The rain and sleet fell with increased ferocity.
The waters of one of the world’s largest natural harbours churned, rain turning waves into prancing stallions.
Against the sky sat an inky blot that expanded and separated as the four helicopters loosened their formation.
“Okay, people. Let’s do this thing.” Came the crackle of Dillon’s voice over the comm link.
As one, the four heavily armed helicopters advanced on the stealth ship, the Apache and the three JetRanger’s stayed low, flying past the luxury Haven Hotel and multi-million pound prestigious mansions on the Sandbanks Peninsula as they entered the vast natural harbour. The men and woman aboard these high-tech machines were all armed with Heckler & Koch machine carbines and bombs, waiting to fight, waiting for what was surely to come.
In the lead JetRanger sat the Priest. His eyes flashed with fire behind the night-vision visor he was wearing. He pointed; he pointed at the catamaran, where a number of sliding panels on the black deck had been retracted to reveal heavy calibre machine cannons located on laser guided turntables. Two small black single-seater helicopters lifted from the lower stern deck, rotors screaming through the rain, guns and missiles armed and ready…
“Here we go,” Dillon spoke softly, sliding the Glock’s safety off. At the same time, Alix armed the Apache’s weapons systems in a splash of coloured lights and flickering data streams on the monitors in front of them. Alarms started to sound all around them and through their headsets as, on the deck of the catamaran, one of the guns rotated smoothly, its laser guided sight locked onto its target. The large calibre barrels lifted, their angle of ascent adjusted; then came the massive concussive boom and the turret recoiled.
One of the advancing JetRangers was plucked from the sky and turned into a fireball of orange and yellow against the black sky, a ball of bright iridescence before it smashed down into the sea, rotors spinning screaming splashing into the churning waters where the blackened burnt out carcass disappeared swiftly below the waves.
From high above, one of the catamaran’s single-seater helicopters came swooping from out of the low cloud and rain, its machine guns hammering.
The Apache returned fire and the dark sky was suddenly filled with a stream of tracer rounds.
Alix fired off two air-to-air missiles and allowed the Apache to gain altitude, rotors scything, while Vince was in the back, constantly making adjustments to the helicopter’s weapon’s systems. The Apache suddenly veered to the right as Alix reacted to the alarm screaming at him, the black single-seater helicopter only just missed them as it shot past at bullet speed… He allowed the Apache to drop — away and downtowards the suddenly looming deck of the stealth ship: Ramus’ mobile control centre…
Above them, both remaining JetRangers were engaged in aerial acrobatics with the black single-seater, bullets crackled across the storm filled sky.
And the heavens were painted crimson.
The command-room was devoid of any fitments, walls like a blank canvas, except for the three meter by four meter projection screen suspended at one end. A flickering glow from the myriad of screens within screens held; images, encrypted/decoded text, binary code and live news-feeds from around the world.
This was a control-centre built to withstand the heaviest of blasts, and designed so that this independent module could become detached from the main catamaran should the need arise. A selfpropelled deep sea submersible.
Ramus stood in the centre of the darkened space, the flat tablet computer cradled in his left arm, long fingers tapped the virtual keyboard and hooded eyes stared into the void. His hand moved slowly, a sliver of ice down the spine of planet Earth… And then he gently pressed RETURN.
Nothing…
And then a quiet hum filled the command deck. The giant flatscreen monitor dimmed momentarily, as if bowing before some electronic divine being, and then brightened into life once more.
Script — Chimera script — sped across the display. Then, all of the screens disappeared and a virtual globe sprang into existence, a spinning manifestation of the earth. The tablet in Ramus’ hand produced the virtual globe as a full Technicolor multi-dimensional hologram. He lifted his free hand and held it palm down over the spinning ball, a multi-coloured light that illuminated and deformed Ramus’ facial features.
Ramus laughed a cold and sinister sound.
He reached out and pointed; the virtual globe spun, located its target, and zoomed in through layers of sparkling light to highlight Poole harbour. Ramus pulled back from this location; he typed in the coordinates of the central security services mainframe and smiled malevolently.
“So you come to destroy me, Mr Dillon. Like a lamb to the slaughter?”
He rapidly typed in the command sequence.
The stealth ship hummed from the heart of its massive mainframe. The black terminal that was now playing 1st host to the Chimera Virus Programme…
Chimera script locked on:
Initiation sequence engaged = threat = British Security Services threat found = co-ords determined
Launch sequence armed = missile countdown set
Satellite request = granted = 40 hacked and armed
Chimera adaptive script = control logged = override all existing controllers.
Chapter 24
The waves crashed and churned against the twin hulls of the stealth ship as it cut through the choppy waters of the natural harbour. Missiles detonated. There was a deafening roar of high-explosives from the catamaran’s deck; the whole structure shuddered; one of the JetRangers released three air-to-air missiles that intercepted and destroyed the threat, smashed, burning insanely from the sky to die, extinguished in the waves. Guns roared, spitting and kicking across metal and flesh.
In amidst the furore Alix placed the Apache into a hover just twenty foot above the waves, and handed over the control of the helicopter to Vince Sharp.
Moments later, two figures wearing black wet-suits dropped into the water. Both were heavily armed and equipped with the latest power-fins that allowed them to swim the distance to the catamaran, effortlessly. Alix had the rucksack containing the dirty-bomb strapped to his back.
The two men climbed aboard, they gave one another the thumbsup. Alix lifted his goggles for a second and stared into Dillon’s eyes. Both men grasped hands, and Alix said:
“So, let’s do this thing.”
“Good luck, Alix.”
“If I don’t make it back… Tell Lola I love her.”
Dillon laughed. “So touching coming from the king of all lady killers. And wasn’t that the title of that song?”
“Possibly! A favour — for me.”
“Of course. Anything for you, man,” said Dillon, smiling kindly. “Five minutes; then get the hell off this tub.”
“Five minutes, it is.” Said Dillon. He replaced his goggles and hoisted the Heckler & Koch MP6 machine carbine, glancing up at the fire-fight taking place in the sky above; at the turmoil of bullets and missiles and spinning rotors. Machine guns roared; the smell of cordite hanging heavy in the salt air. “Good luck, Dillon.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” said Dillon, grinning.
Alix checked the straps on the black rucksack, and then dropped backwards over the edge of the lower dive platform and was instantly swallowed by the churning black water.
Dillon sat for a moment, staring down at the few bubbles that reached the surface; then he concentrated on the task at hand, turned and looked up at the main structure of the catamaran, could feel the power emanating from its mainframe. Dillon nodded to himself.