Department 19: Zero Hour (69 page)

Jamie smiled. The Interim Director sounded like he was trying to get a busload of teenagers ready for a school trip, rather than preparing to launch a classified military operation to confront the most dangerous creature in the world.

“All right,” said Allen. “Two minutes.”

Holmwood nodded, then turned back to Paul Turner and was quickly deep in conversation. General Allen surveyed the bustling area and stopped, his eyes seeming to come to rest on Jamie. He frowned as the NS9 Director smiled and walked quickly towards him, then realised his mistake; he glanced over at Larissa and saw the wide grin on her face as the American approached.

Of course,
he thought.

General Allen arrived in front of them, his smile warm and welcoming. Jamie snapped a salute, almost perfectly in time with Larissa, but the NS9 Director waved a hand dismissively.

“At ease,” he said, then stepped forward and threw his arms round Larissa. She was lifted off her feet, her eyes flaring pink, and laughed as she demanded to be put down. General Allen did so, then stepped back to look at her.

“It’s good to see you, Larissa,” he said. “We miss you in Nevada.”

She smiled. “That’s good to hear. I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Carpenter, sir. Jamie, this is General Allen, Director of NS9.”

Allen’s eyes widened. “Of course,” he said, sticking out a gloved hand. “Damn good to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jamie took the hand, and suppressed a wince of pain as his arm was pumped up and down. “You too, sir. It’s an honour.”

“I heard about Romania,” said Allen. “Way to take one for the team, son.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jamie. “It wasn’t exactly the plan, I have to say.”

“Plans always look great on paper,” said Allen. “They don’t tend to mean that much in the real world.” His smile disappeared, and he turned his attention back to Larissa. “It was hard to hear about Tim Albertsson,” he said, his voice suddenly low. “Everything’s still pretty sketchy, but I know the two of you were there, so tell me something. Did he make a mistake? Did he do something wrong?”

“No, sir,” said Larissa, instantly. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He was asleep when the first victim killed him.”

Jamie stared at his girlfriend, trying not to let incredulity show on his face.

Really?
he thought.
You’re still defending him, even now?

Allen nodded again. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “He leaves a big hole in my Department, and I would hate to think it had been for nothing.”

“The first victim had tried to scare us off several times, sir,” said Larissa. “We think killing Tim was his final attempt at getting us to turn back.”

Bullshit,
thought Jamie, his incredulity giving way to anger.
You know exactly why Gregor killed him. You’re just not saying it.

“Makes sense,” said Allen. “Chop off the head and hope the body falls down. Still hard, though. He volunteered to lead that operation when I was barely two lines into the briefing. Didn’t even think about it, just jumped right in. You know what he was like.”

“I do, sir,” said Larissa.

“Yours were the first two names out of his mouth when I asked who he wanted to take with him,” said Allen. “I had to pull some strings, as you can probably imagine. There were some people who weren’t exactly thrilled about two Blacklight Operators getting the gig. But Tim was adamant that you were who he wanted. It’s a damn shame he isn’t here to see this.”

“I know, sir,” said Larissa, softly. “It is.”

“Well,” said General Allen, straightening himself up and forcing a smile. “There’ll be time to mourn him later. I’d better get my team ready. It’s going to be a privilege to fight alongside you, both of you. I feel a lot better knowing you’re on my side.”

Jamie smiled, despite himself; the NS9 Director was so naturally, effortlessly charismatic that he couldn’t help it. In that moment, he saw another of the reasons why Larissa had so obviously wanted to stay in Nevada; General Allen’s clear affection for her was in direct contrast to how she was viewed at the Loop by the majority of the rank-and-file Operators. The anger that had risen in his chest as she defended Tim Albertsson disappeared, replaced by hot, sickly guilt.

I don’t blame her at all,
he thought.
I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d never come back.

General Allen strode away across the tarmac. As soon as he was out of earshot, Larissa turned to Jamie, her face creased with worry.

“I know what you must be thinking,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I just didn’t see any benefit in telling General Allen that his Special Operator was a petty dickhead who couldn’t get over himself long enough to do his job. If we survive this, and he asks me about Tim again, I’ll tell him the truth, I promise I will. But this wasn’t the time.”

Jamie smiled. “It’s OK,” he said. “You’re right.”

Larissa gave him a smile that almost stopped his heart. Then Paul Turner’s amplified voice echoed out of a megaphone, demanding everyone’s attention.

The Blacklight Security Officer was standing beside a jeep, in the open back of which stood Cal Holmwood. The Interim Director looked out across the crowd of black-clad men and women and took the megaphone from Turner’s hand.

“Welcome to France,” he said. “And to the largest Combined Operational Force that has ever been assembled. I’m not going to inspire you with some long-winded speech, because I believe the time for such talk has passed. Every one of you knows what we are here to do, and every one of you understands the potential consequences if we fail. You have all been briefed by your respective Directors, but to reiterate, the plan is straightforward. Those of you who have been designated as Red Team will lead the initial attack on the château.”

Jamie glanced over at Larissa, who shot him a narrow smile; they were both Red Team, which now made sense.

“Blue Team will secure the ground perimeter,” continued Holmwood. “And will deploy as a second wave. The Apaches will patrol an aerial cordon around the target location, preventing any vamps escaping via the air, while satellite and AWACS overlook will track any attempts at escape through the forest. There is a single Priority Level 1 objective, which is the destruction of the vampire born Vlad Tepes, and most recently known as Dracula. Priority Level 2 is the destruction of the vampire known as Valeri Rusmanov. Priority Level 3 is the rescue of Admiral Henry Seward, the Director of Blacklight. Everything else is Priority Level neutral. Any questions?”

