Scarecrow

  Matthew Reilly is the international bestselling author of ten novels: Contest, Ice Station, Temple, Area 7, Scarecrow, Hover Car Racer, Seven Ancient Wonders, The Six Sacred Stones, The Five Greatest Warriors, Scarecrow and the Army of Thieves, and a novella, Hell Island.

  His books are published in over 20 languages, with worldwide sales exceeding 4 million copies.

  www.matthewreilly.com

  Also by Matthew Reilly

  ICE STATION

  TEMPLE

  CONTEST

  AREA 7

  HOVER CAR RACER

  HELL ISLAND

  SEVEN ANCIENT WONDERS

  THE SIX SACRED STONES

  THE FIVE GREATEST WARRIORS

  SCARECROW AND THE ARMY OF THIEVES

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT MATTHEW REILLY

  ALSO BY MATTHEW REILLY

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  EPIGRAPHS

  PROLOGUE: THE RULERS OF THE WORLD

  FIRST ATTACK: SIBERIA

  SECOND ATTACK: AFGHANISTAN—FRANCE

  THIRD ATTACK: AFGHANISTAN—FRANCE

  FOURTH ATTACK: FRANCE—ENGLAND

  FIFTH ATTACK: ENGLAND—FRANCE—USA

  SIXTH ATTACK: ENGLAND CHANNEL—USA

  SEVENTH ATTACK: FRANCE

  AN INTERVIEW WITH MATTHEW REILLY

  COPYRIGHT

  For Natalie, again

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I don’t know about you, but when I read a book, usually most of the names on the ‘Acknowledgements’ page mean very little to me. They’re either friends of the author, or people who helped the author with research or getting published.

  But let me tell you, profound and public thanks is exactly what these people deserve.

  In my previous books, I have written on the ‘Acknowledgements’ page these words: ‘to anyone who knows a writer, never underestimate the power of your encouragement.’

  Believe me, writers—indeed, all creative people—live off encouragement. It drives us, propels us onward. One encouraging word can outshine a thousand critical comments.

  And so while you, dear reader, may not recognise all of the following names, each in their own way encouraged me. This book is the richer for their help.

  So.

  On the friendship side:

  Thanks, again, to Natalie Freer for her companionship and her smile and for reading the book in 60-page chunks once again; to John Schrooten, my mum and my brother, Stephen, for telling me what they really thought. And to my dad for his quiet support.

  To Nik and Simon Kozlina for taking me out for coffee when I needed it and to Bec Wilson for those dinners every Wednesday night. And to Daryl and Karen Kay, and Don and Irene Kay, for being keen test subjects, hard-nosed engineers and good friends.

  On the technical side:

  Special thanks to the remarkable Richard Walsh from BHP Billiton for taking me on a fantastic tour of a coalmine down at Appin—the mine scenes in this book are so much more authentic for that experience! And thanks to Don Kay for arranging the introduction.

  And of course, once again, sincere thanks to my amazing American military advisors, Captain Paul Woods, US Army, and Gunnery Sergeant Kris Hankison, USMC (retired). It’s incredible what these two guys know—as such, any mistakes in the book are mine and were made over their objections!

  And again, to everyone at Pan Macmillan, thank you for another great effort. They’re a wonderful crew at Pan Macmillan: from editorial to publicity to the sales reps out on the road.

  To anyone who knows a writer, never underestimate the power of your encouragement.

  M.R.

  TURNING AND TURNING IN THE WIDENING GYRE, THE FALCON CANNOT HEAR THE FALCONER; THINGS FALL APART; THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD; MERE ANARCHY IS LOOSED UPON THE WORLD . . .

  W. B. YEATS

  The Second Coming

  ALL OF THE BRAVE MEN ARE DEAD.

  RUSSIAN MILITARY PROVERB

  PROLOGUE

  THE RULERS OF THE WORLD

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  20 OCTOBER, 1900 HOURS

  There were 12 of them in total.

  All men.

  All billionaires.

