged forward level with him.

“Sir, shouldn't we…”

“Wait!” The Captain put his arm across the young soldier's chest and held him back.

Then came the first explosion, from not far past the turn in the track. The men behind the leading two pressed themselves instinctively against the side of the gully and hands moved to triggers. They looked anxiously towards the turning, and then to their leader for the order for action. The expression on the Captain's face was of confusion rather than horror.

“Something's wrong,” he said, more to himself than to his men.

“Fucking right it is!” yelled Mike. “The Major!” He pushed past the Captain and ran down the track.

“Corporal! Mike! Wait!
Wait
! Stop
now
!”

CHAPTER 1

It was 2.00 am in the morning and Tom Brown was nowhere near completing his preparations for the coming afternoon. He went through to the kitchen.

Taking a mug from the draining board he scooped a heaped spoonful of instant coffee into it. As he replaced the coffee jar, he caught a second mug with his elbow, knocking it onto the stone-flagged floor. It shattered loudly. He looked bleary-eyed in surprise at how far the half-dozen fragments had scattered across the floor. He was too tired to be angry; he reached for the pan and brush from under the sink to start the clean-up operation.

The kitchen door, which had been partly open, swung back further with some drama. The tall, slender figure of his wife, Maggie, stood in the doorway, bare-footed and in a short, hastily-donned dressing gown.

“What the hell is going on?” she said. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

“I've broken a mug and it's just after two o'clock,” he said, without expression.

“Yes, I'm aware of that,” she said.

“Which?” Tom asked. “The breakage or the time?”

“Some of us are trying to get some sleep.”

“Us? I see. Well, whoever it is you've got up there with you, thanks for keeping the noise down. You weren't always so quiet in bed.”

“I'm amazed you can remember that long ago,” she said, and then saw the shattered fragments in the dustpan in his hand, “Oh, no! That's the mug Katey got me for Mothers' Day; the first present she ever went out and bought for me on her own. I've had it for seven years. Well, thank you very much for that!”

“For God's sake, Mags, I didn't throw it at the wall or hit it with a hammer. It was an accident. I'm very sorry. I'll get you another one exactly the same. Katey will never know.”

“What's that got to do with it?
I'll
know!”

“Of course you will,” he said. “How silly of me. I won't buy you another one and Katey can be upset as well. A problem shared is another bugger depressed, I always say.”

“That's a nice word to use to describe your daughter.”

“Oh come on! It wasn't directed at her and you know it!” he said. “Please go back to bed, Mags, I've got to get on with this. I'll tiptoe around and use a plastic cup from now on. And I am sorry about breaking your mug. Really.”

“Anyway, what's so absolutely critical that you have to do it in the middle of the night?” she asked.

“I'm meeting Andrew at eight this morning to go through my speech to the House later this afternoon.” He glanced at the wall clock. “That gives me about four hours before Paul arrives.”

“I can't believe it. You've been going on about this speech for weeks; how come you're working on it now? It's a bit cavalier to leave it this late, isn't it? I mean, I'm assuming it must concern the fate of the nation, otherwise you wouldn't be bothering with it.”

“It's what I like to do – as I've explained before God knows how many times. The later I prepare, the more genuine and spontaneous it comes over.”

Mags snorted. “Well, there'll be no problem with spontaneous, will there? At this rate you'll be making it up as you go along. I wouldn't care if all this was going to have any lasting value. I just don't know what's going on in your mind these days. I can't believe that you still think it's the right thing to do.”

“Look!” said Tom, now finding no difficulty at all in getting angry. “It's already done! I am not prepared to discuss this with you any more. It's what people
want
. How is it that the vast –
vast
– majority of people in the country must be wrong because their opinion differs from yours? Are they all idiots – is that it? I respect your opinion – I'm very familiar with it – you are entitled to it – but I don't want to hear it over and over again! Can't we just accept that we have different views on this
one
thing and get on with the rest of our lives? This is destroying us. You're letting it destroy us. You won't leave it alone.”

