First Strike

Rich watched the tanks rolling down the main street. Civilians leaped aside. Children watched wide-eyed from shadowy doorways. Soldiers marched behind the tanks, grim-faced and determined.

These images were repeated on television screens all round the restaurant. The grim news reports they showed were a stark contrast to the upbeat 1980s dance track that was throbbing through the place. A teenage waitress on roller skates with a red and white striped uniform and braces on her teeth spun to a perfect stop beside Jade and Rich. She smiled at their dad.

“Can I get you guys some drinks?”

In the US-themed restaurant, its walls adorned with road signs and music posters from the 1950s, her West
Country accent was out of place. Up till then, Rich could have forgotten that he was in England.

“You're driving,” Jade warned her dad before he could order. “I'll have a sparkling mineral water.”

“Milkshake,” Rich decided. “Chocolate fudge.”

“That is
so
bad for you,” Jade told him.

But Rich just grinned. His twin sister could be such a health freak. “I know.”

“What draught beer do you have?” John Chance asked.

The waitress started to list American beers.

Jade glared at her dad. “I
said
, you're driving.”

“Just curious. I'll have a pineapple juice,” he said. “With ice. If I'm allowed.”

“Ice is OK,” Jade confirmed.

“Made from frozen vodka if you can manage it,” Chance added. He grinned. “Kidding,” he assured the waitress.

“Right. I'll be straight back with your drinks, and I'll take your food order then. OK?” She didn't wait for a reply.

On the TV screens a reporter was talking, though the sound was muted. Text flashed up underneath him:
Chinese Peacekeepers enter Wiengwei province…No sign of missing US air crew…Chinese deny airmen have been arrested…

“I don't know why they do that,” said Jade.

“They're worried the rebels are getting more support,” said Rich.

“The Chinese have had trouble in Wiengwei ever since they invaded back in 1950,” Chance added. “At the time the western world was more concerned about Tibet. They hardly noticed what was happening at the same time down the road.”

“I
meant
,” said Jade, “why do they show the news channel with the sound turned down and music blaring out? I mean—what's the point? You have to guess what's happening. It's just like visual noise and a confusing tickertape.”

…White House accused of abandoning airmen…President refuses to condemn Chinese…

“You can sort of see what's going on,” said Rich.

The scrolling caption across the bottom of the screen now read:
Still no sign of rebel leader Marshal Wieng
.

“Only because we saw the news before we came out this evening,” Jade told him. The 6 o'clock broadcast had been almost entirely devoted to the developing story: an American military plane appeared to have gone down over Chinese airspace, but the Americans were refusing to
confirm that their men had even been there, and the Chinese were denying having captured them. “And because we've got Mr Global Trouble-Shooter here to help.” She turned to her dad. “I bet you were there in Wiengwei in 1950 when China invaded or annexed it or whatever, weren't you?”

Chance laughed. “How old do you think I am?” He leafed through the large glossy menu. “I have been to Wiengwei, actually” he admitted. “But rather more recently.”

“Official visit?” Rich wondered.

“Sort of. Well, no, not exactly. The ribs look good. What are you two having?”

“I'll have a burger,” Rich decided.

“Jade?” Chance asked.

But she wasn't listening. Jade was watching the waitress roller-skating across the restaurant carrying a tray with a large bottle of champagne balanced on it.

“Who does that?” she said. “Who comes out on a Friday night to a diner like this and orders champagne? At least you were asking about beer,” she told Chance. “If you ordered champagne to go with a burger or ribs, I'd be seriously worried.”

“I'd be seriously impressed,” said Rich, “if you could
get champagne while Jade's on the case.”

The waitress spun to a halt right next to their table.

“Your champagne, sir,” she said.

Jade's eyes widened.

Rich's mouth dropped open in awe. “How did you do that?”

Chance seemed every bit as surprised as his children. “I didn't order champagne. I asked for pineapple juice.”

The waitress continued to smile, unperturbed. “Your friend ordered it for you.” She put the bottle down on the table, together with a glass. Then she handed Chance a folded slip of paper. “He seems a nice man.” She leaned closer. “Must be very wealthy!”

Chance took a quick look at the paper. “Appearances can be deceptive.” He swung round in his chair, scanning the restaurant.

“Who is it? Who's it from?” Jade asked.

Chance handed her the paper, and she unfolded it. Rich leaned across to read what was written on it. Scrawled in block letters, the message said:

Urgent I speak with you now.

I am in danger, and things are going nuclear!

Only you can stop it.

“But who is it from?” said Rich.

