The Henchmen's Book Club (28 page)

He thought about it some more, while Dunbar simply glared
in either contempt or confusion at the maths.

“
Jabulani was worth ten of you,” he
grunted.

“Believe me Major Dunbar, no one regrets
Jabulani’s death not like I don’t,” I assured him as solemnly as I could. “And
if I could turn back the clock… well, that’s all I’ve got to say about that
really.”

While Dunbar mulled over those heartfelt
sentiments, Tempest came to an executive decision without deferring to
knuckles.

“Okay then Jones, have it your way;
twenty years with time served. Now, get us onto
Île
de Roc
.”

31.
THE BEST OF THE WORST

Some fifteen hours later I was on the well deck of the
USS Bataan
overlooking the hurriedly assembled assault team. I knew
every one of them having served alongside them all in either field or can.

Mr Smith, Mr Woo, Mr Rousseau, Mr Jean, Mr Capone, Mr
Petrov, Captain Campbell, Mr Son, Mr Kim and two-dozen other Affiliates. All
Agency men. And all just a few years into their ninety-nines at McCarthy.

This had been a crucial part of the deal I’d struck; that
we’d lead the assault ourselves and those who’d volunteered would get the same
remission as me – twenty years minus time served.

The UN had been extremely reluctant but I told them to go
ahead and think on it if they liked. Mull it over. Discuss it. Debate it. I had
all the time in the world. I could wait. Could they?

After an hour of pointless stalling they finally came to
their senses and all at once my stock was such that I could’ve probably asked
for a foot rub off the Russian President and got it.

I’d insisted on my guys carrying out the assault because
our plan depended on our friendlies on the island helping us gain a foothold.
If I’d simply called in a few favours to get Dunbar a free pass, then no one
would’ve walked away from this thing alive. Not the enemy, not our guys and
probably not the kids either.

I remembered only too well the fun he’d had in Greenland.
Rescue missions weren’t really Rip’s forte.

So we’d spearhead the assault. Dunbar and Tempest would tag
along for the ride but they’d take their lead from us. We’d get them ashore.
We’d breach the defences. And we’d rescue the kids. They’d be the ones who’d
deal with
X
³
once we were in. It was a compromise
everyone could live with, particularly the various Presidents and Prime Ministers
around the UN table who could no longer hold each other responsible if things
fell apart. We were independent. Therefore we could safely be blamed by
everyone for everything.

Of course, the danger of mounting a full scale assault on
Île de Roc
was the fact that
X
³
could just step
up the timetable start playing war with the kids the moment we stepped ashore
but this was where we’d really scored at the negotiations table. See, the
beauty of having people on the inside meant we could not only make it off the
boats in one piece, but that we had friends on hand to protect the kids from
reprisals during the fighting.

This had been our ace in the hole and the one thing all the
SEALs, SBS and COMSUBIN in the world couldn’t ensure.

The only problem had been convincing our guys on
X
³
’s payroll to
change sides.

See, the promise of doing twenty years in a secret military
prison wasn’t likely to tempt anyone not already doing ninety-nine years in a
secret military prison so the UN reluctantly agreed to grant them full
immunity, plus pay them one million dollars a piece if they threw their lot in
with us.

Payment dependent on results, of course.

Now, this was a very tempting offer because, like I think
I’ve said before, most plans have a tendency to go socks-up more often than
not, so a cast iron assurance of cold hard cash from a legitimate government
was one hell of an incentive. At least, that was the theory.

There was only one way to find out.

“I need a computer,” I’d told them.

Surprisingly, the authorities still hadn’t found our
website yet, probably because we’d hidden it too well so in order for me to log
on, they first had to find me one of our encrypted keys. A search of the
evidence stores at McCarthy turned up one of my hollow point .38 USBs and I was
able to log on.

The website had changed a lot since I’d last seen it. New
pop-up windows appeared. Flashing icon, blogs and buttons had all been added.
And
The Day of The Triffids
had taken
one hell of a pounding, but I ignored the frills and got to work putting out
feelers.

To my immense relief I found we did indeed have three book
club members currently plying their trade on
Île de Roc
. I’d had my doubts because of
X
³
’s experiences
up in Scotland, but he’d obviously had a change of heart about Agency
Affiliates after his
RS-
or
EE
-manned
plan had come
apart in the Sahara. This meant that within a few emails I’d been able to make
contact with some of his guys, identify myself as
Book Mark
and post five stars for John Grisham’s
The Client
, which was far better than
The Chamber
in my opinion, but that’s
neither here nor there.

As you can expect, Tempest, Dunbar and most of the UN
insisted on eyeballing everything I sent but I’d still been able to stay on top
of all the bullshit and structure the offer in such a way as to make it
appealing to the boys. Basically, I’d told them that they weren’t going
anywhere following
X
³
’s banner.
Believe me I knew. It was only going to end badly for them as it always did,
but if they threw their lot in with us for once they’d reap the rewards. And
not only that, they’d be helping out almost three dozen of their book club
brethren who’d been swept under the world’s rug.

“And saving the lives of twenty-nine children,” Tempest
reminded me.

“What?”

“I said, they’d also be saving the lives of the children as
well remember? Which is the whole point of this exercise, surely.”

I blinked at Tempest a couple of times and thought about
this one.

“Whatever.”

Our friends’ response came back within the hour.

“0600 hours. We’ll be expecting you.”

My fellow McCarthy residents hadn’t taken too much
convincing either and one supersonic flight across the Atlantic later, we were
refamiliarising ourselves with the tools of our trade on the
Bataan
under the contemptuous glare of a
squad of SEALs.

“Fucking scum,” one of them spat.

They were obviously scorned at having been overlooked for
this mission in favour of a bunch of dirty cons, but I told them they didn’t
have to be that way.

