State Of Attack

Crane noticed that the laughing had stopped, but it didn’t worry him. The intel had made it clear that the suspect could be armed, but unless he had a Gatling gun mounted on the windowsill, he didn’t stand a chance.

Once the team reached the end of the wall, they rushed forwards. The front man opened the gate and the team split apart, as they had rehearsed. Three headed for the front door, two covered the sides, while the remaining pair jogged to the rear.

Crane edged closer, positioning himself behind a parked sedan, within clear eyesight of the events that were unfolding.

Just as the ram man hit the door with the first strike, a chair crashed through the front window, clearly making everyone jittery. Shards of glass rained down on the grass. Then what looked like a grenade landed on the patio.

“Jesus,” Crane said.

Chapter 20 (#ulink_5814be4b-3df5-52ed-a605-f6367116aa0f)

The long-range CIA CASA 212 jet had stopped off to refuel in an RAF base on the east coast of England, en route to central Turkey. It had landed at Ankara Güvercinlik Army Air Base located in the Etimesgut district six miles west of Ankara, home to the 1st Army Aviation Regiment. Tom was onboard, together with the CIA operatives and medical team. He’d seen a squadron of S-70A helicopters and a couple of transport planes gleaming on the tarmac as the jet had touched down, with a couple of bumps that had made his stomach flip. He hated flying.

Still feeling nauseous, he and the team were met by a couple of intelligence officers from MIT, who said that the general had been moved from the Gülhane Military Medical Academy in Ankara for security reasons. He was now being cared for at a secret military hospital near the outskirts of the capital that catered exclusively for MIT operatives and the Turkish military injured in targeted terrorist attacks. It wasn’t a glass haven like the GMMA, they explained, but it had the best doctors and most up-to-date equipment in Turkey, and was, of course, secure.

A minivan with tinted windows and two black SUVs, front and rear, appeared from behind a shimmering hangar housing Beriev amphibious aircraft, and Tom and the others were on the move again, pleased to be out of the crippling heat.

Thirty minutes later, after driving past acres of young spinach fields and a small village with an ancient minaret, the vehicles took a left onto a dirt track. The track passed through an arid plain, a pair of crumbling ancient Roman pillars the only visible landmarks. The driver of the van began radio contact with someone, so Tom figured they were getting close to their destination.

With that a military checkpoint came into view. An M113 was parked at the roadside, a tracked armoured personnel carrier, with its hallmark M2 Browning machine gun mounted on the front, its operator replete with steel helmet and dust googles. Apart from the two crew, and the gunner, another ten infantrymen were manning the checkpoint around a pole resting on two oil drums. Given the presence of the APC, Tom figured it was more symbolic than functional. But the convoy didn’t stop; the pole was removed and they were simply waved on.

As the minivan passed the soldiers, Tom noticed that one held a Dragunov sniper rifle, the others standard-issue M16A4 assault rifles.

“They all look young,” he said.

“Turkey’s still got the draft,” a guy called Gabriel said, sitting across from Tom.

Here, he was the lead CIA paramilitary operations officer of the agency’s National Clandestine Service, a Texan with an immaculate dark beard, close-cropped hair and shoulders as wide as a steer’s. Given the complexion of his skin and chestnut-coloured eyes, he could pass for a Turk.

“That so?” Tom said.

“Should bring it back stateside, you ask me,” another operative said.

That’s bullshit, Tom thought. The last thing the US military needed was a bunch of kids who didn’t want to be there. He didn’t like the idea of the hospital’s security being left to draftees, either.

Looking at the world outside now, muted by the blacked-out glass, Tom saw a small unmanned military vehicle dip down parallel to the van about thirty yards away.

“A Bayraktar UAV, “Gabriel said. He had Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle fitted with an EOTech day sight and camouflaged in desert-tan, barrel upright between his heavy thighs. “They can hand launch them same as a kid does a balsa-wood glider. It’s made of carbon fibre and Kevlar, in case you were wondering.”

From a distance, Tom thought that it did look like a kid’s glider, although in fact it had a wingspan of two yards. “What’s it driven by?” he asked Gabriel.

“An electric motor powered by battery. But don’t be fooled. It’s cute. Got a unique parachute system so it can land on a mountain top, no problem. Payload’s cute, too. Thermal imaging camera at night. Flown through an autopilot system equipped with advanced software algorithms. Reliable recon, which is exactly what the little bird is doing right now.”

The other operatives called Gabriel the Professor. After the lecture, Tom understood why. But it made him feel better about the level of security the Turks had put in place for the hospital. That and the fact that the van passed another two makeshift checkpoints manned by heavily-armed Turkish Marines, resilient and seasoned, by the looks of them.

Ten minutes later, Tom saw the checkpoint at the entrance to the hospital. There was a barrier painted a staggered red and white like a barber’s pole, a concrete pillbox to the left, a small sentry building to the right, with barred windows. Two guards were standing either side of the barrier, wearing white helmets. They had Belgium bullpup-designed FN P60 submachine guns slung over their shoulders and calf-high gaiters.

