Thirst

by L.A. Larkin

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Antarctica is the coldest, most isolated place on earth. Luke Searle, maverick glaciologist, has made it his home. But soon his survival skills will be tested to the limit by a ruthless mercenary who must win at any cost.

The white continent is under attack. The Australian team is being hunted down. Can Luke stay alive long enough to raise the alarm? Can he avert a global catastrophe?

The countdown has begun. T minus 5 days, 2 hours and 53 minutes . . .

Praise for L. A. Larkin:

'Delivers action and intrigue in spades' Peter James

'Action that hits like an ice-pick in the back of the head' John Birmingham

'The stakes are high and the thrills are as plentiful as the ice in this well-crafted thriller' Herald Sun

'Taut and pacey, a thriller for our times. Larkin starts at a frantic pace and doesn't stop' Bunty Avieson

Release date: September 8, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

T Minus 5 Days, 2 Hours, 53 Minutes

T Minus 5 Days, 2 Hours, 51 Minutes

T Minus 5 Days, 1 Hour, 50 Minutes

T Minus 5 Days, 1 Hour, 34 Minutes

T Minus 5 Days, 1 Hour, 1 Minute

T Minus 5 Days, 29 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 22 Hours, 40 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 22 Hours, 5 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 21 Hours, 35 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 21 Hours, 35 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 20 Hours, 56 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 18 Hours, 42 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 11 Hours, 40 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 9 Hours, 17 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 9 Hours, 4 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 5 Hours, 36 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 3 Hours, 17 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 1 Hour, 33 Minutes

T Minus 4 Days, 1 Hour, 16 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 22 Hours, 58 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 21 Hours, 50 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 21 Hours, 49 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 19 Hours, 26 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 19 Hours

T Minus 3 Days, 18 Hours, 55 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 17 Hours, 56 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 16 Hours, 44 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 4 Hours, 59 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 3 Hours, 15 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 1 Hour, 30 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 1 Hour, 15 Minutes

T Minus 3 Days, 38 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 23 Hours, 43 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 23 Hours, 22 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 23 Hours, 22 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 22 Hours, 20 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 22 Hours, 11 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 21 Hours, 57 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 21 Hours, 24 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 20 Hours, 50 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 19 Hours, 56 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 19 Hours, 15 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 19 Hours

T Minus 2 Days, 17 Hours, 46 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 17 Hours, 46 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days, 16 Hours, 57 Minutes

T Minus 2 Days

T Minus 1 Day, 18 Hours

T Minus 1 Day, 12 Hours, 48 Minutes

T Minus 1 Day, 12 Hours, 34 Minutes

T Minus 1 Day, 11 Hours, 49 Minutes

T Minus 1 Day, 2 Hours, 55 Minutes

T Minus 19 Hours, 46 Minutes

T Minus 10 Hours, 50 Minutes

T Minus 4 Hours, 30 Minutes

T Minus 4 Hours, 3 Minutes

T Minus 3 Hours, 48 Minutes

T Minus 3 Hours, 38 Minutes

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T Minus 3 Hours, 16 Minutes

T Minus 2 Hours, 58 Minutes

T Minus 2 Hours, 39 Minutes

T Minus 1 Hour, 55 Minutes

T Minus 1 Hour, 20 Minutes

T Minus 59 Minutes

T Minus 38 Minutes

T Minus 3 Minutes

T Plus 11 Minutes

T Plus 2 Years

Acknowledgements

At minus thirty degrees Celsius, the trickle of blood on Mac’s beard froze rapidly.

‘Wh— what do you want?’ he stammered, spreadeagled on his back.

His masked attacker didn’t respond. In the struggle, Mac’s prescription goggles had been torn off, so the man pointing an assault rifle at him was a terrifying blur.

Minutes earlier, Mac had been helping Dave to remove fragile scientific equipment from the camp’s red, domed pods, known as ‘apples’. The Walgreen Crevasse project was complete and they were shutting down camp for the winter. The snowmobiles were loaded up, and Mac, chilled by the winds, had started swinging his arms and stamping his feet. His initial excitement at swapping shifts with Luke – the project’s glaciologist – had waned as the intense cold clawed at his bones.

Now his heart was racing and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. His ribs had been broken by a savage blow from a rifle butt and every breath was torture. A few metres away, near the crevasse edge, Dave lay with his arms raised, two guns trained on him. The last of the four strangers was unarmed and watched from a distance. He was the leader – it was clear from the way the others deferred to him.