Silence.

“I want confirmation of Dracula’s destruction,” he continued. “No ambiguity, no assumptions, no word of mouth. Visual eyewitness confirmation. Get me that, and we can all go home. Good luck to each and every one of you. Dismissed.”

There was no cheer, no bugle, no waving of flags; the men and women of the Combined Operational Force simply got to work, loading themselves and their equipment into the transport helicopters. Rotors began to spin and engines cycled up as the pilots worked quickly through their pre-flight checks.

Jamie watched, his stomach twisting slowly with nerves. The downdraught from the rotors swirled the air, forcing him to lean forward against it; he found himself grinning, and felt a heat that was becoming less and less unpleasant spill into the corners of his eyes as he faced Larissa.

“What we were saying before,” he shouted, over the rising howl of engines. “It doesn’t matter. We can—”

Larissa’s hand fastened round his arm. Her eyes were blazing crimson, her fangs wide and gleaming, her face twisted with a huge, hungry grin. She darted forward, so fast he barely saw her move, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“No more talking,” she said. “It’s time.”

The fleet of helicopters roared north-west, keeping their altitude low and their running lights extinguished.

There were seven of them in formation: the two Apache gunships, which had been given the call signs Viper 1 and Viper 2, and five heavy transports, in the bellies of four of which sat just over four hundred Operators, their weapons checked and rechecked, their visors pushed back. Their faces were uniformly pale, but the vast majority were fixed with tight expressions of determination.

Nobody spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

Jamie sat strapped to a bench at the rear of one of the helicopters, next to Larissa and opposite Patrick Williams. The atmosphere in the hold was thick with nervous tension; although nobody said so out loud, everyone was eager for the fighting to start. They trusted themselves, trusted each other, and were as ready as they could be.

All that remained to be seen was whether they would succeed or fail.

Dracula stood on the balcony that ran round the roof of Château Dauncy, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

His eyes smouldered the colour of lava as the cool evening wind blew his long hair back from his head. For the first time in his unnaturally long life, he stood on the brink of battle without armour, without horses or archers, without any of the weapons he had once deployed with such viciousness. His one concession to the blood-soaked victories of the past hung from his belt, gleaming dully in the light of the full moon.

“They are coming,” he said, softly. “I can hear them.”

Valeri Rusmanov nodded; he estimated they had five minutes before the helicopters that were rumbling in the distance arrived.

“It is still not too late for you to leave, my lord,” he said. “Your followers and I will take care of your enemies.”

Dracula smiled at his oldest companion. “Your concern for me is as welcome as always, old friend,” he said. “But I will not leave. If I wished to avoid what is coming, I would have killed your brother when he stood before us yesterday. I let him leave because it is time to find out to whose will this world will bend. Ours, or theirs.”

“Perhaps a different choice of where to fight, my lord,” said Valeri. “The courtyard and grounds do not play to our strengths.”

“It matters not,” said Dracula. “If I am not all that I would be, then I will die. But if I am ready, as I believe I am, then we will send them to their deaths here as easily as anywhere else.”

“Give me an order, my lord,” said Valeri. “Tell me what you would have me do.”

“Kill them,” said Dracula, his smile widening. “Meet them where they land, and kill them all.”

Ten miles from the château, the Apaches accelerated, their noses dipping as they dropped even lower over the forest canopy.

Cal Holmwood watched them from the cockpit of the lead transport with Bob Allen sitting at his side and his heart thumping steadily in his chest. The gunships would circle the château at a distance of five hundred metres, ready to unleash their firepower on any vampire who tried to escape through the air, a prospect that Holmwood was sure would act as a compelling deterrent. He had been aboard an Apache above Kosovo fifteen years earlier, and had watched its pilot open up his helicopter’s 30mm chain gun on a barn where a number of turned Serbian soldiers had been hiding; there had been nothing left but smears of blood and splinters of wood.

“Three minutes,” said the transport’s pilot.

Holmwood nodded, his eyes fixed on the dark expanse of the forest. He told himself to stay calm; in many ways, despite the enormity of the stakes, the operation was one of the most strategically simple he had authorised in his short tenure as Interim Director. Dracula and Valeri had clearly decided to stand and fight, otherwise the château would already have been abandoned, meaning the battle would take place in an enclosed arena. He had organised the largest possible force in the time available, briefed them as fully as possible, and equipped them with every possible weapon and a cordon of heavily armed air support.

It was going to be hand to hand, fast and brutal.

It was going to come down to skill, and experience, and will.

“Two minutes,” said the pilot.

Beside him, General Allen lifted his radio to his ear. “SHOWSTOPPER is go,” he said. “Repeat, SHOWSTOPPER is go.”

Holmwood frowned. “What was that, Bob?” he asked.

“I said I had a surprise for you,” said Allen, and smiled widely at his old friend. “Just sit back and watch.”

Valeri strode through the château, ordering the massed ranks of vampires to follow him. They did so immediately and without question, their eyes burning red, their faces full of the anticipation of violence.

The eldest of the Rusmanov brothers, who had fought in countless battles over the centuries, felt a familiar calm settle over him as he rounded up his troops. They were not soldiers, not like the trained men that he had once sent into harm’s way without a second thought, but they were willing, and that was enough. He had put the word out after his brother’s appearance in the château’s courtyard, trusting it to spread through the supernatural underground like wildfire and blaze a trail for any vampires with grudges against the men in black to follow. And for the last twenty-four hours they had done so in their dozens, drifting down from Germany and Scandinavia, up from Spain and Italy and Greece. The new arrivals were uniformly awed to be merely standing in the presence of Valeri and his master, and desperate to do harm on their behalf.