"Why have you brought me down here?" Turner began, coughing and spluttering. He wiped his face and mouth with a large bandana handkerchief. "I contacted you. Agreed to help. Why are you treating me this way?" Again, he retched.
"I need you to know what you've got yourself into, Turner." The voice was cold, unsympathetic. "Sit him down."
The soldier dropped Turner into a blood-and-excrement-soaked chair in the centre of the cage where Lundt had been standing, chain-smoking, waiting for him. Lundt's features were disturbing under the half-light of the globe.
"So, what have you come here to tell me?
If
it's what I need to hear, you'll get out alive."
The soldier disappeared, out of Turner's view, but still close. Turner could hear him breathing and the shuffling of his combat boots against the rough cement floor.
Lundt struck a match to another cigarette and took a long draw, filling his lungs before allowing the smoke to flow through his nostrils. He didn't give even a hint of stress or pressure, his movements languid. He exchanged a look with the soldier, then Turner heard a gun being cocked.
"Jesus!" Turner gasped in panic. "I've heard from Cornell!" he stammered. "I couldn't speak about it on the Satt phone! It's on. It's on!"
"It's on. What do you mean, it's on?"
Lundt was suddenly interested. "When?"
"Now!" squeaked Turner. The small man nervously mopped at his brow with the bandana.
"It
took me time to get away, to drive up here. President Namakobo is due to arrive in London as we speak. He's probably there already."
"Fuck it!" Lundt stormed toward Turner. "I can't believe I've let you and that weasel Cornell live as long as I have."
Turner said nothing, he just kept mopping away the perspiration, fidgeting.
"How long have we got?" queried Lundt, flicking his still-burning
cigarette at Turner.
"Two days, maybe three," squirmed Turner as the butt struck his shirt.
"It
depends on how well the talks go with the British Government. There's something else."
"What?" asked Lundt.
Swallowing some rising bile in the back of his throat, Turner answered, "Two people arrived here on the UN shuttle from London this morning."
CHAPTER 14
With the usual lack of ceremony that accompanies the arrival of any military transport aircraft, the UN Hercules made its landing at Cullentown Airport.
As the big plane lumbered toward the terminal, Morgan's mind turned to what he may confront in tracking down whoever was behind the rebels. The strength of his cover as an evacuation specialist was his ticket in, but success was dependent on being accepted into the centre of the Chiltonford operation. Despite working with Ashcroft-James to engineer Morgan's appointment to Chiltonford, General Davenport had serious misgivings about relying on people outside of INTREPID. Morgan's cover story would reflect his actual military service record, rather than risking exposure with a fake CV. On this occasion, Morgan would also stick to his own name. Soldiers, especially experienced ex-soldiers, are notoriously suspicious people, and Morgan knew he would have to work hard to earn their trust. Davenport's parting advice had been cryptic but simple: 'Keep your powder dry.'
In recent weeks, the scale of atrocities committed by rebels in the remote areas of Malfajiri had intensified, carried out with impunity, with the local military powerless to stop them - or worse, complicit. As for the rebel leader, Baptiste, a number of other senior Malfajiri army officers were known to have also broken ranks and aligned with him. They had been identified as now playing key roles within Baptiste's rebel network. They were growing stronger and establishing greater control over the population by force, powered by the gunrunners with their pipeline to US military supplies. The weapons and equipment were rolling in, feeding the terror campaign. Underestimating the enemy was something a soldier could ill afford to do. Morgan would not be making that mistake. In that moment, he realised that he was still troubled by his dream.
Morgan was shunted from his thoughts by the sudden halt of the C-130 as it rolled to a stop. Minutes later, he stepped out into a fierce, dry blast of heat, a feature of Cullentown. The intensity of activity around the airport was nothing short of chaotic. Aircraft, military and civilian, fixed-wing and rotary, were taking off, landing, or being unloaded. Forklifts, trucks, beasts of burden and men were in constant motion. Scattered throughout it all, a company of Malfajiri Army conscripts, with automatic rifles draped lazily across their chests, tried to maintain the pretence of a security force. Morgan knew he was at more risk of being shot by accident than for any real reason. He searched the small cluster of faces gathered at the edge of the runway closest to his aircraft.
