The fragile coast, p.1
The Fragile Coast, page 1
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgement
Dedication
Theme Quotation
Author's Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight Other Titles
About the author
Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956. He was educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career began after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short story competition in 1996. He currently combines writing with a parallel career as a semi-professional drummer. He lives in Berkshire with his wife and a modest collection of drums.
The Fragile Coast
Scott Hunter
A Myrtle Villa Book
Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing
All rights reserved
Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2025
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher
The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously
Acknowledgements
Thanks, as always, to my insightful and excellent editor, Louise Maskill
For Mr Davies, who taught me how to spell necessary
‘A trustworthy spy is a dangerous ally…’
—Unknown…
Author’s Note
On January 17, 1966, at the height of the Cold War, a United States bomber and a tanker collided above the small farming village of Palomares, Spain, during a routine midair refuelling operation. The explosion killed seven airmen and scattered the bomber’s payload—four unarmed thermonuclear bombs—across miles of coastline.
One bomb fell into the Mediterranean where the US Navy, with great difficulty, salvaged it two and a half months later. The remaining three fell inland; two burst open and dispersed plutonium with the wind. The contaminated land was partially cleaned, and the United States shipped radioactive dirt and debris to America for disposal.
So, four bombs.
Or was it five?
Easy to lose count of a bomber’s payload … especially if you can’t find it all.
What could possibly go wrong?
SH, May 2025
CHAPTER ONE
12TH SEPTEMBER, 1971.
Kyle had been watching the passenger in the second row since they’d boarded the ramshackle coach outside his hotel in central Cairo. The rest of the passengers were unmistakably tourists, as he was himself; not so the occupant of the window seat two rows behind the driver.
Kyle disliked pigeon-holing himself as a tourist, but recognised that there was no escaping the fact. He was here to escape London’s grey ceiling and to try to forget that he was a dead man walking – not the easiest thing to relegate to the back of one’s mind at the best of times, but he’d reasoned that foreign travel might, at the very least, ease his mental burden and help him make the most of the time he had left – in the words of his neurosurgeon an unguessable statistic he’d be well advised not to dwell upon.
The destination had proved a harder choice than he’d anticipated, but after several visits to his local travel agent he’d eventually decided on Egypt, a country now deemed safe to visit following the cessation of Egyptian/Israeli hostilities a year earlier. As a child he’d always been fascinated by the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the legends of the Nile, the Valley of the Kings; the names alone evoked mystery, history, the colours and scents of an older world. Kyle wanted to see it all.
Which was why he now found himself rattling along poorly-maintained roads in a coach that looked and felt as though it had been rescued from the scrapyard and given a fresh coat of paint to cover the worst signs of wear and tear. The driver was a small, dark man who appeared to have little regard for the comfort of his passengers, or anyone else careless enough to get in his way. The horn blared almost continually, and pedestrians and cars scattered at their approach.
The tour guide, a slim elegant young woman in a red blouse and denim flares, seemed unfazed by their lurching progress. Kyle glanced at her as she balanced herself between two seats with an expertise born of long practice and raised her microphone to her lips.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for joining our tour to Giza…’
Her accent was discernible, but her English was perfect, her pronunciation accurate, and her words as clear as a bell as they popped through the tinny speakers above the racket of the coach’s labouring engine. However, Kyle wasn’t listening; his attention remained focused on the man in the second row. The man who looked all wrong.
Kyle’s fellow passengers were a mixture of Britons, Europeans and Americans; most were middle-aged, although a few, like the couple immediately in front of Kyle, were closer to his age or perhaps slightly older. Kyle’s object of interest was different. He looked to be of Arab or Israeli origin, Turkish maybe? Hard to say. He was bearded, clad in scruffy jeans and a sweat-stained, open-necked shirt, and wore his fashionably long hair gathered into a loose ponytail. His head was never still, turning this way and that as they made slow progress out of the city. The seat beside him was empty, as though the other passengers had instinctively given him a wide berth, perhaps assuming him to be a friend or relative of the driver, or perhaps the tour guide’s minder, or relative.
It was a long time since Kyle had served as a detective constable in the Met, but he could still recognise a villain when he saw one. This guy had villain written all over him.
The tour guide was coming to the end of her spiel. ‘… we will reach our destination in approximately twenty minutes. Until then, make yourselves comfortable and enjoy the trip.’
