Jimmy Coates: Sabotage. Joe Craig

me a break, Bligh,” Froy sighed. “You’re on your way home, you needed to refuel anyway and you were up in the air again in under a minute. What’s your problem?”

      “My problem? First of all, I’m not on my way ‘home’. I’m on my way to the data analysis centre in Miami. To drop you over sunny Me-hi-co is a 2500-mile round trip out of our way.”

      “Excuse me,” Jimmy asked meekly, “Did you say drop us over, or drop us off?”

      “I said drop over and I meant drop over, kid. That’s a parachute strapped to your back.”

      Jimmy felt the square pack pressing into his shoulder blades and felt like an idiot for asking.

      “And that’s another thing.” Bligh took a deep breath then blew straight on. “This is a spy plane. I’m meant to stay above observable altitude. That’s above radar, above the clouds, above everything. I was meant to refuel in-flight and I’ll have to drop again so you can make the jump to the ground. But coming down sucks! The minute I dip low enough you can forget about the enemy needing radar. My grandmother could have seen us back there—and she’s blind!”

      The more Jimmy heard, the more surprised he was at how disorganised the arrangements were.

      “OK, OK,” said Froy with a sigh. “Stop busting my—”

      BANG!

      The plane gave a massive jolt. Jimmy was hurled to the left and his helmet slammed against the side of the cockpit. He heard both agents yelling through his headset, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The whole plane was violently shaking. Jimmy’s stomach rolled around. Then he heard the first clear words through his earpiece.

      “It’s there!” Bligh shouted. His reedy voice came as a shock. Jimmy strained against his strap to see what the man was talking about.

      “On your DS!” said Froy urgently. “Your display station!”

      Jimmy looked down at the screen in front of him. It was about thirty centimetres square and in full colour. There was a green outline of jagged straight lines surrounded by blue. Jimmy assumed that represented the coastline beneath them. The whole screen was criss-crossed by thin blue and red lines, but it was hard to make anything out because of the furious vibrations of the plane.

      “It sprung out of nowhere!” Bligh cried. “They won’t miss next time.” Then Jimmy saw it—first the black aeroplane icon that represented the plane he was sitting in. Then, barely two centimetres away on the screen, the flashing red dot that could only mean trouble.

      “They’ve found me!” Jimmy gasped, barely able to get the words out of his throat. “How did they find me?”

      “Hold on tight!” Bligh screamed.

      For a second Jimmy felt like the plane had disappeared from under him. Every organ inside him was thrown into his throat. Bligh had sent them into a rapid dive.

      “You?” said the man suddenly. “Why do you think they’re after you?”

      The plane pulled out of the dive with a sudden swoop. The massive reversal of the G-force thrust Jimmy deep into his seat. Blood rushed to his head and it felt like his brain was about to burst.

      “I don’t know how they found us,” Froy shouted, peering behind him through the glass. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.” Jimmy looked over as well. With the intense shaking and the limited view, he only caught sight of it for a split-second, but it was enough—the wing tip of another plane. It was behind them, it was fast and it could only be NJ7.

      “This is nothing to do with you!” yelled Bligh, still grappling with the controls of the plane.

      “It’s NJ7,” Froy replied. “They’re after Jimmy. Look, their plane has a green stripe on the side. That’s their emblem. You Brits are too damn arrogant to do anything in secret, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

      Jimmy blanked out the voices. He needed his body to respond to the danger. He closed his eyes, searching for that power inside him. He had to forget that he was terrified—that was only the human part of him, the 38 per cent that was a normal, frightened boy.

      “No,” Bligh announced suddenly. “It’s not possible. There’s no way they could know you were on this plane and co-ordinate an attack so quickly. We’re only a few miles outside American airspace. They must have been tracking this plane. They’re not here for you, Jimmy. They’re after me. As soon as we dipped below safe altitude to pick you up, they spotted us easily.”

      At last, Jimmy felt a rush up the side of his neck—like a rising flood taking over his brain and energising every muscle. His breathing slowed. The panic in his chest crumpled into a harmless ball. With that, he suddenly had the confidence to take in what Bligh was saying.

      “What do you mean?” he yelled, his voice now infused with authority. “Why are they after you? You mentioned your ‘package’ before—what did you mean? What’s your mission?”

      There was no response, though Jimmy knew Bligh had heard him. He could see the man’s shoulders tighten.

      They surged onwards, back up above the clouds. The vibrations calmed a little and Bligh kept deploying what countermeasures he could. Without even thinking about it, Jimmy knew that first he would send out a hot flare to divert heat-seeking missiles, then chaff—debris that would disrupt any missile that automatically sought the nearest solid objects.

      “Can’t we fire back?” Froy shouted.

      Jimmy didn’t wait for the pilot to answer. His voice came out low and calm. Inside, he was thrilled at his own conviction.

      “This is an Electronic Countermeasures plane, not an attack plane. Our missiles can take out anti-radar artillery systems and surface-to-air missiles on land or on ships over a hundred kilometres away. But we’ve got no way of attacking another plane.”

      Now Jimmy turned back to Bligh. His eyes seared into the back of the man’s helmet. “If you want to survive, I need all the information,” he demanded. “You said they must have tracked you. Where from? What were you doing? What was your mission? Tell me NOW!”

      The plane rocked again.

      “We’re losing control!” Froy screamed, above the rattle of the metal struts. They were barely holding the cabin together.

      “OK,” Bligh yelled at last. “You’re right—I need to tell you. But not to survive—to complete the mission.” He frantically punched some keys on his display station. “God, I hope this CPU is still working. Can you see that?”

      Jimmy looked at his own screen. Aerial photographs flashed up in front of him, one after the other. Jimmy was amazed at their detail—he knew they must have been taken from thousands of metres up and with the plane travelling at speed.

      “This is Neptune’s Shadow,” Bligh announced, rushing to get the words out, “the second-largest oil rig in the world.” His voice shook with the vibrations of the plane, but Jimmy wondered whether it was fear as well. “It’s 250 kilometres off the east coast of England, in the North Sea.”

      Jimmy watched the images flash up, faster and faster, desperately trying to hold on to any of them in his head. Still the plane shook and rattled. Jimmy could barely hear what Bligh was saying.

      “This is your precious package?” Froy bellowed. He was furious. “This is what was so important you couldn’t divert to pick us up? A damn oil rig?”

      “It’s not an oil rig,” Bligh snapped back. “That’s what I found out. And NJ7 will do anything to stop me getting back with this intelligence. Neptune’s Shadow is a secret missile base disguised as a massive oil rig. And these pictures show that its rockets are trained on France. The Brits are preparing a strike on Paris.”

      Jimmy felt his gut twisting into a rope.

      “Does anybody know about this?” he gasped.