Revolution (29 page)

Martin Sigby seemed to take a breath on–screen before speaking.

‘The initial discovery of the bodies was made by a former investigative reporter by the name of Megan Mitchell, who was herself in Mordania searching for a missing American journalist, Amy O’Hara. Miss Mitchell, having discovered the true identity of those massacred as scientists, had continued her search for the missing American journalist only to have vanished herself somewhere in the bleak interior of this war–torn country.’

Harrison Forbes’s delighted expression slowly folded in upon itself as he listened to Martin’s voice, and saw upon the screens the images of Amy O’Hara and Megan Mitchell.

‘What might have happened to Megan Mitchell and Amy O’Hara remains unthinkable. With the United States preparing for war in Mordania, and with President Akim’s pleas for assistance against an enemy perhaps less brutal than his government’s own troops now seeming somewhat hollow, the case for military assistance in Mordania has hit a crisis point; whom should we assist? There can be little doubt that in this land ravaged by civil–war and mass murder, nothing remains quite as it seems. Martin Sigby, GNN News, Mordania.’

Martin Sigby’s image vanished and was replaced with Jared Thornton and Harriet Holloway, who seemed frozen in time until Jared snapped out of it and continued with the news.

Harrison Forbes sat down and stared blankly at the screens.

‘When was the last time we heard from Megan Mitchell?’ he asked quietly.

An assistant flicked through a few sheets of paper. ‘About forty–eight hours ago.’

Harrison rubbed his temples and whispered to himself.

‘Megan, what have you gotten yourself into?’

***

‘Come with me.’

Chekov’s voice was stern as a sack was once again placed over Megan’s aching head and tight bonds wrapped around her wrists as she was led from the storage room and out into the bitter dusk. The base around her remained alive with activity, much of it now illuminated by large flood–lights.

The rebel soldier led Megan back to General Rameron’s operations room, but this time they walked through it toward a large office at the back. Chekov led Megan inside and closed the door behind them before lifting the sack from Megan’s head and sitting her forcefully on a chair. Megan swallowed thickly as the soldier then produced from his pocket a thick, metal knuckle–guard and slowly, demonstratively, fitted it over his right fist.

The office was spartan but for a large metal desk and a map of the Caspian Sea on one wall. A small television played in one corner of the room, its volume muted.

General Rameron sat behind the desk beneath the fluorescent light on the ceiling, engrossed in various papers and documents. The steel rimmed spectacles that he wore made him appear oddly sophisticated. He looked up with those pale eyes at Megan as though only vaguely interested, and then at the rebel standing beside him.

‘You may begin, Chekov,’ he said quietly.

Megan watched as the rebel moved to stand in front of her, and a wave of impotent outrage flooding her nervous system.

‘I told you, we are not spies nor soldiers.’

The general did not look up from his paperwork as he replied. ‘I heard you. I did not believe you.’

‘What have you done with Bolav? Where is my cameraman, Callum?’

General Rameron stood slowly from behind his desk and moved around it to face Megan, standing no more than three feet away.

‘They are none of your concern right now, Megan Mitchell. Your only concern is your survival, which is becoming increasingly unlikely.’

The general nodded to his soldier, who raised his right fist and swung the solid metal toward Megan’s battered face. Megan shrieked with fear and closed her eyes as she tried to turn away from the blow.

It did not come. Megan opened one eye a fraction, to see the general holding his soldier’s arm back whilst looking at the television in the corner. Rameron released the soldier and walked across to the television, turning the sound up. Megan saw Martin Sigby speaking, heard him as the volume rose, and then started in surprise as she saw Sophie Vernoux talking earnestly to Martin.

A wave of incomparable relief washed over Megan as Sophie’s words filled her ears, of her own disappearance, of the search for Amy O’Hara and of her own past as a war correspondent. Her brief joy was tinged with sudden concern as she remembered Sophie’s own past. She was on television, being seen by millions of people. There was no way she would not be identified.

‘Oh Sophie, what have you done?’ Megan whispered.

Mikhail Rameron looked across at Megan. The general gestured to Megan’s bonds.

