"Drop zone in three miles!" yelled the loadmaster. "Red light on!"
"Alright," John told his troops, "the area's pretty heavily wooded but we have a clear zone about half a mile across. The pilot's trying to aim so that the wind blows us to about the right area, but chances are we'll be pretty scattered. The team already in place will be sending pyrotechnics up every half hour, so just follow them. Don't use your radios unless it's an emergency. If you crack up on landing then we'll try and casevac you with one of the Hueys, but please try not to. We're low on manpower as it is." It was a weak joke, but they laughed out of sheer nervousness.
"One mile!" the loadmaster yelled. "Hook up and sound off!"
Each man called out that the man in front was ready and safely rigged, the loadmaster checking the rearmost man himself before returning to the doorway.
"Green light! Go!" John hurled himself out of the rear cargo door of the ancient Grumman turboprop. He half-heard the second call of "Go!" as his parachute opened and abruptly pulled him upright and to a near-halt. It was gentler than when you pulled your own ripcord, which felt like a good kick in the nuts if you left it too late.
It was a beautifully delivered 'stick' of paratroops, all the more so for the fact that neither pilot nor paras had done this more than a couple of times before in rehearsal. I applauded from below.
Meanwhile, the Shorts Belfast cargo plane was making its own pass. The rear doors hinged open, and the two men in the back threw out a drogue 'chute, tugging open the big box-drop parachute and pulling the pallet out of the aircraft. It pulled the second drogue out behind it, starting a chain reaction that pulled all five NATO cargo pallets out of the plane. Three of them held BMP-3 armoured infantry fighting vehicles, the Russian answer to the Bradley.
"Best planned and executed airbourne operation I've been in on!" was Mitch's verdict. "You really can drop just about everything out the back of a plane if you wanna."
"You said it; I know the bloke who flew the plane in the video for 'Wings Of A Dove' by Madness. Ever thought of box-dropping a VW campervan? Well, the RAF have." The bloke who flew the mission claimed to me -though since we were having a beer-and-bullshit session this should be viewed with suspicion- that it took ages to persuade the band that they couldn't REALLY be in the van whilst they dropped it. [Author's note: A fuller explanation than I can be bothered to provide can be obtained by watching the video itself]
Eddie appeared in what later I learned to be his normal combat rig. Full camoflauge gear was covered by a heavy Kevlar vest. He had a pump-action shotgun in a scabbard on his back and a Skorpion machine pistol holstered on each hip. Just for a splash of colour, he was wearing a bandanna with the word 'Limitless' in red indelible marker written across it. It was incredibly unprofessional-looking even by the standards of John's rough-and-ready outfit, and it was all I could do not to laugh.
"Oh, sweet Mother Russia!" Tatiana groaned. "Eddie, you look like a complete fool!" He ignored her.
"Seen John yet? Ah, here he comes." John arrived at a run, G3 held at port-arms. He looked unusually military, dressed entirely in black and with cam cream all over his face; a far cry from his usual working attire of tatty jeans, old sports jacket that might once have been white, and baseball cap with any one of a variety of silly motifs. His one concession to power dressing, as he was fond of remarking, was the bulge under one armpit- power by anybody's standards!
"Right, here's the plan as it currently stands. Eddie and Tatiana lead a six-strong recon mission to infiltrate the base. If possible you're to plant radio beacons wherever there's something important to blow up. They'll show up on our HUDs. And for God's sake find out where they're holding Chloe!"
"Right. How about Dimitri and some of the Spetznaz guys?"
John nodded. "Whatever. Just find my little girl, Eddie. Please." His voice trembled, but he rallied. "We'll be ready to go once you're back."
"Okay, John. I'll get the team ready. We'll use Isobel's Huey." He moved off.
John turned to me. "I'm scared, Dave. For the first time in Christ knows how long, I'm scared. Isobel's doing fine; she's too angry to be afraid. But me? Jesus, if this is being a New Man then I want to be the old sort. I was so determined to be a good father, and now THIS has to happen."
