Blast Radius

By Mike O'Donnell

Dane Hall Labs discover a genetic technique to deliver selective medical treatment. Trident, a group of nationalist fanatics, steal the file to use for their own aims. Their thief is mugged and the file goes missing. "God, Darby. What if someone makes a balls of it? They could wipe out the whole human race." A contract army officer with an assassin on his heels, Dane Hall's security specialist, a pair of detectives, and a vengeful mugger are among those caught up in events. Murder, kidnapping, torture, betrayal and panic ensue in Oman and the UK before a suicide bomber makes the last throw of the dice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Donnell
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201680329

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

Book preview

1

Despite the lateness of the hour Dr Richard Faulkner paced the corridors of the Dane Hall research facility. He had no basis for his disquiet but he felt the need to check the labs. One lab in particular. He keyed open the restricted outer door to Project Footprint and switched on the strip lighting.

The Project Footprint research team consisted of two contrasting thirty year-old molecular biologists: Robert Tate and Nathaniel Dewey, both Cambridge PhDs. Richard smiled as he looked from one desk to the other.

The folders and document boxes on Rob Tate’s desk were boldly labelled, and  papers lay in clearly identified wire trays. Sharp pencils, pens and felt tips were aligned in their holders.

Nat Dewey’s desk overflowed with paper. Magazines, photocopied articles, thin folders and spiral-bound notebooks formed tilting heaps. Dockets protruded from filing cabinet drawers. ‘Post-it’ scribbled squares plastered the monitor surrounds.

The two researchers were firm friends, admiring each other’s abilities. Their complementary qualities blended into a perfect combination for successful research. Dewey explored the biological landscape for outlandish routes to their destination, and Tate built practical experimental roads across the indicated terrain. Richard couldn’t have wished for a better mixture of conceptual flair and applied science.

Nat Dewey had unloaded a jumble of papers, lab results, diagrams, and scribblings on Rob Tate who had sorted the mass of data into a coherent concept: Project Footprint was born.

The telephone on Rob Tate’s desk jolted Richard from his contemplation.

Faulkner, he said.

Aah, Dr Faulkner. Tom Atkinson here, Sir. Saw the master alarm override light on. Just checking.

Only me, Tom. Sorry, should have phoned you. I won’t be long. I’ll make sure the alarms are reset.

Righto, Sir. I’ll be doing the rounds in an hour anyway.

The security man rang off and Richard knew Tom would check every door on his rounds of the laboratories. He was lucky with his staff.

Dr. Meadows had been the exception. He had a stunning C.V. but the deciding subconscious reason for Richard hiring him had been his resemblance to his son, Drew. Or at least his auburn hair was an identical rich golden colour, and from the back he might have been taken for Drew. This resemblance did not apply to their characters. Meadows had been given his marching orders a month previously. He had failed to fit in, and his loitering in places where he ought not to have been, brought quick suspicion. Leading-edge Research and Development is a highly marketable product and an occasional speculator, like Meadows, worming his way in to Dane Hall ought not to have been surprising.

It wasn’t until Richard had relocked the lab door that the reason for his nervousness occurred to him. Project Footprint had reached the stage where controlled trials could soon begin. In the wrong hands clinical results would reveal both the beneficial and destructive potential. Meadows would not be the only one seeking the key to deadly power. The flimsy lab door and elderly security watchman Tom Atkinson were feeble guardians for such a prize. More stringent protection for Project Footprint was overdue. Richard wished Drew was home on leave from Oman. As a contract Army officer he would know about establishing security for Footprint. Even better if Drew came home permanently. Richard missed his only child.

Richard Faulkner was unaware that he would see his soldier son sooner than both expected and that the security cat was already clear of the bag. Nat Dewey had inadvertently loosened the draw-string.

*      *     *

The interior of Nat Dewey’s house resembled a junkyard version of his office space. The four rooms of his modern, semi-detached had a blurred look. Contents of cupboards and drawers overflowed. During the course of an evening Nat wandered from one room to another forgetting the coffee he brought with him. Half-empty mugs littered every room. Currently he sought the Project Footprint file. He’d brought his copy home on Friday because he frequently had ideas over the weekend and hated not to have data on hand whenever his imagination took flight.

