Assassin

7

Carver crossed the coast of North Carolina at an altitude of 15,000 feet, seeing down below him a narrow stretch of uninhabited scrub, less than a mile wide. He passed over it in twenty-five seconds, during which time he fell another 1,200 feet. Now he was over the inland waters of Back Bay. This was the longest section of his journey: four miles of open water, dropping all the time till he could feel the air getting warmer and richer, so that he no longer needed any oxygen. He knew exactly where he was and for now his flight was smooth and untroubled. He had a couple of minutes to make the best of it. After that, things would turn very nasty again.

To his left was Knotts Island. It was about five miles long by four miles across at its widest, southernmost end. A thin ribbon of land connected it to the Virginia mainland, splitting two stretches of inland water: Back Bay and Currituck Sound. The Roberts estate lay on the ribbon, with the main house right up against the Currituck shoreline.

Carver flew a few hundred yards to the north of the estate. He was getting nervous now. The strong following wind which he'd counted on to carry him on his way had slackened and he was losing airspeed, not covering enough distance relative to the height he was losing. His altimeter started beeping in his ear, telling him that he was down to 3,000 feet. In no more than twenty seconds, he would have to open his chute. It was an illusion, he knew, but the ever-nearing roofs and trees below him seemed almost close enough to touch. Surely he would be seen. He felt the gaze of unseen eyes and his body tensed, waiting for the sound of gunfire. Yet none came.

And then he was back over water, not much further to go.

He banked hard left, turning through 90 degrees on to a southerly course that would take him over Currituck Sound, back down towards the estate. Then he passed 2,000 feet; the parachute opened; he felt the massive G-forces imposed by instant, radical deceleration, and after all the dangers he had overcome to get this far, Carver prepared for the deadliest part of his journey.

For the next ninety seconds, he would be drifting over enemy airspace. Both he and his chute were covered in black, non-reflective material, making him very hard to spot. But even so, he knew from personal experience just how vulnerable a man felt hanging from a chute with hostiles armed with guns beneath him. It was a noxious cocktail of bowel-juddering fear, mixed with the exposure of a nudity dream, going out in public naked from the waist down. As he steered towards the sound, Carver didn't feel any better about it than he had on any previous occasion. He had his pants on all right, but somehow his balls were still dangling in the wind.

Up ahead there was a tiny island, just a few yards wide, poking up out of the sound, about a thousand yards from the shore. Carver, however, had no intention of landing on it. He would be far too visible, even if he could hit it and stop himself before his momentum carried him right over the far edge. His aim had always been to touch down in its lee, out of sight of the Secret Service personnel guarding the Roberts estate. And that meant landing in the water.

Even for a regular parachutist, that is a tricky enough procedure. The key issue is to know exactly when to detach the parachute canopy. Do it too soon, while still too far above the water, and you'll hit the surface too fast and just keep going down unstoppably into the depths. Plenty of special forces men have perished that way, dragged to their deaths by the speed of impact and the excess weight of their gear.

Anyone who waits too long, however, risks becoming tangled in lines and canopy fabric. Unable to swim, they will then drown like a dolphin trapped in a tuna-net. The Goldilocks knack is to release the canopy not too high and not too low, but just right: 'When you feel the water on the tips of your toes,' as one of Carver's instructors had told him.

He might also have added, had he known what his pupil would one day attempt: 'And for Christ's sake don't wear a wing-suit.'

It's hard enough to swim when your arms are prevented from moving more than 45 degrees from your body because you're dressed like a man-sized bat. When your legs are hobbled by a triangle of tough, unyielding material it's absolutely impossible. So long before Carver got rid of his parachute, he had to deal with his wings.

A thousand feet above the water, he pulled on the cutaway handles that released his arm wings. He felt the ripping sensation of opening Velcro, raised his arms, yanked them outwards and exhaled with relief as the two black triangles fluttered like flags on the wind before disappearing into the night.

His leg wing had no instant cutaway system. It had to be released by its zip. Carver raised his knees towards his chest, felt for the zip handle and tugged. Nothing happened. He tugged again. Still no response. The zip was jammed.

Carver was twenty seconds, maximum, away from impact. He forced himself not to panic, but to think clearly and act calmly. All was not lost. Attached to his suit he had a lightweight combat-utility knife with a titanium handle and a steel blade, hardened with tungsten and carbon-diamond. It could cut through the toughest fabric as easily as it could cut through a man. Carver had counted on being able to do both.

He grabbed the blade, reached down and started slashing desperately at the tough black material between his legs. The bottom end of the wing was reinforced with a panel of extra-stiff fabric, designed to increase stability and rigidity during flight.

The water was rushing towards him. The knife was sawing back and forth across the panel. Carver cut through the final strands just in time. His legs were free, even if there were now two strips of fabric flapping round them like a pair of seventies disco flares. But then he realized something else. He had to release the parachute, which he could not do with a knife in his right hand. Nor could he risk hitting the water holding a deadly blade.

With a muttered, 'Shit!' Carver threw the knife as far away from himself as he could. He had lost one of his most valuable weapons. But there was no time to waste worrying about that. He pulled at the release-cord and freed himself from his canopy.

An instant later, he hit the water. And he kept going down.

For a second or two his momentum seemed un-diminished, but then his descent slowed, he kicked out with his legs, pulled at the water above him with his hands and slowly, oh so slowly, he felt himself rise up towards the surface.

At last he broke through and felt the glorious rebirth of that first desperate breath of fresh air. He was down. He was alive. Now he swam to the island and scrambled on to one of the rocks that surrounded it, taking care to stay well out of sight of the far shore, and the men guarding Lincoln Roberts.

Carver had an equipment pouch strapped to his stomach. Inside it, he'd packed a shortened Heckler and Koch MP7 sub-machine gun. It was the updated version of the MP5 he had used in the past, designed to penetrate body armour, but he was still keeping out water the old-fashioned SBS way: with a condom stuck over the barrel. Next to it in the pouch were a selection of small explosive charges, a snorkel, a diver's mask and a pair of fins. He removed the oxygen mask he had worn for the jump and threw it into the water, along with his parachute harness. He put on the sub-aqua gear. Then he slipped back into Currituck Sound, made his way around the island and started swimming towards the shore.