Zero 22, p.30
Zero 22, page 30
part #8 of Danny Black Series
‘Wait here,’ Danny told Bethany and the General. ‘Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.’
The bridge was busy but quiet. The captain sat at his control post watching his men as they went about their business of preparing the frigate for docking. Danny could see the eastern seaboard of the United States up ahead through the windows. There were three other naval ships in his field of view. A vast mackerel sky suggested that the weather was about to change. The rating led him to a comms post where Danny put on a headset with a built-in boom mike. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
He recognised the CO’s voice, every word crisp and clear despite the distance of several thousand miles. ‘I’ve been briefed,’ said Williamson. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a busy night.’
‘Roger that, sir.’
‘Some time, you and me are going to have a little chat about your detour.’
‘Yes, sir.’ A pause. ‘It was the Wagner Group, boss. The same people who targeted the Zero 22 convoy.’
‘Understood,’ said Williamson. A beat. ‘You have Bethany White with you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You understand why?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Because now that the op has evolved, US soil is the best place for her to end up dead. The Yanks are going to sweep this whole thing under the carpet. If they can do some of our tidying up for us, so much the better.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Prioritise the General. The frigate should get your feet on solid ground at about 15.00 hours local. It’s crucial that he broadcasts those deepfakes, even if it happens after the terror attack. We have no lead on when or where the attack is going to take place. This is the only way to put the skids on the President’s conspiracy. But when it’s done, finish your mission.’
Danny stared through the window of the bridge. Naval Station Norfolk was fast approaching.
‘Do you copy?’ the CO asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Danny. ‘I copy.’
The line went dead. Danny removed the headset. The rating was standing nearby. Danny could tell he was trying to glean something from his end of the conversation, but was disappointed. He was just a kid, and Danny had learned that kids were often a little starstruck in the presence of an SF guy. He gave him a friendly smile. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Jack,’ the kid said.
‘Do me a favour, Jack? Find me a pair of binoculars. Meet me on deck?’
Jack reddened at the neck. Not from embarrassment, Danny perceived, but from pride at being included. He scurried away. Danny left the bridge and went to fetch the others.
There was not a cloud in the sky. It was the perfect weather for a day in the parks. They were busier than yesterday. The crowds made Hamoud more nervous than usual. They seemed to have the same effect on his children. They stayed closer and were less exuberant. Perhaps they were just tired.
Hamoud made a special effort. He shouted with mock glee as they sped round the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. He cooed and pointed as their sedate boat bobbed its way around It’s a Small World. He had his picture taken with a pirate, whose ar-harghs became less enthusiastic when he saw the real scar down Hamoud’s right eye. But whenever he knew his family was not looking, he was like a lighthouse, the beam of his gaze rotating in circles around him. What was he looking for? Another cartoon character taking his photograph? Familiar faces out of place? A brown-skinned man in an oversized baseball jacket whom he still simply could not place, no matter how hard he urged his brain?
He saw none of them. As they sat at a refreshment stall and guzzled Coke from enormous cups – a rare treat for them, of course – he maintained his surveillance under the guise of taking in the view. He saw children, some dragging their parents by the hand, others wilting in the heat. He saw adults, some of them so enormous that they required the use of mobility vehicles. He saw Walt Disney World staff, all tans and smiles. He saw characters clowning around with the visitors, animated despite the heat.
But he saw nothing suspicious.
Why, then, was the urge to scratch his sweaty palms so overpowering that he felt the need to cool them down on his Coke cup?
It was the face. The long, curious face that he recognised but could not identify. He was so close. But each time he thought he had it, it slipped away again. He felt like a drowning man grabbing at a life raft, only to find that the touch of his fingertips perpetually nudged it out of reach.
They finished their Cokes and the children, revived now, grabbed their parents’ hands and dragged them off to the next amusement, whatever that might be.
Danny, Bethany and the General stood on deck as the frigate docked. There were very few other crew members outside. Those that were, walked with purpose. They clearly had jobs to do and they paid the trio scant attention.