"You'll get her back, kid. Listen, as dads go you're doing fine. Most dads, if their kids got abducted they'd just call 999. But you're risking life and limb to get her back personally. How many dads would do that?"
"Well, the guy Arnie played in Commando, perhaps..." A flicker of humour, which was a good sign.
"Get a life, John!" We laughed.
I lit my eighth cigarette. "Come on, Eddie. What the hell are you playing at?"
"Will you quit worrying?" Mary grumbled. "What's the rush?"
"Sorry. It's the waiting; always bothered me more than the actual combat. Damn." I screwed up the empty cigarette packet. "I'm running out again."
Mary shook her head. "Ellie never got you to quit, did she?"
"Nope. She might well nag the hell out of me, but did I listen?" I blew a smoke ring. "Did I buggery!"
"I worry about you."
The radio crackled into life. "Black Star to Kestrel Three, requesting exfil. Mission accomplished, one minor casualty, over."
"Kestrel Three recieves, on the way, over." The heavily armed Bell 212 -a descendent of the original UH-1, but still the Huey to just about everybody- lifted and headed up the slopes towards the rendezvous point.
"About time," I muttered, flicking away the cigarette butt. "Wonder how it went?"
"The outer perimeter security's pretty tight, but geared towards large-scale assaults; we didn't have much trouble getting in. We couldn't plant the radio beacons, though; the patrols were tighter on the inside, and they were making spot checks for sabotage. The air defences have been reinforced; I counted at least eight mpobile SAM batteries and a couple of dozen extra fifty calibres on tripods around the walls. They're certainly expecting trouble."
"I'll bet," John replied. "Any word on Chloe?"
"She's being held in the bomb shelter further up from the main building. It's at least eighty feet into the mountain; we could drop a nuclear bomb on the place and she wouldn't even notice."
"Don't give him ideas!" Will joked. Eddie rolled his eyes, and continued.
"The four big flak turrets seem to be directed by one radar set, which is about a hundred feet above the buildings. They look like an ex-naval system, something like Goalkeeper or Phalanx. I doubt they can be aimed optically, so if we nail the radar they'll be out of it. It's right above those big artillery emplacements, as well." He pointed to a spot on the blueprint. "Looked like the turrets from a self-propelled howitzer. If they're standard turrets then a single thousand pounder ought to splash the lot."
I shook my head. "You're getting even nerdier than Johnny here!" I've always been vaguely suspicious of civilians who know more about military ordnance than I got from intelligence briefings as a fighter pilot.
"Anyway, the key is the radar site. It's acting as the acquisition set for every gun and missile site in the area, judging by the number of cables we had to step over." Tatiana rubbed her sprained ankle and muttered something in Russian. "She's right; it's a real health and safety hazard! Anyway, we couldn't tell if the missiles were radar guided or heatseeking, but if we knock out the radar then we'll at least hurt their early warning capability."
"What's the maximum range of those anti-radar missiles?" I asked Yuri.
"One hundred twenty kilometres -about eighty miles- with enough altitude. They're also too fast to be tracked by triple-A."
"Okay," John said, "here's what we're going to do. Yuri, you're our Wild Weasel. You'll have all the anti-radar missiles, and if it radiates, blow it up. Jack, your fighter will be carrying all the air-to-air kit. If they launch fighters, try and splash them on takeoff. If you can do it with beyond-visual-range stuff, better yet.
"Dave, Will and Lyra, you've got the fun part. Ground attack." There were some ironic cheers. "Hit anything that looks important, and be ready to help out the ground troops if they come under fire. The choppers are going to try and breach the shelter; quite apart from my kid being in there, I'll bet that's where we'll find the leadership decisions being made.
"Okay, everybody, you know your jobs. We go as soon as the fighters are loaded out."
"Engine one start."
"Hydraulics green."
"Radar warming up. FLIR is green."
"Radio check... green."
