Page 250 of The Black Trilogy

As the plane’s nose poked out of the hangar, another huge detonation rocked the base. I think even the CIA had underestimated what the Syrians stored there. In all the chaos, nobody noticed as the plane taxied over to the runway. They sure noticed as I took off, though. I mean, it’s hard to miss it when a fighter jet whistles over your head. But since I’d stolen their Ready-Five aircraft, shot the pilot, and taken out the only other plane that looked good to go, I’d bought myself a few minutes. All they could do was shout at me and fire their baby guns pointlessly into the air.

Okay, time for the next phase of my plan, which wasn’t so much a plan as desperation. The full fuel tank gave me a range of just over a thousand miles. I only needed to fly four hundred, according to my impromptu calculations.

The plane cruised at five hundred miles an hour, with a top speed of thirteen hundred. Flying that fast would kill the fuel consumption, though, so I settled in at six hundred. It took me twenty minutes to reach the Syrian border, and as I crossed it, the radio traffic started up between Syria, Israel, and Jordan. The words themselves were a bit crackly, but the gist of the message was “Land, now.”

When I didn’t land, they added “Or else” onto the end of it.

I carried on, of course, and sped up instead. One hundred and fifty miles to go. Seven minutes at top speed. I no doubt scared a few camels with the sonic boom, but I was long gone before I could apologise.

A ping from the radar alerted me to another plane behind, and I could see it gaining. I ran through a mental list of possibilities. The Israelis had F-15s and F-16s, both of which were faster than my MiG-21. The Jordanian air force had the F-16 too. Worse, the Syrians favoured MiG-25 interceptors, which flew at over two thousand miles an hour and scared the stuffing out of me. Whatever was following, I didn’t want to be there when it caught up.

I kept a careful watch on my GPS coordinates, thankful I had a crazy good memory for stuff like that. I’d only ever travelled to my destination on the ground before, and I remembered watching the SatNav from the passenger seat of a battle-scarred jeep as Black drove.

The numbers cycled around, almost faster than I could follow. As I approached my target, I slowed hard, snatched up the food and water and clutched it to my chest, then pulled the ejection handle.

Kapow.

I shot up a hundred feet before floating back down again, and the MiG carried on over the horizon without me. I’d never had cause to use an ejection seat before—another first for me today—and I wished with all my heart I could tell Black about it. As far as I knew, he’d never ejected either, so I was one up.

As I neared the ground, the shadow of the chasing jet swooped over me, but it was too dark for me to identify it. When I saw the flame of a missile being released, I was pretty freaking glad I hadn’t hung around to find out.

I hit the desert floor with a gentle bump. What a ride! I know I really shouldn’t have enjoyed it, but that was the most fun I’d had in ages. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as my fingers fumbled to release the seat harness, and I stumbled into the sand with a loud whoop. Despite the horrors I’d left behind, I felt freaking elated.

I dragged the seat under an overhanging rock and waited for my heart to stop racing. While I might have felt ready to take on the world at that moment, I knew that was just hormones talking.

When my breathing had steadied, I took stock of the situation. Vast and inhospitable, the Jordanian desert was a rocky wilderness covering eighty-five percent of the country. The Bedouin who called it home eked out a living by herding goats, sheep, and camels, although many of the tribes had turned their backs on their traditional way of life, preferring the sprawl of urbanisation to the rigours of the vast, scrubby plains. At least I’d picked a good time of year to visit. The temperature swings weren’t so great at the end of April. I’d enjoy mid-twenties Celsius in the daytime with a drop to high single figures at night.

My biggest problem would be running out of water before I got to my final destination. You’re probably thinking hey, you’re an expert in survival, surely you can find water in the desert? Well, forget what you’ve read in those pocket guides about peeing into a hole or eating a cactus. It doesn’t work. You’ll use up more water digging the darn hole, and if cacti even grew in the Jordanian desert, which they didn’t, I wouldn’t fancy eating one because most of them were poisonous.

On the plus side, I wasn’t worried about being found by whoever had been chasing me. The Syrians and Israelis couldn’t simply waltz into Jordan to look, and if my pursuers were Jordanian, they either thought they’d shot me down or I’d crashed, and my plane was miles away from me now, anyway.

I leaned back in the seat and ran through the next stage of the plan. I knew where I wanted to be, and thanks to the GPS, I had a rough idea of my present location. The problem lay in the “rough” part. It was hard to be precise flying at several hundred miles an hour while trying to keep an eye on the enemy aircraft on your tail.

The night sky twinkled, and I stepped forward to get a better look. I was fairly sure I’d undershot, which meant I needed to head south. By following the first rule of desert survival, I’d move at night, which meant not only would I keep warm and conserve water, I’d be able to navigate by the stars.

The parachute flapped in the gentle breeze that swept over the dunes, and I used my knife to cut it free. I’d need it to give me shade in the daytime while I slept. Sunburn may not kill me, but it could make life flipping uncomfortable.

Right now, I needed to get moving. All being well, I’d be able to cover a few miles before the sun came up. The aircraft seat came with a handy survival kit stowed in the base, although the contents depended on the locality, so it was potluck as to what I’d get. I rummaged through it and found a tiny torch as well as a compass that would keep me on track and glucose tablets to give me energy. But what on earth was I supposed to do with a pair of rubber gloves and a pencil?

I bundled the contents up in the parachute, together with the food and water. I wouldn’t drink for the next twenty-four hours to kick my body into survival mode. Who knew how long I’d be out here? Eager to get on my way, I trudged off into the darkness, hoping Lady Luck had hitched along for the ride.

CHAPTER 37

LUKE SWORE UNDER his breath as he dodged around the portly grey-haired man ambling along the corridor. What was it about this place? Everything seemed to run at half-speed.

The meeting he’d just been in had lasted four hours when it should have been over in one, and when they’d served coffee halfway through, it had been both instant and cold. Public sector bureaucracy at its finest. He rubbed his temple with his free hand, and it throbbed. At least the paracetamol he’d taken half an hour ago was starting to kick in. Why did government procurement processes have to be so tedious? He’d been chasing this job for over two years, and nobody had made a decision yet.

Still, if they could clinch the contract to provide a new data protection system to whatever branch of the security service this was—they wouldn’t even admit that much—all the sucking up, security clearances, and endless pitch documents would be worth it. It wasn’t that Luke found the project boring—the firewall architecture fascinated him—it was the hoops that he and his staff had to jump through to secure the work that frustrated him.

The beady red eye of a CCTV camera watched him as he stepped into the lift, and he jabbed at the button for the ground floor three times before the doors finally closed. Did they program them like that? To waste a little bit more of everybody’s lives each day?

“Can I take your visitor’s pass, Mr. Halston-Cain?” the receptionist called as he emerged in the atrium. He never normally used his full double-barrelled surname, but every other person in this place seemed to, and he didn’t want to be left out.

He handed the badge over to the overly efficient brunette and pushed through the turnstile. The lobby was packed, and when he looked through the glass doors to the street outside, he saw fat raindrops splashing against them. He’d have to wait in here for his car to arrive.

Luke fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on, but before he could call his driver, the screen lit up with a slew of incoming messages. He closed his eyes and groaned. Two days and—he quickly counted—thirty-six texts. If this kept up, he’d have to change his number.

He dialled his chauffeur. “Where are you?”

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