“No, I won't, because I can't! It's not possible for me to just accept it when I feel so strongly about it. Don't you understand that? And if you're saying that everything else is okay, and it's just about this ‘one thing', then you must have completely lost track of reality. I can't think of
anything
we see eye to eye on now. You've lost me. Completely.”

“What do you mean ‘lost you'?” snapped Tom. “I don't understand. Lost you how – to someone else? Explain please!”

“Does it matter? Do you
really
care what I mean? You have absolutely no interest now in what is important to me. It's all about your career and this… NJ-bloody-R! And you know very well that there isn't anyone else – yet!”

“Yet! Look neither of us is getting any younger, Mags. If we're heading for a split, then let's get on with it.”

“It wouldn't make any difference to you, would it? Having me somewhere else with someone else wouldn't change your life one bit. In fact, that's not true – it would improve it immensely. You have absolutely no interest in me or your family. All we are to you is an unfortunate distraction as you pursue your pitch for fame; your place in history. If we weren't in your life at all it would be so much simpler.”

“It's always the same,” said Tom. “You invariably reduce the discussion to a bloody vote of confidence. I am now supposed to say, ‘that's not true, darling, you know you all mean much more to me than anything else'. It's a cheap emotional trick you pull when you run out of anything constructive to say. Well actually,
darling,
I'm not getting involved in an argument on your level; I'm afraid I can't function at those extreme depths.”

“Oh, that's charming!”

“But seeing as you brought it up,” went on Tom, “I think you've got a nerve accusing me of not caring about the family when I seem to spend most of my time – when they choose to honour us with their presence – talking to them about what's going on in their lives right now. And it's a good job I do, because you don't seem to give a shit what they get up to and who they're with.”

“‘Talking to them about what's going on in their lives!'” Mags almost shouted his words back at him. “You don't
talk
to them. You
tell
them what to do. ‘Talking' implies a two-way exchange of information. ‘Talking' suggests they have a right to express
their
views and opinions. That's what ‘talking' means. That's not what you do with your children!”

“Are you suggesting that they don't need any guidance?” said Tom, now raising his voice.

“Guidance, yes,” said Mags, “not bullying! They're not kids any more who can be threatened with petty retribution. You can't ground a seventeen-year-old, for God's sake, let alone a nineteen-year-old. They are good kids. Not perfect, but better than most. Better than the vast –
vast
– majority, in fact. But they have to spread their wings. You'd be worried if they stayed in all night reading or watching TV. Well perhaps you wouldn't be, but I would. I just don't know what you expect of them.”

“A bit of discipline, that's what!”

“Oh, for God's sake… ” Mags looked away.

“
Self
-discipline, then. There must be some middle ground between staying in all night and staying out all night. Where are they now, for Christ's sake? It's nearly two-thirty in the morning. They're both at college in about seven hours' time, and what sort of a state are they likely to be in. And you know why I'm concerned about them – it's the crowd they knock about with. Had you forgotten? Mickey What's'isname and his cronies… ”

“And Jason,” Mags interrupted. “Don't forget Jason. That nasty piece of work your daughter's in love with.”

“I've nothing against Jason and you know it. And Katey is
not
in love with him. She knows nothing about love – she's only seventeen and… ”

“That's how old I was when I fell in love with you.”

“… my only thing about Jason is that the relationship seems to have gone too far too quickly. Everything considered,” said Tom.

“Everything considered?” said Mags. “You mean because he's black, one parent family, no money… ?”

“That is fucking nonsense!” blazed Tom, slamming the flat of his hand down on the kitchen worktop. “You know it's nothing to do with that!”

“Yes, okay, I'm sorry,” said Mags.

They were both silent for a while.

“No, I'm not comfortable with the relationship,” he said, calmly now. “But Jason's okay – and one of the brightest kids I've ever met. He wouldn't have gone to Bishop's if he wasn't – I mean, he must have got a scholarship entry. In fact, he's going to be a brilliant engineer by all accounts. A software, hardware and digital communications genius, so I'm reliably informed. I might be able to use him to hack into a few files,” he added, offering a small token of humour, which Mags accepted with a brief but genuine smile.