Without warning

But the engineer said nothing. He didn’t even raise it. Culver decided to nudge him.

‘I have to say, Mr Kipper,’ he began, ‘I am surprised it got sorted, as you put it. People must have been a tad upset with General Blackstone, no? I would’ve thought a lot of folks might have wanted him arrested and court-martialled. Or at least relieved of duty.’

Kipper shrugged. ‘Look, it’s a tough call. Blackstone is an asshole. He shouldn’t have done what he did, but he gets as much credit for pulling this place through the last month as anyone. More than most, really. I guess unusual times call for unusual methods.’ The engineer checked his watch before going on. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, Mr Culver, but is there some reason we had to arrange such a cloak-and-dagger meeting for a conversation you could have a hundred times over down on the conference floor?’

Culver smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Kipper, I know you’re very busy. There was one thing. Have you ever dealt with a Major Ty McCutcheon?’

* * * *

43 GUANTANAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA

The screaming howl of turbines prompted Tusk Musso to dive for the floor, badly jarring his elbow and bruising a few ribs. Thunder struck the headquarters building. Windows shattered and the floor seemed to jump beneath him as a computer screen crashed down off the desk. Smoke poured into the office from down the hallway and dozens of phones rang as the base-alert siren trumpeted the end of the world. The shouts of Marines, sailors and soldiers in and out of the building reached Musso dully through the ringing in his ears.

‘Corpsman! Man down!’

‘What the fuck, what the fuck…’

‘The armoury - now, Gutteres …’

Colonel Pileggi picked herself up, checked for any injuries while dusting off, and reached for one of the two ringing telephones. She began shouting into the mouthpiece just as Musso grabbed the other phone.

‘Commanding officer,’ Musso yelled, finger to his ears. He heard an unfamiliar voice, gruff and powerful, as someone attempted to make himself heard over the crash of rockets and gunfire.

‘Gunnery Sergeant Miles Price, base security, sir. Orders?’

‘What’s our status, Gunny?’ coughed Musso as he caught a lungful of dust and smoke.

The room glowed bright orange from the flames in the bay, bright enough to blot out the stars and illuminate the panic of the civilians on the vessels crammed together down there. Their cries and screams registered faintly in the small spaces between the crash and roar of battle.

‘Got a battalion-sized landing force in the bay, sir,’ the gunner shouted back. ‘They’ve split into two groups. One headed for the airfield, the other for your position. My Marines are scattered all over the base. It’ll take at least fifteen minutes to get everyone up.’

Musso carried the phone with him over to the window, taking care not to present an easy target. He could see a column of six-wheeled armoured vehicles and amtracs rolling out of the bow of the beached container ship. Muzzle flashes twinkled from their gun mounts as long ropey arcs of tracer fire reached out for targets unseen in the night.

‘Try to set up an anti-tank team and hit that column headed for headquarters,’ he called down the phone. ‘Colonel Pileggi’s organising a security force to handle the airfield. Give every swinging dick a weapon – I don’t care what branch they are or what their MOS is, I want everyone armed. Grab any willing civilians, too. Anyone who can and will pull a trigger. We’re in the shit deep, Gunny. You read me?’

‘Yes, sir, we are indeed in the shit,’ Price replied. ‘I’ll get on that anti-tank team.’

‘Okay. I’ll keep someone on this line,’ Musso promised. He turned to the navy lieutenant by the door. ‘Lieutenant McCurry, man this phone.’

‘Aye, sir,’ barked McCurry, taking the handset from him.

Tusk watched as Pileggi continued to yell into her phone. ‘No, hold those fuckers off the airfield, Sergeant!’ she insisted. ‘And if you’ve got civilians volunteering to fight, then let them. I don’t have time for any bullshit about whether or not it’s kosher – just do it!’

‘Can you hold it?’ Musso asked her as she slammed the receiver down.

‘I have no idea, sir. I’m not over there, I’m here,’ Pileggi said.

‘Grab a couple of Marines as close protection, and a personal weapon, and go, Susie. You’re my man out there.’

She stood to attention and ripped out a salute. Then she was gone, barking out orders at men in the hallway he couldn’t see.

Turning back to the shattered window on the second floor of his headquarters building, Musso watched tracer fire flickering across the airfield, some of it going astray into the bay, skipping across the water. A C-5 Galaxy was trying to climb off the runway and claw its way into the air. Ice water flooded Musso’s veins as tracer reached out from the perimeter of the airfield to pepper the fuselage of the massive cargo transport.

Climb, Musso prayed silently. Climb.