‘Who are you?’ Mac asked, dumbfounded. There were no other field sites for at least a thousand kilometres, and he knew the nearest station, Li Bai, was currently unmanned.

Still no response. Had they heard him above the katabatic winds that hissed down the mountain and across the glacier, blowing stinging spindrift into his face?

The leader moved closer. As he bent over Mac, some of his features came into focus. He rolled his balaclava up and away from his mouth, revealing thin lips and sparse black hairs on his boyish chin. ‘Did you report our presence here?’

His voice was surprisingly deep. Authoritative. Some kind of accent … American?

Before Mac could answer, his interrogator gestured to the nearest subordinate, who kicked him in the kidneys. Mac convulsed, vomiting bile.

‘Answer. Did you radio your station?’ the man yelled like a drill sergeant.

Panting, and with his eyes now watering, Mac could barely make out the black blobs of his shattered two-way radio on the ground. They hadn’t had time to call for help. Dressed in white, the strangers had been virtually invisible. When they appeared out of nowhere, Mac and Dave had simply gawped. In Antarctica, there was no reason to assume strangers were anything but friendly, part of the international research fraternity. And they never expected visitors to be armed.

‘Yes,’ said Mac, hoping his lie would be believed. He had made his scheduled call to Hope Station at 09:00, but that was ten minutes ago.

The man in charge glanced at the radio shards, then leaned closer to Mac’s face. His small but perfect teeth were unnaturally whiter than the glacier. His eyes studied Mac’s with clinical precision. ‘I don’t believe you.’ He smiled, stretching his lips so thin they almost disappeared. ‘And you’re from Hope, the Australian station?’

Mac just managed to shake his head, although his body shrieked in pain. The last thing he was going to do was lead them to his mates.

‘I see.’

The man walked to where Dave lay, pocketed his working radio and then kicked the sole of his captive’s boot, as if inspecting a car’s tyres. Dave kicked back but his assailant jumped aside and issued orders in a language Mac didn’t understand. Two of the attackers kneeled on Dave’s arms, one on each side.

Young and fit, he struggled hard. ‘Get off me, you fuckers!’

‘Did you radio Hope Station?’ the leader called to Mac.

One of their attackers – wide-framed and short-legged, like a bulldog – pulled off Dave’s hood to reveal a mop of light-blond hair. He moved with the speed of a man used to combat.

‘Let me go!’ Dave yelled, kicking and writhing.

Mac struggled to go to the aid of his friend, but his guard shoved a rifle muzzle in his face. The broad soldier straddled Dave’s chest and slapped him twice. In the second or so it took Dave to recover, his assailant took hold of his head, a hand on either side, and twisted it sharply to the right. Despite the whining wind, the crack was unmistakable. Dave no longer moved.

Too late, Mac shouted, ‘No! No, we didn’t. For God’s sake, we never radioed.’

As the tears ran down his face and onto the hair at his temples, they froze in tiny pear-shaped beads of white.

‘That’s better. Your hesitation cost your friend his life. Don’t treat me like a fool.’

Unable to speak, Mac stared in horror as Dave, still in his safety harness, was dragged to the crevasse lip and thrown in. The ropes pinged tight, as the three metallic anchors, hammered deep into the ice, strained under his weight. For a fleeting moment, Mac imagined Dave hanging like a macabre marionette.

Mac was yanked to his feet, the pain in his ribs like an ice pick in his side. Two men held him fast. As they pulled him towards the crevasse, Mac’s terror mounted. Its mouth gaped a few metres wide, and it plunged into a deep and jagged V-shaped chasm.

He managed to tear an arm free but a rifle butt hit him between the shoulder blades and he crumpled, yelping. Mac peered down into his turquoise tomb. Faced with imminent death, all the fight drained from him and he released the contents of his bladder.

‘Please don’t,’ he begged. ‘I won’t say anything, for God’s sake.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘Yes, I do, yes. Not a word. Please, I have a wife and daughter.’

His captor barked instructions. Mac’s smashed radio was dropped into the crevasse, then the men used hammers to dislodge the ice screws still holding Dave’s weight. Once loosened, they zipped across the surface and disappeared into the depths, taking the ropes and Dave’s body with them.