  Ten of the 12 were over 60 years of age. The other two were in their thirties, but they were the sons of former members, so their loyalty was assured. While membership of the Council was not strictly conditional on heredity, over the years it had become commonplace for sons to replace their fathers.

  Otherwise membership was by invitation only and invitations were rarely given—as one would expect of such an august collection of individuals.

  The co-founder of the world’s largest software company.

  A Saudi oil magnate.

  The patriarch of a Swiss banking family.

  The owner of the world’s biggest shipping company.

  The world’s most successful stock trader.

  The Vice-Chairman of the US Federal Reserve.

  The newly-inherited heir to a military construction empire that built missiles for the United States Government.

  There were no media barons on the Council—since it was widely known that their fortunes were largely based on debt and fluctuating share prices. The Council controlled the media simply by controlling the banks that fed the media barons their money.

  Likewise, there were no national leaders—as the Council well knew, politicians possess the lowest form of power: transient power. Like media barons, they are beholden to others for their influence. In any case, the Council had made and unmade presidents and dictators before.

  And no women.

  It was the Council’s view that there was—as yet—no woman on the planet worthy of a seat at the table. Not the Queen. Not even the French make-up heiress, Lillian Mattencourt, with her $26 billion personal fortune.

  Since 1918, the Council had met twice a year, every year.

  This year, however, it had been convened nine times.

  This was, after all, a special year.

  While the Council was a somewhat secretive group, its meetings were never held in secret. Secret meetings of powerful people create attention. No. It had always been the Council’s opinion that the best-kept secrets existed out in the open, witnessed by the world but never actually seen.

  As such, Council meetings were usually held during major international gatherings—the annual World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland; various World Trade Organisation meetings; the Council had even met once at Camp David, when the President wasn’t there.

  Today it met in the grand executive boardroom of the Dorchester Hotel in London.

  The vote was taken and the decision was unanimous.

  ‘Then it is agreed,’ the Chairman said. ‘The hunt will commence tomorrow. The list of targets will be released tonight through the usual channels, and bounties will be paid to those contractors who present to Monsieur J. P. Delacroix of AGM-Suisse the accustomed form of proof that a particular target has been eliminated.

  ‘There are fifteen targets in total. The bounty for each has been set at US$18.6 million.’

  An hour later, the meeting ended, and the members of the Council adjourned for drinks.

  On the boardroom table behind them lay their meeting notes. Of the notes sitting in front of the Chairman’s seat, one page lay face-up.

  On it was a list of names.

  It was, to put it mildly, a singularly impressive list. It featured members of the world’s elite military units—the British SAS, the US Army’s Delta Detachment and the Marine Corps.

  The Israeli Air Force made an appearance, as did intelligence agencies like the Mossad and the ISS—the Intelligence and Security Service, the new name for the CIA. Plus members of the terrorist orga
nisations HAMAS and Al-Qaeda.

  It was a list of men—special men, brilliant at their chosen deadly professions—who had to be removed from the face of the earth by 12 noon, October 26, US Eastern Standard Time.

  FIRST ATTACK

  SIBERIA

  26 OCTOBER 0900 HOURS (LOCAL TIME)

  E.S.T. (NEW YORK, USA) 2100 HOURS (25 OCT)

  Modern international bounty hunters bear many similarities to their forebears in the Old American West.

  There are the lone wolf bounty hunters—usually ex-military types, freelance assassins or fugitives from justice themselves, they are lone operators known for their idiosyncratic weapons, vehicles or methods.

  There are the organisations—companies that make the hunting of fugitive human beings a business. With their quasi-military infrastructures, mercenary organisations are often drawn to participate in international human hunts.

  And, of course, there are the opportunists—special forces units that go AWOL and undertake bounty hunting activities; or law enforcement officials who find the lure of a private bounty more enticing than their legal obligations.

  But the complexities of modern bounty hunting are not to be discounted. It is not unknown for a bounty hunter to act in concert with a national government that wants to distance itself from certain acts. Nor is it unknown for bounty hunters to have tacit agreements with member states for sanctuary as payment for a previous ‘job’.