"Weapons on safe. Mavericks self-testing now. All green."
"Engine two start. Okay, we're ready."
"Sparrow One to Sparrow Three," Will radioed. "Fiver says Kestrel One blows up more than everybody else, over."
"No bet!" I replied. "Kestrel One, we're waiting for the word, over."
John took a while to answer. I got the feeling he was nervous, which was unheard of for him. "Alright, good luck everybody. Let's go!"
As one, the five aircraft throttled up and lifted from the inprovised runway. Being originally designed as carrier aircraft the Fulcrums had outstanding shortfield capability, and Aurora was pretty good as well- she had to be.
We roared up the valley towards our objective, staying as low as possible. Hopefully they wouldn't spot us amongst the ground clutter.
"Command, I have intermittent low-level radar contacts on an approach vector. Recommend we go to air-defence condition yellow."
Asriel nodded. "They'll never learn. What's their ETA?"
"Uncertain; track reliability is too low for an accurate estimate. Unlikely to exceed ten minutes."
Asriel cursed under his breath. He'd been rather hoping for some peace and quiet once he had talked Metatron into kidnapping that brat, but apparently that particular scheme had backfired. Oh well... "Alert the defenders, and launch our aerocraft to find these phantom attackers. I'm transferring to the secondary command centre."
He headed for the elevator that would take him to the safety of the bunker, but was stopped in his tracks by a tremendous explosion outside. "What in hell was that?"
"The radar dish has taken a direct hit! The point defence turrets are disabled!" The radar operator swore in German. "My scope didn't show a damn thing until they were right on top of us!"
Asriel simply ran for the lift. "This isn't bloody well fair!" he grumbled.
Another explosion shook the compound just as he made it into the bunker. Marissa turned to him fearfully.
"What's going on out there?"
"Just an air raid," he reassured her. "Nothing to be alarmed about. Where's the child?"
There was an almighty blast just outside, and a cloud of dust came down from the ceiling. "I think that'll be her parents," Marissa observed sourly. "I warned you that they'd try something like this, but did you listen?"
"Oh, shut up. Get the child and take her to the gyrocopter. We may have to leave in a hurry."
"I thought you said there was nothing to be alarmed about!"
"Well, if I'm wrong we'll be prepared for the worst. Now get a bloody move on!"
There was another tremendous explosion, and an exchange of small arms fire. Asriel wrenched open a weapon locker and grabbed a small submachine gun. Swearing profusely, he ran to the main door. Once he reached it, he immediately wished he hadn't been quite as hasty.
"Ah." He swallowed.
The Mi-28 Havoc attack helicopter was hovering at just above head height. The gun turret swivelled and pointed straight at his head. Two small transport helicopters flanked the Havoc, their assorted weapons also pointed Asriel's way.
"Drop the gun and put your hands in the air. You can guess the alternative," a woman's voice boomed over a loudhailer.
Asriel contemplated the alternative, and hurled the weapon at the attack helicopter. The pilot flinched, and shoved the stick down. All three helicopters veered one way or another. Asriel dived for the door, narrowly avoiding the reflex burst of gunfire from one helicopter.
A bullet smacked off the concrete beside his head. Asriel drew his pistol and fired a couple of shots in the general direction of his pursuers, and was rewarded by a yell of pain. He laughed, and ran onwards. Suddenly, there was a dull thud, and something clattered to the ground in front of him. "What was- Aah!" The bright magnesium flare blinded him, the concussion deafened him, and he pitched forwards. By the time he recovered from the effects of the stun grenade fired from the launcher beneath Tatiana's M4, he was firmly trussed with flexicuffs.
"Has he come around?" He thought it was West's voice.
"I think so." Somebody he didn't recognise.
"Good." Somebody -presumably West- kicked him forcefully in the groin.
There was a brief scuffle. "John, we need him to answer some questions, so I'd appreciate it if he retained the power of speech! You can kick the shit out of him AFTER I've had a chat with him, alright?"
