Spiral (35 page)

There came a scrape, of wood on wood, from within. Jam turned, facing the door - which suddenly swung open to reveal a uniformed man, tall and heavily muscled, a cigarette dangling between his lips and an MP40 slung from his shoulder. He was squinting - and his eyes opened wide as they saw Jam’s smiling face.

Jam’s fist connected with a
crack,
and the guard was punched backwards to land heavily on his sub-machine gun, back twisting in agony as Jam’s Glock snapped up to level at the face of the second man. He was halfway through dealing a deck of cards. He licked his lips.

‘Don’t even think about it, boy,’ growled Jam as the young man looked at him, then to a small dark pistol on the table. The guard made a grab for the weapon and the Glock
popped
in Jam’s fist; the guard was flung backwards from his stool, sprawling out beside the lantern on the floor. Blood splattered across the wall. Jam cursed.

The first man, groaning, received a kick in the ribs as Jam moved to the man he had shot and checked for a pulse. The Priest stepped in behind him, closely followed by Slater and Nicky. Slater grabbed the living guard and dragged him upright, shaking him.

‘Any more of you?’

The man shook his head, his mouth a sour line.

‘What are these monkeys doing here?’ said Nicky. ‘Guarding what?’

‘I suppose the cables would be a long shot; not many people even know about this access to Kamus, much less need to guard it. I think, though, that these fuckers were here
just in case.’’

‘They’re not Nex,’ said Nicky.

‘That much we can be thankful for,’ said Jam. ‘But they still have sub-machine guns and intent - this fucker was going to shoot me. Took the risk and died for his stupidity.’

The Priest was standing in the doorway, looking out towards the distant Kamus. ‘Kill the lamp,’ he said softly, and dropped his pack to the floor. He pulled free some digital binoculars and peered out across the rain-filled expanse.

Slater battered the living guard into a state of unconsciousness, and dumped him on the floor where Nicky bound his hands and feet tightly together with bitch-wire. Then they all stood, thankful to be out of the rain for a moment as The Priest watched the activity in the Kamus.

‘There is a lot of movement, lots of figures - they are loading up CH-47 Chinook cargo helicopters.’

‘Are they Nex?’

‘I cannot tell for sure, through the rain and over this distance,’ said The Priest. ‘Even as we speak, four Chinooks have taken off into the night. The platform is very busy indeed for a disused military complex, I think.’

‘So what now?’

‘We need to get closer.’

‘These cable cars haven’t run for years,’ said Jam slowly. ‘I doubt they would be safe, even if there was power piped to this place, which there isn’t. What are you thinking?’

‘I need to get closer,’ said The Priest. ‘I will go across the wire.’

‘That would make you crazier than me,’ said Jam softly.

‘The Lord will protect me.’

‘He won’t protect you for ever,’ said Jam.

‘I am still alive, my son. He has done me proud this far.’

Jam ran his hand through his wet hair, then peered out at the swaying cables and the huge, awesome drop beyond into a blackness of seemingly infinite depth. ‘I will, of course, have to come with you,’ he said without relish.

‘That is not necessary,’ said The Priest.

‘Oh, but it is,’ growled Jam softly. ‘I am in charge of this DemolSquad;
we
are on a mission to help find out who is fucking Spiral up the arse;
I
can’t let
you
do my dirty work.’

Jam stalked out of the crumbling building and moved towards the edge of the precipice. The rock ended near his boots, and a rusting, broken safety railing, painted grey to blend with the surroundings, dangled precariously over the abyss. Jam knew, from previous work here, that this place was almost invisible to the outside prying eye.

‘That’s a long drop,’ said Slater, coming to stand beside him.

‘Yeah, so I see. Grab me my pack.’

The Priest moved forward. From his own pack he took a small alloy device; he checked a few tiny wheels inside it. ‘You brought a skimmer with you?’

