Scarecrow by Matthew Reilly
Knight yanked the blowtorch from its pouch and immediately pulled the trigger, firing it at point-blank range into Drake’s back.
The mini-blowtorch burst to life, emitting a superheated blue flame.
Drake roared.
The spike-like blue flame lanced right through his body, emerging from the other side—the front side—like the blade of a luminescent sword.
Drake’s face, shocked and dying, fell back against Knight’s chest.
‘You got off lightly,’ Knight growled, applying more power, blasting the insides of Drake’s body to nothing.
Then the body went limp, and fell, and as it did so, Knight unclasped his utility vest from it, at the same time using his piton to break open his other manacle.
As Drake fell, however, Knight became exposed to Cedric Wexley up in the viewing balcony, who started firing.
But now Knight was completely free.
He dived behind Drake’s corpse, let bullet after bullet hit it before, without warning, he rolled Drake’s body into the blood-stained water, right in front of the nearest tiger shark, and then, to everyone’s surprise . . .
. . . leapt into the water after it himself!
The shark lunged at Drake’s corpse, bit into it with an almighty crunch, started tearing it to shreds. The second shark came over quickly and joined in the frenzy.
A churning bloody foam spilled out across the pool. Waves sloshed every which way.
After a few minutes, however, the frenzy died down and the water was calm once more.
But there was no sign of Knight.
Indeed, Aloysius Knight never surfaced again inside the deadly pool.
He did surface, however, outside the Forteresse de Valois, amid the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.
Exactly six minutes after he’d dived underneath the sharks feeding on Drake’s body, he breached the surface of the ocean, still holding his Pony Bottle to his lips.
The mini-scuba bottle had only just had enough air in it to get him through the long underwater passage that connected the Shark Pit to the open sea.
Knight didn’t bob in the water for long. A homing transponder on his vest took care of that.
In a matter of minutes, the hawk-shaped shadow of his Sukhoi S-37 swung into place above him, blasting the water around him with its thrusters.
Then a harness fell out of the plane’s bomb bay and slapped into the water beside him, and within moments, Aloysius Knight was sitting inside the Black Raven, back with Mother and Rufus.
‘You all right, Boss?’ Rufus said, throwing him a new pair of yellow-lensed glasses.
Knight caught them as he slumped to the floor of the Raven’s rear holding cell, put them on. He didn’t answer Rufus’s question. Just nodded. He was still shell-shocked by the horrific execution he had just witnessed in the Shark Pit.
Mother said, ‘What about the Scarecrow? And my little Chickadee?’
Knight looked up at her sharply.
Behind his yellow glasses, his eyes were the picture of horror. He gazed at Mother, wondering what to say.
Then abruptly he stood. ‘Rufus. Do you have a fix on Schofield? Those MicroDots I put on his Palm Pilot should have rubbed off on his hand.’
‘I’ve got him, Boss. And he’s still moving. Looks like someone took him to that French carrier off the coast.’
Knight turned to Mother, took a deep, deep breath. ‘Schofield’s alive, but’—he swallowed—‘there could be a problem with the girl.’
‘Oh dear God, no . . .’ Mother said.
‘I can’t talk about it now,’ Knight said. ‘We have to rescue Schofield.’
THE FRENCH AIRCRAFT CARRIER
RICHELIEU, ATLANTIC OCEAN,
OFF THE FRENCH COAST
Shane Schofield was thrown into a small steel-walled room adjoining the below-decks hangar. The door slammed shut behind him.
There was nothing in the room but a table and a chair.
On the table sat Lefevre’s CincLock-VII disarming unit. Next to the unit, with a little red pilot light burning brightly on its top, was:
A phosphorus grenade.
High in the corner of the room, hidden behind a dark glass plate, Schofield heard a camera whirring.