He had not considered the security implications of bringing the sensitive file home. For all his formidable mental powers, Nat Dewey was a toddler when it came to worldly matters. His domestic arrangements were haphazard, his financial affairs chaotic, and his personal relationships came from chance encounters. He was the perfect mark for a con-man, and a dream target for the unscrupulous. Luck had protected him from the former, and he had not recognised the latter in the nondescript shandy drinker he had first encountered one Sunday lunchtime a few weeks ago, in the lounge bar of The Wheatsheaf.

Ronald Weaton, was quick to recognise a goldmine, and was not slow to stake a claim in the rich reef represented by Nathaniel Dewey. Weaton’s brief had been to find a way into Dane Hall. Dr. Meadows had reported the nature of the research, and the low level of security, before he had been dismissed, so Weaton was trawling for information. He let Nat do most of the talking. He was baffled by much of what the scientist said but he was a ready listener, and he fed the flame of Nat’s obsession for his work. Weaton’s interest was unfeigned and focussed when Nat talked of Rob Tate’s skill at producing an extraordinary file. Ronald Weaton became a regular in The Wheatsheaf.

Nat was not disturbed when he failed to find the Project Footprint file. In his experience it would turn up when he was looking for something else. He had no reason to associate Weaton’s return to the house for a nightcap and a takeaway Chinese that Friday evening, with the non-appearance of the file. Weaton had been friendly, interested, and knew the problems of being out of tune with the humdrum bulk of humanity.

They had met twice a week in The Wheatsheaf because Nat had Sunday lunch there, and every Friday at 7.30 pm, without fail, Mrs Horner phoned his home from the shop next door to the pub, to remind him to pick up his week’s groceries. Nat was always surprised by the telephone on Friday nights and had to perform a rapid survey of the kitchen and bathroom to check requirements for the following week. After he had collected the Friday carton of provisions from Mrs Horner, he had a pint with Ronald Weaton, who would be nursing his glass of shandy in the corner seat furthest from the bar.

His twice-weekly encounters with Weaton had become a regular routine and now Nat abandoned his hunt for the missing file as his stomach reminded him that Sunday lunch was due. He ate breakfast rarely, and by midday his gangling frame was running on empty. He set off to The Wheatsheaf  for their three course Sunday lunch: the culinary high point of Nat’s week.

For the first time in a month, Weaton was not in the pub before him. Nat waited a while before ordering.

I’ll have the usual roast, Harry.

Beef and Yorkshire, this week. Your pal not joining you today?

Doesn’t look like it. He’ll be sorry to miss it. He likes beef.

Nat’s thoughts would have been much less charitable if he knew that Weaton’s absence and the missing file were connected.

*      *     *

Ronald Weaton hadn’t  intended to be absent. He planned to return the Footprint file on Sunday knowing Nat would think he’d mislaid it over the weekend, but on Saturday evening he was  in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was much later than his usual hour and it was full dark when he peered round the front door before sidling out. The cold night air was not the only cause of his hunching shoulders and involuntary shudder. The thought of being in that particular deprived area of the city never crossed his mind when the hunger for sex drove him, but sated, after his visits to the whore he was reminded of the hostile surroundings.

The night stank of brimming dustbins. Abandoned cars lined a street that looked as if the road sweeper’s cart had been overturned and its contents kicked around; angry voices railed behind closed doors, muffled yells echoed along dark alleys, an engine revved aggressively, but even more disturbing were the moments of utter quiet, as if the mean terraced street cringed before an undeserved blow.

The road was quiet now.

Weaton hefted his briefcase and scurried for the tube station, his breathing still ragged after the rapid descent of the stairs following the short-lived naked fumblings. He was not in the best of condition. As a spindly schoolboy, Weedy Weaton had been the kindest of the nicknames. He progressed to being a post-adolescent nerd, and was now a skinny, pale, balding man entering a middle age that promised no improvement. Or it had done until he’d chanced upon the Trident organisation and its leader, Albion.

He always thought of Trident and Albion in quotes, objects of his admiration. He had been excluded all his life, so the acceptance by Trident guaranteed his devotion. He cursed his weakness in visiting the woman. Now his desire was slaked he couldn’t believe he’d chosen it as the way to pass the time before the midnight meeting. He had felt too excited to sit at home, and celebration was in order, but it was a stupid choice. He vowed it would never happen again. He’d be more deserving of the trust Albion had placed in him. He recalled the leader’s exhortation.