Jam nodded, taking his own pack from Slater and pulling out one of the tiny alloy devices. He then unstrapped a Heckler & Koch G3 sub-machine gun, and together with The Priest the two men crouched, screwing silencers onto the ends of the guns’ barrels and then slinging these formidable weapons across their backs.

Nicky moved forward. ‘You really think these are the bad guys?’ she asked The Priest.

He nodded. ‘A high probability, I think. If it is as I suspect, and this splinter group of Spiral is seeking domination of our tribe, then this would make an ideal base for operations - especially as it is so easily defended and somebody with prior knowledge could use much of the equipment left behind when the base was demilitarised.’

‘We’ll soon fucking find out,’ said Jam. He pulled a balaclava over his wet face, and The Priest did likewise; now, all in black and carrying silenced sub-machine guns and pistols, the two men looked truly terrifying.

‘You be careful,’ said Nicky.

‘You two make
sure
we don’t get any nasty surprises from behind, yeah?’

‘Rely on us,’ rumbled Slater.

The Priest was checking Kamus through the binoculars. He tutted in annoyance. ‘There’s still a lot of activity; more Chinooks leaving the base. It seems we’ve decided to do this during one of their major operations.’

‘Good,’ snapped Jam. ‘They’ll be so busy they won’t see us coming.’

‘You wish.’ Slater grinned. ‘Go on, hole us some bad guys.’

Jam smiled grimly from behind the black mask. ‘I’ll do my best, my friend.’

The wind howled, rain lashing down in almost horizontal sheets. Jam stepped towards the edge of the precipice, and reaching up, attached the alloy skimmer with a
click.
It settled into place against the wide cable and a tiny blue light pulsed, then went out. Jam slipped his hand through the quick-release straps and looked out into the darkness and the storm. The cables were swaying and he swallowed hard. Deep below, falling away into nothingness, was a valley full of rocks, an abyss full of trees, a desolation of dark hell.

It would be a long, long tumble ... followed by a gravity-induced crush.

Jam breathed deeply. Then, nodding to The Priest, he pushed his Glock into his belt, gripped the skimmer with his free hand - and kicked free, wind buffeting his watering eyes as he soared out into the void ...

Feuchter awoke, cursing the pain in his limbs. His hand moved to the other side of the bed - to find nothing more than a cold depression. He scowled, ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed softly.

He rolled over with surprising agility, stood up and headed for the shower. He could smell himself, smell his own stink and the residue left behind by the Nex. The Nex always left their own curious aroma after sex; they always left their scent, their fluids, their
essence.

Feuchter hated it. Hated that metallic scent, that copper stink ... hated the stench and bitter after-effects of a Nex coupling ... and yet he could not help himself, and he knowingly suffered the withdrawal symptoms for the intimate,
ultimate
pleasure of the high.

The comm buzzed. Feuchter halted, caught between the need to wash the stink from his skin and the need to take the call; he knew it would be important. It had to be important. A lot of bad shit was currently going down. ‘Fuck.’ He changed course, reached his desk and grabbed the receiver. ‘Yeah?’

Outside, beyond the false proximity supplied by his monitor, the sun had risen; golden light danced across the distant sand dunes. Wind shifted the sand in waves, a golden sea of rolling iridescence. But on this sour-tasting morning the incredible and magnificent sight of dawn beauty delivered via electronics did little to calm Count Feuchter’s sense of foreboding.

‘Gol is dead.’

‘Good. What about Carter?’

‘Carter is another problem.’

‘So they failed to neutralise him?’

‘More than that; he is now much more informed, has experienced the Nex first hand - and survived. Worst of all, I think he has discovered some of the links between the QIII and ourselves.’

‘Does he know that I am still alive?’

‘A possibility,’ said Durell softly.

‘I want him dead,’ said Feuchter. ‘And I want him dead and mashed into food for the Nex right fucking now!’ Feuchter’s voice had suddenly risen to an almost hysterical screech. He stood, stinking the surreal stink, his heart booming in his seemingly hollow chest cavity, hands slippery on the comm receiver.

‘Calm yourself,’ said Durell, his voice low, crackling.