‘Captain Schofield,’ the DGSE agent’s voice came over some speakers. ‘A simple test. The phosphorus grenade you see before you is connected by shortwave radio to the CincLock unit on the table. The only way to disarm the grenade is through the CincLock unit. For the purposes of this exercise, the final disarm code is 123. The grenade will go off in one minute. Your time starts . . . now.’
‘Holy shit,’ Schofield said, sitting down quickly.
He examined the CincLock unit up close.
White and red circles filled the main screen—red on the left, white on the right.
Bing.
A message appeared on the lower screen:
FIRST PROTOCOL (PROXIMITY): SATISFIED.
INITIATE SECOND PROTOCOL.
Immediately, the white circles on the main screen began to flash—each one blinking for a brief instant, one at a time, in a slow random sequence.
The screen squealed in protest.
SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): FAILED DISARM ATTEMPT RECORDED.
THREE FAILED DISARM ATTEMPTS WILL RESULT IN DEFAULT DETONATION.
SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): RE-ACTIVATED.
‘What?’ Schofield said to the screen.
‘Fifty seconds, Captain,’ Lefevre’s voice said. ‘You have to touch the illuminated circles in the prescribed order.’
‘Oh. Right.’
The white circles began to flash again, one after the other.
And now Schofield began pressing them—just after they flashed.
‘Forty seconds . . .’
The white circles’ sequence became faster. Schofield’s hands began to move faster with them, touching the circles on the screen.
Then, abruptly, one of the red circles on the left side of the display illuminated.
Schofield wasn’t ready for it. But hit it anyway, and got it in time. The white circles resumed their sequence, now blinking very quickly. Schofield’s fingers increased their pace, too.
‘Thirty seconds . . . you’re doing well . . .’
Then another red circle flashed.
And this time Schofield was too slow.
The screen beeped angrily.
SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): FAILED DISARM ATTEMPT RECORDED.
THREE FAILED DISARM ATTEMPTS WILL RESULT IN DEFAULT DETONATION.
SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): RE-ACTIVATED.
‘Damn it!’ Schofield yelled, eyeing the grenade on the table beside him.
And the white circles began their blinking sequence for a third and final time.
‘Twenty-five seconds left . . .’
But this time Schofield was prepared, knowing what he had to do. His hands now moved fluidly across the screen, punching the white circles as they blinked, breaking left every so often as a red circle flashed.
‘Ten seconds, nine . . .’
The sequence became faster. The darting moves to the reds became more frequent—to the point, Schofield thought, where it became a test of his reflexes.
‘Eight, seven . . .’
His eyes stayed focused on the display. His fingers kept dancing. Sweat trickled into his eyes.
‘Six, five . . .’
The lights kept blinking: white-white-red-white-red-white.
‘Four, three . . .’
Bing—a message sprang up on the screen:
SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): SATISFIED.
THIRD PROTOCOL (CODE ENTRY): ACTIVE.
PLEASE ENTER AUTHORIZED DISARM CODE.
‘Two . . .’
Schofield typed ‘1-2-3-ENTER’ on the keypad. The numbers appeared on the smaller screen.
‘One . . .’
Bing.
THIRD PROTOCOL (CODE ENTRY): SATISFIED.
DEVICE DISA
Schofield exhaled, slumped back in his chair.
The door to the room opened. Lefevre entered, dove-clapping.
‘Oh, très bien! Très bien!’ he said. ‘Very good, Captain.’
Two burly French naval commandos covered Schofield on either side.
Lefevre smiled. ‘That was most impressive. Most impressive. Thank you, Captain. You’ve just reassured us of the verity of Majestic-12’s claims. Not to mention the merit of this disarm system. I’m sure the Republic of France will find many uses for it. It really is such a shame that we have to kill you now. Gentlemen, take Captain Schofield back up to the hangar and string him up with the other one.’
Schofield rose into the air, his legs and arms spread wide, star-like.
He stood on the forward lifting prongs of a forklift, one foot on each horizontal prong, while his wrists were handcuffed to the vehicle’s vertical steel runners.