‘A tragic accident. This poor man,’ the leader gestured towards the crevasse, ‘tried to save you. But unfortunately his anchors didn’t hold. Such heroism.’

‘No, not down there!’ cried Mac, attempting to pull back from the edge. ‘No! Don’t let me die down there!’

The leader placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. ‘My friend, this is not personal. In fact, we probably want the same thing.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Mac was released. He could barely stand but a glimmer of hope gave him strength and he staggered round to face his aggressor.

‘But you see,’ said the leader, gesturing to his second-in-command, ‘it has to be done.’

A kick to the stomach propelled Mac backwards, and the lip of the crevasse gave way beneath him. He was too stunned to scream. With a thud his body bounced off an ice ledge and into the blue void.

Suspended from a ten-metre rope as casually as if he were sitting on a swing, Luke Searle stabbed his crampons into the crevasse’s glassy wall. He removed his XL-sized inner and outer gloves and ran his fingers across a striking stain in the ice. It felt as smooth as polished granite. With the care of a diamond-cutter, Luke used the blade of his ice axe to chip away a tiny piece. He rolled it between his warm fingers. The ice melted slowly, releasing its gritty contents.

During all his years studying ice, he had never seen anything quite like this. Engrossed by his discovery, he ignored the barely audible voice coming from the two-way radio strapped across his chest. Not only was Luke abseiling in an unknown and potentially unstable crevasse, he was alone and had not bothered to alert anyone at Hope Station to his whereabouts.

Above Luke, the ice walls shone a milky, opalescent white. Below, the ice morphed from the palest sapphire-blue to dark titanium; here the sun penetrated for the briefest of glimpses, and then only at the height of summer. In front of him, a horizontal black line as thick as his arm ran through the ice like the licorice in an allsort. A circle of ice crystals clung to his balaclava’s mouth slit and to the tips of his eyelashes, as the moisture in his breath froze.

This was Luke’s first day off in three months. His research into accelerated glacial flow was complete, his report submitted. But his love affair with ice didn’t stop simply because his project was over. Antarctica would soon be plunged into six months of darkness; before that happened, Luke wanted to investigate his theory that a sub-glacial volcano had erupted two thousand years ago, dropping a layer of ash onto the ice that, over time, had been buried.

‘Maddie ... ten ... you read? ...’ his station leader called through the radio, every few words missing. Her persistence worried him; it might be something urgent. Luke scraped some frozen ash into a sample bag, sealed it and then ascended rapidly to the surface to improve his radio’s reception.

‘Luke, this is Maddie on channel ten. Do you read? Over.’

Luke crawled over the lip of the crevasse and away from the fragile edge. Still on all fours, he pulled the radio close to his mouth. ‘Maddie, Luke here. Receive you loud and clear.’

‘Luke, I know this is your day off but Mac’s having problems with his snowmobile and might need you to go out there and fix it. Everything’s packed into the trailer but the clutch is slipping. Over.’

The overwintering team was small so each member had to be multi-skilled and Luke’s other role was station mechanic. He checked his watch: 09:19.

‘No worries, Maddie. I’ll give him a yell now.’

‘Thanks, Luke. And by the way, it would be helpful if we knew where you were.’ She sighed.

Inside the entrance to Hope Station hung a chess-like board covered by small hooks; on every hook hung a plastic tag bearing a station member’s name. When someone left or returned to the station, they had to turn their tag. There was also a book in which they were to record their name, time of departure, destination and intended time of return. Luke had done neither.

‘Maddie, I can look after myself.’ As if to reinforce this point, Luke rose to his full height of six foot three.

‘I know you can. But I need you to set an example.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Luke, I shouldn’t be saying this on the radio, but has anyone told you what a pain in the arse you are?’

He smiled. ‘Yes, you have – several times. Oh, and my ex. And my previous boss, too, now that you mention it.’

‘Yeah, well, at least I’m not the only station leader you pay no attention to. But, we’ve got to work as a team here. Out.’

Luke stowed his abseiling gear with expert speed, slung his pack on his back and, having removed his crampons and secured them, slid his boots into his skis’ bindings.

‘Mac, this is Luke on channel ten, are you receiving? Over.’ He waited. ‘Luke to Mac, radio check, please.’