‘Chekov, release her please.’

Chekov, apparently disappointed, removed his knuckle–guard and placed it on a table nearby before moving across to Megan’s chair. Megan felt the bonds being loosened from her wrists as she was released from the chair.

Megan moved like lightning, two hours of imprisoned rage bursting from within. She turned, grabbed Chekov by his smock and heard her own scream of rage as she stamped forward and head–butted him savagely, felt the cartilage in the man’s nose crunching inward as he collapsed onto his knees. Megan turned, grabbed the knuckle–guard and smashed it across the rebel’s face, knocking him unconscious before turning back toward Rameron. Megan flicked her right boot toward the general’s stomach with maximum force, only to see Rameron spin aside from the blow.

Megan recovered her balance instantly, driven by furious instinct, dropping her right foot down and pivoting on it whilst delivering a powerful reverse chop with her elbow. Rameron caught it easily, pulled Megan off balance and slammed her onto her back upon the metal desk. Before Megan could move, one cold, dry hand was wrapped around her throat and a pistol was pressed to her face.

General Rameron regarded Megan as one might regard a winged–insect caught between finger and thumb. His voice was calm and unconcerned.

‘If you wish to die then I will comply willingly, but I have no desire to harm you.’

Before Megan could concoct a suitably furious response, Rameron released her and stood back, re–holstering his pistol. Megan slowly sat upright on the desk, massaging her throat as Rameron spoke to her quickly, presumably to prevent Megan from launching another suicidal attack.

‘I was a Mordanian Air Force fighter pilot for twenty–two years. In that time much of our training was against the obvious threat from the west, but also from renegade dictatorships in Kazakhstan and Iran. My men and I were well trained to defend ourselves if shot down in these countries, for they have little mercy in time of war.’

Megan blinked.

‘Lack of mercy being something else you clearly learned in your career,’ she muttered.

Rameron appeared unpreturbed by Megan’s unveiled hatred.

‘You are alive, are you not?’ he challenged, and when Megan did not respond he gestured out of a window toward the storage room where she had been incarcerated. ‘Your translator, Bolav, was unharmed. Your cameraman is being treated for his wounds, but will not be able to travel for a short while and we cannot adequately provide for him here. He needs some rest before you leave.’

Megan stopped massaging her throat.

‘Where are we going?’

Rameron appeared vaguely bemused.

‘I have no use for you and no stomach for prisoners, especially wounded ones. You will be transported to Thessalia in a prisoner exchange.’

Megan’s tired and battered mind tried to calculate Rameron’s reasoning, but failed.

‘So you believe me now, then?’ she said, glancing at the television.

‘I just had to be sure you were not the enemy, sent here to try to return information to the government forces in Thessalia. My apologies for the apparent brutality of myself and my men, but they were genuinely angry and believed you responsible for the deaths of their comrades, as did I.’

Megan winced, rubbing her neck.

‘So you’re letting us go, just like that.’

‘You are of no use to me.’

‘Your cause is pointless. Your time is over. Once the Americans deploy here your forces will be driven back to the north.’

Rameron nodded, smiling what seemed to be a melancholy smile to himself.

‘That is true,’ he replied.

Megan waited for more but nothing came. The general resumed his seat at his desk and began rearranging the papers that had been scattered from their orderly piles. Megan stared at the general for a moment, her mind briefly off balance and confused.

‘And you’re going to go right ahead and attack Thessalia?’

General Rameron simply nodded, frowning at a small map of Georgia. Megan shook her head.

‘Why?’ she asked.

General Rameron sighed. ‘Has your country ever been invaded, Megan?’

‘People have tried,’ Megan replied, ‘but have not succeeded for centuries.’

‘If it were to happen again, that your lands were threatened, the army helpless, the air force obsolete and a navy non–existent. If your people were under threat of extinction, would you not stand and fight?’

Megan leaned on the desk.

‘Of course I would, but this isn’t the same. You are the one who held the coup and started the war!’

General Rameron nodded slowly.

