Spiral (55 page)

‘I’ll put my trust in my Browning 9mm, Priest,’ said Carter, smiling. ‘It worked wonders on Feuchter, and it will work wonders today.’

The Priest frowned.

‘Feuchter still has to be punished.’

Carter shook his head. ‘Feuchter is dead, Priest; I killed him myself. Filled him full of holes, left him to suffer a bomb blast that would have ripped him limb from fucking limb.’

‘You are wrong, my friend. For whatever reason, the Lord protected him; saved him for fiery retribution from the skies.’

‘How do you know this? Demoll6?’

‘No - I saw him, when we intercepted an ECube transmission, a visual. He had sent a message to Durell; their arrogance is colossal, for they think we are as nothing. They think we are broken and ground as ashes into the dust. But Feuchter
was
alive, Carter. You can believe me on this.’

Carter’s jaw clamped tight. ‘That fucker just will not die.’

‘There is more.’

‘More?’

The Priest nodded. ‘Natasha is there - on that warship, on that Spiral abomination. She was shot in LA, yes, but she did not die; she featured in Feuchter’s message to Durell.’

‘Natasha! Alive!’ Hope died as soon as it had flared. ‘Impossible,’ growled Carter.

‘Impossible that they would seek to save a bartering tool against you, their greatest proven enemy?’

‘Me?’

‘You scare them, Carter. They fear you. There is a dark demon in your soul, a seed there, and they can see it nestling within you.’

‘They seek to draw me to them?’

‘Like a lamb to the slaughter,’ said The Priest softly.

Carter moved away from the hive of rag tag DemolSquad members into the cool confines of the Kamus mountain complex. He walked, for what seemed like hours, down darkened, long-disused corridors, his mind whirling, images of Natasha flittering like lost fragments through his brain, sadness overtaking him, then anger, then frustration, disbelief.

If she was alive, then he had to save her.

And Feuchter - alive, and using her as bait?

Carter smiled grimly.

‘Our reunion will be a sweet one,’ he said softly.

The briefing was over. The DemolSquads were making final preparations for their departure, including the incorporation of some highly sophisticated guns that could be mounted beneath their helicopters to help combat surface-to-air and air-to-air missiles.

From Austria, they were to fly to the north and east, across Europe and Russia, skirting the northerly Barents Sea and on towards Novaya Zemlya and the Arctic Ocean beyond where Jam and Demoll6 and The Priest had tracked Spiral_mobile using The Priest’s world network of spies, his illegal (even by Spiral standards) web of optical and digital communications, and good old-fashioned TacSquad scouts. There they would find a ship - a cruiser-class battleship similar in size and specifications to the Russian
Kirov
class. The ship was a dull matt black and had no name. Displacing 28,000 tonnes of water, it was a huge vessel that would no doubt hold many surprises for the attacking DemolSquads. But one thing was certain: all the men and women involved were willing to die to bring the enemies of Spiral to justice.

Carter stood watching the bustle, his Browning in his hand. Slater had checked over the Comanche and had refuelled her, ready for Carter’s part in the battle. Carter did not care.

‘Jam!’

Jam, now dressed, walked swiftly towards his friend. ‘Yeah?’

‘I need to ask a favour.’

‘Anything.’

‘I thought Natasha was dead but The Priest has informed me that I was wrong. Feuchter and Durell have her, they have her aboard the battleship. I need time, Jam; I need time to get in there and get her the fuck out before you blow it up.’

Jam stood, mouth open. ‘What are you asking me, Carter? To hold up a fucking operation like
this
?’

‘Yes. I need this, Jam; I need the chance to get her out.’ Carter gritted his teeth. He stared into the eyes of his oldest friend. ‘Come on, man, you can’t let her die in there - I
know
what you’ve fucking got planned ... come on,
please
,’ he said.

Jam closed his mouth. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder. Then he met Carter’s iron gaze.

‘Just supposing I was to let you do this, how will we work it?’

‘We fly in, and I use the cover of the battle to get inside the warship ... and get Natasha out. It’s all I’ve ever fucking asked you for, Jam; all I’ve ever, ever asked for.’

‘You
do
know what I plan, don’t you, Carter?’ said Jam softly.

Carter nodded. ‘Bomb in a bag?’

‘Well, a nuke in a suitcase, to be more precise. A homemade neutron device. You need to be well the fuck away from there, Carter - this baby is going down
big style.’

Carter’s mouth was a grim line.

‘I’ll be out, Jam, with Natasha. If I’m not...’ He left the sentence unfinished and Jam scowled, licking his lips.

‘As long as you know the score, buddy. I can give you an extra few minutes ... no more...’

Carter nodded; he knew the score, all right. He knew the dangers, the risks, the Hell that he would have to travel through before he could come out the other side and get his life back to normal. Normal? He laughed.

‘Let’s do it - and do it
now
,’ said Jam.

□
Ωclass relay
□
qiii mainframe code logon

01001010

booting...

booting ... sequences initiated...

GetCommandLineAt
□
GetVersion>

□
GetProcAddress & □ GetModuleHandleA }

ExitProcess ž

□
TerminateProcess / GetCurrentProcess $
□

GetModuleFileNameA

□
GetEnvironmentVariableA u
□
GctVersionExA
□

□
HeapDestroy > 
□
HeapCreate ¿
□
VirtualFree Ÿ

□
HeapFree m

□
SetHandleCount

R6026

- not enough space for spiral initialisation

error

R6025

- pure virtual function call

R6024

accessing data scripts
□

demolition squads// coordinates confirmed

attack procedures confirmed ...