Nothing. He glanced up the mountain to the VHF repeater tower, which resembled a long ladder pointing at the sky. His signal should definitely reach the field camp because the repeater extended its range. Perhaps the silly bugger had left his radio in the field hut. He tried Dave instead, but still no response. Surely one of them should hear his voice?

He tried Mac again, and at last a response came. He could barely understand it, however, because it kept cutting out, the gaps filled with brief silence. It sounded like, ‘Mac to Luke. Receiving you weak and intermittent. Over.’

‘Mac, what’s wrong with your snowmobile? Over.’

A pause. ‘What … you mean?’

‘You radioed in. Is the clutch slipping again?’

‘Negative. The clutch is …’ Then nothing.

‘Mac, can you repeat?’

‘The clutch is fine.’

Luke frowned, surprised. Maddie wouldn’t have asked him to check if it hadn’t been important. ‘You sure?’

‘Clutch … working now.’ Still the voice kept dropping out.

‘Roger that. Mate, you sound like your head’s in a bucket of water. I can hardly hear you. ETA still midday?’

‘Mac to Luke … midday.’

‘Roger that. Radio me if you have any problems.’

‘Will do. Out.’

This was odd, but Luke decided to give Mac another call once he was back at the station.

* * *

Half an hour later, Luke slid to a stop and removed his balaclava and goggles to reveal blue-grey eyes, prominent cheekbones and weathered olive skin which belied his thirty years. His unruly black hair was sorely in need of a cut.

His home for the last five months was a structure raised above the ice on sixteen hydraulic legs. Hope Station’s silver metal skin gleamed in the anaemic sun. From where Luke stood, it looked like a cross between a giant silverfish and the Eagle lunar lander. All the living and working quarters were under one roof; the fuel tank, wind turbine, water-recycling plant, fire hut and satellite dish were separate from the main building.

The station was positioned to one side of the mighty Pine Island Glacier and faced the sea – at least, it did in the summer. It was now Antarctica’s autumn, and the fractured sea ice was fast thickening into an impenetrable barrier. In a few weeks, Pine Island Bay would be covered in an unyielding icy crust. It swelled out from the continent so much that, in the depths of winter, Antarctica bloated to double its size.

Luke closed his eyes. All he could hear was the occasional pop and crack as mountain ice surrendered to gravity, moving imperceptibly downhill towards the glacier. The stillness filled him with an energy that made his skin tingle, as if every cell in his body was being recharged. In Antarctica, especially when he was away from the day-to-day clatter and chatter of cramped station life, he felt exhilarated. Here, his thoughts had a pristine clarity.

He inhaled the sparkling sub-zero air and opened his eyes. Leaning on his ski poles, he gazed in admiration at the glacier’s endless white moonscape, which reached deep into the heart of the vast West Antarctic Ice Sheet. In the opposite direction, it met the Amundsen Sea, its giant ice tongue extending out over the water as if it were licking the salty brine.

The last supply ship had left a week ago, not to return until October. Maddie Wildman, the ball-breaking station leader, had waved a confident farewell to the ice-breaker’s crew, the pompoms on her fleece hat swinging as her arms described wide arcs. But Luke had seen her apprehensive glance at Craig, the oldest of the over-winterers, before she beamed a huge smile again. Craig had his arms folded across his knitted-by-my-wife-it’s-ghastly-but-I-love-her jumper. Tubs, the youngest, was all bravado – he had dropped his pants, and received a blast from the ship’s horn in response. But once the ship was nothing more than a smudge in the distance, Tubs had gone unusually quiet.

Over the years, Luke had watched the ship depart with relief. For him, Antarctica was home. But since the birth of his son, Jason, this relief had been tinged with guilt – and, more recently, with apprehension. There was something his six-year-old was keeping from him. As Luke pulled on his headgear and skied downhill, he felt an urgent need to talk to him. But, given the time difference, that would have to wait a few hours.

He deftly wove around rocky outcrops until he was within hailing distance of the station. Craig waved at him from the top of a ladder, where he was working on the roof of the fire hut, which housed emergency fire equipment and survival supplies. He was the station carpenter and fire chief.

As Luke headed towards Craig, three black and white Adélie penguins cut across his path. Beaks first, they slid on their bellies down the gentle incline towards the beach, oblivious to Luke’s presence.

‘Hey, mate,’ Luke called out to Craig. ‘Need some help?’