‘I’ll fucking calm myself when he’s fucking dead,’ hissed Feuchter.

‘Now, you forget yourself,’ whispered Durell, his voice like a shadow passing over a grave.

Feuchter paused then; he caught the low undercurrent of danger in Durell’s voice. You did not fuck with Durell.

Nobody
fucked with Durell.

He bit his lip. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then said, forcing his voice into a state of calmness which contradicted his present lack of karma, ‘What I mean to point out,
sir,
is that Carter has proved himself to be a very capable man - an extremely dangerous soldier. More, he has outsmarted and outstepped both the Nex and ourselves all the way to Kenya and beyond. If he knows that I live then he may come to find me. You did not see him in Schwalenberg, Durell; I have never seen a man move so fast. It was surreal. It
was frightening.’
‘Feuchter, your priority now is merely to carry on the QIII development for the next twenty-four hours, and then issue Directive 566. Carter is
my
problem and I can assure you that I will not fuck about with this man,
frightening
or not.’ The heavy sarcasm could not be missed.

Feuchter paused. Some of his earlier composure had returned and he cursed himself; he had displayed weakness. And to Durell of all people ... But he could still see those eyes, eyes that seemed to change colour - darken into molten amber - and Feuchter could remember Carter’s white-hot bullet drilling his stomach like a spinal worm, a manoeuvre so fast he had seen nothing: merely wondered why the fuck he was lying on his back with his flesh on fire...

‘Directive 566? Termination of those who refuse to convert?’

‘Yes.’ There was a cold ice-edge to Durell’s voice; the implicit challenge to Feuchter’s authority was there. ‘Most of the Q station are with us; but there is still a hard-core group who will not take a hint when it is tossed their way with candy. The days of Spiral are over - if they will not join us, they will die.’

Feuchter picked his next words with care, his mouth dry with the implications of what was about to happen... what he was being ordered to do ...

‘Sir, may I ask why
now?
We are not yet ready...’

‘You may. Gol is dead; but the schematics have not been recovered. And as we speak, Gol’s body has also not been recovered. If Spiral retain those fucking plans, they can build another QIII to challenge us - we may win the battle, Feuchter, but the war could never be ours. We need to be strong! Dominant! And we can’t do that until Spiral is extinct.’ Durell sighed on the comm. ‘Just carry out your orders, Feuchter: Directive 566. After twenty-four hours. You know the procedures. All working components are to be transferred to Spiral_mobile; even now Kamus is being emptied of all valuable stock.’

Feuchter’s jaw went tight and he gritted his teeth hard. He nodded - although there was nobody to witness this -and said, simply, ‘Yes, sir.’ He cut the line and stood—

Stunned—

Gazing at the monitor, which showed him the Rub al-Khali desert.

He could feel them; feel the workers, the programmers, the coders, the analysts, the developers - feel them around and above him, like workers in an ants’ warren. And he was the King Ant - with the power to close down everything with a click of his fingers.

And the order had come.

Everything of vital importance would be moved. Feuchter smiled then, a smile without humour, his tombstone teeth white against his lightly tanned skin.
Moved.
That was a term to use for the
equipment
but, unfortunately, not all of the
personnel...

We know who you are, he thought.

And Spiral? Weak and powerless Spiral?

Your time has come.

Oh, how I have waited for this moment, he thought, his mind retreating over all the years, flowing back over the decades. Visions flowered in his mind; flowered, blossomed, died. Feuchter remembered the Battle of Belsen; he remembered the Attack on Poland Ridge; and he remembered the mountains of Korea after the Bright War.

You are weak, Spiral, he thought.

And yes. We will make you strong again.

But first? First you must relinquish your greatest treasure...

The lives of those who will not betray you.

The Comanche flew low over the desert, its passing marked by the heavy deep
thrum thrum thrum
of its engines. Sunlight glittered from rotors, danced across the DPM paintwork, glinted across the smoked cockpit and the cramped occupants inside—