The Keepers of the Persian Gate (19 page)

Paddy then removed the now unconscious combatant’s balaclava. He looked Arab, perhaps Pakistani. McGregor did the same, and to his surprise, the other man was also Arab. This was unexpected, they had assumed that the attacking force would be MI5 and mostly white.

Following their encounter with the enemy, Paddy and McGregor quickly moved into the surrounding fields towards the airfield. It was a straight run across quite hilly terrain. In the background, fierce fighting and gunfire continued between the invading enemy force and remaining CIA agents. After ten minutes, the pair approached the brow of a hill which gave them a panoramic view of the airfield. It was getting dark by now and the sound of gunfire had grown quieter.

“Right, there appear to be two soldiers guarding the plane. Do you see any more?” asked Paddy.

“Yeah, on the grass about a hundred yards in front of us. There’s a sniper,” said McGregor.

Paddy ruffled around in the rucksack he had seized from the enemy combatant who he had killed moments before and noticed something of use. “Do you think this might work?”

He had pulled out a hand grenade. McGregor quietly took the grenade off Paddy and briefly examined the exact distance to the sniper. Slowly, he crawled back down the other side of the hill so he could throw the grenade from a standing position. McGregor threw the grenade with quite a force, taking the sniper completely by surprise. As the sniper jumped to his feet, Paddy quickly got a shot off, hitting the sniper in the leg. As he fell to the ground, the grenade exploded.

McGregor ran to the top of the hill. “Right, let’s move, his friends back at Achamore House will have heard that, we don’t have much time.”

Paddy and McGregor ran down the hillside, opening fire on the two combatants guarding the plane.

“Don’t hit the plane whatever you do!” shouted McGregor.

One of combatants was hit by McGregor. The other had gone inside the plane for cover. As he tried to close up the hatch of the plane, Paddy managed to smash it shut, jamming the enemy’s arm in the door. Paddy then reopened the door and shot the combatant in the shoulder. Before throwing him out of the plane, Paddy removed the combatant’s balaclava. Once again, the man was Arab.

When McGregor reached the plane he ran straight into the cockpit.

“Do you know how to fly this thing?” asked Paddy.

“I used to fly F-16s during the Gulf War. This’ll be like driving an SUV in suburbia for me, man,” replied McGregor.

McGregor quickly familiarised himself with the flight controls while Paddy closed up the hatch. The plane’s engines revved and McGregor manoeuvred the craft into position on the narrow airstrip.

“This is a tight little runway,” said Paddy.

“Yeah, I’m going to have to give it full power to get her off the ground before that ridge at the bottom of the runway,” said McGregor.

McGregor dispensed with the usual etiquette of taxi speed and plunged the throttle forward, making the plane move along the ground at a speed of fifty knots, close to sixty miles per hour. He then turned her on a sixpence, causing the plane to momentarily lurch over to one side as it skidded on the turf of the runway.

Paddy sat in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Right, on my call I want you to punch it, Paddy,” said McGregor. He paused for a moment, doing some very quick final checks. However, at that moment, gunfire began raining down from the far end of the airfield towards the aircraft.

“Shit, now!” shouted McGregor.

As the plane went to full power, her speed gradually increased but it didn’t seem to be enough. The plane was directly approaching the ridge from where the gunfire came. It wouldn’t be long before the plane ran out of runway and would hit the grass. McGregor seemed to be pushing every button available in his attempt to extract as much power as he could from the engines. Just as the plane was about to hit the end of the runway, an RPG narrowly skimmed the fuselage. All hopes of making a successful take-off looked doomed to fail and the plane seemed destined to hit the ridge. However, the plane managed to get airborne just as her wheels briefly touched the grass. As she slowly ascended, one of the wheels from the landing gear actually hit an enemy combatant who had arrived on the ridge and was rushing to get out of the way

“That’s us, thank Christ! We’re airborne!” said McGregor breathing a sigh of relief.

McGregor manoeuvred the plane at relatively low altitude in the direction of Belfast Lough in Northern Ireland, about ninety miles in a diagonal direction across the Irish Sea. It was getting darker, and McGregor had made the course adjustment with reference to a compass and dead reckoning. As he began to consult the navigation systems for a more accurate course, the radio came to life. It was Prestwick Air Traffic Control.