Kyle admired the tour guide’s shapely curves as she took her seat. The man with the beard paid her no attention, instead continuing to scan the road on either side and ahead. He reminded Kyle of a fighter pilot checking the skies for enemy aircraft.
A robbery? Tourists were always fair game for a quick fleecing, but that usually happened on the streets and in the souks; much less likely here, enclosed in this tin coffin with just a few travellers’ cheques as reward. No, not a robbery; Kyle was forming a distinct impression leaning more towards violence than thievery. He wasn’t an avid follower of the news, but it had been impossible to avoid the press coverage of the still-simmering hostilities between Egypt and Israel. Sure, a ceasefire had been agreed, but the situation nevertheless remained highly volatile. The powers-that-be might have decreed that North Africa was now a safe-to-travel zone, but the reality was that anything could kick off at any time.
Not that it bothered Kyle. He was on death row anyway.
The coach slowed and the driver leaned on his horn, this time more persistently. Kyle stood up for a better look. They had cleared the built up area and traffic was now sparse. The glare of the sun made him squint but through the front windscreen he could see that a vehicle, an open-topped truck, was parked across the road a few hundred metres ahead, effectively blocking their way. The coach driver muttered something unintelligible in Arabic and made an exasperated gesture, the meaning of which wasn’t hard to interpret.
The tour guide stood up for a better look, holding on firmly to the seat headrest in front of her as the coach moved forward again, this time at a more cautious pace. Kyle made his way along the aisle to the front.
‘Problem?’
The tour guide turned her head towards him and did her best to offer a reassuring smile, but Kyle wasn’t fooled. The driver was still crawling forward in second gear, cursing under his
‘Tell him to stop the coach,’ Kyle said.
The tour guide was wearing a name badge, Nadira. She frowned, a slight creasing of her forehead. ‘I’m sure everything is OK, sir. If you could please return to your…’
‘You don’t believe that,’ Kyle interrupted. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to take any chances with your passengers’ safety.’ He pointed at the truck. ‘Look, they’re not broken down. If they were, they’d be parked at the roadside, not across it.’
Nadira pursed her lips as she considered Kyle’s observation. Behind them, the passengers seated towards the front of the coach had begun to cotton on that there was some kind of issue. A low muttering began, an exchange of half-formed queries and anxious whispers.
Kyle was positioned parallel to the man with the ponytail. No more head movements; now Kyle’s attention was entirely focused on the guy’s hands, one levering himself upright using the front seat headrest, and the other snaking into his pocket.
Kyle didn’t wait to see what he was trying to retrieve. He scythed his arm a hundred and eighty degrees to the left and felt a crunch of cartilage as the edge of his hand smashed into ponytail’s windpipe. He followed through with a fist to the man’s head, slamming his skull against the window. Kyle bent and retrieved the automatic that had slipped from the guy’s pocket onto the sun-faded seat cover beside him.
‘Now stop the coach,’ Kyle ordered, pointing the automatic directly at the driver’s head. No time for persuasion or reasoning – not that Kyle spoke the language anyway – and certainly not now that three armed men had appeared from behind the blockade and were walking purposefully towards them. The driver got the idea and brought them quickly to a standstill. Nadira’s hands were shaking as she picked up the microphone, but her voice was steady. ‘Please remain in your seats for the moment. Thank you ladies and gentlemen.’
Kyle was impressed with her coolness, but the passengers deserved a little more. ‘Tell them to keep their heads down – please.’
She nodded and issued the additional instruction in a calm, reassuring tone and the fretful murmurs were instantly superseded by a compliant, albeit tense, silence.
Kyle was impressed all over again; Nadira would handle the passengers. His job was to stay focused on the three approaching guys in headscarves and camo jackets. Not army, not police. Some splinter faction, maybe, with a grudge against the UK or US? Right now the whys and wherefores didn’t matter. Best to concentrate on the three men as they drew closer, confidently assuming, so Kyle hoped, that their onboard accomplice had taken control of the coach as planned. Surprise was always a great advantage when the odds were stacked against you, and right now it was the only advantage he was likely to get.
Question was, what was their objective? A hijack and subsequent ransom demand? Or just a full-scale massacre? Kyle scrutinised the trio as two of them fell slightly behind the one on the left The leader. That was good to know.
