Defender (7 page)

The aircraft was a World Food Program C-130 Hercules converted to take passengers, with conventional aircraft seating rolled into the cabin area on pallets.
It
was a far cry from the red canvas strapping and tubular frames Morgan remembered from his days cramped into military C-130s, crushed between packs, parachutes and paratroopers. This was luxury by comparison. To a spellbound group of international passengers, mostly UN and assorted aid agency types, the big South African pilot, dressed in simple navy blue overalls, black boots and a pale blue, well worn United Nations baseball cap well and truly commandeered their attention. He had clambered down from the cockpit, and honoured his captive audience by personally delivering the anything but standard safety spiel.

Behind the pilot, the words 'GET IN. SIT DOWN. SHUT UP AND HANG ON!' were splashed irreverently in bold yellow lettering across the forward metal panel of the bulkhead, and for a moment, Morgan thought he'd mistakenly stepped onto an aircraft chartered by some famous rock band rather than the WFP. He put down the copy of Eric Ambler's
Passage of Arms
he'd been reading, to enjoy the informality of the briefing.
It
momentarily eased the general feeling of foreboding that had affected his mood since heading off from Farnham to Gatwick Airport earlier that morning.

"My English may not be the same as your English," the pilot continued, "so there's lots of pretty pictures on these cards," he held them aloft, "to show you what I just said." And with that final cryptic piece of advice, he disappeared to join his co-pilot at the controls, leaving the passengers in the capable hands of the loadmaster.

* * *

Just a few rows ahead, Arena Halls sat back and took in what had to be the most engaging aircraft safety brief she'd ever experienced. This was not the first time she'd flown on a non-commercial aircraft but it was certainly the most entertaining. Back in her university days, not all
that
long ago, her natural facility for languages and studies toward a Bachelor of Arts majoring in psychology and philosophy had drawn the interest of an old family friend, a former colleague of her father's, who was the Director of Emergency Response for a major international aid agency. With a thirst for adventure inherited from her globetrotting parents, primarily her mother, Arena had eagerly accepted his invitation to put her name on the agency's volunteer register. Joining their developing psychosocial program, she took time away from her studies to deploy to Pakistan in 2005, and went on to assist in Tanzania in 2007. Those experiences had been the foundation for her career in government service. And, while her ultimate objective was the Secret Intelligence Service, she at least had her mentor, an Oxonian alumni, to guide her. "Your time will come, dear," her mentor would often say. "We can't rush these things, too much." Meeting her through the Oxford University Society had been invaluable. Although, Arena dearly wished that she'd been able to contact her mentor before leaving London this time. As the pilot disappeared up into the cockpit and the loadmaster continued the floorshow with a couple of coarse references to airsickness, Arena chose the moment to turn, and casually scan the passengers. Now, where did he go? Careful, don't be too obvious, she told herself. Ah, there,
right at the back, looking out of the window.

Arena had seen him as he boarded. He was fairly unmissable, she thought with an appraising eye.

The last
to
board, Alex Morgan had strolled between the rows of seats with imoxicating self-assuredness. He looked fit and strong. He was wearing some kind of combat-style jacket with zips and pockets all over it, a navy polo shirt and sandy-coloured cargo pants. Not classically handsome, he was good looking in a knockabout kind of way. His face, under short, dark hair, held the hard edge of his profession, while retaining a boyish, mischievous quality. But
it
was the eyes that truly captured Arena. They were dark and intent, and the skin around them finely lined. She knew he was in his mid-thirties and had spent many years as a soldier. According to his dossier, Morgan was Australian - the son of a Welsh father and an Australian mother. He had begun his career as an officer in the Royal Australian Regiment and then at some point had left Australia to join the British Army, serving with the Parachute Regiment. He'd served in most parts of the world; Africa, South-East Asia and the Middle East. He had been a Major with the Para's before being recruited to INTERPOL.

All in all, he was exactly who she'd want to have around if things in Malfajiri went the way that everybody in London was saying they would.