There was a twelve-foot-high fence surrounding the hospital complex, topped with concertina razor wire, and metal security bollards set at three-foot intervals before it. A couple of Cobra military attack helicopters, and the Turkish TOROS artillery rocket systems in disposable launcher pods, together with three more APCs, added muscle to the defence of the isolated hospital. What else was here, was anyone’s guess, Tom thought. But it was impressive enough as it was.

After the lead SUV had stopped for about thirty seconds at the barrier in front, the minivan pulled away a sedate pace. The buildings beyond were mostly single-storey, Tom noticed, punctuated by square lawns, the grass being kept green beneath the baking sun by sprinkler systems.

The vehicles followed a tarmac road that cut through the middle of the complex, other roads branching off at ninety-degree angles, the complex having a grid design. Nurses pushed men in wheelchairs, the odd doctor walked by in a white lab coat. Here, the only sign that this was a military hospital were the occasional Jeep Wranglers and military policemen, the Askeri İnzibat, with their white belts and red armbands.

The little convoy stopped outside a whitewashed building, with slatted blinds at the windows, and a shrub garden either side of the paved walkway.

“I’ll take a minute with my father, okay with you guys?” Tom said.

Some nodded. Gabriel said, “Sure thing.”

The minivan had AC, but when Tom stepped out into the dry late afternoon heat it hit the back of his throat as he inhaled and seemed to burn like acrid smoke. He thought he caught a whiff of chloroform above the scent of lavender coming from the shrubberies and ducked to avoid a huge hornet, black as hell, that buzzed by.

“That’s their latest high-spec UAV,” Gabriel said, walking behind Tom with the medics and paramilitaries.

A couple of the guys snickered and Tom guessed he was just trying to lighten the mood. The heavy glass fire doors were opened by a man who Tom took for an orderly and, as he placed his feet on pale-blue tiles, he immediately felt the cool air on his skin.

Let him be okay, he thought. Let my father live.

Chapter 21 (#ulink_66353749-3c6c-5f09-935e-a58a9ab0611d)

When the grenade had landed the three front FBI men had flung themselves to the ground and had called out warnings to their unseen buddies. The two that had shields had used them to cover their heads, even though they were wearing standard-issue protective Kevlar helmets.

But no explosion occurred.

Three seconds later, a lanky black man in his late twenties opened the door and raced out, barefoot. He was dressed only in a pair of tight, ripped jeans. He had a machete in his hand and looked wide-eyed and crazy. Stoned, Crane guessed.

The FBI men got up. An agent with a pump shotgun shouted at the black man to drop the weapon, to get down on the ground. But he only shouted back in a foreign language that Crane recognized. He drew the machete back behind his shoulder, as if he was about to hurl it at the agent with the pump.

The dumb sonofabitch, Crane thought. But before he could intervene the blast from the shotgun hit the man in the chest and lifted him off his feet. He landed with a thud on the grass. The other two SWAT men had already entered the front of the house and Crane heard shouting and screaming. He ran forwards, his Kimber Eclipse II in hand, with its five-inch barrel and iron dovetail sights.

As soon as he got to the black man, he could tell he was close to death. He was gasping for air like a fish on a line. The wound to his chest was awful. The pellets had imbedded themselves in such a manner that the skin looked diced. Like hamburger meat. He heard him mumbling. His few words were indecipherable. Tears rolled from his wide eyes. Then he was just staring into space, and Crane knew he’d just died.

“A mad crack addict,” the SWAT man said, coming up to Crane’s shoulder. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Crane turned on him. “That blade would’ve bounced off ya ballistic vest like a rubber ball off a wall,” he said, shaking his head.

The FBI guy looked dumbfounded.

Crane walked over to the missile that had been tossed from the broken window after the chair. He knelt down and examined it, without touching it. It was a black paperweight, designed to look like a grenade. Hearing a commotion, he looked up. Two black women of similar ages to the deceased were being led from the bungalow. They were heavily made-up and wore pink bikinis and multicoloured headscarves. They were shouting and struggling. The SWAT guys had cuffed them and were gently pushing them forwards, despite the tirade. When they saw the dead man, they began to wail.

Then a second back male appeared. He had a beard and out-of-control hair, and looked about thirty-five. He was barefoot, like all the others, but he was wearing a pair of combat pants, a red silk shirt, a ton of gold chains and a gangster cap. He’d been cuffed, too.

Crane saw the unit chief speak to one of the agents before walking over the grass towards him. He was a tall man, perhaps six-three, with an elongated neck, pallid skin, and wiry gray hair, a pair of thick black-rimmed eyeglasses perched halfway down his hooked nose.

“That’s the Somali,” he said, thumbing over his back in the opposite direction to the stiff.

Crane felt like whooping, but just walked past the man to where the FBI were now frogmarching the Somali down the path, each limb tucked under a hefty arm. Crane held up his splayed hand at he got to them. “Stand him up,” he said, taking a cigar from his breast pocket.

One of the FBI men looked over to the unit chief. As Crane lit up, he glanced over, too, seeing the man nodding. The Somali was manoeuvred upright, as if he was a plastic drinking bird.