The forklift was parked in a corner of the Richelieu’s deserted main hangar bay, behind the exhausts of several Rafale fighter jets. Seated in a semi-circle in front of it were the three French military officers and the DGSE agent, Lefevre.
‘Bring in the British spy,’ Lefevre said to one of Schofield’s guards.
The guard hit a button on the wall nearby and the steel wall beside Schofield suddenly began to rise—it was in fact a door, a great fighter-sized steel door—revealing darkness beyond it.
Out from the darkness came a second forklift, on which stood another captured individual, crucified in the same manner as Schofield.
There was only one difference.
The man on this second forklift had been thoroughly tortured. His face, his shirt, his arms—they were all covered with blood. His head hung limply over his chest.
Lefevre said, ‘Captain Schofield, I’m not sure if you have met Agent Alec Christie of British Intelligence.’
Christie. From MI-6. And the bounty list.
So this was where Christie had got to.
‘Over the last two days, Mr Christie has been a fountain of information for us regarding Majestic-12,’ Lefevre said. ‘It seems that for the last eighteen months, he has been well placed in Loch-Mann Industries as a personal bodyguard to Mr Randolph Loch, the Chairman of M-12. But while Mr Christie was watching Loch, we were watching Christie.
‘However, in one of his more lucid moments last night, Mr Christie told us something of concern. He stated that Randolph Loch has been most displeased of late with one of the younger members of M-12, our friend Jonathan Killian.
‘According to Mr Christie, Randolph Loch commented several times that Killian was quote, “pestering him with this follow-up idea”. It appears that Mr Killian does not think Majestic-12’s plan goes far enough. In light of your own investigations, Captain Schofield, do you know anything about this “follow-up idea”?’
Schofield said, ‘Killian’s your friend. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘The Republic of France does not have friends.’
‘I can see why.’
‘We have useful acquaintances,’ Lefevre said. ‘But sometimes, one must watch one’s acquaintances as closely as one’s enemies.’
‘You don’t trust him,’ Schofield said.
‘Not an inch.’
‘But you give him protection, sanctuary.’
‘For as long as it suits us. It may no longer suit us.’
Schofield said, ‘But now you’re worried he’s playing you.’
‘Yes.’
Schofield thought about that for a moment.
Then he said, ‘One of M-12’s Chameleon missiles is aimed at Paris.’
‘Oh, please. We know that. We are prepared for that. That is the very idea behind my country’s involvement with Majestic-12. That was why we provided them with the bodies of the Global Jihad terrorists. For while America, Germany and Britain suffer catastrophic losses, France will be seen as the only Western nation to have defeated this threat.
‘Where New York, Berlin and London will be lost, Paris will stand tall. France will be the only nation to have successfully shot down one of these terrible terrorist missiles.
‘It took America three whole months to retaliate for September 11. Imagine how shell-shocked they will be when they lose five entire cities. But France, France will be the nation who beat off these heinous attacks. The only Western nation who moved fast enough. It will make us—strong and capable and completely unhurt—the world’s leader in this new Cold War period.
‘Captain Schofield, our friends in Majestic-12 want money out of all of this, because for them money is power. The Republic of France does not want that kind of power—we want something far more important than that. We want a global power shift. We want to lead the world.
‘The 20th century was the American century. A sad bankrupt time in the history of this planet. The 21st century will be the French century.’
Schofield just stared at Lefevre and the generals.
‘You guys are really messed up, you know that,’ he said.
Lefevre pulled some photos out of his briefcase, showed them to the elevated Schofield.
‘Back to Killian. These are photos of Monsieur Killian during his tour of Africa last year.’
Schofield saw standard newspaper pics: Killian standing with African leaders, opening factories, waving to crowds.
‘A goodwill tour to promote his charitable activities,’ Lefevre said. ‘During that tour, however, Killian attended meetings with the leaders and defence ministers of several strategically significant African nations: notably Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya.’
‘Yes . . .’ Schofield said expectantly.
