A subtle agency omnibus, p.67
A Subtle Agency Omnibus, page 67
part #1 of The Metaframe War Series
“Hey boss, we’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?” Francis asked.
“We’ve been redirected to the RAF airbase at Coningsby.”
Juliette observed, “They know who we are or at the very least suspect it.”
The other members of the team leaped up from their seats, crowding the aisle just behind the cockpit.
“UK Shadowstone in action?” Jay asked.
“For sure,” Yvette asserted, leaning past Jay’s shoulder.
“Okay Peter,” Francis directed, “do as they ask. We’ll have to adapt our plans.”
“Sure Boss,” Peter agreed and began setting the plane up for the new flight plan. In another forty-five minutes, they would be landing at a major RAF airbase, surrounded by Shadowstone and regular UK military forces.
Peter sighed; this could get messy in a hurry.
* * *
Bright sunlight gleamed off an ocean of fluffy white clouds beneath an azure sky.
Flight Lieutenant, Gracie Williams’ F-35 Lightning II interceptor did a slow looping roll over the Embraer Legacy 500 business jet. The maneuver allowed her to closely examine the plane. She was close enough to see the pilot, a big red-headed fellow. He nodded politely at her as she passed overhead.
She took a position to the left of the Embraer, her wingman mirroring her position on the right. She flicked a switch, opening the doors to her missile bays and tilted her F-35 slightly to show what she was carrying. Having bared her teeth, she righted her aircraft and looked at the red-headed pilot.
He was smiling at her with a dopey ‘love at first sight’ grin and gave her a thumbs up.
“What the hell,” she whispered. It wasn’t the sort of reaction she expected to see when showing off four MBDA Meteor ramjet air-to-air missiles. Just one of which could turn the Embraer into a smoking ruin on the ground.
The pilot grinned again, nodded and waved. He pointed down to the ground and then gave her a double thumbs up.
Gracie waggled her wings left and right. Message understood, there would be no trouble. The red-haired pilot of flight N971AZ would comply. She waited another handful of minutes, and the Embraer started its descent toward RAF Coningsby airbase.
She wondered who these fools were. The intercept orders had come from the highest operational ranks of the Royal Air Force. She and her wingman had been on duty and had scrambled their aircraft. She’d expected to see a Russian Tupolev bomber or a pair of Sukhoi fighters testing UK air defenses. She’d been surprised to discover they would be escorting a business jet down to her home base.
Whoever was on board the jet had clearly pissed off someone important. Gracie didn’t know who that could be, it was a question well above her pay grade. She shrugged, getting down to business, the fine art of shepherding the Embraer all the way down to the ground. They wouldn’t be able to do anything without her wingman or herself knowing about it.
* * *
The two RAF F-35s descended in close formation with the Embraer business jet just under two thousand yards above the ground. There would be no arguing with the escorts, they were all heading to RAF Coningsby and would be landing in less than ten minutes.
The cabin of the business jet was filled with well-organized chaos. The Mirovar force team had opened a locker built into the floor and extracted eight stealthy wingsuit gliders. A set of parachutes were left in the locker, unusable in a situation requiring daylight capable stealth. The team members were variously checking weapons, clambering into their wingsuits, and checking each other’s webbing and attached gear.
“Okay everyone,” Francis called out. “Peter will set the autopilot to land the plane, and we will escape with our stealth wingsuits. They have the radar cross-section of a marble and are the next thing to invisible to the human eye.” He looked at Anton and Li. “Don’t worry if you haven’t been trained for this yet, follow your guide closely all the way down. Anton pair up with Chiara, Li, your guide is Juliette, is that clear?”
Anton and Li both nodded, moving with their wingsuits to pair up with their guides.
“Furthermore, we will be landing in farmland to the southwest of the airbase. Once you hit the ground, evaporate the wingsuits, grab your gear and form up on Jay. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” resounded through the cabin.
Chiara helped Anton with the final touches of his wingsuit. Checking the fit, adjusting the armored hood over his head and zipping him up at the front.
Anton said, “I’ve seen this on video, shouldn’t we have parachutes? How do we actually land these things?”