The docking was an impressive manoeuvre. The ocean churned all around them. There was spray and the vast grind of engines. But for all its bulk, the vessel moved with an almost delicate precision as it drew up to its berth alongside one of a long line of concrete piers. There was an aircraft carrier at the next berth. Beyond that, huge grey destroyers and a variety of supply vessels. As they docked, Danny watched the conning tower of a sleek, black diesel-electric sub break the water to the north-east. The activity wasn’t limited to the water. An aircraft of some description was circling in the distance. Closer by, three Seahawks were coming in to land. Beyond the pier was a huge area where at least 200 military vehicles were parked up. There were more vehicles moving along the pier itself: supply lorries mostly, but also armoured trucks and three buses. It was these that drew Danny’s attention as the frigate came to a halt by the pier and vast ship-to-shore mooring lines were thrown from the vessel. The buses were parked in a line. It was hard from a distance to judge accurately the space between them, but Danny estimated about twenty metres. In front of the leftmost bus was a tall post and it had something mounted on it. Danny could quite make it out, but he thought he knew what it was. Right then Jack appeared with the binoculars Danny had asked for. ‘Good man,’ Danny said. He took the binoculars. Jack stood a respectful distance of a few metres while Danny put the binoculars to his eyes.
NS Norfolk appeared through the lenses in greater detail. It was huge. A vast, flat area, dotted with hangers and runways and roads and accommodation blocks and all the infrastructure of a busy military base. Danny couldn’t see its boundaries. He adjusted the binoculars and focused in on the buses and the post in front of them.
The object mounted on the post was a camera, as Danny expected. Security would be high on a naval base like this. He doubted there would be airport-style facial recognition, but there would be some level of CCTV surveillance and he was seeing evidence of it now. He had no means of knowing whether his attempt to stage the General’s death back in the Roman ruins outside Amman had worked. He needed to plan for the worst-case scenario, and that meant avoiding all video surveillance if at all possible. He scrutinised the position and angle of the camera. It was pointing downwards and just to the right of the leftmost bus. The middle bus was likely in its field of view. Not the bus on the right.
Danny lowered the binoculars and turned to Jack. Gave the spotty rating his friendliest smile. ‘Do me a favour, bud,’ he said. He pointed in the direction of the buses. ‘You see those three buses?’
Jack nodded.
‘I’m guessing they’re to take crew members off site.’
Jack grinned. ‘Party time,’ he said. ‘We’ve been a long time at sea. They’ll be hitting the bars the moment they open. You joining them?’
‘Bit early for me,’ Danny said. ‘But you see the bus on the right? I need you to get a message to whoever’s in charge that we need to be on that bus, and once we’re off site the driver’s going to have to stop for us when I tell him to. Can you do that for me?’
It was almost comical, the way Jack nodded casually, as if this was something he did every day, then turned and almost sprinted back along the deck. Danny raised his binoculars again and monitored the activity on the pier. There was much to-ing and fro-ing. Military vehicles approached, and service lorries. Already there were people disembarking from the frigate. Danny focused in on them and saw a couple of official-looking US Navy men leading the four SBS guys to a vehicle. Just a quick word, no doubt, to confirm that their training exercise was just that. Danny knew he could rely on them to keep quiet about their extra tandem loads.
Jack was slightly out of breath when he returned. ‘This way, guys,’ he said, before remembering that Bethany was one of their group, and flushing a little. He led them below decks. There was much activity now. Sailors hurriedly squeezed their way through the narrow corridors, plainly eager to get off the frigate and paying Danny and the others almost no attention. Jack led them down into the noisy, dirty hull of the ship, where the grinding sound of the engines vibrated through their bodies. Here there was an exit, where a metal platform had been laid between ship and pier. A group of crew members had congregated here. They were full of boisterous good humour and although Danny and the others drew a few glances from them, they were clearly more concerned with their trip on to land than with this mismatched trio who had joined them. One guy stood slightly apart from the others. Jack went to talk to him, pointing out Danny, Bethany and the General. He nodded, made a quick head count and then divided the sailors into three groups, before indicating which bus each group should board. Danny, Bethany and the General were in the right one. Danny winked his thanks to Jack, who ballooned with pride, and then they walked down the platform and along the concrete pier towards the buses. The trio walked in the middle of their group, heads down. The bus’s engine was already turning over when they reached it, an impatient and rather sweaty driver sitting at the wheel flicking through his phone. Danny took a seat next to Bethany. The General sat in the seat in front, next to a sailor who obviously had no idea who he was and was more interested in talking excitedly to the guy across the aisle from him. The bus filled up quickly. The doors hissed shut. There was room enough on the enormous pier for the bus’s wide turning circle. It trundled away from the frigate and made its way towards the exit of Naval Station Norfolk.
