Revolution (27 page)

‘You were there and you were part of their force. Either identify yourself or face the consequences.’

‘I am Megan Mitchell and I work for GNN Ltd in London. I am not a Mordanian soldier, I’m bloody English for god’s sake.’

‘Which could make you a mercenary,’ Rameron pointed out, ‘a soldier for hire.’

‘I am not a soldier nor a..,’

Another blow, this time from the left, sent a blade of white pain searing across Megan’s retina. The nausea returned and Megan jerked awkwardly as she splattered a bolus of vomit onto the carpet between her boots. She coughed and wretched, spat the burning mucus from her mouth as she tried to regain her vision, listening to Rameron’s voice.

‘Outside, I have seventy–four men who were not injured by your attack who will smile and sing songs as they rip you limb from limb, Megan, so we are going to need some answers right now.’

Megan’s fury vented itself from somewhere beneath her fear.

‘I just told you who we are and what we’re doing! We’re press working out of Thessalia for GNN Ltd and we’re..,’

The third punch slammed like a sledgehammer across Megan’s face, snapping her head back and spilling blood into her mouth. The front of her face went numb as pain shot back and forth through her head like a live current. This time she cried out, releasing her fear in sobs of pain as she hung her head, feeling the blood dripping from her lips in scarlet globules and strings. She barely heard her own tortured whisper.

‘We were looking for someone.’

General Rameron waved at the rebel soldier, who backed away from Megan.

‘Who?’ he demanded quietly.

Megan fought both for breath and to remain conscious.

‘Amy O’Hara,’ she whispered. ‘She was press too, an American. She disappeared from somewhere around Talyn several weeks ago. We were looking for her.’

Rameron regarded without mercy Megan’s crumpled, bloodied form.

‘Why would you come into a war–zone to look for her?’

From somewhere, Megan found the strength to unsteadily lift her head, her vision wavering as she tried to focus on Rameron. She thought of Amy and what this man might have put her through, and her anger stirred again within her.

‘Because I owe it to her,’ she spat, ‘something that you wouldn’t understand, you twisted fucking lunatic.’

Chekov raised his fist, but Rameron belayed him with a tiny gesture.

‘If you are press,’ the general said, ‘then you can do something for me and end this all right now. Tell me exactly where Martin Sigby is. I want to know where he is staying and how I can find him. Tell me, and I will release you and your friends.’

Megan looked up at the general in confusion for a moment, and then the penny dropped.

‘So that you can force him to report in your favour, general?’ she asked. ‘So that you can threaten him with torture until he does what you want?’ Megan took a breath and spat blood at Rameron. ‘Not a chance. I’ll not trade places with anyone so that you can do this to them.’

Rameron nodded slowly, thoughtfully, before looking at Chekov.

‘Take her downstairs and bring me the other one, the translator. He’ll be much easier to break.’

Megan glared at Rameron as she was suddenly hauled out of her chair.

‘Leave him alone! He doesn’t know anything about Martin Sigby!’

General Rameron ignored Megan’s shouts, turning his back on her and walking away through his operations room.

***

Martin Sigby sat in his hotel room and watched the dull grey Mordanian sky grow darker as somewhere in the west the sun set behind the towering mountains. His laptop chortled with live–feeds from several news networks being streamed through the satellite dish on the roof of the Thessalia Hilton.

The snow had stopped outside, a minor mercy in this freezing and God–forsaken land. He knew that people were dying in the refugee camps from hypothermia, from exposure and from the first grotesque stirrings of dysentery that was breaking out in isolated pockets across the camps despite the best efforts of the humanitarian groups.

Martin looked at his watch. In ten minutes he had to be broadcasting live from the rooftop with more tales of woe. A small, tight ball of self loathing writhed deep in his stomach. He turned, looking again at the page that he had printed from his internet connection after accessing his personal bank account. A sizeable deposit had been made via international wire–transfer in Euros, with all deductions properly made, everything legal and above board.

Martin sighed, unable to loosen the ball in his stomach.

‘We’re on in ten.’

