Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2, page 1
From the Back Cover
A nuclear missile, lost during the Cold War, is now in play—the most public spy swap in history, with a gorgeous agent the center of international attention,- triggers the end-game of a corrupt Soviet Colonel’s twenty five year plan. Pursued across the globe by the Russian authorities, including a brutal Spetsnaz unit, those involved will stop at nothing to deliver their weapon, and ensure their pay day, regardless of the terrifying consequences.
When Laura Palmer confronts a UNICEF group for trespassing on her Egyptian archaeological dig site, she unwittingly stumbles upon the ultimate weapons deal, and becomes entangled in an international conspiracy that sends her lover, archeology Professor James Acton, racing to Egypt with the most unlikely of allies, not only to rescue her, but to prevent the start of a holy war that could result in Islam and Christianity wiping each other out.
From the bestselling author of Depraved Difference and The Protocol comes Brass Monkey, a thriller international in scope, certain to offend some, and stimulate debate in others. Brass Monkey pulls no punches in confronting the conflict between two of the world’s most powerful, and divergent, religions, and the terrifying possibilities the future may hold if left unchecked.
Praise for J. Robert Kennedy
If you want fast and furious, if you can cope with a high body count, most of all if you like to be hugely entertained, then you can't do much better than J Robert Kennedy.
Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer
Praise for The Protocol (Book #1 in the James Acton Thrillers series)
Having read and loved Depraved Difference, I started this, his earlier novel, with high hopes and I certainly wasn't disappointed. Take an archaeologist or two, a conspiracy, a secret society, the US military, the British police - mix in some car chases, a lot of gore and a little romance and you have the recipe for a cracking thriller that gallops along at breakneck speed.
This book has a huge cast and a fairly complicated plot but Kennedy manages to keep all the balls in the air till the very end and then catches them neatly and skilfully. Sure, you might have to suspend your disbelief from time to time, but that's no hardship - with likeable protagonists and some humour to lighten the tone, this is a great, fun read. Highly recommended.
Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer
BRASS MONKEY
A James Acton Thriller
Book #2
by
J. Robert Kennedy
Published Internationally by J. Robert Kennedy, Ottawa, ON Canada
Copyright © 2011 J. Robert Kennedy
Cover and Inside Artwork Copyright © 2011 J. Robert Kennedy
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, J. Robert Kennedy, is an infringement of copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
For my Dad, who tirelessly scoured the web and harassed his contacts, in search of answers to hundreds of questions posed, with no hint of the context in which they were asked, and for no reward other than the love of a grateful son.
BRASS MONKEY
A James Acton Thriller
Book #2
Table of Contents
The Novel
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by the Author
FORWARD
The bulk of the events in this book take place after those in The Protocol, Book #1 in the James Acton Thrillers series. Reading The Protocol is not necessary to enjoy Brass Monkey as it is a wholly self-contained novel, however it is recommended to fully understand how many of the characters met.
PREFACE
Peacetime definition of Brass Monkey:
The Brass Monkey recall procedure is to prevent violations of the neutral airspaces of Austria and Switzerland by allied aircraft. Brass Monkey is a peacetime procedure which is initiated by the units of the Tactical Air Command and Control Service and is applicable to all allied aircraft in German airspace.
Cold War definition of Brass Monkey:
A Brass Monkey recall indicated a NATO aircraft had violated Warsaw Pact airspace. When this occurred, a Brass Monkey was broadcast and all combat aircraft operating in the vicinity of the eastern borders were to immediately reverse course and return to base, regardless of whether or not they thought they were in the correct location. During the Cold War, Brass Monkey recalls were never publicized. To this day, NATO has never acknowledged they occurred, and deny any aircraft were shot down violating Warsaw Pact airspace.
Definition of Nap-of-the-Earth (NOE) flight:
A very low-level type of flight designed to avoid detection by the enemy. During the Cold War, NATO air forces would routinely practice NOE flying, rushing the Warsaw Pact borders then suddenly turning back at the last minute. Typically these flights were armed with conventional weapons, and on occasion, fully armed tactical nuclear weapons. NATO has never admitted to these flights, and denies any were ever lost.
“In Germany they first came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me-and by that time no one was left to speak up.”
Reverend Martin Niemoller
West German Airspace
July 23, 1985
Major Simon Donavan, call sign Juggernaut, yawned. He had done this run a hundred times before, and he knew he'd do it a hundred times again. This time was a little different, what with the nuke he had loaded in the bomb bay, and the fact his wingman had just returned to base with an equipment malfunction. Everything else about this nap-of-the-earth flight was routine. They hugged the deck as the mighty engines of the FB-111F fighter bomber, unofficially but affectionately nicknamed the Aardvark, strained, eager to reach the battlefield its crew hoped they would never see.
He pulled up on the stick slightly as a thatch of tall trees neared, his fun meter momentarily pegged as he recalled the report of the Canadian F104 Starfighter pilot that flew his single engine jet home last month after a bird strike. Unfortunately the bird was in its nest and the pilot had the branch in his intake to prove it. Pilots across NATO had assigned him a new call sign—Treehugger. He wasn’t amused.