The sun had risen, glittering like a series of firework explosions along the peaks of the ice-capped mountains, filling the sky with a cool sapphire blue that surrounded Carter and filled his soul with an easy gentle peace.

He breathed deeply inside the HIDSS.

Slater’s repair on the hole in the cockpit was holding up well, and Carter found it a pleasure to actually pilot the vehicle without having to sit on the corpse of another dead man ... another dead
friend.

As he flew, and the noise of the engines filled his senses, he focused on controls and weapons, revising their operation, revising the procedures. Kamus-5 and a slack-handed Slater had provided full tanks of fuel. Carter checked the navcomp.

Coordinates 000.002.006

South of the Arctic Ocean, of the North Pole.

A Continent of Ice ...

When he was happy with the Comanche, happy with its motion and stability and his own confidence in operating the machine, Carter analysed himself: and he felt good.

No, he felt more than good. He felt fucking
alive.

Behind the Comanche, a dark ragged line on the horizon, followed the remaining living DemolSquads in their massive range of aerial war machines. Carter took the lead not out of choice but because the Comanche housed the most advanced detection equipment of this group; this band; this new model
army.

Walking point, he mused grimly.

And now he knew what he had to do. He had to get Natasha out. But more than that: this was about Jessica, and Langan, and Gol. This was about Spiral. This was about betrayal, and Feuchter and Durell. This was about life and death. This was about finishing what others had begun. This was about finding the truth. And this was about—

Revenge.

Not for himself, no. For the innocents, the people who had died merely because they were in the way. The people who didn’t have a job where they were expected to take a bullet and be happy with the outcome.

Carter knew. Knew that he had to stop this thing and stop it fast.

What can one man do? mocked his subconscious.

One man can do enough, he replied calmly.

He dropped the Comanche’s altitude, flying low over fields of snow in northern Russia and then down towards great sprawling forests. He flew fast over small villages of white-walled red-roofed houses; he even fancied he heard the ringing of church bells.

Sunday, then, he thought. Is it?

He checked the Comanche’s computers.

Yeah, Sunday. The Day of Rest. The Day of Worship.

I’ll give them something to worship, he thought grimly.

The Priest would not be a happy man, he chuckled to himself.

Carter checked himself: his body was sore, aching, suffering from a myriad of minor aches and pains and bruises and scratches. He flexed his bound finger; it was almost healed - or, at least, enough to allow him to use it sparingly. His ribs didn’t click as much when he moved, although the soreness was a nuisance and his stomach still gave him twinges of pain. But he had taken some tablets and this irritant had faded ... His smashed nose was his biggest problem. It was bent, broken. His nostrils were still clogged with blood. It had taken just too much shit to have healed and he knew deep down that it was his weak spot, his Achilles heel. To take another blow there? The pain would scream through his head and he would be blind ...

Primary location for protection, then, he mused idly.

The Comanche hummed over a huge swathe of forest, closely followed by its lengthy growling wake of metal war machines, their shadows tumbling across the land and then over a cliff and down towards a huge inland lake. Carter checked to make sure that they were near no military or aviation bases.

They needed peace, not a chase.

And
he
wanted the serenity of the sea ...

I wonder how Sam is? he thought suddenly, picturing the insane plump chocolate Labrador in his mind. He realised that he missed the dog; really missed it.

When Carter had kicked Sam out of his house on the approach of the assassin Nex, the Labrador would have made his way down the valley in search of food and the next cottage. Old Mrs Humphreys often fed the fat mutt and looked after him when Carter was away on missions.

She’d better be looking after you, you dumb fat mongrel, thought Carter.

Better be taking real good care of you.

With a shock he realised that he might never see the dog again. This annoyed him and he chewed his lip. The chances were that he would die; he would take the fight to them, fuck them up bad and sour their links with Spiral and then die...

And Natasha ... well, Natasha could already be dead.

So be it, he mused bitterly.

He forced himself to relax as the Comanche at last flew low over the sea. Occasionally he passed fishing boats, and occasionally the fishermen would wave at him, forcing him to smile sadly.

What happy lives they lead, he thought.

What normal, happy lives.

Why couldn’t I have been normal? he thought...

Because you kill - said a small voice in his head.

Because you kill and you are good at killing.

You might hate it.

You might loathe it.

But whether you like it or not, you are
good
at it.

A natural-born shooter.

A predator.

A tiger, rather than a lamb.

The world of ice waters opened up ahead of this ragtag army after they had traversed the Barents Sea: a harsh landscape of intense and frightening beauty, a terrible world of choppy freezing ocean with torn blocks of ice rising up, mingled and merged and tossed frozen together in rigid flow streams. The Comanche flew low, coming in off the unquiet cold waters as sunlight glimmered across the icy world.

He shivered. The Comanche shuddered.

Carter checked the coordinates and slowed his speed as he started to approach the estimated location of the battleship, the
Kirov
-class cruiser. The scanners still read zero: nothing. He flew. The Comanche, despite flying in temperatures well below what Carter thought would be its operating norm, was responding well and as long as no vicious storms came up over the bustling cloud-filled grey and sapphire horizon, Carter knew the ‘copter would get him there in one piece...