Ronald.  Albion had known Weaton’s first name!  The compelling dark brown eyes radiated command as if all Albion’s attention was focused on him. Ronald, your contribution will be invaluable.  The hypnotic eyes never left him. When you succeed, and succeed you will, and England regains her rightful place in the world, your name will figure largely as one who helped make it possible. You can be proud.

The bruisers flanking Albion nodded their lumpy shaved heads in agreement.

Weaton had never been more thrilled in his featureless, put-upon life. And Albion had said when, not if, you succeed. And he had succeeded. Dr. Meadows may have uncovered the existence of the research before being booted out of Dane Hall, but it was him, Ronald Weaton, who had lifted the file.

He was still basking in imagined glory when a man with dreadlocks stepped out from the shadowy curve of the railway arch ahead. The sudden appearance caused Weaton’s breath to stop in his chest. He involuntarily slowed, and knew instinctively that the action betrayed his fear.

He considered bolting for safety but a deep voice close behind literally made him jump with fright. This man was huge and very black, with a glistening bald head.

What you got inna case, Rabbit? The slick-headed giant extended a forefinger as thick as Weaton’s wrist.

Weaton realised that his imagined moment of triumph was about to be torn from him. Of all the occasions when he might have made a stand for fair play for the unloved, this was probably the worst choice, but the briefcase had determined the matter, and his own lust had determined the place. For the first time in his miserable life he struck back. The briefcase swung in a clumsy arc, the edge catching the hairless man on the left forearm, and Weaton ran. The mugger grunted in pain. The previous night a pool cue backed by 200 pounds of discontented antagonist had cracked down on the same spot.

Get the fucker!

Dreadlocks leapt into action. Unlike Weaton, he was not powered by fear-driven adrenaline, but he was young, very fit, and six months of pumping iron in Wormwood Scrubs had sharpened him.

Weaton might have got clear if it hadn’t been for the abandoned Volvo. A greasy pool of black gearbox oil took Weaton’s spindly legs from beneath him and he crashed to the ground. He had scrabbled to his feet when Dreadlocks hit him like a blocking ice-hockey tackle. The briefcase flew from his grasp and smacked into the wing of a Fiesta; Weaton piled messily in the road.

The shaven-headed Goliath had followed his fleeter partner and did not break stride as he arrived. Two paces took him past Dreadlocks and his massive bunched fist, fuelled by the pain from the smarting bruise, smashed into Weaton’s lifting face. Weaton’s head flew back and he slithered the length of the Fiesta before disappearing between two bumpers. His legs and lower back protruded into the road.

You fuckin’ White Rabbit, the smooth-headed man said with venom, and kicked Weaton’s calf with all his strength. Weaton’s shoe flew off and sailed away into the darkness. Damned Rabbit hit me same place as Lucky McKenzie.

Why’d he do it?

’Cos I caught him hustling on my table.

Na, not Lucky. The Rabbit. He dint look to be no hero.

The man who answered to ’Slick’ because of his smooth head, nodded. You right. Caught me by surprise. Maybe he’s got somfin in da bag he don’t want us to have.

The slide across the road had gouged parallel lines in the leather, and granules of stone were embedded in the skin.

It’s got number locks, Dreadlocks said, handing it to Slick and taking a seat on the Fiesta’s wing while the big man turned the case to get at the catches.

Slick’s hand dropped to the seam of his jeans and a thin knife appeared in his palm. The blade glittered in the faint light. Two quick twists and the hasps sprung free. The knife disappeared again.

Now let’s see what we got. Slick banged the briefcase flat on the Fiesta bonnet and opened the lid.

If he were expecting bundles of currency, or polythene bags of white powder, he was disappointed. A document folder was accompanied by a pair of ballpoints, address labels, and a calculator. A big spatula-shaped thumb flicked through the folder, checking for anything more interesting.

What is it? Dreadlocks asked. Printed paper had always baffled him.

Just papers.

They looked as the big thumb once more riffled through the document.