Chiara smiled. “Don’t worry, we just ramp all the way down. These wingsuits are specially designed to allow for a rapid brake just above the ground. Follow directly after me, mirror what I do, and be ready to brake when I do. Whatever you do, don’t drop out of the Ramp, if your reflexes aren’t in a heightened state - you won’t brake in time, and you’ll hit the ground.”
“Hit the ground? How hard?”
“Hard.”
Chiara and Anton looked at each other, Chiara raised a quizzical eyebrow, a slight smile curving her generous lips.
“Everyone ready?” Francis called out.
“We have a problem,” Jay observed with a frown.
“What?” Francis asked.
“We’re one glider short.”
“C'est un foutu bordel!” Francis swore. “What a mess.” His eyes flicked over Luther, and he noted, “Of course - we have an extra man.”
Francis rubbed his chin. “We need a volunteer. Someone must stay on board, land the aircraft, breakout of the airbase and meet us at rendezvous site number two by 12:00 at the latest.” He looked around the cabin. “You will have to make it on time. Our mission is time-critical. We cannot afford to leave Ramin Kain in the hands of our enemies - he knows too much about the operations of the Order.”
Peter called out from the cockpit, “Hey Boss, I’ll take the job.”
Francis nodded. “Good man.”
“Trust me,” Peter asserted, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ll see you all at twelve, don’t be late - I don’t like waiting.”
“Francis,” Anton offered, “I could stay with Peter, with the two of us it would double the chances of escaping the airbase.”
Francis shook his head. “No, it would double the chance of losing both of you.” He reached out, grasping Anton’s shoulder firmly. “You come with us. We put one man at risk and make sure the rest of the team escapes.”
Peter called out from the cockpit, “Anton, take my battle vest with you, I doubt I’ll be fighting vampires this morning, and I’ll get it back off you later.”
Anton snatched up the battle vest, tucking it inside his wingsuit. Chiara rechecked his fittings and nodded once; he was good to go.
“Ten minutes to landing,” Peter advised. “I’ll yaw the plane and make it look like I’m about to crash. It’ll focus all eyes on me and make your escape easier.”
“Good work, Peter. Okay team, get ready. Form up in a line behind Jay. We need to land outside the airbase. We have to go now. Peter - open the escape hatch!”
The team moved, in moments, they formed a line behind Jay. Yvette put her hand on Jay’s shoulder. Behind her Luther put a hand on her shoulder, followed by Juliette, Li, Chiara, Anton and Francis at the end. An electrical whirr emanated from the floor just behind the cockpit. A six-foot seam opened up, exposing the cabin to the exterior, the air rushing past howled like a banshee. The seam widened to a three foot by six-foot hole in the floor. Jay leaped through it, immediately followed by Yvette. The plane began to yaw left and right. The line began disappearing through the hole. Chiara leaped through it, Anton didn’t hesitate, he followed her, ramping hard as he did so. Time slowed, the world snapping into sharp clarity, the plane drifting away above him. A dozen feet below him, Chiara was already in position, her arms out in a ‘T’ and her legs spread in a ‘V.’
Anton copied her, she was just visible, an outline against the verdant landscape beneath them. The stealth effects of the wingsuits were excellent, almost too good, Anton sharpened his focus, he would copy her movements all the way down.
They’d come out of the plane about fifteen hundred yards above the ground. The coating on the gliders would make them essentially invisible to radar. The color schemes would defeat human observers. Still, there was a window of risk where they could be spotted. There was nothing else they could do, every other option led to the immediate capture of the entire team.
Anton had no time for thought as he dropped toward the ground. He watched Chiara closely, waiting for her signal to brake. The ground rose toward them, the Ramp reducing the sense of onrushing speed.
Anton eased off the Ramp slightly, it was fun, exhilarating. Then a thought struck him, how the hell did they find us?
He almost missed Chiara’s brake. He sharpened his ramp, twisting in the air, his arms flinging out hard.
The wingsuit filled with air as Anton braked hard, a grassy paddock rushed toward him in slow motion.
“Damn -”
* * *
The F-35s roared overhead.