‘Nah, I’m just about done here. You, on the other hand, might need some yourself.’ Craig jerked his head behind him.

Luke glanced at the station, searching for a clue. Everything looked normal, including the Australian flag which had been snap frozen mid-flap for the last few weeks.

‘Maddie wants to see you.’ Craig climbed down the ladder, nimble for a man in his early fifties, and slapped Luke’s shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he said, with a mischievous smile.

Luke nodded and hurried on. Before he’d even removed his skis, he heard Maddie’s husky voice calling his name. She always sounded as if she had been shouting above nightclub music all night, but nothing could be further from the truth. Expecting a reprimand, his grip on his ski poles tightened a fraction. He peered up at the metal walkway, which ran the length of the raised building.

Maddie leaned over the railing and looked down at him. Her copper-coloured hair spiralled out from under her beanie and over her shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Luke,’ she said. ‘Your paper on dynamic thinning won the Seligman Crystal Award. We’re very proud of you.’ She smiled and carefully stepped down the slick steps.

Luke tore off his balaclava. ‘It did?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Yes, and so it should have. I haven’t told the others yet – wanted to let you know first. We’ll be having a big celebration tonight.’

‘Woo hoo!’ Luke punched the air. He couldn’t wait to tell Jason.

Maddie was five foot eight, muscular and slim. She adopted a no-nonsense stance with arms folded as her green eyes scanned his face. ‘Did you talk to Mac?’

‘Yeah. He said the clutch was working again, but I think I’d better get over there and check it out for myself.’

‘No need. If he said it’s fine, I’m sure it is. Let’s not waste fuel on an unnecessary trip.’

Luke hesitated, wondering if it was worth arguing. They already disagreed over so many issues.

‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ he replied, raising his arms in surrender.

Still, something didn’t feel right.

To Robert Zhao Sheng, Antarctica was a hellhole, made only just bearable by his executive chef and the billions he would earn exploiting it.

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and pushed away his half-eaten breakfast: porridge liberally sprinkled with brown sugar. His lip curled in disgust at the muddy black coffee. How he longed for oeufs florentine and a double-shot espresso. His chef did his best, but after weeks of frozen, dehydrated and boil-in-a-bag meals, Robert was suffering real hardship. Much like Robert Falcon Scott, whose diary he had been reading on his iPad.

As he leaned back in his chair, he grinned. How his competitors would squirm with jealousy when his story of courage and survival in Antarctica was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. He glanced at his video camera, still on its tripod at one end of his ten-person, super-insulated Weatherhaven tent. He was recording history in the making. It would be wall-to-wall coverage on all networks.

‘Ha!’ he said, throwing his head back.

In the world of private equity, this was unique. No one else would be able to tell of survival against such odds, of personally leading a pioneering project that would bring the world an invaluable resource – not to mention make him more money than he could ever spend. But spending it wasn’t the point. As they say, he who has the most when he dies, wins.

Robert frowned. The winds roaring down the Hudson Mountains buffeted his tent and intruded on his reverie. He glanced at his new platinum Jean Dunand watch, the only one in the world, which had cost a little shy of eight hundred thousand US dollars. He had four minutes until a call with his father, General Zhao Yun, a fellow investor in his brainchild. Robert turned up the volume of Vivaldi’s ‘L’Inverno’ concerto, from The Four Seasons, to drown out the wind’s annoying moan.

He stared down at the heater at his feet and thought of the times he’d looked down from his luxurious office at the jungle of Hong Kong’s streets. As Senior Managing Director and Chief Investment Officer of the Hood Group, a global private equity firm, Robert’s job was to find opportunity in chaos. Gold in the dross. He liked to target companies in trouble and force them to sell. Not only was it vastly profitable if done well – and Robert did it very well indeed – but it was fun watching them try to squirm out of his embrace. Of course, he did it with style and panache, even if behind the scenes his staff would schmooze, blackmail or intimidate – whatever it took to ensure that the Hood Group maintained its reputation as the private equity firm of the Orient.

Occasionally there were murmurings about the Hood Group going too far, with the politicians or the press – spokespeople for the great unwashed masses – calling them a ‘vulture fund’. But Robert was no ordinary predator. He had built the largest corporate art collection in the region, sponsored the symphony orchestra, and his foundation contributed to a portfolio of worthy causes. Patrons like him were needed, even if the ungrateful recipients despised what he did. His philanthropy was a reminder to all of his wealth and power, and – most of all – of his impeccable taste.

