Revolution (39 page)

‘Mark the L–Z!’ Cole shouted above the roar of the blades and engines.

Megan and Bolav began waving frantically at the huge advancing helicopter. To her right, Megan could see Alexandre advancing toward the rebels, waving his own arms and shaking his head. Closer, one of the SEALS tossed a smoke–grenade out into the field, the device spurting clouds of bright purple smoke onto the cold air.

Megan was about to try and scream something to the distant rebel line when the rattling sound of the rebel’s small–arms fire cracked the frigid air.

‘No!’

Megan’s cry was drowned out by the sudden whining roar of a rotary cannon. A trail of heavy tracer–fire streamed like laser–beams from the side of the Chinook helicopter, massive rounds smashing into the frozen snow and earth and sending chunks of mud and stone flying across the rebel’s lines. Megan saw Mordanian bodies scythed down as though by an invisible, lethal blade. Dozens of rebels threw themselves down onto the earth whilst others dropped to one knee and fired upon the helicopter.

‘Alexandre!’ Megan shouted.

The farmer was still waving his hands when dozens of rebels, streaming toward the farmstead and panicking under the withering fire from the Chinook, saw Alexandre coming toward them.

The Chinook fired a last few rounds as it turned and then it was settling down in the field fifty yards from Megan’s position, blocking her view of the farmstead as the pilot used the helicopter’s fuselage to protect them all from the rebel fire. On the opposite side, the Chinook’s gunner maintained a steady and lethal hail of fire upon the rebel positions.

Megan ran with Amy’s stretcher, Bolav struggling to keep up as the Chinook’s loadmaster appeared at the swiftly opening rear–door and waved them urgently onward. Megan squinted against the whorls of snow and ice chips as she ducked under the huge spinning blades, felt the overpowering
wokka–wokka
beat of them as she led Bolav and Callum up into the helicopter.

The SEALS accompanied them as a group, moving and firing with lethal accuracy at the rebel positions, keeping their heads down as they helped protect the Chinook.

As Megan climbed the ramp she shot a glance out across to the homestead, and with a terrible cry that seemed to come from somewhere else she saw Alexandre lying motionless on the track beside the farmstead, and his wife Marin slumped against the door frame of their home as their friends fired their shotguns wildly at the advancing rebels only to be cut down themselves.

A sudden double–thump sounded above the rest of the noise, and Megan watched in horror as Bolav wavered on his feet before his legs collapsed beneath him, two blood–sodden wounds spreading across his chest.

‘Man down!’ Cole shouted to his men. ‘Fall back now!’

Callum grabbed the other end of Amy’s stretcher with his good arm, dragging it backwards into the helicopter as Megan dashed for the ramp again.

‘Megan, no!’ Callum shouted.

The SEALS piled into the Chinook, hauling Bolav’s bloodied body with them. Cole grabbed Megan in a powerful bear–hug that almost lifted her off the ground, dragging her forcefully backward into the helicopter as it lifted off from the field amidst churning clouds of snow and purple smoke, the rear ramp closing as they flew away.

‘Get down!’ Cole bellowed at Megan.

Megan staggered, her arms aching in the soldier’s iron–like grip, and watched as the fields moved away behind them, the snowy ground racing past below. In the distance, she saw the farmstead vanishing rapidly in the morning mists and with it the last forlorn island of peace in Mordania.

Fatigued and sick to her stomach, Megan turned to see Bolav lying on his back on the cold floor of the helicopter. The SEALS’s medic was trying to staunch the flow of blood from the Mordanian’s wounds, but it was clear to all that he would be dead within moments.

Bolav gestured to Megan weakly, and Megan dropped onto her knees beside the doomed translator as he spoke in a thin, reedy voice.

‘There is something that you should know, Megan.’

Megan leaned close, hearing Bolav’s words, and then sat back on her haunches in the Chinook as the Mordanian’s life slipped away before her eyes.

***

‘Bluebird One, in–bound. Vector for field landing.’

The voice of the Chinook pilot sounded distant in Megan’s headset as she sat on a spartan fold–down seat attached to the fuselage wall of the helicopter. She stared vacantly out of the half–open rear ramp of the Chinook and watched the snowy fields and vast pine forests drift past below.

‘Bluebird One, left to two–four–zero for descent, colours green, LZ secure.’