The Embraer business jet had already landed and was taxiing over toward a large hangar. Gordon Heathmont had ordered his men to direct the plane nose first into the broad cream-colored building. It was never going to fly again. It would be impounded and stripped to reveal every last shred of information about the Order of Thoth. Men with flags indicated where the jet was to go, and it obediently moved into position within the hangar. The engines slowed to a stop. A big red-headed pilot clambered out of the cockpit, disappearing into the cabin of the aircraft.
Gordon studied the aircraft, it was the expected flight. In addition to the pilot, the Order of Thoth agent, Anton Smith, should be on board. He ordered his men forward. He was flanked by six suited operatives armed with H&K MP5 submachine guns. Four squads of four Shadowstone operatives, wearing full tactical combat armor, and armed with H&K assault rifles, took up positions on the corners of a rectangle surrounding the aircraft. Beyond them, were another four squads of Shadowstone operatives armed with rifles with net throwers instead of grenade launchers. Outside the two rings of Shadowstone operatives were another thirty members of RAF regiment regular soldiers. At the hangar’s main entrance, a pair of light armored RAF Regiment vehicles, armed with 7.62mm machine guns on their roofs, rolled in from Gordon’s right. They faced the rear of the aircraft, blocking any escape in that direction.
All of his Shadowstone men, the suits, and the armored warriors were all participants in the Phase IV Day Guard program. His commander, Cornelius Crane, the head of Shadowstone, had provided the serums for the program a year earlier. Crane had hinted of a new program in the works. The Phase V program which would provide another leap forward in the capability of his operatives.
Gordon lifted a loud-hailer to his mouth and called out, “All personnel on board the aircraft. You are surrounded. There is no chance of escape. Come out with your hands up, and you will be treated fairly.”
The plane’s cabin door swung open with a soft hum, revealing a set of steps and part of the interior of the cabin.
The Shadowstone operatives tightened their stances. Their guns lined up on the open doorway. Silence fell over the hangar.
Gordon wondered if Anton Smith and the red-headed pilot were foolish enough to resist capture.
He smiled grimly and hoped they were.
* * *
Peter lined the Milkor MGL up on the tail of the Embraer and pulled the trigger.
A 40mm grenade ‘chuffed’ from the barrel of the launcher. It sailed along the aisle toward the back of the aircraft, trailing a plume of gray smoke. Keeping his finger on the trigger, Peter pulled the weapon slightly to the right. The first grenade passed through the left side of the luggage compartment at the rear of the plane, detonating immediately. The backwash of the first blast lit Peter’s face with a fiery light. The next grenade launched as the explosion of the first was dying away. The shaped charge of each grenade directed the vast majority of its energy in a narrow cone, slicing through the aircraft’s bulkhead. The second grenade flashed and boomed in the narrow space of the cabin.
Peter lifted his launcher, the third grenade chambered into the barrel and shot toward where the ceiling met the rear bulkhead. It struck the target like a God-driven hammer, slicing through the plane’s spine with ease.
Peter ramped hard, blurring down the aisle toward the back of the plane. The cabin was filled with smoke, electrical cables hung sputtering from the ceiling. Light from the hangar cut through ragged tears in the walls and ceiling, gleaming off the smoke. The floor shook as he ran along it, the wounded plane trembling with each step. He hit the back wall with his hip and shoulder at full speed - and the fractured rear of the Embraer came apart like torn paper.
Around him, the tail of the Embraer fell away in pieces from the body of the main plane. Peter rolled out onto the concrete of the hangar floor, his eyes taking in everything around him. The Shadowstone operatives in close-fitting matte black body armor were already on the move, as were the suits armed with H&K MP5s. Beyond them, regular RAF soldiers were just beginning to react, their faces marked with shock, amazement and grim fear. The Shadowstone operatives were rushing toward him at faster than normal pace – they were enhanced. It was the sort of situation he would normally call ‘target rich,’ but today he’d no time for quips.