Lefevre paused, delivered the punch. ‘Over the last eleven hours, the Air Forces of Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad and Angola have all scrambled, with over two hundred fighter planes converging on airfields in eastern Libya. Now, taken individually, these air forces are relatively small. Taken together, however, they make up a veritable aerial armada. My final question for you, Captain, is what are they doing?’
Schofield’s mind raced.
‘Captain Schofield?’
But Schofield wasn’t listening. He could only hear Jonathan Killian’s voice in his head, saying: ‘Although many don’t know it, the future of the world lies in Africa.’
Africa . . .
‘Captain Schofield?’ Lefevre said.
Schofield blinked. Came back.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘I wish I did, but I honestly don’t.’
‘Hmmm,’ Lefevre said. ‘That is exactly what Mr Christie said, too. Which might mean you are both speaking the truth. Of course, it might also mean that you need some more persuasion.’
Lefevre nodded to the driver of Christie’s forklift.
The driver fired up the engine and drove the vehicle a few yards to the left, so that Christie—raised up on the forklift’s prongs—was positioned right behind the thrusters of a nearby Rafale fighter jet. The driver then quickly jumped out of his seat and ran away.
A moment later, Schofield saw why.
ROOOOAAAARRRRR!
The fighter’s engines rumbled to life. Schofield saw another French soldier standing in its cockpit.
The battered and ragged Alec Christie looked up at the sound of the colossal noise, and found himself staring into the yawning rear thruster of the Rafale fighter. He didn’t seem to care. He was too beaten, too weary to bother straining at his bonds.
Lefevre nodded to the man in the cockpit.
The man hit the plane’s thrust controls.
Instantly, a shocking tongue of white-hot fire blasted out from the rear thruster of the Rafale, engulfing the immobile Christie.
The heat-blast battered the British agent’s body like a wind-fan—the piping-hot air blasted his hair backwards, ripped the skin off his face, burned his clothes in a nanosecond—until ultimately it tore his body to pieces.
Then, abruptly, the burst stopped and the hangar was silent again.
<
‘This is very bad,’ Schofield swallowed.
Lefevre turned to him. ‘Does that refresh your memory at all?’
‘I’m telling you, I don’t know,’ Schofield said. ‘I don’t know about Killian or the African countries, or if they have anything in common. This is the first I’ve heard of them.’
‘Then I am afraid we have no further need for you,’ Lefevre said. ‘It is now time for the Admiral and the General to have their wish and watch you die.’
And with that, Lefevre nodded to Schofield’s forklift driver. Schofield’s vehicle moved forward, stopping alongside Christie’s charred forklift, in front of the Rafale’s second rear thruster.
Schofield gazed into the dark depths of the thruster.
‘General?’ Lefevre said to the old Army officer, the man who had lost an entire paratrooper unit to Schofield in Antarctica. ‘Would you like to do the honours?’
‘With pleasure.’
The General stood up from his chair, and climbed up into the Rafale’s cockpit, glaring at Schofield all the way.
He leaned into the cockpit, reached for the flight stick, his thumb hovering over the ‘AFTERBURN’ switch.
‘Good-bye, Captain Schofield,’ Lefevre said matter-of-factly. ‘World history will have to continue without you. Au revoir.’
The General’s thumb came down on the ‘BURN’ switch.
Just as a gigantic explosion boomed out from somewhere above the main hangar.
Klaxons sounded.
Warning lights flashed to life.
And the entire aircraft carrier was suddenly awash with the red lighting of an emergency.
The General’s thumb had frozen a millimetre above the burn switch.
An ensign ran up to the Navy Admiral. ‘Sir! We’re under attack!’
‘What?’ the Admiral yelled. ‘By whom!’
‘It looks like a Russian fighter, sir.’
‘A Russian fighter? One Russian fighter! This is an aircraft carrier, for God’s sake! Who in their right mind would attack an aircraft carrier with a single plane?’