"No it bloody well isn't alright," Asriel growled. I grabbed a handful of lapel and dragged him upright.
"Listen, there are an awful lot of people here who'd get a lot of pleasure from horribly torturing you to an immensely unpleasant death, and I'm one of them. So let's have no more smartarse remarks, right?" I shoved him roughly into a chair, and placed his right hand on a flat surface, fingers spread. Will handed John a small hammer.
"Now, are you going to answer our questions voluntarily?" I enquired politely.
"No chance. As long as I keep my mouth shut then I don't die."
John lowered the hammer. "Look, if it means getting my daughter back I'm willing to forgo inflicting the pain and suffering you so richly deserve, but you have to cooperate."
"I'd like to offer you a guarantee," I added, "but I'm not certain I can do much to stop John. I haven't seen him this homicidally furious since Tony Blair got a peerage. It's still the best deal you're going to get, though."
"And face Metatron afterwards? I'd rather take my chances with you."
"Have it your way, then." John drew his pistol.
"All right, all RIGHT. He's probably going to blame this debacle on me anyway. What would you like to know?"
"Where your ladyfriend went in that chopper, for a start," John suggested.
"Your guess is as good as mine. The gyrocopter's maximum range is about a hundred and fifty miles, and there are six or seven possible airfields she could have used. One thing I am certain of is that she'll make contact with one of Metatron's allies. Chances are they'll be back in Citigazze pretty soon."
I nodded. "Well, that gives us a destination, at least. We'd better head out as soon as possible. How soon can we be ready?"
"Two hours, once Frank gets back with the planes. How about him?" He pointed to Asriel. "He's cooperated, at least."
"I suggest we take him with us. If it turns out he's lying, we can make it very clear how bad an idea it was," Will recommended. He drew the Knife and flourished the wickedly sharp, serrated blade I'd welded onto the hilt for him a lifetime ago.
"Good idea. I doubt even Metatron will hold him responsible for anything he said or did whilst being coerced at gunpoint." I rubbed my eyes. "I'm going to get some sleep."
"Alright," John told his troops, "the area's pretty heavily wooded but we have a clear zone about half a mile across. The pilot's trying to aim so that the wind blows us to about the right area, but chances are we'll be pretty scattered. The team already in place will be sending pyrotechnics up every half hour, so just follow them. Don't use your radios unless it's an emergency. If you crack up on landing then we'll try and casevac you with one of the Hueys, but please try not to. We're low on manpower as it is." It was a weak joke, but they laughed out of sheer nervousness.
"One mile!" the loadmaster yelled. "Hook up and sound off!"
Each man called out that the man in front was ready and safely rigged, the loadmaster checking the rearmost man himself before returning to the doorway.
"Green light! Go!" John hurled himself out of the rear cargo door of the ancient Grumman turboprop. He half-heard the second call of "Go!" as his parachute opened and abruptly pulled him upright and to a near-halt. It was gentler than when you pulled your own ripcord, which felt like a good kick in the nuts if you left it too late.
It was a beautifully delivered 'stick' of paratroops, all the more so for the fact that neither pilot nor paras had done this more than a couple of times before in rehearsal. I applauded from below.
Meanwhile, the Shorts Belfast cargo plane was making its own pass. The rear doors hinged open, and the two men in the back threw out a drogue 'chute, tugging open the big box-drop parachute and pulling the pallet out of the aircraft. It pulled the second drogue out behind it, starting a chain reaction that pulled all five NATO cargo pallets out of the plane. Three of them held BMP-3 armoured infantry fighting vehicles, the Russian answer to the Bradley.
"Best planned and executed airbourne operation I've been in on!" was Mitch's verdict. "You really can drop just about everything out the back of a plane if you wanna."