“Boeing 6742, please provide your flight authorization code.”

“Crap. I’d hoped by flying low we might be able to avoid this, but they’ve obviously picked us up on radar. If our new friends on the ground have any sense, they’ll have reported this plane as stolen by now - or will do so soon,” said McGregor.

“Just don’t respond,” replied Paddy.

The plane continued for another ten minutes before reaching the entrance to Belfast Lough. A further radio call came in at that stage. This time it was RAF Aldergrove, based not far from Belfast.

“Boeing 6742, this is RAF Aldergrove. You will divert to this base immediately or you will be engaged by us.” The radio message was repeated several times.

“Not so friendly now, huh?” said Paddy.

“Do you know if there are any cliffs or mountainous terrain close by?” asked McGregor.

“I grew up in Northern Ireland. We’re passing Whitehead just now. It’s the start of the Antrim Coastline. It’s got some pretty big glens and cliffs,” replied Paddy.

“Ok, we need to switch off our instrumentation to do this. Otherwise they will be able to see us on radar,” said McGregor.

“Do what, exactly?” asked Paddy.

“I’m going to manoeuvre this jet around the cliffs, and you’re going to guide me,” said McGregor.

“How?” replied Paddy.

“With your eyes!” said McGregor.

“But it’s pitch black,” replied Paddy.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m going to switch off all the lights. You can use the twilight to guide you. We’ll be close enough to sea level to make out the coast,” said McGregor.

“Christ!” lamented Paddy.

“One other thing. We need to lose the black box, otherwise they’ll be able to track us. Chances are we will slip in and out of radar contact anyway, but it’s worth a try,” said McGregor.

As the plane turned toward the rugged overhangs and glens of the Antrim Coast, McGregor directed Paddy to the black box. “Ok, we’re low enough now. I’ve stabilised the air pressure. I need you to open the hatch and throw it into the sea. Just hold on tight when you do it, I can’t afford to lose you.”

Paddy followed McGregor’s instruction and opened the hatch, after first strapping himself to a metal bar to ensure he wasn’t blown into the night. The door nearly blew off with the sheer force of the air resistance. Paddy threw the blackbox into the sea. Once he had done this, it took all of Paddy’s strength to get the hatch shut again. He then returned to the cockpit.

“Ok, I’m tracking incoming bogies from seven o’clock. I suspect that’s our welcome party in the RAF. Can you grab my sat phone and call the third number down on the speed dial? It’s Langley. Tell them what’s happening and request immediate assistance,” said McGregor.

Paddy pulled out the sat phone and made the call. The agent at Langley picked up immediately.

“Langley. Authentication please?”

“They’re looking for authentication,” said Paddy.

“952007 McGregor 1-22,” replied McGregor.

Paddy repeated the code.

“Ok, sir, please proceed with your secure message,” replied the voice from Langley.

“I’m calling on behalf of McGregor. We require immediate assistance, we are being engaged by RAF jets off the Antrim coastline in Northern Ireland. Current position, Torr Head. Will reach Donegal Coast and Atlantic in around ten minutes. Can you contact Intelligence and Security Committee, specifically Morgan Wright and get the RAF to cease engagement?”

There were a few moments of silence on the phone as Langley contacted ISC in London.

“Sir,” responded the voice at last..

“Yes,” replied Paddy

“ISC can’t get an order to the RAF. So please do the following. Follow the coast to Donegal. When you enter over the Atlantic, proceed on a northerly course over the island of Inishtrahull. The USS Alabama will engage jets north of Inishtrahull, I repeat, the USS Alabama will engage north of Inishtrahull.”

“Oh my God!” said Paddy.

“What’s happening?” asked McGregor.

“Continue to weave in and out of this coast and head to the island of Inishtrahull. It’s the most northerly land mass in Ireland. It seems the USS Alabama is parked off it and is going to engage the RAF jets,” said Paddy.

“Nothing like creating a little international incident between two allies, huh?” replied McGregor.

“Yeah, heads will roll!” replied Paddy.

McGregor carefully manipulated the throttle to adjust speed as the plane moved around the mighty cliffs of the Antrim Coast. He held her pretty steady at five hundred feet off the water. Naturally, with such manoeuvres taking place there was a significant amount of air turbulence. As the plane rounded Fair Head, one of the most prominent cliffs in Northern Ireland, there was a piece of open water towards the Giant’s Causeway.