It’s got to be somefin’. Dreadlocks jerked his thumb at Weaton’s motionless feet. That piece of shit wouldn’t put up no fight for nothin’.

The sense of this couldn’t be denied. Slick opened the folder. Dane Hall Laboratories, he read. Project Footprint.

What’s dat mean?

You askin’ me? How the hell do I know?

It’s gotta be worth somtin’. We’ll get the mutherfucker to tell us. Dreadlocks could see his visions of easy pickings diminish and that made him angry. He kicked Weaton. Hey you. He grabbed the legs and pulled Weaton from between the bumpers.

Slick leaned down and with one massive hand grasped a bunch of Weaton’s overcoat and lifted him bodily, plonking him against the side of the Fiesta and propping him in position.

The lower half of Weaton’s face was obscured by blood, and his nose seemed to have blossomed and spread like a malignant growth. His eyes were barely under control, and he breathed loudly and wetly through his mouth.

Listen up, demanded Slick emphasising the command with a jolt of his giant palm. A thin spray of blood was forced from Weaton’s open mouth. What’s all dis shit in the briefcase?

Dreadlocks ferreted through their victim’s pockets. The yield was small. He slid the thin wallet into his hip pocket after a cursory look. He held out the coins, keys, railway ticket and small plastic-encased card with a trident logo for Slick’s inspection. He pocketed the money and the card in case it was a credit card, and dropped the keys and ticket. Weaton’s eyes rolled back in his head. Slick’s huge free fist pounded on the Fiesta’s roof, regaining Weaton’s wandering attention.

The briefcase!

A light went on in the upstairs window of the nearest house and a man in a grubby vest peered down before shoving up the sash window with a squeaking rumble.

Oi! What you doin’ messin’ wiv my car? he demanded.

Take yor fat head back in yor house or we be messin’ wid you.

Even at that distance, Slick must have looked menacing, and after a moment the window closed.

He’ll call de Man. We’d better thin out, Dreadlocks suggested.

Yeah, he look da sort. He gave Weaton another shove. Whatzat stuff in the briefcase mean, Shithead?

Why don’t we take it wiv us and get that Doc Herron to look at it?

There was a pause for consideration. He’d want a cut.

Hmm. Dreadlocks could see the power of the argument. He hated to share.

Doc’ll tell us though, an’ if he don’t, we ain’t got jack anyhow.

Right!

I’d sooner dis fucker told us. Slick moved his massive hand up to grip Weaton by the throat. The fingers almost met round the back of Weaton’s neck. He shook the slack frame. Weaton flopped like a fish on a line but with less elegance, and much more blood.

In the distance came the fairground tones of a police siren.

Fuck! They was quick. We’d better skip.

Weaton had regained enough of his senses to be aware of the distant two-tone salvation.

You take de case, Slick said, and Dreadlocks grabbed the briefcase from the bonnet.

As he saw his prize commandeered, Weaton struggled harder, convincing the pair of its value. The nearing siren gave him courage. His eyes swung from the case to the black face at the end of the throttling arm.

He meant to say, When the New Order comes, all you niggers will be history.

He only managed a strangled blood and snot-filled gurgle, but the stressed contempt of  ‘niggers’, made the forbidden word intelligible.

Slick hit Weaton hard. Weaton’s jaw broke and dislocated. The two follow-up body punches as he slumped unconscious broke three ribs and ruptured his spleen. As he went down, the wheel arch caught the back of Weaton’s head with a glancing blow. One single sheet of A4 paper fluttered down from the Fiesta bonnet. It was all that was left behind of Weaton’s hoped-for triumph. The words, Dane Hall Laboratories, Project Footprint, were soon soaked in the black oil leaking from the adjacent Volvo.

2

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Drew Faulkner’s thoughts were far from Dane Hall as he looked across the wadi where the far wall rose in a black mass to meet the marginally lighter, star-speckled night sky. He could only pick out the darker blob of the Army Landcruiser because he knew exactly where to look. His own vehicle was out of sight in the jumble of limestone boulders beneath the outcrop where he lay. He nodded in satisfaction. They were learning. A few months ago there would have been the glow of a cigarette or the low murmur of voices that would carry a long way in the desert. The Omanis did love to talk. And smoke. Especially the older ones. If it wasn’t a shisha then it was a Marlboro or Chesterfield. Not that there was a lot else to do out on patrol in one of the most desolate areas on earth, but it did take away the point of lying hidden in a night ambush.