‘Does the door open automatically?’ Kyle asked without taking his eyes from the threat.
‘Yes,’ Nadira said. ‘To Omar’s right, by the gear shift.’ She nodded towards the driver.
‘Tell him to open it.’
Nadira frowned. ‘We can’t just let them in. They’ll…’
Kyle silenced her with a look. He hoped it wasn’t too fierce; more of a trust me kind of expression. Either way, it had the desired effect. Nadira issued a terse command to Omar who leaned forward without question and pulled the lever. The door creaked open on protesting hydraulics.
Kyle stepped forward and found the gap between the coach body and the open door, nestled the automatic in the small space and shot the leader in the head. The guy went down hard, slamming into the dirt. His two companions froze, and then acted as Kyle had anticipated; one darted around the front of the coach to his right while the other broke into a crouching run, heading left. Kyle now had to figure out who would shoot first. The one on the left seemed a likelier candidate – he’d already unslung his automatic rifle.
Kyle dragged the body of the ponytailed accomplice from the seat, dumped him on the floor, smashed the window with the butt of the automatic and took a potshot at the running man. He missed, but the guy stopped running, squatted and raised his rifle. Bullets sprayed along the coach body, tracking towards Kyle. He ducked as the nearest window exploded in a shower of glass. A woman screamed.
Kyle lifted his head a fraction, snapped off a second shot. The man was running again and so was a moving target, but luck was with Kyle and the bullet found a mark just below the guy’s knee. He howled and collapsed onto the scrubby earth, both hands clutching his wound. He then seemed to recognize his predicament and made a grab for his weapon, rolling onto his back and lifting the barrel towards the coach. Kyle shot him in the chest. He fell back and lay still.
Kyle paused. One assailant left, position unknown. If roles were reversed, what would he do? A coach full of people, one defender with a pistol. First, stay close, use the cover. Second, think smart. The windows were too high to simply poke a rifle through and open fire. They’d been expecting to simply climb on board, no resistance, but things hadn’t gone to plan.
So … if the guy had any sense, he’d try to manufacture his own element of surprise. Would he sidle up against the body of the coach? Not on Kyle’s side, because he’d know that Kyle could simply dip out the door and shoot him. On the other side, however, away from the door, he could creep along below the level of the windows, nip around to the front and open fire through the windscreen before anyone had time to react. Risky, but a possibility.
There were two further options, though: the roof, and underneath. Kyle rejected the former. No way could the guy get on the roof without being seen, and it wouldn’t offer much of an advantage anyway. No; if he was really smart he’d go for the latter. He’d crawl under the coach until he was just beneath the door, wait for Kyle to show himself, and then it’d be game over.
Unless Kyle took the initiative. No more time to waste. Apart from his wits and the automatic, what else did he have at his disposal? The coach’s engine was still running, Omar’s hands still on the steering wheel – maybe through force of habit or just for want of somewhere better to put them. Kyle made a decision. ‘Nadira, tell the driver to reverse hard, fast as he can.’
She nodded, spoke rapidly to Omar.
The engine roared and the coach jerked into reverse. A heartbeat later it lurched over an unseen obstruction, canting violently to the left to a chorus of terrified screams from the passengers. The vehicle teetered momentarily on two wheels before righting itself and slamming back to earth with an impact that made Kyle’s teeth rattle.
Omar kept going; someone towards the back began to shout the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer. As they continued to weave drunkenly backwards, Kyle reached over and placed a restraining hand on the driver’s shoulder. ‘OK, Omar. You can stop now.’
The coach skidded to a halt in a flurry of dust.
Kyle squinted through the haze. A bundle of bloody rags lay by the roadside.
The third man.
‘Better relay the good news,’ Kyle said to Nadira. He was overcome by a sudden light-headedness; he dropped into the nearest seat and put his head between his legs. Either the heat had finally got to him, or the adrenaline. Maybe a bit of both.
Nadira made her announcement. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens struck up a discordant harmony. The sound of approaching officialdom broke the tension; the driver lit a cigarette and conversation began to bubble excitedly along the coach’s length. A woman across the aisle dabbed a handkerchief to her husband’s forehead with a shaky hand; a splinter of glass had incised a small wound, but aside from that there didn’t appear to be any other casualties.