The main gates of the hangar were in front of him. A pair of uprated RAF Regiment Land Rovers stood in his way. He dodged to the right, sending his fourth and fifth grenades through the front radiator grills of each vehicle. The two grenades ripped through metal and piping, shattering the engine blocks. Smoke and flame exploded from the front of each vehicle. RAF soldiers shouted with alarm, spilling out of the cabins.
A slim gray-haired suit with a loud hailer shouted, “Take him alive.”
Some of the RAF soldiers weren’t listening, letting rip with automatic weapon fire, bullets whizzing through the air behind him. They weren’t used to shooting at such a fast-moving target, their bullets slashing through a helicopter parked on the far side of the hangar.
Peter bounded to the top of the nearest vehicle, twisting, his right arm outstretched, firing the last of his grenades into the left wing of the Embraer. Ninety pounds of reserve jet fuel exploded, most of the wing and half the body of the plane disappearing in a fiery cloud of fragments. A moment later, the reserve fuel in the right wing evaporated in a secondary explosion. The detonations blew through the hangar, men falling away with the wash of the explosions.
Peter launched himself forward, leaping off the top of the vehicle and out of the hangar. Bullets zipped past him, RAF Regiment soldiers firing wildly in the chaos within the hangar.
To his left and right, four Shadowstone operatives armed with net throwers ran to where he was landing. Peter landed on his feet, dug in and began blurring forward. The men fired their net throwers. Black, weighted nets flew through the air, spreading out as they approached him. Peter turned hard right, the first net missing. He twisted to the left, the second net flew past him. He leaped, the third one caught his ankles, flipping him mid-air. He started falling, the fourth net reached out, wrapping around him like a giant’s hand.
Peter hit the ground hard. The four men rushed forward, firing tasers. He shivered and trembled as the electric shocks froze his nervous system. They rolled him in the nets like spiders trapping a fly.
In moments, he was immobilized, Shadowstone had caught him.
* * *
Gordon Heathmont strode over to the red-headed man wrapped up in weighted nano-fiber cables. He reached down, plucking a pair of earbud communications devices from the man’s ears. He wrapped them in a gel-impregnated cloth and put them in his pocket.
Gordon stared down at the man and demanded sharply, “Who the bloody hell are you?”
The man attempted to shrug, failed, and then replied, “Why would I tell you?”
“Where’s Anton Smith.”
The man’s eyes widened, nonplussed. “Who?”
Gordon frowned. “Are you going to keep answering everything with a question?”
“Are you going to keep asking them?” he answered, one eyebrow raised.
Gordon glared at the bound man coldly, he indicated with his forefinger left and right to two of his suits. “Pick him up.” He turned to a third man and commanded, “Call your van around, we’ll take him to the Facility. We can question him properly there.”
The first two suits dragged the Order operative to his feet. He was about the same height as his men, around six feet two or three, but appeared to be twice as wide. Gods, thought Gordon, he’s a big fellow, he must weigh two sixty, two seventy pounds, and there’s no fat on him.
He was obviously enhanced, faster and stronger than anyone Gordon had seen before. He’d almost got away. Only the closest of the Phase IV day guards had been in a position to stop him, and they’d almost failed.
Gordon stepped forward, stood as tall as his slim five feet, seven-inch frame allowed and stared into the man’s eyes. They were blue, serious and filled with secret depths. A slight dusting of freckles ran across the skin of the man’s cheeks, and his face was framed with a shock of thick, red hair. There was a reservoir of bold confidence in his manner at odds with his current helplessness. The young man stared back at him with a look that Gordon would have called insolence in anyone else, but there was something else about this fellow, an unwavering sense of purpose that was larger than both of them.
An uncharacteristic shiver ran up Gordon’s spine. He held the man’s gaze, but took a step back and suggested, “You won’t be such an arse later today, not once we’re done with you.”
He looked away, a nondescript dark-gray Shadowstone van rolled to a stop next to them. In moments, the Order operative had been hooded, and thrown into the back of the van, four of the enhanced Shadowstone agents leaping in after him. A second car, a late model dark-blue Jaguar sedan pulled to a stop behind the van. Gordon walked over and got into the luxurious rear of the car. The last two of his suits joined him, and the Jaguar rolled after the van.
