Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 2

  My heaven is interrupted by a beep on my phone, which is on the table next to me. The reason I had picked The Jube, was because of its advert for free wifi, and how much that would make contact with Jeremiah all the more easy. We communicate via anonymous Twitter accounts, deleting them and starting them as we go, each of us only ever with one follower. It’s the Twitter app that seeks my attention, and it lights up the screen. I check it.

  ‘CALL ASAP’

  It’s Jeremiah. I use Cryptocall and dial his number without delay. Again, he picks up near immediately, but when he does, his voice sounds as if he is down a well, a flat, muffled echo holding his words hostage. There is unmistakable urgency in his voice.

  ‘Are you in the Devon?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘We’ve intercepted a communication. The plane is ahead of schedule.’

  This isn’t good. I’m in position in Woolacombe, but not in position at RMB Chivenor, but before I can say anything Jeremiah’s next words change the game entirely.

  ‘They are bringing it down, hard and heavy into the sea.’

  I sit, bolt upright.

  ‘Where?’ I say.

  ‘The cliffs north of Woolacombe. Follow the coastline to a peninsular of rock about a mile away. It’s called Morte Point. You should be able to see the plane from there, and where it ends up landing.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. What am I dealing with, Jeremiah?’

  ‘You have to get there. You can intercept the cargo, and I promise you, if you knew what we are dealing with here, you would do everything you could to intervene. There will be a recovery team en route. You can beat them to it.’

  I don’t know what to do. This sounds so far-fetched, so grand, so over-blown. So much more than I bargained for. The dog looks at me quizzically from my feet.

  ‘It’s of national importance?’ I ask.

  ‘I swear, Ben,’ Jeremiah says, ‘this is very big stuff. If you are what you say you are, your next move could be huge in terms of Great Britain’s safety.’

  He’s got me. I’m up, grabbing my trusty waterproof rucksack, and running for the door.

  ‘Morte Point?’ I say, while moving into the sunshine.

  ‘It’s about a mile and a half away, north along the coast. The plane will be with you in about twenty minutes. You can make it.’

  I’m running, along the middle of the road. I’m wearing board shorts, a hoodie and trail shoes. Not really equipped for an operation of any kind, but it will have to do. I need to remember what it was like with superiors, which is harder now that essentially I am my own boss. I need to act without hesitation, and without questioning my orders and objectives.

  ‘What does the cargo look like?’ I ask, as I hop up onto the pavement again to run down the main street towards the shops, and bob between the members of a family plodding along with ice creams.

  ‘We don’t know. No idea,’ Jeremiah replies. A tremor of his voice suggests he is aware how hopeless that is, and how ridiculous it sounds.

  ‘You want me attend a plane crash wreckage in order to retrieve an item which you know little about? Have I got that right?’

  I don’t mean to sound sarcastic but it’s almost impossible not to.

  ‘We have an idea what it is, but not how it is traveling.’

  ‘Jesus. So when I get to this destroyed plane, I need to find this mystery item before the authorities do? Is there anything you can tell me about it?’

  His voice takes a grave tone.

  ‘Yes. When you find it, don’t fuck with it.’

  I weave between more holiday-makers and drop into one of the small seaside shops. Chocolate, books, flip-flops and inflatables stare at me, not to mention confused customers.

  ‘What is the depth of the water?’ I ask. ‘Off Morte Point - what is the depth of the water?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replies Jeremiah. ‘But I can try to find out?’

  ‘About 30 feet, give or take,’ says a quiet female voice. I turn to the source of the information - the lady at the till looks at me unsurely. I shut my phone and approach her.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Do you have a snorkel mask?’

  ‘Just these here,’ she says pointing at a rack of kids swimming equipment. A Hello Kitty snorkel kit seems to be the only one. Time is of the essence. I wasn’t expecting this chain of events, so it will have to do.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, reaching for the sweet counter, ‘and these’. To cover any prolonged period of observation, I put a handful of Snickers bars on the counter, and take a twenty from my pocket. ‘I’m gonna grab two bottles of Lucozade and two of water from the fridge by the door when I go, will this cover it?’

  She looks at the twenty.

  ‘Rather,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you for the help,’ I say, before scooping the items into my rucksack and heading for the door.

  Back out into the sunshine, with my supplies, I turn right and start to run at a steady pace. Approximately 18 minutes to run a mile and a half across undulating rock and coastal roads. That’s about 4.5 miles an hour, give or take. That is extremely doable. I can make it. I have planned for times like this, so I can work things out in a pinch. I keep my pack weight at around 6kg, never more, hoping for less. That includes all my worldly possessions. I certainly travel light. But I know I can run a flat marathon with a 6kg pack in about 2 hours 50 minutes. So, 9 miles per hour. Even over a few bumps laden with a sodding Hello Kitty snorkel kit, I can do this.

  I cross the road and head towards the sea, which I can hear over the cars, gulls and breeze. It’s a beautiful place, Woolacombe. But in mere moments it will be at the centre of a shitstorm the likes of which it will never have seen before.