"You must be Morgan," a voice called out from somewhere behind him as he wrestled his field pack and tattered Army echelon bag from a cargo pallet. "Mike Fredericks," came the introduction.
With the RR T56 engines of the Hercules still turning, and a hot wind whipping about them, Morgan struggled to catch a word of the welcome, but he did recognise the light brown, close-cropped hair and broad, toothy grin from the dossier he'
cl
seen before leaving London. Lieutenant Colonel Michael Fredericks, retired, ex-Canadian Airborne Regiment and Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry. He'
cl
been instrumental in the formation of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment and, when not selected to command it, he left the Army and went private, serving with a couple of the major outfits in Iraq and Afghanistan before joining Chiltonford six months ago as their lead man in Malfajiri. There was nothing on record to indicate that Fredericks was anything other than the professional that his background suggested.
"G'day, Mike. Good to meet you," Morgan yelled over the din of background aircraft noise. Fredericks grabbed Morgan's field pack, hoisting it over his shoulder as they moved off the tarmac. Morgan smiled and shook Fredericks' offered hand firmly. "Alex Morgan. Thanks for coming out to get me."
"Welcome to the shit-hole, bud," said Fredericks without humour, waving his arm in a mock gesture of grand presentation. "What do you think so far?"
"I'll let you know," said Morgan.
"It's no secret, things are getting worse by the day, or the hour if you watch close enough. The locals who are able are leaving the
city
in droves to hide out in the mountains. They know better than anyone that it's only a matter of time before Baptiste makes his move against the President. Anyhow, I'll bring you up to speed on everything once we get to the mine site at Pallarup."
"Understood," Morgan replied with a nod. It was too difficult to hear much with all the noise from the tarmac. "So, where to from here?"
"Well, we've just got one more passenger to collect and then ..." Fredericks became distracted, and his eyes moved beyond Morgan, back towards the aircraft. "That's got to be her. I sure hope so, anyway. Jesus, she's gorgeous!"
Arena Halls was stepping away from the cargo pellet with one of the young local boys shouldering her bulging, brightly coloured field pack. It looked new. Morgan had noticed her on the plane, but as she'd been sitting well forward of him, he hadn't had much of a chance to actually see her. Halls was about 5 feet 6 or 7 inches, he thought. She was clearly fit yet refreshingly curvy, and moved with confidence and purpose. Her hair was a dusty blonde and fell to her shoulders in a very natural, unpretentious style. She wore what appeared to be good quality, well-worn hiking boots, a pair of tight-fitting beige cargo pants and a loose-fitting off-white military-style shirt with sleeves rolled halfway along tanned forearms. It was unbuttoned almost to the waist, with a khaki singlet stretched tightly across the swell of her breasts, tucked into a thick, brown leather belt. Dressed for Africa by Ralph Lauren, he thought. As she moved closer to them, Morgan could see that her eyes were the most mesmerising sky blue.
Fredericks was right. Definitely gorgeous.
"You must be Michael?" she began, and shook Fredericks' hand.
"Call me Mike." Fredericks was almost tripping over himself, Morgan noted with a smile. Couldn't blame him. "Welcome to Malfajiri, Miss Halls. This is our evacuation expert just in from London, too. Alex Morgan."
"Hello. Saw you on the plane." She moved in close to him and, looking up into his eyes, offered her hand. Morgan closed a strong hand around hers and she found his sudden proximity to have an unexpectedly primal effect. But there was definitely a level of arrogance there, she thought. Or was it absolute self-assuredness? Despite herself, her guard came up. 'Tm here with the ICRC, the Red Cross. Everybody calls me Ari."
"Hello, Ari. Alex Morgan. Pleased to meet you."
'Tm sorry to keep you both waiting. First on - last off scenario, I'm afraid. Noisy flight, too. Those hearing protection thingummys didn't help at all."
"The joys of flying by Herc," said Morgan as Arena finally released his hand.
"Wonderful, and don't ask me about the dreams I was having,'' she added, almost to herself. "Most distressing."