At the onset of the usual pre-takeoff activity, she left her musings over the 'Phantom Major', as she privately referred to him, and her thoughts turned back
to
the task ahead.

She wondered, not for the first time, if she wasn't in well over her head, and struggled to understand exactly why Johnson had involved her in a matter that sat well beyond her skills and experience.

A deep sense of unease pervaded her thoughts.

*
* *

Morgan was relieved to have scored a row of three seats to himself. With his khaki bush jacket and black canvas grip on the seat beside him, he'd settled in as the big plane began to rumble and shake in preparation for takeoff. He looked out of the porthole window and saw the Gatwick ground crew preparing themselves for the deafening whine of the engines. He immediately squeezed into his ears the rubber pellet hearing protection that had been handed out as he boarded. One by one, the four big props turned over as the pilot coaxed them to life. Minutes later, the Herc was thundering down the runway, lunging into the cold, grey sky. It was about 5000 kilometres to Malfajiri. He'd be in Cullentown in just a few hours. With that, Morgan caught the same last glimpse of England that Collins must have, just a few short weeks before and, like his friend, he mused, he was headed straight for the dead centre of hell on earth.

Deciding to save the Ambler for later - dropping it instead onto the seat beside him, Morgan opted for
The Telegraph ,
and returned to an article he'd been reading at the airport on the deteriorating situation in Malfajiri.
It
was no surprise that the story was almost a by-line, buried in the section on world news. But there was something new in this story.
It
reported the death of a young English tourist, whose body had been found horribly mutilated and dumped in the grounds of the British embassy. The parallels to the killing of Collins were clear, and Morgan knew only too well that the Whitehall spin doctors of the British intelligence community were behind the smoke screen. The situation was getting worse by the hour. The list of fatalities, locals and foreigners, kept rising, yet nobody wanted to know about Malfajiri. The story wasn't big enough.

To the rest of the world, Malfajiri was just another failing African nation on the verge of collapse. There'd be plenty of interest if the British government stood accused of supplying a rebel army with the weapons and expertise to take down a democratically elected government, he thought. But thousands of innocent Africans dying each day, caught in the crossfire between government and rebel troops? Apparently not newsworthy. And now, with the Malfajiri President due to arrive in London, cap in hand, seeking Britain's support in the war against the rebels, would people finally start taking notice? Although, according to Davenport, with the arrival of Collins' remains in London and the uncertainty over the fate of the other SIS agent, Lundt, plenty were only too keen to wipe their hands of the whole mess.

The unexpected news of Sean Collins' brutal murder had really affected Morgan. He was prepared for death, conditioned to its inherent proximity. But for some reason, this latest addition to the tally of lost friends, hit him hard. Was it a sign of age, or fatigue, resulting from a succession of back to-back missions?

With final thoughts of his mission, and the face of his dead friend at the forefront of his mind, Morgan dropped into a deeply troubled sleep.

"You called for me?"

"Yes. Come in, Gregory, would you," replied a stony Abraham Johnson. Crossing the threshold, Gregory Cornell entered his Acting Director- General's office, nervously patting down his thinning blond hair, ever conscious of his receding hairline. He straightened a poorly-cut grey jacket and dated paisley tie, patting his pockets for the cigarette he knew he could 
not smoke.

Moving out from behind his desk, Johnson made a sweeping gesture and introduced the men who stood forebodingly in the centre of the room. "This is Chief Superintendent Hargreaves of Scotland Yard, and Mr. Blades of MIS. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr. Gregory Cornell. Gregory's area is responsible for Africa and our economic interests there. Been with us - must be, what, twelve years now, Gregory?" Johnson feigned interest, but in doing so, only highlighted his disdain.

"22, actually," Cornell corrected. He swallowed loudly, and hoped that nobody had noticed.

Hargreaves and Blades both offered firm, formal handshakes to Cornell's wet fish, as Johnson made the introductions. There were no smiles or pleasantries. The air in the room was decidedly grim. Standing facing them, Cornell felt his heart race, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Scotland Yard? MIS ? Had he been discovered?