The bottom edge of the Empty Quarter lies along southern Oman’s frontier with Saudi Arabia, and from the corner of Yemen smugglers make their runs with cases of liquor which command a high price in the ‘dry’ Islamic kingdom. The risks were enormous. Getting caught there meant death in public execution, but the rewards for a successful trip were significant, and huge profits allowed largesse to be spread among the poorly paid Saudi officials. Getting through the Royal Army of Oman patrols however was a matter of surprise, speed, luck and cunning. All four together were still no guarantee.

Cloth scraped on rock and Saif slid alongside Drew.

All is prepared, Sidi, his voice barely above a whisper.

The three back-up vehicles were lurking on the edge of the plain behind them ready for a bouncing chase across the sand. For two nights they had set up ambushes with no result and the young men were eager to put their recent training in the Aydim battle camp to the test. Like all young soldiers, they wanted to know how they would handle the real thing.

All we can do now Saif, is wait. Let’s get back to Jumma. He’ll think we’ve deserted him.

Before he slid away from the skyline he heard the murmur of an engine. The rocks and wadi walls distorted the sound and made its point of origin uncertain.

That car sounds as if it was bought in Wadi Khabir, Saif said after a second’s concentration. His ear was uncanny and Drew accepted the fact that the vehicle might have been more suited to Muscat’s junkyards. After a few minutes he could hear it himself. It sounded unlike an engine about to tackle a bold, fast run in hostile territory. Why would anyone out here risk travelling in a vehicle that sounded on the point of expiring? No sane person. Certainly no smuggler; the sound would be heard miles away. A few seconds passed before an explanation came to mind: they wanted to be heard miles away. A decoy!

Quick, let’s get back. I want to see how Mohammed handles this.

Saif led the way swiftly back down the craggy defile, his feet sure despite the thick-soled army boots.

Jumma was waiting at the open Landcruiser He stood behind the rear-mounted Lewis machine gun covering the wadi exit. On the opposite side Drew knew there was a similar weapon pointed back towards the source of the engine noise. Saif jumped into the driving seat of the ‘cruiser and pulled a fold free from his shamagh to wind round his nose and mouth. He reached for the protective goggles, adjusting his seat belt at the same time. Drew followed his example and left the goggles pushed up.

Saif glanced at the Thomson HF and Jaguar VHF radios on the shelf below the roll protection bar, but Drew shook his head.

We’ll call it Mulassim Mohammed’s passing out test.

Saif grinned behind his shamagh, or Drew guessed he had by the crinkles around his eyes before they disappeared behind the goggles.

They waited as the noise of the tortured engine, amplified by beating on the wadi walls, increased.

Sidi! Saif pointed over his left shoulder.

Drew half stood in his seat but could see nothing across the dark wadi. Saif had the eyes and ears of a desert fox. Then Drew saw the movement. Someone was making a low fast run from the other Army vehicle towards the uneven piles of water-deposited stones and brush that littered the centre of the narrow exit to the wadi proper.

It is Nasser. He is of Thumrait. Pretty little boys learn to run very fast there. But he can shoot the eye from a hawk.

The sound of the approaching vehicle rose and fell as it negotiated the uneven wadi floor convincing Drew that it had been chosen for decoy because of the grinding engine. It masked other sounds. Not far behind would be the well-oiled purr of a four-and-a-half litre Toyota or a Discovery.

Drew smiled in satisfaction. Mohammed, the young lieutenant leading the patrol had recognised the situation and dispatched Nasser to stop the decoy before it cleared the final obstacle at the wadi’s entrance. The smuggler would then have to begin his run over broken ground, which would slow him.

Saif turned on the ignition. The engine would not be heard over the approaching rattle. Behind them Jumma tightened his machine gun harness and nestled into the shoulder rests.

Even straining his eyes, which were used to the blackness of the night, Drew could not make out either the hidden Nasser or the approaching truck. The sound of the single shot from Nasser’s Steyr Putsch echoed from the adjacent cliffs. The clatter of the decoy vehicle did not alter. A second shot sounded and this time there was a clear rise in the engine note. A moment later screeching metal squealed on rock.

