Andy McNab - Meltdown

Since 2000 a new dimension had been added to the capability of the Predator. Some boffin had come up with the idea of strapping Hellfire anti-tank missiles and a laser beam alongside the infra-red torch. The idea was that if the operator saw an opportunist target – armoured vehicles, say – he could switch on the laser beam and 'splash' the target before kicking off one of the fourteen missiles beneath the Predator's wings. The Hellfire is a laserguided missile, so it picks up the laser through the detector in its nose and follows the beam to the target.

This was how many terrorists were being located and killed in places like Afghanistan. The Predator flies so high, it cannot be seen or heard. So when the terrorists leave the protection of their cave hideouts and travel in their pickups to attack British soldiers, the Predator operator, hundreds of miles away, can mark the targets with the laser beam and kick off the Hellfires.

High above Manchester, the Predator was following every move of the Mini, and the operator watched on a green-hazed screen.

'The target is now turning right. That's right onto… wait.'

He checked the sat nav monitor, which showed exactly where the target was.

'Right onto Maple Street.'

Phil's voice came back immediately in the operator's earphones.

'Roger that. I'm halfway down Hayward.' In the Mini, Freddie had not the slightest idea that he was being tracked by so many million pounds worth of technology.

Freddie was worried. He was thinking about Albie. The news of his death had shocked him. Not that he would shed any tears over Albie; he was worried about himself.

Like everyone on the team, Freddie had been only too delighted to join the Meltdown set-up when the twins came calling. He'd known Teddy and Will since university, where they had been popular, with their good looks and endless amounts of Mummy's cash to throw about.

Freddie had never been popular. His name, his flaming red hair, his obsessive behaviour, his volatile temper, everything had conspired to make him an easy target for the cruel jokes that everyone thought were just a laugh. He knew that the twins had chosen him because he was a loner. They weren't friends. They despised him just as much as he despised them.

But he was making big money, so why should he care – about the twins or anyone else? None of the team working for the twins gave a toss about the victims of the drug they were producing; about the damage, destruction and death it was causing.

Suddenly everything seemed to be turning sour. The burned-out coaches, the attack on Teddy, and now Albie's death… Nothing much was known about Albie – it was merely a brief item in the Manchester Evening News reporting the discovery of his body. But of course there was going to be an inquest, and Freddie was only too aware of what that would reveal.

He was thinking about getting out while he still could. But that wouldn't be easy. Even though Albie was dead, the twins still had plenty more muscle around for retaining their workers' loyalty. And there was the money. Freddie was good at earning it, but he was even better at spending it.

'One more job,' he said to himself as he eased the Mini down the street. 'One more, maybe two. Then I'll just go – some place where they won't find me. America maybe. Or Australia.'

He flicked the Mini's indicator and began to slow.

*

In the Portacabin, the operator got back on the net.

'The target is stopping… Wait… Wait… He's parking on the left, three quarters of the way down Maple Street.'

'Roger that. On Maple now.'

The operator watched the pure white shape that was Freddie get out of the paler Mini; paler because it was heated by the engine.

'He's foxtrot, on the pavement… W a i t… Wait… He's feeding a parking meter, two cars in front of his Mini.'

Phil drove along Maple Street and saw the parked Mini and then Freddie.

'Phil has Fred. Keep the trigger on the car. I'll take Fred.'

The operator kept the Predator flying in a wide circle above the Mini as he watched Phil's vehicle park up just short of Freddie's car on the opposite side of the road.

'Roger that, Phil. Trigger is on the car.'

He watched the white shape that was Phil get out and start to follow Freddie, who was already walking away.

The operator could hear the propeller of a second Predator start to rev up on the runway in preparation for take-off. There had to be twenty-four-hour coverage of the city: the team hoped to locate the DMP by following Freddie – he was the only lead they had, and the reasoning was that he would go there one day. With luck it would be one day soon.

Until then, each Predator would take turns to spend its maximum of thirty hours in the air over Manchester.

*

Phil stood in an estate agent's doorway and watched Freddie disappear into an Indian restaurant. 'Loner,' he breathed.

He thought of Freddie inside the restaurant, seated at a table set for one, trying to look as though he was enjoying himself as he avoided the pitying glances from couples and groups at other tables.

It was all depressingly familiar. Phil smiled and pulled up the collar on his jacket. 'He's not the only one,' he said to himself.

It was going to be another long wet night.

The pale, watery sun was rising behind the spires of Barcelona cathedral. It was a magnificent sight, but Dudley was in no mood to appreciate the view.

Events had moved on at a furious pace and in a totally unexpected manner. And Dudley had a longstanding aversion to the unexpected – or anything beyond his control.

The call to GCHQ had come through in the middle of the night. Several terse phone calls later, Dudley was driven at high speed to RAF Northolt in West London and flown out to Barcelona in a private jet.

The fierce arguments, accusations and recriminations had continued the moment he arrived at the safe-house apartment at the top of a block overlooking the Gothic quarter of the city.

As he sipped at a cup of coffee, Dudley felt angry with himself for not anticipating or even considering this development.

And the arrival of the Spanish edition of that day's Times newspaper had brought yet another serious blow. The headline made horrifying reading.

THINK-TANK PREDICTS EUROPEAN MELTDOWN

There had been a leak. Someone on the inside had given The Times its 'world exclusive'.

The source of the leak didn't matter at that moment; what mattered was the catastrophic effect the revelations would have on public confidence and morale.

The think-tank's nightmare scenario – police forces throughout Europe being unable to cope, health services breaking down under the pressure on the system and, worst of all for Dudley, Meltdown falling into the hands of some terrorist organization – was all there in black and white for anyone to read.

And following the revelations of the last few hours, it appeared that the feared terror link might well turn into a reality.

Dudley threw down the paper, imagining the redhot phone lines between Downing Street and the major European capitals, and the questions that would be asked in the House later that day.

It was a disaster, and there was only one way out. The Meltdown operation had to be successfully concluded within days. Then the government and his own department could put a positive spin on their secrecy claiming that the information had been withheld in the public interest and that, as a result, an international crisis had been averted.

It would be the perfect solution, but with so many strands needing to be wound up at virtually the same moment, timing would be crucial. They still needed to discover the whereabouts of the DMP, and now a completely new element had been thrown into the melting pot.