"Gregory, these gentlemen are here to discuss security arrangements for the visit by the Malfajirian President, Dr. Namakobo."

"I see. I wasn't aware that Dr. Namakobo's visit had been confirmed, Mr. Johnson." Cornell could scarcely conceal his annoyance. But still, he was wary. His guard was up. He needed
to
be on the offensive, but mostly, he needed information from these glorified plods. Cornell's division should have had primacy over the visit. He should have been consulted. "Can I expect to be privy to the details now? An arrival time perhaps? A schedule?" he said pointedly.

"Well, that's what we're here to discuss, Mr. Cornell," said Blades. 'I'm afraid that the security precautions surrounding this particular visit have required that confirmation of the schedule and agenda be kept under wraps, until the last possible moment. Other than Mr. Johnson, it was not possible for us
to
discuss the matter any further. Even within the Foreign Office."

"Of course," answered Cornell coldly.

"And so here we are," added Johnson, back at his desk, eager to proceed. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to be seated. As we have only a matter of hours before Dr. Namakobo arrives here in London, perhaps one of you would be good enough
to
bring Mr. Co::nell up to speed?"

"Thank you, Sir," Blades replied. The three men sat opposite Johnson. "Dr. Namakobo will arrive at Heathrow in three hours, at approximately 2100 hours. He will be met on the tarmac by the Foreign Secretary, the Minister for Africa and, of course, the Malfajiri Ambassador."

As Blades continued with the briefing, Cornell felt as though a knife was being slowly thrust into his heart. He swallowed, and his eyes darted nervously between Johnson and the other two men. How could anything possibly be arranged in time, he thought furiously.

Then again, with Lundt involved, Cornell felt certain that Dr Namakobo would not leave the United Kingdom alive.

The howl of the four mighty Rolls-Royce T-56 turboprop engines heralded the passage of an unyielding juggernaut. The incessant roar of the C-130 Hercules intensified its menace as it sliced through the night sky. High above, the anxious gaze of a full moon cast a ghostly aura upon the flying giant's back. And deep inside her ample belly, the paratroopers waited in silence.

For the last time, Morgan pulled his chinstrap tabs down tight, and immediately felt the comforting pressure of his para-helmet close firmly around his head, the padded chin piece biting into the flesh of his jaw. He started working through the mental checklist of his equipment: chin strap, cape wells, chest strap, reserve hooks, reserve handle, belly band, suspension hooks, lowering device, jettison device - mirroring his thoughts by physically checking each item, the routine inspection procedure carrying him down the length and breadth of his body to the dozens of separate pieces of kit that had to be checked prior
to
any military parachute descent. The gear was uncomfortable, heavy, cumbersome. His 40 kilogram pack, suspended from the 'D' rings at his chest beneath the reserve chute, felt like a bank vault hanging across his aching thighs, and grew heavier as the minutes wore on. Gripped to his back, the ballast effect of the main chute was as if he was shouldering a ship's anchor, only mildly counterbalanced by the reserve on his chest. In most cases, paratroopers would leap from an aircraft carrying more weight in parachutes, equipment and weaponry, than they weighed themselves. Morgan felt weary, and was sure that, if forced to linger just another minute, his knees would finally disintegrate and he would collapse under the burden of his load. Somewhere amidst the chaos of equipment, weapons, ammunition and the harness strapping that cocooned him, a water bottle had twisted and was burying itself painfully into his flank like a football-sized tick.

Suddenly, the Loadmaster outstretched his right arm above his head with one finger pointing skyward. "One minute!" he bellowed down the fuselage. They had done it countless times before, always under the cover of darkness, and always with the promise of a fight to welcome them when they hit the ground: shock troops - the ones who were sent in when all else had failed. History had documented that, at Arnhem, Entebbe, the Falklands and, most recently, Iraq. That was the game they'd all volunteered for, every generation, and this time was to be no different.
If
it was easy, anybody could do it. But, it wasn't.