The tyre is gone but he will not stop, predicted Saif.

As if to prove him right the roar of the engine increased, with the distinctive sharp banging of a Kalashnikov answering Nasser’s attack.

There! Saif jerked his head and Drew could see the black shape of the oncoming pick-up. It was bouncing and jolting, barely under control, and the sound of stressed metal grated like fingernails on a blackboard. Showers of orange sparks arced from the bare wheel rim, and flickers came from the muzzle flashes. He hoped Nasser had gone to ground after accomplishing his job. Seconds later, a larger calibre machine gun opened up, and the regular thumping sound added to the noise. At first Drew thought it was Mohammed’s .50 inch, since smugglers rarely used anything other than small arms, but he could see the strikes of the rounds hitting the opposite cliff face. Moments later a second weapon opened up, and the rocks to Drew’s left splintered, sending shards whining into the night.

Jesus! He’s guessed the set up.

This was a new development in the months Drew had been chasing smugglers. Usually there was a race across the dunes, with the odd round sent as a deterrent rather than in hope of hitting the Army pursuers. The smugglers depended upon their vehicle’s power, and their fearless approach to desert driving. More than once, Drew had been given the slip by potentially suicidal leaps down the face of high dunes that the Army Landcruisers could not match. Army pay was less of an incentive to try the impossible.

These are not usual smugglers, Sidi. See, they stop and fight. Five, six maybe.

Drew grabbed the Jaguar handset. Kilo Romeo, Lima One, he said and released the press-to-speak key.

Kilo Romeo.

Mohammed, they’ve put people out. Keep your eyes open. I’m going to send up a flare behind them. Pour everything you’ve got into the pick-up before they get lucky with the MGs.

The eerie light of the flare threw everything into bright contrast, and the instant it lit up the target, both Jumma and his opposite number in Mohammed’s vehicle began laying down fire. The area round the stranded pick-up erupted in spouts of dust and rock as the half-inch shells tore up the ground. Both the opposing machine guns fell silent almost at once. Saif had picked up his Steyr from beside the seat and was aiming at one of the advancing men. Three had headed for each of the Army vehicles. As Saif opened up they took cover where they could.

They know what they’re doing, Drew said, as all three fired simultaneously in their direction.

The disabled pick-up began burning and there was a soft whoosh as the petrol ignited in the ruptured tank. Two ricochets whined off the protecting boulder to the left of the Landcruiser, and Jumma gave a sharp cry as a rock splinter hit his upper arm. The flare fizzled out, and the darkness was more profound. Drew did not fire another one. He knew the situation, and darkness was a better friend for the moment. The opposition had to move against the background of the burning wreck, while both Drew and Mohammed’s vehicles had been positioned to give them protection from unfriendly fire.

You all right, Jumma? Drew asked the gunner.

Aiwa, Sidi, and as if to prove it, he loosed off four rounds which were rewarded by a shriek of pain that developed into a steady howl. The cry filled the hot night. A round from a .50 calibre would do serious damage wherever it hit. As the howl became more animal-like there was the professional double tap of an AK47 and the sound stopped abruptly.

Christ, they’ve shot one of their own.

Another extended burst of fire came from the other side of the wadi. To this accompaniment came the burbling sound of vehicles in motion.

Two. Saif said. From the little wadi.

The little wadi came out at right angles to the mouth of the larger valley from which the decoy had come. Drew had reconnoitred it the previous afternoon, but the going looked too rough for a vehicle that was interested primarily in speed. He had not allowed for a creeping approach behind the cover of a noisy decoy. Now the two runners burst into the open under the covering fire of their friends, and they were travelling at top speed in seconds.

It was the first time Drew had encountered a decoy and it was also the first time the whisky runners had run in tandem. With the thinly spread Omani patrols there were better odds if they operated independently a dozen kilometres apart.

The first of the Landcruisers was streaking down the uneven track worn by the passage of countless animals and vehicles. The following vehicle was moving more steadily and a sudden flare of light, a whoosh and thump indicated why.

They’ve fired a missile, Drew said incredulously as he watched the trail as it jigged away from them. A dazzling flash of light followed a second later, and the image was imprinted on Drew’s retina as the missile hit Mohammed’s vehicle amidships.

