James Barrington - Foxbat

Yi’s dedication and focus often received favourable comment at headquarters, but unfortunately this time he had become rather too focused. So, as the North Korean soldiers approached his hiding place, all his attention was fixed on the open hangar door and the slowly emerging aircraft.

Just then a T’ae’tan soldier stepped silently onto the ledge beside him and pressed the muzzle of a Kalashnikov AK47 into the middle of his back. Yi reacted instantly. He dropped the phone and binoculars, and twisted away, knocking aside the barrel of the assault rifle as he simultaneously reached for his pistol. The guard stepped back, momentarily taken by surprise.

This brief moment was enough for the South Korean agent. He grabbed up the satellite phone and vaulted off the ledge, running for his life down the slope towards the airfield, all the time dodging and diving from side to side.

The lieutenant shouted immediate orders, and within seconds the air was alive with Kalashnikov bullets. But shooting downhill isn’t easy because of the perspective, and most of the shots went wide, smashing into the ground all around the fugitive.

As he ran, Yi Min-Ho heard the tinny voice of his controller issuing from the earpiece of the Kyocera. He dropped flat to the ground and rolled over so that he could face back up the slope. Then he pulled out the CZ75 and let loose half a dozen rounds at his pursuers, even as he tried to gasp out his story.

‘They have new aircraft,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve seen a—’

At that moment three shells from one of the Kalashnikovs found him. The first tore through his left hand, severing two fingers and ripping the Kyocera from his grasp. Maybe fortunately, his agony lasted well under a second. The next round entered the top of his skull, ploughing through his brain and killing him instantly. Yi Min-Ho didn’t even feel the third bullet.

Hammersmith, London

‘I originally assumed it was just another cock-up by Vauxhall Cross,’ Richard Simpson grumbled. ‘Telling you to look in the wrong hangar, or even sending you off to the wrong airfield. But now it looks like they were probably right.’

Simpson had a famously low opinion of the professional abilities of the Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as ‘Six’, and was always happy to share his prejudices with anyone who’d listen.

Richter had got back to the Hammersmith office fifteen minutes earlier, after spending what felt like a week bouncing around in the back of the ‘Fat Albert’. The Hercules had stopped at Meknes for a refuel, but had taken off immediately afterwards, heading straight for Gibraltar and the Royal Naval Air Station, HMS Rooke . There they’d off-loaded the injured loadmaster, fearing he would not survive the flight back to the UK. The wounded man had lost so much blood that Richter personally doubted he’d last the day, but at least at Rooke he’d get proper medical care.

The C-130 filled its tanks again and got airborne, routed around Spanish airspace and headed north, landing at RAF Northolt to off-load Richter, the dead soldier and the injured SAS trooper – he had a badly broken leg, but the injury wasn’t life-threatening – before continuing to RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire, where transport was waiting for the SAS team.

Simpson had sent a car to meet Richter, with a man from Vauxhall Cross in the back seat to collect the camera and receive a verbal debrief on what was seen at Aïn Oussera. The moment Richter opened his office door at Hammersmith, the direct line had begun ringing.

‘So how come you think they were right?’ Richter asked, wearily.

‘Because of what’s happened since you left for your away-day in Algeria. The troops that pursued you – they weren’t regular army?’

‘I doubt it. Most Third-World armed forces run a mile the moment they come up against any kind of competent opposition, but these guys didn’t. They didn’t back off and they used good tactics. They were definitely some kind of elite troops, and they bloody nearly had us.’

‘And what are your conclusions about the empty hangar?’ Simpson probed.

‘My best guess is they’ve lost a valuable aircraft – or somebody’s stolen one. The guards are probably just there to protect the scene of the crime while they continue to investigate it. So what else has happened in my absence that suggests Six have got something right for once?’

‘Two things have arisen,’ Simpson replied. ‘Firstly, Algeria might not be the only nation to be having problems with its fighter inventory. The NSA claims to have intercepted signals in Iran that suggest the country may be missing a pair of interceptors. But then the Americans add that the traffic was “ambiguous”, whatever the hell that means.’

‘And second?’ Richter prompted.

‘And secondly we’ve had a surprise request from the Russians for assistance in tracking certain military aircraft movements. Their own military aircraft movements, to be exact. I’ve said you’ll go to Moscow and help them out.’

‘Why me? I was hoping for a bit of a break. Can’t someone else go?’

‘No, because the request from Moscow asked for you specifically.’

‘Who’s behind that?’

‘Viktor Bykov – and he’s now a senior general in the GRU. Despite what you did to him in France, I think he trusts you – maybe more than I do. Anyway, it’s your name on the ticket, and there’s a diplomatic passport waiting for you now in the Documents Section. You’re booked on tomorrow’s British Airways flight, and Bykov or one of his staff will be meeting you at Sheremetievo.’ He paused to check his notes, then continued.

‘The Registry staff are preparing a laptop for you. It’ll contain pictures from the US Keyhole birds that cover the specific dates and times the Russians have requested – suitably sanitized, of course. They’ve highlighted possible radar contacts that could be the aircraft the Russians are interested in, with their estimated points of departure and possible destinations. We’ve also arranged for a photo interpreter from N-PIC to be standing by in Washington and another one at JARIC in case you need further analysis, or additional frames to be sent.’

‘What about a personal weapon?’

‘Certainly not. You’re going to Moscow to help the GRU track down some missing aircraft. It’s merely a joint investigation into an anomaly, so what the hell do you want a gun for? And, Richter, I know that your concept of diplomacy is to break someone’s leg and then say “Lean on me”, but we’re supposed to be working with the Russians on this, not against them. So try not to kill too many people while you’re over there.’

Letneozerskiy interceptor base, Karelia, Russia

‘I assure you, Colonel, that my staff correctly completed all the documentation before the two MiG-25 interceptors left this station. You’ve seen it, all of it. If any mistakes were made, they must have occurred at Zaporizhia. I’ve never trusted that maintenance facility. This isn’t the first time their record-keeping has proved less than adequate.’

Anatoli Yershenko looked across the desk at the officer commanding 524 IAP. Colonel Grigor Adashev hadn’t actually obstructed his inspection team, but he certainly hadn’t helped much. And the colonel was now sweating slightly, which might be due to the heat pumping out of two large radiators – rusty and wheezing but undeniably effective – bolted to the walls either side of his desk. Or might there be another reason?

‘So you say, Colonel, so you say. My problem is that I’ve talked to Zaporizhia, and the officer I spoke to insists there’s no record of either aircraft in their database over the last six months. Your problem is that your recorded squadron strength isn’t matched by the aircraft currently parked in your hangars, and you don’t need me to tell you how serious that could be.’