He retrieved the roadmap from the glove box and glanced at his chosen route — the direct route to Paris would be using the main A16 toll road. However, at that time of night and in that area of France, he’d be one of the only vehicles on the road. They were already looking for him off the Le Touquet coast, which meant there was every chance they may also check the roads, especially the main road.
Nick took the back roads option and began the long drive to Paris. It was in contrast to the race he had undertaken three months earlier to place the car without being missed. Catching an earlier Eurostar service between Paris and London, he had hopped off at Calais and purchased the Clio for cash before driving it back down to Merlimont Plage and leaving it there. He’d then jogged the few miles back to Le Touquet, took a taxi back to Calais to catch the next Eurostar train, and arrived in London at the time he had arranged to meet his colleagues from DIA. With all purchases in cash and no time unaccounted for, nobody had been any the wiser.
The dark and empty roads allowed perfect thinking time for Nick. His meticulous planning and preparation had finally come to fruition. The adrenaline was pumping through his body. Although just over a year, it felt so much longer since that fateful day in Afghanistan.
Memories had been triggered as he watched the scene unfold before him. Young children played carefree while their mothers prepared the evening meal, chatting and joking as they watched over the young ones. A few shouts echoed across the hillside as warnings were issued to keep the children away from harm.
All the time constant updates were being fed into Nick’s ear. His hilltop vantage point was one of many spread across the Kunar province, one of the main smuggling routes between Afghanistan and Pakistan. His job was to spot drugs leaving and munitions entering, and call in air strikes when necessary. Over the previous ten years, between his time in the Rangers, Delta Force and the Defense Clandestine Service, he had spent nearly six years in the region and had witnessed more than any man ever should. The sight of the children playing so innocently filled him with hope that one day it may finally be over.
With the sun hanging low in the sky and evening approaching, the families began to gather around a fire that had been prepared. It seemed a celebration was under way. The village was nothing more than a few ramshackle buildings built around a small communal area at its center. Nick watched the celebrations commence. They were for a wedding. His headset burst to life, his call sign was followed by a notification that a drone strike was inbound.
Nick requested the details of the strike. He was informed that information had come to light of a gathering of senior Al Qaeda and Taliban leaders at the village. After confirming the wedding that was taking place contained the villagers and that no visitors had arrived over the previous few days under his watch, he requested the strike be cancelled. The request was denied.
Nick broke cover and ran as fast as his legs would carry him across the rocky terrain. With literally seconds to spare, he cleared the village and saved the fifty innocents that would have been slaughtered. Caught in the blast, he suffered a concussion and woke up the following day in a camp surrounded by the fighters he had spent the last six years hunting.
Nick Geller couldn’t have been happier.
Chapter 19
Carson held the door for Frankie as they arrived back at the NCTC. The activity level had increased above the already hectic pace from when they had left. Frankie headed straight for Turner’s office, Carson following close behind. Frankie’s meeting with the President had given her a newfound energy. The toxic feeling that had plagued her all day was brushed aside by the one man whose opinion truly counted.
Turner barely acknowledged their presence as he pored over a map with a group of agents.
“Did you get the black box?” asked Carson, looking at the large scale map of Northern France and Southern England.
“No,” said Turner, “but we think we may not need it. Lieutenant, can you explain?” he asked, turning his attention back to the map.
A fresh faced young man stood upright and turned to face Carson and Frankie. “It’s quite simple really, they couldn’t open the door at high altitude as they’d have to depressurize the cabin, killing everyone inside. Therefore, the only opportunity to leave the plane was at any point they dipped below the point at which the cabin pressure was equal or above that of their surroundings. The aircraft was a Gulfstream G650 which maintains cabin pressure at an altitude equivalent to between 2,850 feet and 4,850 feet, depending on the altitude of the plane. So for example, if they were flying at anything up to 41,000 feet, the cabin pressure inside the plane would be maintained at 2,850 feet which is very low. Most commercial planes have the pressure in the cabin at the equivalent of about 8,000 feet. The lower the pressure, the more comfortable the ride.”
“Okay,” nodded Frankie, following the logic.
“So we have tracked the plane’s route and the only point at which they flew below this level was as they approached Le Touquet.”
“Or just after takeoff?” suggested Carson.
“Well, yes, technically,” replied the Lieutenant awkwardly.
“But that makes no sense,” smiled Carson, patting the lieutenant on the back. “It’s good work, Lieutenant, very good work.”
“So what’s the area?” asked Carson, pushing into the group to get a clear view of the map.
Turner pointed towards a large oval drawn over the English Channel, stretching from twenty miles out to sea to three miles from the coast.
“We’re concentrating efforts at the last point before the F-15s had them in sight,” he said, pointing to three miles from shoreline. “From their reports, there was no way anything fell or left the aircraft once they were on scene. From that, we guess he could still be swimming ashore or already in this area,” he added, circling the area around Le Touquet. “We have the French covering this whole area and we’re sending every asset we can get our hands on to assist.”
“That seems like a very premature descent,” said Carson, tracking the oval out to the twenty miles off shore point.
“It’s exceptionally early,” confirmed the Lieutenant.
“Almost like it was planned?” suggested Carson.
Turner looked up from the map. “What, are you saying he jumped twenty miles from shore?”
“It’s one of the busiest waterways in the world with many large vessels that a competent parachutist could easily land on.”
Turner looked at the lieutenant. Up until Carson’s arrival, he had been his aviation specialist. The lieutenant nodded that it was possible. “It would explain the very early descent towards Le Touquet.”
Turner shook his head in despair. Every time he thought he was gaining some ground, it was lost. “We’re going to need a lot more resources,” he said, turning to Carson.
Carson nodded his head and took out his cell. He had contacts in the British and French navies that he knew would be more than happy to assist.
As the net expanded across the entire English Channel, Turner realized once again that Nick may have slipped through their fingers. “Frankie, are you okay to talk now?”
Frankie nodded.
Turner led her through to the adjacent room where a team of suited agents were working. The walls were covered in just about everything they knew of Nick Geller. Photos of his childhood were pinned to the wall next to photos of Nick with Frankie.