Yallaa! Saif exclaimed, as the echo of the explosion mixed with the sound of falling rocks and debris. Scattered yellow flames blossomed, and the pall of smoke was clearly visible. Drew reached for his safety belt catch and thumped Saif on the shoulder.

Out, Saif, he bellowed. Jumma, over the back, fast. The command in Drew’s voice, and their training, saved their lives. The three of them peeled away round the back of the vehicle, moving deeper into the funnel in the cliff face where they had backed the ‘cruiser. A minute later came another whooshing flare of light, and a missile homed in with deadly accuracy on their abandoned Toyota. At the sound of the launch, the three of them went to ground, pressing themselves into the jumble of rocks and pebbles. The blast was hot, and filled with fragments, as it ripped over their heads. Drew felt the breeze tug at his shamagh, and the buzzing in his ears deadened his hearing. His goggles had disappeared in the flurry of movement, but his hand still clasped the plastic stock of his automatic rifle. He lifted his head, and saw Saif huddled behind a huge lump that had once belonged to the cliff face above. He also carried his Steyr. Jumma was somewhere behind.

The cotton wool effect on his hearing was doubly a danger as Drew scrabbled to join Saif. He had no idea how much noise he was making, and he could hear nothing of the opposition. He touched his ear and shook his head. Saif nodded. Drew pointed a forefinger at his eye and gestured across the rocks. Again Saif nodded, and eased round the limestone chunk so that he could look out into the wadi.

Drew’s hearing slowly returned; he could now pick up the sound of the smugglers’ engines fading into the distance. He hoped the other three Army vehicles would give chase. The whole ambush had turned into a tragic disaster and Drew wondered if Mohammed and his gunner would be his only casualties.

3

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Four men sat round the table in the London flat. Two had close-cropped hair that went with the flat’s décor of military memorabilia. The other two had striking hair which may have affected their preference for wearing it longer. Brendan McGuire had bright red curly hair. Dr. Meadows’ was golden auburn.

The older, solidly built man would have been clearly identified as the leader by any outside witness. His clothes were Saville Row tailored and he radiated wealth and power. His armaments business had brought him more money than he would ever spend. He was known as Albion.

Weaton was carrying something especially important.

One of the men gave a tiny involuntary snort, and the leader fixed him with a cold, steady gaze.

Weaton was no fool despite his weakness. He followed up your report, Meadows. We wouldn’t have had to use him if you’d played it as intelligently as Weaton. The pair of eyes dropped to examine the table top. He got close to the man you identified as the weak link, and got his confidence. He obtained a comprehensive file about the research.

The eyes came up rapidly. Albion nodded.

Yes. According to Weaton, everything’s in the file. He got hold of it. On the way to us, it was taken in a street robbery. He turned to the short-haired man. Your talents, Alec, will be needed now.

The black-haired man with acne-scarred cheeks looked up eagerly. The bottom of the lobe of his right ear had been sliced off in a street fight, and he habitually tugged the other one as if to reassure himself it was still there.

Weaton was mugged and beaten in Keyhaven Road. According to my informant there was a witness. The leader did not consult the notebook that lay at this right hand. A Mr Lenny Hutchins of No.48. I want to know who attacked Weaton and what they did with the information he was carrying. Your people know the area, Alec. Someone will be boasting, they always do. I want to talk to whoever put Weaton in hospital. He paused and looked round at the three. And no doubt you’d like to revenge your comrade at the same time. What we’re looking for is an A4 document file, dark blue. On the front, ‘Project Footprint’. An inch thick and coming from, Dane Hall Laboratories. I want that file. His penetrating deep brown eyes lingered on each man in turn.

He directed his attention to the curly red-haired man with blue eyes.

Brendan, find out everything about Dane Hall Laboratories. The security set-up, layout, personnel, everything. Meadows, give him what you know, and Weaton will have more. Get the info from Weaton through the back door. I don’t want the police alerted to our interest. Get someone into the hospital as a cleaner, or no doubt you know a few of the nursing staff intimately.

Brendan did not acknowledge the estimate of his sexual prowess. It was taken for granted.

I want that file back. It represents the future for Trident and England.

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