‘Left to two–four–zero, descending now, Bluebird One.’

The powerful engines of the Chinook changed note and the helicopter began to descend toward Thessalia. Megan closed her eyes and with them her mind to the raw grief that poisoned her veins, swelling in her chest like a terminal disease. The image of the fallen farmer and his wife had become seared onto her mind’s eye, as though her very soul had been branded with fire.

A hand touched Megan’s shoulder, breaking her from her solemn reverie. She looked across to see Callum watching her, his jaw tense and his eyes strained. The Scotsman spoke loudly enough to be heard above the thumping engines above them.

‘Not now. Think about Sophie – she needs you.’

Megan stared for a long moment at her friend, and then glanced out of the rear of the helicopter again to see the myriad snow–covered roofs of Thessalia, the streets and the people of the war–ravaged and scarred capital. She thought of Alexei Severov and suddenly the grief in her heart twisted into rage as she looked at Amy O’Hara and thought of what the police commander had done to her.

She looked back at Callum.

‘You’re going to a hospital,’ she said.

Callum blinked, thrown off–guard by the comment. ‘Okay.’

Megan unstrapped herself from her seat and carefully made her way to the cockpit, where the pilot and co–pilot were sitting behind the masses of dials and glowing computer screens as they brought the helicopter in toward the city. Megan placed a hand on the co–pilot’s shoulder.

‘How close will we be to Government House? It’s important.’

The co–pilot thought for a second, and then spoke to the pilot. The answer came back an instant later.

‘Two hundred yards, roughly.’

Megan nodded. ‘Good, that’ll be enough.’

The Chinook thundered over the city and through the cockpit windows Megan saw the vast refugee camps and, nearby, several rows of helicopters of various types, all United States aircraft and surrounded by hundreds of troops.

‘The Yankee advance guard,’ the co–pilot said, as though reading Megan’s thoughts. ‘Their marines are coming in from the carrier group one wave at a time. Even so, there are not enough to defend the city against Rameron’s men.’

Megan smiled grimly.

‘They won’t need to if you get me down where I need to be. Radio anyone you can think of in the Red Cross who can deal with an immediate medical evacuation, and send a message to the British UN attache in Government House that Megan Mitchell needs to speak with him urgently.’

Megan moved back into the Chinook’s fuselage, to see Callum regarding her quietly.

‘You shouldn’t risk going in there again,’ The Scotsman cautioned.

‘We can’t let Amy anywhere near Severov’s men, and that means Sir Wilkins is useless to us because he’s in the same building as the secret police. We’ll have to get her out another way and if I’m already in the building, Severov will no doubt be preoccupied with me.’

Callum nodded, and smiled weakly.

‘I think I know what you’re up to.’

‘Not quite,’ Megan said, ‘and you’re not going to like the rest of it.’

*

‘I think that this is a most excellent idea. You will become my personal spokesperson and make your reports from the Thessalia Hilton, as before.’

Alexei Severov lit a short, fat cigar as he stood over Martin Sigby, drawing deeply on it and exhaling a thin stream of blue smoke into the air above his head.

Sigby slumped in a rickety wooden chair. His face was barely marked by the beating that he had received, but his entire body was battered beneath his clothes, bruised and bloodied.

Severov, his cheek patched with a crimson–stained medical dressing, looked down at him.

‘You will ensure that General Mikhail Rameron is portrayed as we wish him to be; a war–mongering traitor who has slaughtered hundreds, perhaps thousands in his endless quest for power. And I, my friend, shall be the conquering hero who extinguished Rameron’s brutal regime.’

‘It will never work,’ Sigby spat. ‘Megan is still out there and she knows about you.’

Severov’s smile grew broader still.

‘I know that she is, and I know what she knows, and do you know what Mister Sigby? I cannot wait to see her again, for there will be much for us to discuss and she will enjoy none of it.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

Sigby looked away from Severov in disgust as the policeman leaned closer to him, those cruel eyes burning into his own.

‘Oh, but you disagree, Mister Sigby? Perhaps you think that you might decide to take your chances, being away from my grasp, and tell the world that I am holding a French citizen hostage, no?’

Severov smiled, standing upright again and flicking his head at one of the guards behind him. The guard strolled to his side and reached down to a sheath on his belt, producing a seven–inch combat knife with a cruelly serated edge.