Chance pointed across the restaurant. On the other side of the bar, close to the far window, a man was getting slowly to his feet. He was wearing a smart, pale linen suit. His face was weathered like old stone. He had dark, thinning hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache. The man raised a hand in greeting.

“Ralph!” said Jade.

That wasn't his real name. But it was the name they all knew him by. Ralph was a villain, who ran an organised crime syndicate in Eastern Europe. He had no loyalty except to himself, and Rich knew that he could have them all killed just as soon as buy them champagne, if it suited his purposes.

“What does he want?” Rich wondered.

“I don't know,” Chance grimaced. “But I doubt if he's really in as much danger as he'd like us to think.”

On the other side of the room, Ralph was smiling. He spread his arms in a generous, welcoming gesture. At that moment the window behind him exploded into fragments as the sound of a gunshot rang out.

A red stain appeared on the front of Ralph's pale jacket. He looked down at it, surprised. Then he fell forwards, crashing down on the table, sending glasses and crockery flying.

Instinctively, Rich and Jade ducked.

Chance was already running. Before the sound of the second shot, he was sprinting towards Ralph's motionless body—colliding with a roller-skating waiter and sending him spinning away. People were scrambling to their feet or throwing themselves to the floor in confusion as the second shot hammered through a table and into the floor.

“Get an ambulance!” Chance shouted as he reached Ralph. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the nearest table and balled them into a wad, which he pressed to the red stain on Ralph's shirt. “Ambulance!” he yelled again. “Now.”

The waitress who'd brought the champagne kneeled beside Chance and Ralph. Her face was pale.

“Is he…?”

“He's still breathing. But it's not looking good.”

Chance grabbed the girl's hand and pushed it down on top of the wad of napkins. “Hold that there, tight as you can, till the paramedics get here.”

“Where are you going?”

But Chance was already gone.

Jade kneeled down beside the waitress. “He'll be after the gunman,” she explained.

The waitress stared at her, mouth open.

“How's Ralph doing?” Rich asked, joining them. There were people standing round watching now.

“How…” Ralph gasped. His breathing was ragged and noisy. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth. “How…do you think…I'm doing?” he gasped. “Is my suit OK?”

His eyelids fluttered, then closed. Ralph sank back into Jade's arms.

The assassin had made a mistake firing twice. The target—Ralph—was already down. The chances were that no one would have seen where the first shot had come from.

But Chance had seen the muzzle flash from the second. It had come from a small, raised wooded area that screened the restaurant car park from the main road beyond. The road was a busy dual-carriageway, so the assassin's only realistic escape route was through the car park. He probably had a car ready.

Chance looked round as he sprinted from the restaurant. There was no sign of a car conveniently waiting. But there was movement in the shrubs along the car-park fence. The vaguest of dark silhouettes fluttered against the evening sky.

Zig-zagging to make himself a harder target, Chance ran for the silhouette. As he moved, he reached inside his jacket. Not because he had a gun, but because he wanted the assassin to think he did.

Ahead of him, a figure in nondescript dark clothing broke cover and pushed its way out of the trees and bushes. The figure was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, but a long plait of black hair hung down its back.

It was a woman.

The would-be assassin was carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight attached. It looked like an LR153—accurate up to 600 metres. It was not the ideal weapon to defend herself with, though she swung it up in an arc and loosed off a shot at Chance.

He ignored it. The bullet was travelling faster than sound, and he'd heard the shot without feeling an impact, which meant he hadn't been hit. He was close enough to the woman that she didn't have time to stop and take proper aim. He kept running—in a straight line now, on a course to intercept her as she sprinted down the grassy bank and into the car park.

There was a car in the way, double-parked behind a large people carrier. Chance leaped over the car, sliding across the bonnet and back on his feet in an instant.

But there was no sign of her. The assassin was gone.

Chance kept moving, turning all the time, looking for any movement.

Then he spotted her. She was behind the people carrier, trying to use the large vehicle for cover, but he could make out her vague reflection in the side windows of another car. He smiled. If he couldn't see her properly, then she couldn't see him. He moved stealthily towards the people carrier.

Then suddenly, he was running towards the back of the vehicle. Round the people carrier, and increasing his speed. The woman had her back to him, peering round the front of the vehicle. Chance dropped his shoulder and slammed into the dark-clad shape on the other side, sending her flying.

The rifle skidded away, under another car and out of reach. The woman rolled as she fell and was immediately back on her feet, her hands raised and tensed in a classic karate stance. Her cap had come off, and Chance could see now that she was oriental..

She leaped at him, hands moving rapidly, chopping through the air.