"You said it; I know the bloke who flew the plane in the video for 'Wings Of A Dove' by Madness. Ever thought of box-dropping a VW campervan? Well, the RAF have." The bloke who flew the mission claimed to me -though since we were having a beer-and-bullshit session this should be viewed with suspicion- that it took ages to persuade the band that they couldn't REALLY be in the van whilst they dropped it. [Author's note: A fuller explanation than I can be bothered to provide can be obtained by watching the video itself]
Eddie appeared in what later I learned to be his normal combat rig. Full camoflauge gear was covered by a heavy Kevlar vest. He had a pump-action shotgun in a scabbard on his back and a Skorpion machine pistol holstered on each hip. Just for a splash of colour, he was wearing a bandanna with the word 'Limitless' in red indelible marker written across it. It was incredibly unprofessional-looking even by the standards of John's rough-and-ready outfit, and it was all I could do not to laugh.
"Oh, sweet Mother Russia!" Tatiana groaned. "Eddie, you look like a complete fool!" He ignored her.
"Seen John yet? Ah, here he comes." John arrived at a run, G3 held at port-arms. He looked unusually military, dressed entirely in black and with cam cream all over his face; a far cry from his usual working attire of tatty jeans, old sports jacket that might once have been white, and baseball cap with any one of a variety of silly motifs. His one concession to power dressing, as he was fond of remarking, was the bulge under one armpit- power by anybody's standards!
"Right, here's the plan as it currently stands. Eddie and Tatiana lead a six-strong recon mission to infiltrate the base. If possible you're to plant radio beacons wherever there's something important to blow up. They'll show up on our HUDs. And for God's sake find out where they're holding Chloe!"
"Right. How about Dimitri and some of the Spetznaz guys?"
John nodded. "Whatever. Just find my little girl, Eddie. Please." His voice trembled, but he rallied. "We'll be ready to go once you're back."
"Okay, John. I'll get the team ready. We'll use Isobel's Huey." He moved off.
John turned to me. "I'm scared, Dave. For the first time in Christ knows how long, I'm scared. Isobel's doing fine; she's too angry to be afraid. But me? Jesus, if this is being a New Man then I want to be the old sort. I was so determined to be a good father, and now THIS has to happen."
"You'll get her back, kid. Listen, as dads go you're doing fine. Most dads, if their kids got abducted they'd just call 999. But you're risking life and limb to get her back personally. How many dads would do that?"
"Well, the guy Arnie played in Commando, perhaps..." A flicker of humour, which was a good sign.
"Get a life, John!" We laughed.
I lit my eighth cigarette. "Come on, Eddie. What the hell are you playing at?"
"Will you quit worrying?" Mary grumbled. "What's the rush?"
"Sorry. It's the waiting; always bothered me more than the actual combat. Damn." I screwed up the empty cigarette packet. "I'm running out again."
Mary shook her head. "Ellie never got you to quit, did she?"
"Nope. She might well nag the hell out of me, but did I listen?" I blew a smoke ring. "Did I buggery!"
"I worry about you."
The radio crackled into life. "Black Star to Kestrel Three, requesting exfil. Mission accomplished, one minor casualty, over."
"Kestrel Three recieves, on the way, over." The heavily armed Bell 212 -a descendent of the original UH-1, but still the Huey to just about everybody- lifted and headed up the slopes towards the rendezvous point.
"About time," I muttered, flicking away the cigarette butt. "Wonder how it went?"
"The outer perimeter security's pretty tight, but geared towards large-scale assaults; we didn't have much trouble getting in. We couldn't plant the radio beacons, though; the patrols were tighter on the inside, and they were making spot checks for sabotage. The air defences have been reinforced; I counted at least eight mpobile SAM batteries and a couple of dozen extra fifty calibres on tripods around the walls. They're certainly expecting trouble."
"I'll bet," John replied. "Any word on Chloe?"
"She's being held in the bomb shelter further up from the main building. It's at least eighty feet into the mountain; we could drop a nuclear bomb on the place and she wouldn't even notice."
"Don't give him ideas!" Will joked. Eddie rolled his eyes, and continued.