Martin’s cameraman, Robert, poked his head around the door. His expression was one of concern. ‘Are you okay?’

Martin looked again at the darkening clouds outside and shivered.

‘Why are we here?’ he asked distantly.

Robert stood in silence for a moment before replying. ‘Because people need us to be here.’

‘Who?’ Sigby asked.

Robert walked into the room and stood beside the window, looked out into the bitter darkness at the few remaining street lights still glowing in Thessalia’s snow filled streets.

‘Them,’ he said quietly. ‘The people of this city, of this country, and the people of a hundred other countries suffering injustice beneath dictatorships. There are seven billion people on this planet, and every one of them relies upon people like us to let them know what’s going on in their world.’ Richard turned from the window. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

‘Free press,’ Sigby whispered, and shook his head. ‘What’s free about it?’

‘Your right to exercise it,’ Robert replied adamantly, jabbing a thumb out of the window. ‘And their right to receive it. Without it, our way of life is hopeless. We’d be going backwards.’

‘Maybe we are.’

‘What’s this about?’ Robert demanded.

Sigby sighed, and smiled bleakly up at his cameraman.

‘Let’s just say there’s a conflict of interests between myself,’ he said, gesturing to the window, ‘and them.’

Robert did not reply for a long beat, glancing at the sheet of paper in Sigby’s hand before speaking softly as he turned and walked from the room.

‘It sounds like the only conflict you have is with yourself. We’re on in five.’

Martin Sigby watched his cameraman vanish from the room and sat in silence. He looked at the satellite phone beside his laptop computer, thinking deeply. Quietly, and without ceremony, he closed his eyes and crushed the bank statement in his hand into a small ball, tossed it into a waste paper basket in one corner of the room.

The painful, acidic knot in his stomach eased slightly.

He stood up, walked across to the phone and picked it up, dialling a number from memory and waiting for the other line to pick up.

‘UN attache’s office, how may I help?’

‘Martin Sigby, GNN UK Ltd. I need a line out to the Chandler and Morris Bank, London.’

‘Do you have the number sir?’

Sigby passed on the number and the girl connected her to a cheerful sounding assistant more than a thousand miles away in London. Martin Sigby’s voice was somewhat strained as he spoke.

‘Hello, yes. I believe that there has been an error. Monies have been paid into my account that do not belong to me and I would like to see the transaction reversed.’

Martin waited until the girl had completed his request to his satisfaction, then he rang off and dialled another international number. Moments later a familiar voice answered.

‘Harrison Forbes, GNN Ltd.’

‘Harry, it’s Martin.’

‘Ah, the boy wonder!’
Harrison said delightedly, making Martin smile.
‘And what may I do for you?’

‘I need some details from you, that may need some digging.’

‘That may be difficult,’
Forbes said quietly. ‘
GNN’s onto your case and I nearly lost my damned job over everything that’ been happening.’

‘Why?’ Sigby asked in surprise.

‘I don’t know, but there’s been something going on ever since Megan Mitchell began filtering reels out of Mordania. Watch your back, Martin. What do you need exactly?’

‘I need absolutely everything that you can get on a supply company named Elstrom, a man named Petra Milankovich and a woman named Amy O’Hara
.
’

‘Milankovich? You have your doubts about the official line on the massacre story?’

‘Let’s just say that I’m not quite ready to let it go yet. There’s something behind all of this and it’s worth following.’

‘Consider it done,’
Harrison said, and rang off.

Martin Sigby set the phone down and wondered briefly if what he was doing was noble or just sheer madness. He pressed the Menu button on his phone and read back through the calls list until he found the one he was looking for, one that Megan had dialled days before. He dialled, waiting patiently until the line picked up.

‘
Frank Amonte.’

‘Mister Amonte, Martin Sigby, GNN. Sir, I am calling on behalf of Megan Mitchell and I need your help.’

*

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,

Washington DC, USA

‘You’re live in sixty seconds, Mister President.’

President Baker sat down behind the broad, highly polished desk in front of the American Eagle and its flanking Stars and Stripes flags. He adjusted his tie, more for something to do than because it was loose.