  For, in the end, one thing about them is clear: international borders mean little to the international bounty hunter.

  United Nations White Paper: Non-Government Forces in UN Peacekeeping Zones,

  OCTOBER 2001 (UN PRESS, NEW YORK)

  AIRSPACE ABOVE SIBERIA

  26 OCTOBER, 0900 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  (2100 HOURS E.S.T. USA, 25 OCT)

  The aeroplane rocketed through the sky at the speed of sound.

  Despite the fact that it was a large plane, it didn’t show up on any radar screens. And even though it was breaking the sound barrier, it didn’t create any sonic booms—a recent development in wave-negativing sensors took care of that.

  With its angry-browed cockpit windows, its black radar-absorbent paint and its unique flying-wing design, the B-2 Stealth Bomber didn’t normally fly missions like this.

  It was designed to carry 40,000 pounds of ordnance, from laser-guided bombs to air-launched thermonuclear cruise missiles.

  Today, however, it carried no bombs.

  Today its bomb bay had been modified to convey a light but unusual payload: one fast-attack vehicle and eight United States Marines.

  As he stood in the cockpit of the speeding Stealth Bomber, Captain Shane M. Schofield was unaware of the fact that, as of six days previously, he had become a target in the greatest bounty hunt in history.

  The grey Siberian sky was reflected in the silver lenses of his wraparound anti-flash glasses. The glasses concealed a pair of vertical scars that cut down across Schofield’s eyes, wounds from a previous mission and the source of his operational nickname: Scarecrow.

  At five-feet-ten-inches tall, Schofield was lean and muscular. Under his white–grey Kevlar helmet, he had spiky black hair and a creased handsome face. He was known for his sharp mind, his cool head under pressure, and the high regard in which he was held by lower-ranking Marines—he was a leader who looked out for his men. Rumour had it he was also the grandson of the great Michael Schofield, a Marine whose exploits in the Second World War were the stuff of Marine Corps legend.

  The B-2 zoomed through the sky, heading for a distant corner of northern Russia, to an abandoned Soviet installation on the barren coast of Siberia.

  Its official Soviet name had been ‘Krask-8: Penal and Maintenance Installation’, the outermost of eight compounds surrounding the Arctic town of Krask. In the imaginative Soviet tradition, the compounds had been named Krask-1, Krask-2, Krask-3 and so on.

  Until four days ago, Krask-8 had been known simply as a long-forgotten ex-Soviet outstation—a half-gulag, half-maintenance facility at which political prisoners had been forced to work. There were hundreds of such facilities dotted around the former Soviet Union—giant, ugly, oil-stained monoliths which before 1991 had formed the industrial heart of the USSR, but which now lay dormant, left to rot in the snow, the ghost towns of the Cold War.

  But two days ago, on October 24, all that had changed.

  Because on that day, a team of thirty well-armed and well-trained Islamic Chechen terrorists had taken over Krask-8 and announced to the Russian government that they intended to fire four SS-18 nuclear missiles—missiles that had simply been left in their silos at the site with the fall of the Soviets in 1991—on Moscow unless Russia withdrew its troops from Chechnya and declared the breakaway republic an independent state.

  A deadline was set for 10 a.m. today, October 26.

  The date had meaning. October 26 was a year to the day since a force of crack Russian troops had stormed a Moscow theatre held by Chechen terrorists, ending a three-day siege, killing all the terrorists and over a hundred hostages.

  That today also happened to be the first day of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, a traditional day of peace, didn’t seem to bother these Islamist terrorists.

  The fact that Krask-8 was something more than just a relic of the Cold War was also news to the Russian government.

  After some investigation of long-sealed Soviet records, the terrorists’ claims had proved to be correct. It turned out that Krask-8 was a secret that the old Communist regime had failed to inform the new government about during the transition to democracy.