  3

  The run feels good. It reminds me of my training. That will to push oneself, for personal betterment. If it weren’t for what frankly sounds like a national incident brewing, which I’m about to unceremoniously gatecrash, I’d be enjoying myself. The breeze is pleasant, flicking invigorating sea air up my nose, and the sun isn’t too harsh. No wonder people like coming here, cradled by the sea on the soft, golden sand.

  I had to veer inland slightly, as the road peeled away from the immediate coast. But I can see where I am heading. Morte Point. It reaches out of the swelling ocean like a gigantic beached whale made of shattered stone, moss and grass. It is a high-ish, rocky peninsular. I can see white dots peppering the cliffs and hillsides leading to the furthermost jagged stone extremity. Sheep. Heaven knows how they exist out there.

  I seem to be approaching a settlement, as I pound the tarmac up the hill. I pass an old stone church and a couple of bed and breakfast retreats. There is a quiet square, a grand oak hanging over it, with a couple of pubs and a shop. Nowthis is England. This is what I fought for. The shop sign reads Mortehoe Bakery. I will be fucking livid if the plane comes down on this place. And now I hope I can grab this cargo and bed down here for the night, perhaps in one of those little hotels. Safe in a quaint little English cranny.

  I scan the square, looking for an inkling as to where to go next. A side road next to one of the pubs, called The Ship Aground, has a green National Trust sign at its opening. As soon as I can make out the lettering, inscribed ‘Morte Point’, I’m off again. I check my watch, as I sprint past a couple leaving the pub with a couple of shandies. Do I alert them? Do I tell them what I’ve been warned is to go down just a short distance from here?

  No time. Stick to the objective. And pray that there won’t be any collateral casualties resulting from my silence.

  The road disintegrates the further from the square I travel, becoming shingle, while snaking past an ancient-looking cemetery. I don’t slow, but I would love to. I’d love to examine this unique setting and wallow in it for a while. But I know, that somewhere overhead, tonnage of steel is en route, ready to drop straight into this postcard. I have to beat it.

  The shingle becomes grass, the softness most welcome, and I am out in a fie
ld, breathing hard. Sheep bleat at me. I’m feeling it now. I see the highest peak of the peninsula overhead, but I don’t want to go there. I want to go around it, to the other side, and get a good fix on this plane. I see that if I travel a short way up the small summit, there is a fork in the pathway, with one trail leading onwards and upwards, and the other snaking around the middle of the hill like a stone belt. That’s my route.

  I feel the burn in my calves now, solid and steady. It grows with every stride. I keep my ears pricked for any sign of the inbound aircraft, but nothing yet. Keep pressing. I take the fork, and the trail levels off, and things are instantly easier to my legs. About time. I can now pick up a bit of speed, while I scour the skies.

  I have to bound over a couple of boulders, and tuck my stride in so that I don’t catch my bare legs on brambles, but the trail is well worn and progress is steady. There are some walkers ahead of me, a little party of four. An older couple and a younger couple, enjoying a stroll, perhaps to watch the waves crash off the peninsular at sundown. Their gaits are similar, their postures identical. They are a family.

  I can’t ignore them this time - I can’t let them stay here.

  ‘Please!’ I shout to them. ‘Please go back to Mortehoe!’

  The younger of the men turns to look at me, himself with longish grey hair and a beard to match, with a walking stick and a wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘It’s not safe here!’ I shout as I head to them at speed.

  They stand there indecisively, but as I get closer I shout again, drawing on the one half-truth about me that might contain a shred of authority.

  ‘I’m a soldier, and this area is not safe!’

  That seems to do the trick, as the older man leans into his son, a slight smile and a glint in his eye behind wide spectacles.

  ‘Fair enough. Best head back for a gin and tonic,’ I hear him say as I race by. They are turning back. Thank God. It may prove to be a tiny gesture in the grander scheme of things, but at least it’s something. In some ways, I would very much like to go with them. And that’s when I feel it, just as I rise around the corner.

  It feels like a dip in pressure, but it’s not. That’s just the way our bodies manifest the change. It’s actually a tone, pitched lower than ordinary human perception, but one that is nevertheless picked up by our sensory systems. We all have this capability, just not everyone’s has been as finely tuned as mine. That’s what 10 years in the army will give you. It’s the rumble of something approaching from above, not yet loud enough for my ears to hear.

  The plane. Jeremiah’s intel, it seems, was spot on. I knew it would be a good idea to get him onside. When I was trying to take down a criminal gang known as The Berg in Manchester, I thought I needed someone in an official capacity who could tie the loose ends that I could not. I don’t want justice escaping anyone who deserves it, either from my martial law or the more traditional channels. Jeremiah is my connection to those channels. I give him what he needs to make arrests and get convictions, and he uses the department information networks and resources to give me the intel I need to bring these people down. In statistical terms we are 2 for 2, after Felix Davison in Manchester and Wes Finnegan in Benalmadena. There is some kind of rapport there, and we haven’t let each other down yet.