Robert smiled to himself. ‘I put the private back into private equity,’ he said aloud, not caring if his men outside heard. He loved to boast that a significant proportion of his company’s capital came from individuals – the new and rapidly growing class of Chinese billionaires.

It was time. Robert silenced the music, wishing he could silence the winds too. He was reminded of a production of King Lear he saw when last in London, in which the old king raged against the winds. Robert brushed the thought from his mind. The king was a fool and should never have given away his kingdom. Robert glanced in a mirror and combed his hair, parted slightly right of centre, Clark Kent-style. He was less well kempt than usual, but thought he looked rugged, like a great Antarctic explorer should.

Robert dialled into the secure teleconference and nodded at his father’s image, which filled the screen. It was after midnight in Beijing, though the General still wore the pine-green uniform of the People’s Liberation Army. He dropped his chin a fraction in acknowledgement of his son. Their traditional heartfelt greeting. Robert’s interactions with his father were like strategic moves in the Chinese board game of Go, each constantly trying to outwit the other.

‘So you ordered your first kill. Congratulations, my son,’ said the General. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘No, Father, I did not. Their deaths were unnecessary. Captain Wei made an error.’ It was hard to look imposing in the skin-tight thermals that stretched over Robert’s puny body but he leaned towards the screen, trying to fill it.

The General raised a greying eyebrow, looking at Robert over the frames of his bifocals, which rested high on the puffy skin of his cheekbones. ‘I doubt it.’

Robert had never seen any warmth in his father’s eyes, let alone any sign of approval. It didn’t matter to the General that in the financial world Robert was famous – or rather infamous – or that his net worth could wipe out the debt of many third-world countries.

‘My men are under strict instructions to keep away from Hope Station people,’ Robert replied. ‘Two of Wei’s soldiers were at the Fitzgerald Fissure. We believe MacNamara and Cox spotted their snowmobiles. They should have taken more care to conceal them.’

‘From what I hear, the Australians were racing their snowmobiles and strayed from their Walgreen Crevasse campsite.’

As usual, Robert kept his partly lame left hand hidden under his right. His grip tightened, his knuckles whitened. ‘Father, I know that Gao Wei was once under your command, but now he reports to me. He can have only one commander.’

‘He works for Hung Security, and I selected him for this job,’ the General growled.

‘And I own Hung Security. So I own Captain Wei.’

The mercenaries with Robert were from a private security and military contractor, one of the Hood Group’s investee companies. A number of them, including Captain Wei, had been in the People’s Liberation Army, and had never forgotten what the General had done for them.

‘Do I have to remind you, son, that you are a civilian commanding some of the most highly skilled soldiers in the world, and you are doing so because of me? If I wish to talk to Wei, I will do so.’

‘This is my project.’ Robert began to grind his teeth.

‘This is war, Robert. We cannot be discovered.’

‘It’s business, Father, and I like to use a little more subtlety.’ His breakfast churned in his stomach.

‘They had to die.’ The General paused. ‘So do the others.’

‘No. We can jam their communications. They won’t be able to tell anyone anything.’

‘The hacker is trustworthy?’

‘Totally. I’ve used him many times. He used to work for our government. Goes by the name of Eye.’

‘Eye?’

‘Yes. An affectation. He can look into anybody’s system, no matter how secure. He’s hacked into the Pentagon several times.’

‘And how long will the jammer last?’

‘Maximum eighteen hours.’

‘Not long enough. You know what you have to do, and I expect you to do it.’ The General ended the call.

Robert stood suddenly and his chair fell backwards. He grabbed a two-way radio and yelled into it: ‘Captain Wei. In my tent, now!’

Wei soon appeared, dressed in a white parka and waterproof trousers. He didn’t salute but stood to attention. His frame was wide and squat, his face, flat and hard. His small eyes appeared like black marbles. ‘Sir?’ Captain Wei said.

‘The two idiots who allowed themselves to be seen by the Australians have caused us a great deal of trouble. Halve their food rations.’

‘Sir, in these sub-zero temperatures, if their rations are halved they won’t have the energy to do their job.’

‘Two days, half rations, and I expect them to do their job. Perfectly. Now leave.’

Robert righted his chair and sat down. . .