It was a fifteen-minute drive around a perimeter road that passed inlets on the left and the outskirts of the huge naval station infrastructure on the right. This was just a blur in Danny’s peripheral vision. He kept his eyes forward, head slightly down, avoiding any interaction with the other passengers.
They reached an exit – a lowered barrier manned by several US Navy personnel. The bus came to a halt. The doors hissed open again and Danny felt a lurch of anxiety. ‘What’s happening?’ Bethany whispered.
Danny stopped himself from peering down the aisle to check. His mind turned over. Had the SBS guys messed up? Did the Yanks have some way of knowing that the four-man drop wasn’t what it seemed? Getting out of this naval station ought to be straightforward. Had they hit an obstacle? Danny felt hemmed in. The bus offered only a single exit. Even if they managed to get off, leaving the naval base when it was on a security lockdown was a whole other proposition . . .
A man walked along the aisle. He had a square face and a humourless expression, as though this busload of boisterous Brits was somehow beneath him. He was doing nothing, however, but counting heads. Danny tensed up as he approached the General. Would a member of the US military recognise O’Brien at a glance, despite his hoodie.
He didn’t. Nor did he look twice at Danny and Bethany. A minute later he had alighted, and the bus was driving through an open security cordon and out of the base.
Danny stood up. There was a lull in the buzz of conversation on the bus as he moved up the aisle and towards the driver. It was a wide road, but mostly deserted. Any vehicles Danny saw were military not civilian. The sky was changing. The mackerel clouds had become stormier. Bad weather was on its way. ‘You’ve been told to stop for us?’ he asked the driver.
Just a surly nod by way of response.
Danny stayed standing at the top of the aisle. He didn’t have to wait long. After a couple of minutes he saw a black SUV parked up on the side of the road. It was an anomaly: a civilian vehicle abandoned here in the middle of nowhere. ‘This is it,’ Danny told the driver.
At first he thought the driver wasn’t going to stop. Then he understood his passive-aggressiveness for what it was. The driver only hit the brakes once they’d passed the SUV. The bus came to a halt fifty metres beyond the vehicle. The driver opened the doors without taking his eyes from the road. Bethany and the General joined Danny up front. They alighted together and the doors hissed shut almost before they were out of the bus, which immediately eased back out into the road.
The General sniffed the air. ‘A storm’s coming,’ he said.
Danny nodded. ‘You need to tell me where the memory stick is,’ he said.
‘I already did. DC.’
‘Where in DC?’
‘I’ll show you when we get there.’ A couple of heavy raindrops hit the tarmac, leaving wet splodges the size of military medals. ‘We going to stand here and get wet, or we going to drive?’
Danny looked at the sky again. Dark clouds were rolling in from the south. ‘We’re going to drive,’ he said.
Danny found the keyless entry fob hidden behind the nearside front wheel. He took the driver’s seat. The General sat next to him. Bethany in the back. The car was new, modern and comfortable. There was a full tank of gas. As Danny turned on the ignition, the General made to key directions into the built-in navigation system. Danny stayed his hand. ‘We put our destination into that, anybody can read it if they get hold of the car.’
‘Nobody knows we’re here,’ the General said.
‘Plenty of people know we’re here. Hereford. MI6. You think none of these people have contacts with Washington? We’ll find our own way.’