  It did indeed house nuclear missiles—sixteen to be exact; sixteen SS-18 nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles; all contained in concealed underground silos that had been designed to evade US satellite detection. Apparently, ‘clones’ of Krask-8—identical missile-launch sites disguised as industrial facilities—could also be found in old Soviet client states like the Sudan, Syria, Cuba and Yemen.

  And so, in the new world order—post-Cold War, post-September 11—the Russians had called on the Americans to help.

  As a rapid response, the American government had sent to Krask-8 a fast-and-light counter-terrorist unit from Delta Detachment—led by Specialists Greg Farrell and Dean McCabe.

  Reinforcements would arrive later, the first of which was this team, a point unit of United States Marines led by Captain Shane M. Schofield.

  Schofield strode into the bomb bay of the plane, breathing through a high-altitude face-mask.

  He was met by the sight of a medium-sized cargo container, inside of which sat a Fast Attack ‘Commando Scout’ vehicle. Arguably the lightest and fastest armoured vehicle in service, it looked like a cross between a sports car and a Humvee.

  And inside the sleek vehicle, strapped tightly into their seats, sat seven Recon Marines, the other members of Schofield’s team. All were dressed in white–grey body armour, white–grey helmets, white–grey battle dress uniforms. And they all stared intently forward, game faces on.

  As Schofield watched their serious expressions, he was once again taken aback by their youth. It was strange, but at 33 he felt decidedly old in their presence.

  He nodded to the nearest man. ‘Hey, Whip. How’s the hand?’

  ‘Why, er, it’s great, sir,’ Corporal Whip Whiting said, surprised. He’d been shot in the hand during a fierce gun battle in the Tora Bora mountains in early 2002, but since that day Whip and Schofield hadn’t worked together. ‘The docs said you saved my index finger. If you hadn’t told them to splint it, it would have grown in a hook shape. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d remember, sir.’

  Schofield’s eyes gleamed. ‘I always remember.’

  Apart from one member of the unit, this wasn’t his regular team.

  His usual team of Marines—Libby ‘Fox’ Gant and Gena ‘Mother’ Newman—were currently operating in the mountains of northern Afghanistan, hunting for the terrorist leader and long-time No. 2 to Osama bin Laden,
Hassan Mohammad Zawahiri.

  Gant, fresh from Officer Candidate School and now a First Lieutenant, was leading a Recon Unit in Afghanistan. Mother, an experienced Gunnery Sergeant who had helped Schofield himself when he was a young officer, was acting as her Team Chief.

  Schofield was supposed to be joining them, but at the last minute he’d been diverted from Afghanistan to lead this unexpected mission.

  The only one of his regulars that Schofield had been able to bring with him was a young sergeant named Buck Riley Jnr, call-sign ‘Book II’. Silent and brooding and possessed of an intensity that belied his 25 years, Book II was a seriously tough-as-nails warrior. And as far as Schofield was concerned, with his heavy-browed face and battered pug nose, he was looking more and more like his father—the original ‘Book’ Riley—every day.

  Schofield keyed his satellite radio, spoke into the VibraMike strapped around his throat. Rather than pick up actual spoken words, the vibration-sensing microphone picked up the reverberations of his voice box. The satellite uplink system driving it was the brand-new GSX-9—the most advanced communications system in use in the US military. In theory, a portable GSX-9 unit like Schofield’s could broadcast a clear signal halfway around the world with crystal clarity.

  ‘Base, this is Mustang 3,’ he said. ‘Sitrep?’

  A voice came over his earpiece. It was the voice of an Air Force radio operator stationed at McColl Air Force Base in Alaska, the communications centre for this mission.

  ‘Mustang 3, this is Base. Mustang 1 and Mustang 2 have engaged the enemy. Report that they have seized the missile silos and inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. Mustang 1 is holding the silos and awaiting reinforcements. Mustang 2 reports that there are still at least twelve enemy agents putting up a fight in the main maintenance building.’

  ‘All right,’ Schofield said, ‘what about our follow-up?’