‘You could,’ Severov whispered, ‘but it would make my friend here a very, very happy man. I would be destroyed, of course, by the Americans or the British, but that would not matter. Djimon here would be long gone, and your precious little friend Sophie would be gone with him.’

Sigby glanced across the room at Sophie’s form huddling in the shadows as Severov spoke softly, clearly, letting Sigby think about every single word.

‘He and his family and friends would use her for a few days, a few weeks perhaps, until they tired of her body. That would be when the real suffering begins, when they begin to use their knives to take her apart, small piece by small piece. I’ve heard that they can keep a victim alive for months in this way, quite literally eating them alive one bit at a time.’ The commander took a last draw on his cigar, sucking until the tip glowed bright orange. ‘Do not doubt their loyalty to me, Martin, even if I have fallen.’

Sigby looked up to see the Djimon’s hand outstretched, palm up before Severov. The police commander ground his cigar–butt out on the huge, calloused palm of the soldier, who stood without flinching or complaining.

Severov smiled again.

‘Come, Martin Sigby. It is time for you to make my name great.’

*

Megan jogged quickly across Petrevska Square, the sound of the Chinook’s engines fading far behind her as she ran, dodging left and right past hordes of people, animals and vehicles all moving in conflicting directions.

Almost a dozen armed guards were protecting the vast gates of Government House and would not allow Megan in until they had received confirmation from Sir Wilkins that the British visitor was indeed expected.

‘We cannot allow civilians into the building unescorted,’ the NCO commanding the guards reported to Megan with a stern expression. ‘Who knows what they might do?’

Megan had to wait almost ten minutes before she was allowed to enter the grounds, and she ran into the foyeur as Sir Wilkins hurried out to greet her.

‘Megan dear girl! Thank God you’re all right!’ Then he saw the bruises and cuts on her face. ‘My God, what happened?’

Megan wearily shook the attache’s hand, managing a smile.

‘I’ve a hell of a lot to tell you and very little time.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Sir Wilkins fussed, guiding her down a corridor past the bustling UN offices. ‘Let me get you a good strong coffee and we’ll sit down and discuss everything.’

Megan allowed herself to be led to Sir Wilkin’s personal quarters, and an aide brought coffee and biscuits before Sir Wilkins closed the door and sat down opposite Megan with an eager expression.

‘Now, please, for the love of God tell me what’s been happening!’

Megan reached into her pocket and produced a digital memory card and a thick wedge of papers.

‘First things first,’ she began. ‘Callum’s hurt and he needs proper medical attention. I need your authorisation to have him airlifted out of the city. The UN and the RAF won’t allow such a transfer without these legal papers they’ve given me being signed by someone of sufficient authority.’

‘Of course,’ Sir Wilkins said immediately. ‘He will be all right, I take it?’

Megan tore off the last sheet of paper from the wedge and handed it to Sir Wilkins, who signed it hurriedly.

‘It’s a bullet wound, in the shoulder. He’s not incapacitated, but he needs surgery to remove the shrapnel and bone fragments before the wound becomes infected. He’s at the field hospital near Khobal Airport right now.’

‘Ghastly business,’ Wilkins said, quickly handing back the sheet of paper before calling out to his aide. The aide entered the room and Megan handed the papers over to her as Wilkins spoke.

‘Ensure that this is acted upon immediately as a matter of utmost urgency. I want this individual flown out of Thessalia this very minute, is that clear?’

The aide nodded and scooted from the room.

Megan sighed a breath of relief and then turned to Wilkins.

‘General Mikhail Rameron is operating his forces from a former refinery complex just north of Talyn,’ she said. ‘He was there last night and by now will probably have occupied Talyn.’

‘Absolutely capital!’ Sir Wilkins applauded in delight. ‘First class, Megan. I shall inform the commander of the carrier group forthwith. They’ll probably hit both sites to be sure.’

Megan frowned deeply. The attache was out of his chair and about to leave the office when he saw Megan’s sudden change of expression. ‘What is it?’

‘General Rameron is not responsible for the events that are the main reasons for the launch of the military campaign here in Mordania. He probably did not launch any fighters against the American carrier, and his men certainly did not massacre the civilians near Borack. They were executed by the Mordanian Secret Police under the command of Alexei Severov.’