‘So say all of the news networks that you work for, all of your people who come here to Mordania and tell the world what a monster I am and how that world should support President Akim and his supposedly democratic government.’

Megan’s eyes narrowed slightly as her brain forced itself to consider what Rameron was saying.

‘So that’s it,’ she said finally, ‘you let us go and we run back to Thessalia and report that General Rameron isn’t a baby–eating psychopath after all and happens to be quite a nice chap.’ She pointed to her bruised and bloodied face. ‘You think they’ll believe that when they see me?’

The general put down the piece of paper he was holding and rubbed his temples before looking at Megan with the pitying gaze of a father for a wayward child.

‘It wouldn’t make any difference what you reported, now, in the past, or tomorrow. It is too late for that.’

‘Is that before the military coup, the genocide, the human shield and the attacks on the American carrier fleet, or after?’ Megan asked sarcastically.

General Rameron slammed an iron–hard fist onto his table with a deafening clang and shot upright out of his seat again to loom over Megan.

‘How many fighter aircraft did the UN general briefing you received in Thessalia say that we posessed when you arrived?’

Megan performed an unexpected and rapid search of her memory.

‘Twenty four – twenty fighters and four twin–seat trainers. Mig–23’s.’

‘That’s correct,’ Rameron growled. ‘They are still here. Perhaps you would like to go and count them?’

Megan stood for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The general moved around his table once again, his powerful frame radiating pure, undiluted rage.

‘Perhaps you might like to research more closely who deployed their troops first before the military coup, myself or President Akim. Perhaps you should go outside and ask the local people whether they are part of any supposed human shield or here because they fear to be alone in the hills. And the only genocide that I know of occurred near Thessalia, not here!’

Rameron turned away from Megan for a moment, attempting to master his fury. He turned slowly back to face Megan again, his expression troubled.

‘This woman that you were searching for. Why did she come here?’

‘She was searching for a family friend of her father’s,’ Megan said. ‘An engineer, a man called Petra Milankovich.’

The general’s eye twitched slightly at the mention of the name. He stared at the ground thoughtfully.

‘The name is familiar to me. He died in the massacre near Thessalia, correct?’

‘How do you know that?’ Megan asked.

‘Because they all died that day, the day this war really began.’

‘What were they doing in that laboratory?’ she asked, sensing the source of the undisclosed mystery.

General Rameron, however, was already turning away.

‘I have said enough. I have work to do.’

Megan shook her head.

‘Don’t walk away from this. I need to know what they were doing in that laboratory!’

General Rameron looked at her for a long moment as two rebel guards appeared in the office, one taking hold of one of Megan’s arms and the other kneeling down beside their still unconscious comrade. Megan realised that Rameron appeared tired now, devoid of energy or hope.

‘If I were to tell you what they had been doing in there, you would never believe it. It will take Martin Sigby, now, to get the world to believe.’

Megan strained against the rebel soldier as she was manhandled toward the office door, shouting as Rameron turned his back.

‘He won’t come here! They won’t let him leave the city now!’

General Rameron did not look back as she spoke. ‘Then the war is already over.’

Megan managed to grab the edge of the door frame, shouting in desperation.

‘There is a farmstead near here, something to do with Amy O’Hara and Petra Milankovich! Tell me where to find it! I can pass what I find to Martin Sigby! You may not like it, but right now I’m all you’ve got!’

General Rameron paused, thinking for a moment, and then looked at Megan over his shoulder.

‘My men will take you there tonight, on your way to Thessalia. And you will have the chance to speak to Martin Sigby – because it is he for whom you will be exchanged.’

***

The Gold Room,

Pentagon

‘Say that again?’

Vice President Hobb’s voice had raised an octave or two, as though some unseen hand had thrust something painfully sharp into hidden parts of his anatomy.

President Baker sat listening to an open speaker as it relayed the message from Admiral Fry’s carrier group on the Black Sea.

‘There’s nothing at all concrete to go on Mister Vice President, and that’s what makes this such a dilemma. My pilot is adamant that there was something not right about the engagement and is willing to go on the record to voice her doubts.’