"The four big flak turrets seem to be directed by one radar set, which is about a hundred feet above the buildings. They look like an ex-naval system, something like Goalkeeper or Phalanx. I doubt they can be aimed optically, so if we nail the radar they'll be out of it. It's right above those big artillery emplacements, as well." He pointed to a spot on the blueprint. "Looked like the turrets from a self-propelled howitzer. If they're standard turrets then a single thousand pounder ought to splash the lot."
I shook my head. "You're getting even nerdier than Johnny here!" I've always been vaguely suspicious of civilians who know more about military ordnance than I got from intelligence briefings as a fighter pilot.
"Anyway, the key is the radar site. It's acting as the acquisition set for every gun and missile site in the area, judging by the number of cables we had to step over." Tatiana rubbed her sprained ankle and muttered something in Russian. "She's right; it's a real health and safety hazard! Anyway, we couldn't tell if the missiles were radar guided or heatseeking, but if we knock out the radar then we'll at least hurt their early warning capability."
"What's the maximum range of those anti-radar missiles?" I asked Yuri.
"One hundred twenty kilometres -about eighty miles- with enough altitude. They're also too fast to be tracked by triple-A."
"Okay," John said, "here's what we're going to do. Yuri, you're our Wild Weasel. You'll have all the anti-radar missiles, and if it radiates, blow it up. Jack, your fighter will be carrying all the air-to-air kit. If they launch fighters, try and splash them on takeoff. If you can do it with beyond-visual-range stuff, better yet.
"Dave, Will and Lyra, you've got the fun part. Ground attack." There were some ironic cheers. "Hit anything that looks important, and be ready to help out the ground troops if they come under fire. The choppers are going to try and breach the shelter; quite apart from my kid being in there, I'll bet that's where we'll find the leadership decisions being made.
"Okay, everybody, you know your jobs. We go as soon as the fighters are loaded out."
"Engine one start."
"Hydraulics green."
"Radar warming up. FLIR is green."
"Radio check... green."
"Weapons on safe. Mavericks self-testing now. All green."
"Engine two start. Okay, we're ready."
"Sparrow One to Sparrow Three," Will radioed. "Fiver says Kestrel One blows up more than everybody else, over."
"No bet!" I replied. "Kestrel One, we're waiting for the word, over."
John took a while to answer. I got the feeling he was nervous, which was unheard of for him. "Alright, good luck everybody. Let's go!"
As one, the five aircraft throttled up and lifted from the inprovised runway. Being originally designed as carrier aircraft the Fulcrums had outstanding shortfield capability, and Aurora was pretty good as well- she had to be.
We roared up the valley towards our objective, staying as low as possible. Hopefully they wouldn't spot us amongst the ground clutter.
"Command, I have intermittent low-level radar contacts on an approach vector. Recommend we go to air-defence condition yellow."
Asriel nodded. "They'll never learn. What's their ETA?"
"Uncertain; track reliability is too low for an accurate estimate. Unlikely to exceed ten minutes."
Asriel cursed under his breath. He'd been rather hoping for some peace and quiet once he had talked Metatron into kidnapping that brat, but apparently that particular scheme had backfired. Oh well... "Alert the defenders, and launch our aerocraft to find these phantom attackers. I'm transferring to the secondary command centre."
He headed for the elevator that would take him to the safety of the bunker, but was stopped in his tracks by a tremendous explosion outside. "What in hell was that?"
"The radar dish has taken a direct hit! The point defence turrets are disabled!" The radar operator swore in German. "My scope didn't show a damn thing until they were right on top of us!"
Asriel simply ran for the lift. "This isn't bloody well fair!" he grumbled.
Another explosion shook the compound just as he made it into the bunker. Marissa turned to him fearfully.
"What's going on out there?"
"Just an air raid," he reassured her. "Nothing to be alarmed about. Where's the child?"
There was an almighty blast just outside, and a cloud of dust came down from the ceiling. "I think that'll be her parents," Marissa observed sourly. "I warned you that they'd try something like this, but did you listen?"