‘You’re absolutely sure about this?’ Vice President Hobbs asked.

President Baker nodded once, curtly, his expression slightly strained.

‘I don’t see any choice. Do you?’

Hobbs shook his head, stepping out of shot as an aide began counting down from ten, and the Oval office went silent as President Baker put on his most serious expression, an air of quiet determination enveloping him as he began to speak.

‘Fellow Americans, I speak to you this evening after a series of unexpected events that have overtaken our country almost, it seems, before we could react. I have little doubt that few of you are unaware that, yesterday afternoon, American forces in the Black Sea were subjected to an unprovoked act of war. They defended themselves with the vigour and spirit we expect of them, shooting down two warplanes of the Mordanian Air Force commandeered by the rebel general Mikhail Rameron.’

President Baker hesitated for a moment.

‘It will come as no surprise that this act of war against the United States of America must take precedent over the policies with which I came to be sitting here today. An act of aggression against the American people cannot be seen to go unpunished, for we know and have always known that our enemies will only be emboldened by such irresolution. We did not begin this conflict. We were not a part of this conflict. But we have been brought into this conflict by the actions of a man who would rather see a world in flames than a world at peace. It is both our right as a country and our place as a world leader to ensure that such aggression cannot be allowed to spread. Tonight, in the name of freedom and in the protection of a democracy under threat, I will commit the armed forces of our country to theatre in the defence of the oppressed. As of now, my fellow Americans, our country is once again at war. Thank you and good night.’

***

USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN–71)

Black Sea

‘Cap’n on the deck!’

Admiral James Fry walked onto the bridge of the huge aircraft carrier, moved to the port windows and looked down over the flight deck. Two Hornets were waiting on the forward catapults as a third sailed down onto the runway, wings quivering and undercarriage straining as the fighter was brought to an abrupt halt by the arrestor cables.

‘Ex–O, status report.’

The Executive Officer glanced briefly at the flight–board.

‘All CAP’s airborne, everything quiet at the moment. The alert flight’s on the
cats
ready to go if we need them. Personally, I was about to recommend that they stand down for now.’

The admiral nodded thoughtfully before responding.

‘Agreed. Any word from Washington?’

‘Not yet sir. The president’s still debating with the Chiefs of Staff over the precise course of action, but at least it’s official now – we’re at war.’

‘This’ll be over by the time the pen–pushers and bean–counters have wrangled their way to an agreement about who stands to make the most money out of another conflict.’

The XO smiled but did not respond. A junior officer came up onto the bridge and approached the admiral.

‘Sir, Lieutenant Millard to see you, sir!’

The admiral nodded as Heather ‘
Miller’
Milllard walked onto the bridge. She was dressed in her flight suit but without the regalia of G–suit, hoses and cables used to plug the pilots into their fighters. She was young, just twenty six, her blonde hair pulled back in a pony–tail, sharp blue eyes noticing everything. Most of the kids on the ship were less than twenty which made her an “old hand”.

‘Lieutenant.’

‘Admiral,’ Heather replied with a salute. ‘Sir, regarding the debrief on the engagement.’

‘I know it’s on your mind, Miller, just relax. You did everything by the book. The navy’s not going to take a bat to your ass for anything while I have a say.’

‘Thank you sir,’ Miller said with an awkward smile. ‘But I was here for something else regarding the engagement.’

Admiral Fry looked at the young fighter pilot for a moment. ‘Go on.’

‘Sir, there was something odd about the way the planes were flying.’

‘Odd?’ Admiral Fry echoed her.

‘Yes sir. I can’t put my finger on it sir, but the way they attempted evasion just doesn’t jive with their earlier aggression in opening fire.’

Admiral Fry glanced around the bridge, noting the attentive gazes of personnel who had no purpose being attentive to anything but their jobs. The admiral guided Heather across to a quieter corner of the bridge and whispered to her sternly.

‘Lieutenant, your engagement with the Mordanian fighters was an international incident, an act of war against our country that will result in a major mobilisation of our forces. Are you telling me that you have doubts about your debrief?’