  I keep my speed up over the next craggy rise, and I am greeted by Morte Point in all its glory. Treacherous rocks lean out into the sea from all angles of the peninsula, standing resolute against crashing white foam. I can picture there being a lot of shipwrecks here, their hulls littering the bottom of the sea floor like grand wooden elephant carcasses in a subaquatic boneyard.

  I need to find a spot. A vantage point. A perch. I need to get a fix on this plane. The hum is audible now, and I’m not just feeling it in my gut. It’s coming. I climb across the rocks on my hands on knees, fixing on a small elevation close to the crashing sea itself. I shimmy, crawl and scramble, but it doesn’t take me long. Thankfully the rock is dry, otherwise I’m sure it would be a different story. I reach my destination, which sits proud over a trench swelling with gushing water, leading right out into the ocean. Perfect.

  I set down my backpack, and breathe. Take a moment. Use the respite. Mentally fortify. I don’t know what’s coming, but I want to be ready.

  I scan the skies, and I’m taken back to a day earlier, in Spain. How things change can change so quickly. The sun is beginning its slow descent, increasing the vibrancy of the sea’s blue with a dulled, amplified saturation.

  A huge cumulonimbus column drifts across the sun, and I am able to see better momentarily.

  There it is.

  Jesus. For a start, it is fucking huge. Way bigger than I was expecting. It’s a commercial jet. I was expecting a rusted Cessna that can barely lift its landing gear, not this behemoth. That can’t be full of people, it just can’t. Please...

  I feel massively underprepared, like a baseball catcher in the outfield, with the ball hurtling towards me - only it’s not a ball, it’s a huge boulder. All I can do is watch.

  Hang on, this plane is supposed to be going down, isn’t it? Well, as it makes its approach heading southeasterly towards the coast through the northern sky, it looks just fine. Casual even. It’s low, on approach, but considering it is supposed to be landing less than 10 miles away, that is entirely to be expected.

  I turn to look back up the cliffs. I’m looking for any sign of life, but Morte Point is bare. It’s just cliffs, the surf, the plane and me. The plane coming down is clearly a hasty addition to whatever plan is afoot. Whoever organized it hasn’t even got their welcoming committee in place. It must have been urgent. A last minute change. Maybe they are bringing the plane down to sink the mysterious dangerous cargo to the bottom of the sea, away from potential harm? Maybe we have the same interests at heart?

  No. Trust Jeremiah. He has not let me down before.

  As I look at the plane, I am surprised to see it splitting. I can’t hear anything, but it is clearly ripping apart in a burst of orange, the rear of the plane engulfed in flames. It’s like I am watching a horrific air disaster on mute. Then the boom of the explosion finally hits, the sound waves eventually reaching me at their slower speed to the much quicker light that brought me the awful sight. I feel my knees tense, my posture coiling. I can do nothing, but still my trained body stands subconsciously ready.

  The nose of the plane tips forward, and I hear the screech of air blasting against metal, as the plane is now airborne in a way it was never supposed to. It sounds prehistoric, a huge beast brought down from the sky, wailing as it goes. It is falling fast.

  I am overtaken by the queasy thought that this plane might drop right on top of me. I might have been far too hasty and positioned myself at precisely the wrong place at the wrong time, which would encapsulate the running theme of my last few years perfectly. But the plane, roaring and whistling with obscene depth and resonance, is going to miss me. I can see that clearly now. I reach into my pack, and grab the snorkel mask, ripping it clear of its cheery pink packaging. I hope, beyond hope, that there is nobody on it. Seeing a commercial jet stricken in such a way, all I can see in my mind’s eye are happy families screaming, crying and suffering with oxygen masks dancing angrily inches from their noses.

  The nose of the plane hits water, tipping its metal body higher, the sound of the impact a titanic boom with a hot fizz of spraying seawater. My unwelcome visions burn in intensity, and, as much to shut out my horrible imagination, I throw myself at the water in a long arrowed dive, clutching the snorkel mask with both hands out in front. I hit the sea at the same time as the body of the plane, reaching for the sea floor, and hope that the shopkeeper’s earlier assertions that the water depth here is thirty feet is correct. If I smash my head on a rock, this is going to be a very short sub-aquatic adventure.

  The water is cool, not cold, warmed a touch by a long day of sunshine. After the run up here, it is as refreshing as cold lemonade. Under the water, I righten myself, and acclimatize briefly
. The sound underwater is amazing, with the muddied rumbling bass of a huge vessel settling after a sudden introduction to the brine, overlaid with soft percussive whispers of surf overhead. I clamp the snorkel mask over my eyes with one hand, and stretch the rubber strap around the back of my head with the other, in a well-practiced move. Tilting my head back, I exhale sharply through my nose, which clears the mask of water immediately. I snap my eyes open, and take it in. Below me, about 15 feet down, is a thick bed of seaweed and kelp, reaching up to me with soft waving tentacles, kind of like an inflatable waving arm guy you get in car-showroom forecourts, only in slow-motion and painted the drabbest of greens. I follow along the carpet of vegetation to a shelf, which descends gradually out to see. It looks like an extremely poorly kept golf course, with an undulating fairway, that hasn’t been mowed in generations.