"You taking an anti-malarial?" Morgan asked mechanically. "Well, yes. Yes, I am. It's 'M' something?"
"Mefloquine?" offered Fredericks. When she nodded, he said, "Makes sense. It affects people differently - anxiety,,hallucinations and so on. Don't worry, we'll fix you up with something else from the medicine cabinet,'' he smiled mischievously.
Fredericks returned Morgan's pack to him with a wink, and relieved the young boy of Ari's gear, leading them both towards the far end of the tarmac. Ari thanked the boy, who looked like he didn't want to leave her, but eventually ran back to his duties with the other boys unloading the plane.
"Well, I'd like
to
welcome you both properly over a beer, but the Cullentown pub's not exactly what you'd call foreigner-friendly right now," Fredericks said in good humour, raising his voice over the howl of competing aircraft engines. "Best we go straight to the mine site at Pallarup. That Puma over there's ours."
Fredericks pointed to the dark green profile of a large military-spec helicopter with rotors whirling, ready to fly on the far edge of the tarmac. Both Halls and Morgan nodded in response. A tough-looking loadmaster with 'Johnny' stenciled above the right breast pocket of his faded khaki flight suit, stood by the open starboard side door, beckoning them over. He was tall and looked strong as an ox, and when he took hold of Halls' and Morgan's field packs, he hurled them into the rear cargo hold with ease.
As Fredericks clambered into the cockpit beside the pilot, Morgan noted Halls looking a little uncertain.
"First time?" he asked. "War zone or helicopter?" "Seriously."
"Both, actually. I've worked in disaster relief and with refugees mainly - after the fact, if that makes sense. Not really used to the whole
'life
in peril' thing yet," she replied with a nervous smile, wondering if he was judging her. "Was Mike serious about the hallucinations?"
"Yeah, but don't worry. You'll be fine," Morgan said confidently, while he wondered what her real story was. No doubt he'd find out soon enough. Why would the Red Cross send a basically inexperienced person out here at a time like this? "Remember: never proceed in fear, and everything will take care of itself," he quipped.
"Thanks. I'll try," but Arena couldn't fool herself. She was seized by the fear that she was entering into a terrifying new world. "I suppose you're used
to
all this?"
"A little," Morgan replied, helping her aboard.
Johnny made sure that all the kit was secure, including his two passengers, before giving the pilot a very definite thumbs-up. The big chopper gave a great shudder as the engines screamed into action. There was a wobble as the wheels left the ground, and sitting close to her, Morgan could see Halls taking control of her apprehension with great calm and poise. He was impressed. He tapped her forearm and handed her a headset. She took it and placed it over her blonde hair, deftly sliding a rubber band from her wrist, and fastening her hair into a ponytail. Suddenly the helicopter gave another violent shudder and the whine of the engines became deafening as it lifted off. Without even realizing she was doing it, Arena shifted closer
to
Morgan. He felt her body move against his, but he didn't budge.
The Puma flew over the main entrance to the airport, rapidly gathering speed and height as it climbed to clear the mountains ahead. Morgan looked down and saw a number of sandbagged guard posts at the key access points on the approaches to the airport. They each contained a three-man detachment of local troops manning machineguns. Morgan clocked the buzz of electrifying activity in and around Cullentown airport. Military, UN and civilian vehicles, planes and choppers were in constant motion, landing and taking off, delivering and picking up. The pace was relentless. He was back in the real world again, a world in which he felt at home, restored and revitalised, far from the trivialities of mundane city life.
Ina place like this, where so much was uncertain, every day was an open book. There were no guarantees, no routines, no 9-to-5. It was life, pure and simple and, as always, it gripped Morgan. He often wondered what it would be like to be satisfied with a conventional life, living in the same town, catching the same bus, going to the same job, the same problems, the same people, day after day, year after year. How could all those people possibly know what actually went on out in the real world? Maybe they were better off not knowing.
"If you have a look back out to sea, you'll see the US Navy approaching." It was Fredericks via the headset. "The rest of the world's finally taking an interest in this place."
"Not before time,' said Morgan.