The General considered that for a moment, then nodded. ‘Route 64,’ he said. ‘We’ll take the bridge-tunnel up into the Hamptons. North from there. I’ll direct you.’
That was all Danny needed to know. He turned on the wipers, pulled out into the road and drove.
The weather deteriorated. The spots of rain became more frequent and fell so heavily that they started an irregular drumming on the roof of the SUV. Their route took them over a long bridge spanning the waterway between Norfolk and the Hamptons. By the time they crossed, visibility was barely a few metres on either side. Thunder rolled overhead. Lightning cracked. The sky became twilight dark. Danny kept his foot on the gas.
The storm followed. It was as if the elements were tracking them. They sat in silence, not only because they were tense in each other’s company, but because the hammering of the rain and the crashing of the thunder made conversation impossible. It slowed them down, too. Whenever Danny saw the speedometer dip below forty miles per hour, he felt a twist of anxiety in his gut. The day was passing. It was already 16.00 hrs. That made it 13.00 on the west coast. The terror attack might happen there, which gave them a few extra hours. He turned on the radio and found a news station. A news anchor spoke in a brash, booming voice of a power struggle between the President and congress, as if he was discussing the latest celebrity tittle-tattle. But there was no talk of a hit.
Not yet.
Time crept by. They turned north on to Interstate 95. The storm turned north with them. That was how it felt, at least. The General had said three hours to Washington. Danny estimated that they needed to add another hour to that. Maybe more.
The afternoon waned. The weather deteriorated further. The closer they grew to the capital, the heavier the rain became. The wipers were on high, necessary but barely effective. A grey mist of road spray surrounded every vehicle on the highway. Evening came. The overhead signs for Washington DC became more frequent: 150 miles, 100 miles, 75 miles. The traffic became heavier. Danny kept his speed at a safe level. It was a challenge. His urge to reach DC was strong, but they’d get nowhere if they came off the road: a distinct possibility for anyone travelling at speed in these conditions.
By 19.00 hrs they were twenty miles out of DC and the neon of emergency lights glowed through the downpour up ahead. The traffic slowed to a halt. They crawled past a four-vehicle RTA. Danny knew at a glance that there were fatalities, but his attention was not on the crash or the ambulances. It was on the six police vehicles parked up around the crash sight, and the police officers in foul-weather gear, some of them dealing with the crash, others waving the traffic jam on. Rain pelted heavily against the windscreen and the side windows. It would be difficult to see into the SUV from outside. It didn’t stop Danny’s skin from tingling as they drove past the police lights. Next to him, the General pulled up his hood and stared straight ahead. Nobody spoke until they were well past the accident and the traffic moved a little faster. Even then, tension bit at the air. ‘We’ll head for the centre of the city,’ the General said. ‘Then I’ll tell you where we’re going.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Couple of hours and we’ll get this done.’
Danny drove.
TWENTY-THREE
The children were grouchy. Staying up late the previous night watching the fireworks was all catching up with them. They had begged their mum and dad to be allowed to watch the fireworks again this evening, but Rabia had only agreed on the condition that they went back to the hotel for a late afternoon rest. Her decision was unpopular, but as soon as the children had lain on their beds, they had fallen asleep.
Now it was half past seven. The fireworks wouldn’t start until a quarter past nine. Hamoud lay on the bed, watching television to ease his racing thoughts. Fox News played quietly. It was broadcasting footage of a presidential rally somewhere in the south. Hamoud watched, half transfixed, half appalled. The President had a kind of rictus grin and was rambling so incoherently that Hamoud simply could not follow his line of thought, if indeed he had one. The audience didn’t appear to share Hamoud’s lack of comprehension. They cheered. They waved American flags. They held banners aloft with the President’s name and his jingoistic slogans. They punched clenched fists in the air. The audience, more than the President, interested Hamoud. There were only white faces. The camera didn’t settle on a single person with brown skin. Each time the crowd roared its approval, he felt unnerved. He imagined himself among those people. Would he feel safe? He would not.