"Oh, shut up. Get the child and take her to the gyrocopter. We may have to leave in a hurry."
"I thought you said there was nothing to be alarmed about!"
"Well, if I'm wrong we'll be prepared for the worst. Now get a bloody move on!"
There was another tremendous explosion, and an exchange of small arms fire. Asriel wrenched open a weapon locker and grabbed a small submachine gun. Swearing profusely, he ran to the main door. Once he reached it, he immediately wished he hadn't been quite as hasty.
"Ah." He swallowed.
The Mi-28 Havoc attack helicopter was hovering at just above head height. The gun turret swivelled and pointed straight at his head. Two small transport helicopters flanked the Havoc, their assorted weapons also pointed Asriel's way.
"Drop the gun and put your hands in the air. You can guess the alternative," a woman's voice boomed over a loudhailer.
Asriel contemplated the alternative, and hurled the weapon at the attack helicopter. The pilot flinched, and shoved the stick down. All three helicopters veered one way or another. Asriel dived for the door, narrowly avoiding the reflex burst of gunfire from one helicopter.
A bullet smacked off the concrete beside his head. Asriel drew his pistol and fired a couple of shots in the general direction of his pursuers, and was rewarded by a yell of pain. He laughed, and ran onwards. Suddenly, there was a dull thud, and something clattered to the ground in front of him. "What was- Aah!" The bright magnesium flare blinded him, the concussion deafened him, and he pitched forwards. By the time he recovered from the effects of the stun grenade fired from the launcher beneath Tatiana's M4, he was firmly trussed with flexicuffs.
"Has he come around?" He thought it was West's voice.
"I think so." Somebody he didn't recognise.
"Good." Somebody -presumably West- kicked him forcefully in the groin.
There was a brief scuffle. "John, we need him to answer some questions, so I'd appreciate it if he retained the power of speech! You can kick the shit out of him AFTER I've had a chat with him, alright?"
"No it bloody well isn't alright," Asriel growled. I grabbed a handful of lapel and dragged him upright.
"Listen, there are an awful lot of people here who'd get a lot of pleasure from horribly torturing you to an immensely unpleasant death, and I'm one of them. So let's have no more smartarse remarks, right?" I shoved him roughly into a chair, and placed his right hand on a flat surface, fingers spread. Will handed John a small hammer.
"Now, are you going to answer our questions voluntarily?" I enquired politely.
"No chance. As long as I keep my mouth shut then I don't die."
John lowered the hammer. "Look, if it means getting my daughter back I'm willing to forgo inflicting the pain and suffering you so richly deserve, but you have to cooperate."
"I'd like to offer you a guarantee," I added, "but I'm not certain I can do much to stop John. I haven't seen him this homicidally furious since Tony Blair got a peerage. It's still the best deal you're going to get, though."
"And face Metatron afterwards? I'd rather take my chances with you."
"Have it your way, then." John drew his pistol.
"All right, all RIGHT. He's probably going to blame this debacle on me anyway. What would you like to know?"
"Where your ladyfriend went in that chopper, for a start," John suggested.
"Your guess is as good as mine. The gyrocopter's maximum range is about a hundred and fifty miles, and there are six or seven possible airfields she could have used. One thing I am certain of is that she'll make contact with one of Metatron's allies. Chances are they'll be back in Citigazze pretty soon."
I nodded. "Well, that gives us a destination, at least. We'd better head out as soon as possible. How soon can we be ready?"
"Two hours, once Frank gets back with the planes. How about him?" He pointed to Asriel. "He's cooperated, at least."
"I suggest we take him with us. If it turns out he's lying, we can make it very clear how bad an idea it was," Will recommended. He drew the Knife and flourished the wickedly sharp, serrated blade I'd welded onto the hilt for him a lifetime ago.
"Good idea. I doubt even Metatron will hold him responsible for anything he said or did whilst being coerced at gunpoint." I rubbed my eyes. "I'm going to get some sleep."