“Lieutenant, if you’d like to go before us, please be my
guest. There’ll be less bullets to threaten us with and we can always use your
dead bodies for cover.”

“Hey, fuck you, dirt bag!” he replied, obviously a fellow
of the Rip Dunbar school of deportment.

This jocular exchange would have probably escalated had
someone not shouted “Officer on deck!” causing all the SEALs to snap to
attention like toy soldiers as Dunbar and Tempest entered the fray.

“Make a hole!” Dunbar barked, sliding down a metal ladder
and barging through the middle of the SEALs as Tempest followed closely behind
apologising. “Excuse me. Sorry, can I just get through. Thanks…” etc.

“Hey Rip, how’s it going?” Mr Woo beamed as he strode past.

“Don’t talk to me,” Dunbar hissed without breaking stride.
Like us, Dunbar was togged up in his combats, but unlike us he’d obviously
spent the last three hours in the armoury filling every available pocket with
bullets and bombs. One unexpected pat on the back and he could take the whole
ship down with him.

Tempest on the other hand, had opted for style over
substance and was tarted up in Special Op blacks that fitted him so well he had
to have had them especially tailored.

“Now listen up
dick
wads
I’m gonna be watching all of you, so one step out of line and I’ll
blow your asses away!” Dunbar threatened, waving his Heckler & Koch under
all our noses and simultaneously stepping in as many faces as he could.

“Really?” Mr Smith replied, locking and loading his own MP5
and pointing it at Dunbar. “Then I’m afraid, Major, I’m going to have to do
this.” Smith aimed the gun and pulled the trigger but nothing happened. He
pulled it again, but the weapon just clicked. Dunbar flexed the muscles in his
forehead as he glared at Mr Smith repeatedly clicking away on the trigger.

“You shouldn’t play with guns, it’s very dangerous,”
Tempest calmly advised, stepping in to take the gun from Mr Smith before
pointing it out through the open well dock. He squeezed the MP5’s trigger, but
this time a burst of fire echoed around the deck as the submachine gun spat out
9mm rounds, ripping up the surf.

Dunbar continued to stare with homoerotic intensity but he
did nothing. Mr Smith had just been larking around. Dunbar had been in no
danger. See rather thoughtfully the US government had fixed the guns and vests
with ID sensing microchips to prevent “blue-on-blue casualties” in the heat of
battle. At least, that had been the official line. Really, they’d fixed them to
stop us from shooting Tempest and Dunbar the first opportunity we got.

I didn’t know about blue-on-blue but by the way Dunbar was
staring at Mr Smith, we were in danger of suffering a few man-on-man casualties
before this day was out.

“Try me,” Dunbar finally invited.

Mr Smith just smiled and suggested they saved it for after
the kids were safe. “After all, that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it, hey guys?”
he shouted.

On cue, everyone laughed raucously and agreed that “of
course that was the reason we were here” much to Tempest’s despair.

“The things I do for England,” he sighed to himself.

We raced across the surf, flying towards
Île
de Roc
at sixty knots on a quartet of Navy hovercrafts. It was three
minutes to 0600 hours and the tiny island appeared on the horizon, black like a
lump of coal against a blood red dawn.

The execution party would be on its way to cash out the
first kid. Time had run its course. For us. And for them.

There were ten of us on each craft, not counting the crew
and SEALs manning the mounted guns. We’d planned to hit the southern and
eastern slopes, taking our hovercrafts right up the rocky beaches to provide
extra cover as we went in. This hadn’t been an option the Italians had had
because they’d been trying the stealth approach whereas we didn’t care if
X
³
knew we were
coming. It wasn’t important.

This was probably just as well because all of a sudden the
skies above our heads ripped with a dozen F-16s. They hit the slopes with
cluster bombs and cannon fire in an effort to knock out some of the defensive
guns and I couldn’t help but marvel in awe at the sight of
Île de Roc
flickering and flashing in the distance beneath all that
death.

I wondered if any of the anxious parents could see what was
happening. If so, they’d probably be having kittens at all the firepower
dropping on
Île de Roc
. But this was
necessary to soften her up, small explosions to take out the surface guns. It
was doubtful we were even knocking any pot plants off the telly down in
X
³
’s inner
sanctum, so their little bundles of precociousness would be safe from our
bombs.

In fact, hopefully even safer than they’d been two minutes
earlier, because if all had gone to plan, the execution party would have been
taken down by our friends on the inside and the kids shoved out of harm’s way
until the main force could reach them.

This was the optimum moment to hit
Île de Roc
.
X
³
’s forces would
be divided and his resolve fractured. But this window wouldn’t stay open for
long. Not once
X
³
realised the
moment had come to take off the gloves. We had to be quick.

“Thirty seconds,” the hovercraft’s pilot told us over the
airwaves, a moment before the SEALs on either side of the ramp opened up with
their .50 cals.

I wondered if it was possible for anything to survive all
that we were throwing at it, but a curtain of tracer fire from the island
assured me it was.

Just to my left Jack Tempest was smiling serenely.

“Nervous Jones?”

“Of what?” I asked, just as the steel ramp drawn up in
front of us clattered with indents, courtesy of my peers on
Île de Roc
.

Tempest snorted.

“You know, you’re a queer fish, Jones,” he told me. “If we
get through this thing, I might even buy you a drink.”

“Why? Are you a queer fish as well then?” I said. “Because
I don’t swim that way mate, magnetic belt or not.”

Tempest didn’t have a chance to tell me he didn’t mean it
like that because all at once we rose out of the sea and beached on solid rock.
The ramp dropped in front of us and our moment had arrived.

After three long years of enforced retirement I was finally
in the game again.