Without warning

‘Sergeant Anderson – Michael Anderson,’ the man replied. ‘But you can call me Micky if you want. You look pretty badly shot up there, Bret – mind if I call you Bret? You get caught up with the Marines?’

He shook his head. ‘Nope, 5-7 Cav. At An Nasiriyah.’

The sergeant nodded sagely but said, ‘Didn’t hear about that. But then, there’s been a helluva lotta fighting here and there. They’re still patching my C-130 back together after all the fire we took from the Iranians on our way here. Co-pilot didn’t make it. Hell of a ride, I’ll tell you. Two burning and two turning, and I don’t mean jets. Your guys, the ones you embedded with, they okay?’

‘Afraid not. We got caught in a bad spot. They mortared the shit out of us… I don’t even know how we got out.’

The realisation had just struck him. He really had no idea why he was alive. Shetty hadn’t explained how the two of them escaped, only that they’d been blown into a building of some sort. A shop or something. One of the other platoons must have fought their way over to drag them out. Hadn’t they lost air support just before the mortars started to fall…?

He found himself slipping away into reverie and consciously pulled himself back into the present. ‘Sorry, Sergeant… I mean, Micky. I’ve only just woken up. Been out of it since we got hit. But no, I don’t think many guys made it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Anderson said quietly. ‘But at least you weren’t with the Marines at Abadan. Man, what a fucking mess.’ He didn’t explain further. Another forkful of chilli mac effectively silenced him.

Melton gingerly dunked his bread into the rich broth of beef stew and tried to focus on the TV screen. He recognised BBC World’s business news presenter, Dharshini David, on the screen. Her normally dark, full lips seemed pale and pressed tightly together, and her eyes were haunted and nervous. It was hard to hear what she was saying, but a tagline rolling across the bottom of the screen and a small picture window hovering beside her head gave him the impression that there had been a massive banking collapse in Europe. The little video window carried footage of black-clad riot police, whom Melton recognised as French CRS, baton-charging a huge crowd laying siege to an old colonnaded building. He assumed it was a financial institution that had run out of money. The scene switched to London, where even bigger crowds waited, a lot more patiently, outside a large Barclays bank in the City. A man in a dark blue suit made some sort of announcement to them and they reacted with catcalls and jeering, but there was no violence. The presenter then threw to an interview with a frightened-looking woman who was nursing two children.

‘Any idea what that’s about, Micky?’

Sergeant Anderson glanced quickly over his shoulder at the television and shrugged. ‘Something about the banks falling over.’ He grunted in disgust. ‘Welcome to my world. I haven’t been paid yet – not that it matters, since my ex gets half of it. Or… she used to, I suppose.’ He stabbed at his food. ‘But at least I’m not going hungry.’

Yet, thought Melton.

* * * *

23 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

He could tell there was a problem from a couple of blocks away. Two women, one of them covered in blood, ran past his truck, hair streaming behind, eyes bugging out. Kipper nearly gift-wrapped a telephone pole trying to follow them in his mirror. When he looked up and saw the danger, he jerked the pick-up back onto a safe course with one wrenching pull on the steering wheel. He could see more people running towards him, many of them pounding up the middle of the road, which was free of any vehicles save his own. With his heart beating quickly, Kip pulled over and wound down his window, immediately becoming aware of a distant siren.

He hopped out of the vehicle and tried to flag down somebody to ask what had happened. It had to be a problem with the food bank, but nobody would stop. A couple of young men abused him when he tried to block their path.

‘Get out of the way, you crazy old fuck! D’you wanna get killed too?’

And then he realised that the crackling, popping sound he could hear was gunfire. Shit.

Kipper jumped back into his truck, but before stomping on the gas, he redialled Barney, who answered on the second ring.

‘What’s happening, boss man?’

‘Something’s gone wrong, Barn. Very fucking wrong. I’m about two blocks from Costco and I can hear shots and there’s all sorts of people running past me. Some of them bleeding.’

A string of oaths burst out of the earpiece.

‘It sounds like the cops are coming, but get on the phone anyway. Make sure they get here before the army – those assholes should have been here already. If the army turn up now, they’re just as likely to kill anyone they see moving… Oh, and send some ambulances, too. I think we’re gonna need lots of ambulances.’