“Chances are, we’ll appear as a blip on their radar here,” said McGregor.

As the plane continued, suddenly two RAF Tornados flew overhead at speed. They hadn’t appeared to make out Paddy and McGregor initially. However, after a few moments they turned sharply in an engaging formation. They were only a few miles past Lough Foyle and the entrance to the city of Londonderry. It wouldn’t be very long until they were in sight of Inishtrahull. As the jets came in to engage, it was clear they were experiencing problems locking on to Paddy and McGregor’s plane. Meanwhile, McGregor was testing the limits of the plane further and further with his movements. He had lowered altitude to less than fifty feet and increased speed in the process. The whole plane was shaking.

Within minutes, Inishtrahull came into sight, but not before the pilots in the RAF planes had managed to get a lock. The RAF jets proceeded in front of Paddy and McGregor to engage them directly. Both pilots issued large wide turns over the surface of Inishtrahull before making their attack. However, just as this happened, the navigation systems of each pilot seemed to be scrambled by some unknown force. Unbeknownst to them, the USS Alabama had begun discharging magnetic waves which would lock onto the jets. Next, the submarine launched two missiles from underwater as a warning to the planes. Both missiles chased the jets briefly; however, the commander onboard the sub exploded the missiles seconds before they would hit the jets. It seemed to be enough to dissuade the jets from pursuing Paddy and McGregor, as they fired up their afterburners in the direction of Aldergrove.

“Thank God for that!” said Paddy.

The sat phone rang again and McGregor answered what appeared to be a recorded message from Langley.

“We are to proceed to Newark. The US Air Force is scrambling jets from Iceland to intercept and escort us to Newark,” explained McGregor.

Meanwhile, McGregor suggested that Paddy get some shut-eye. He was absolutely exhausted. It had been almost 40 hours since he had last slept and he had that horrible feeling of being overtired. McGregor, on the other hand, was still relatively fresh and stayed in the cockpit to pilot the flight.

Chapter 13

The Acropolis

THE IMMISTAKABLE BANG of the plane hitting the tarmac was enough to wake Paddy. Still dazed and tired, he got up and walked into the cockpit as McGregor slowed the plane to taxi speed.

“Time to move, man!” said McGregor.

“Well, what’s the story?” asked Paddy.

The story was that they would be switching planes immediately in order to get Paddy to Houston. McGregor explained that he had spoken to the CIA case officer for Clarkson, and negotiated for Paddy to take the place of Williamson, the Congressman’s aide, in the meeting of the shadow board. The particular Congressman in question had also been made aware of the situation and had agreed to cooperate fully. The CIA was unaware of the composition of the shadow board. Once Paddy figured this out, they would have something to work with.

The plane had been directed to a special hangar which was being used by the CIA. This way they could hide all evidence that the plane had landed in the US. As Paddy and McGregor walked down the steps, they were met by an older man wearing a suit and a cowboy hat.

“You son of a bitch, McGregor. Do you know what kind of transatlantic cluster fuck of a problem you’ve caused me? Not to mention I have twelve agents unaccounted for and presumed dead. The Director wants my ass, but I told him not before I’ve had yours. I swear, boy, unless you give me a damn good reason, I’m going to ride it all the way back to Langley.”

McGregor rolled his eyes. “Those men signed up for it, sir, and they know their training. I’m sure we’ll hear from them soon enough. Paddy, meet Assistant Director Craig Sullivan,” said McGregor.

“Who in the hell is this? And why do you need to go to Houston?” demanded Craig.

“Sir, I’ll explain it all on the plane. I’ve spoken to the senior agent covering Clarkson Nuclear and we need to install Paddy in the operation as a matter of urgency,” said McGregor.

“It better be a good one this time, McGregor. The last time I trusted you, we nearly lost the President’s fucking helicopter in hostile territory,” replied Craig.

“I thought you’d forgot about that,” said McGregor.

“I have the eyes of a tiger, the nose of a wolf and the memory of an elephant, boy!” said Craig.

The second jet was slightly more upmarket than the one Paddy and McGregor had flown to Newark. As Paddy and McGregor sat down, Craig poured himself a drink.

“So, McGregor. Tell all,” said Craig.