“If only the peace-niks knew what we were doing!”
Juggernaut smiled at his Weapons Systems Officer. Captain Mike Trotter, call sign Minkey, had been his WSO for the past two years and, like him, knew the routine like the back of his hand. This was one of their assigned runs, the actual run decided when and if hostilities broke out. And if it were this run, this was the exact route they'd take. No exceptions, no deviations. Rush the border at treetop level, cross into enemy territory and deliver your nukes. This was NATO's answer to the Warsaw Pact's overwhelming numbers. If the enemy reaches the Rhine, we go nuclear-Europe would not be lost.
“I'm hugging the deck so hard if this plane had balls, they’d be shaved. If those pinkos knew, they'd probably try to shoot us down themselves!”
“Yeah, the morons. Don't they realize that nukes are the only things that keep those damned Rooskies out of their backyard?”
“Yeah, and Ivan would love a little pay back on the Germans.”
Minkey snorted and in his best Russian accent said, “Allo, Siegfried, my name Ivan. Pay back is ah beetch!”
Juggernaut's laugh was cutoff as he entered some heavy low lying clouds. His TACAN indicated he was twenty nautical miles from the border but it didn't jive with his knowledge of the terrain. “Hey, Mike, check our position, will ya?”
“Roger.” Minkey examined some readings. “TAC says we're sixteen miles but Inertial says one. That can't be right. We'd be in the Buffer Zone.”
“Inertial's been off before. Contact GCI just to make sure.”
Before Minkey could make contact with Ground Control Intercept, their comm squawked.
“Brass Monkey! Brass Monkey! Brass Monkey!”
Juggernaut's heart leapt.
“Is that us?” yelled Minkey.
“I don't know, but let's get the hell out of here.” Juggernaut jerked his stick to the left, banking the lumbering Aardvark in a one-eighty he had done innumerable times before, but never in a Brass Monkey situation where he was this close to the East German border.
A flashing indicator on his cockpit followed by an alarm momentarily distracted him. “We've got a threat alarm!” exclaimed Minkey. “I'm showing a SAM launch!”
“Castle-Rock, this is Foxtrot two-ten. We are under attack, say again, we are under attack. TAC shows us in friendly airspace, am deploying flares.” Minkey was already launching flares and chaff to try and confuse the missile. Juggernaut knew if they had indeed strayed into enemy airspace, it was probably due to the Soviets spoofing their TACAN.
“Foxtrot two-ten, this is Castle-Rock. We show you two nautical miles outside the green zone, over.”
“Damn!” Juggernaut had the engines maxed but he knew this beast wasn’t going to make two miles before the SAM hit. “Status on inbound!”
“Flares had no effect, still on target. Estimate impact in ten seconds. We’ve got to eject!”
“Not with this goddamned cargo!”
If he could just get them back across the border, they might have to jettison the missile on bailout, but at least it would be in friendly hands. He pushed the engines even harder as he flattened from his turn and glanced out his canopy at the contrail rapidly approaching. In a last ditch effort he pushed the stick hard forward, sending the aircraft into a rapid dive. He thought of his wife and son as the plane’s tail jerked from the missile contact.
East Germany, Mobile SAM Site
Major Grigori Andreievich Trubitsin stared through his binoculars, his face revealing none of the elation he felt inside. For years he had spoofed the NATO TACAN using a hobbled together system based upon plans obtained from a French contact. He always laughed at the fact NATO continued to let France sit at the same table when they refused to commit to NATO. Capitalist pigs. Your arrogance will be your undoing. He watched as the SA-8b Surface to Air Missile he had ordered launched moments before sped toward its prey. In less than a minute it was all over. A cacophony of shrapnel from the airframe, burning jet fuel and exploding ordinance was all that was left of the FB-111A that had strayed illegally into their airspace.
Of course the Motherland would never admit to the fact the plane was tricked and had innocently crossed into East German airspace. That was irrelevant. All that was relevant was that he, Major Grigori Trubitsin, highly decorated member of the Russian Armed Forces, hero of Kabul, Order of Lenin recipient, had brought down a NATO aircraft. And now he would claim credit for whatever technology they retrieved from it.
He and his squad of five men climbed into two jeeps and raced for the smoldering wreckage in the nearby hills. Within minutes they arrived, travelling the last several hundred meters on foot. As they neared the crash site Trubitsin saw larger and larger pieces of debris, debris that might yield valuable secrets for Mother Russia.
Ordering his men to fan out, they moved forward in a straight line, searching for the cockpit. It didn't take long to find it lying on its side, its canopy glass shattered, severed from the plane’s rear half. Trubitsin bent over and peered inside, finding the two crew members still strapped in their seats. Drawing his weapon, he slapped the pilot. The man stirred slightly. Good, prisoners for interrogation! Leaning over the pilot, he reached out with his left hand to check if the weapons officer was alive. Before he could slap the man's face, his eyes opened. Startled, Trubitsin accidentally squeezed the trigger, shooting the man through the neck.
This brought his squad running toward his position, his second-in-command, Dimitri Reznikov, jumping onto the nose cone from the other side. “Comrade Major, are you okay?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” He pointed at the pilot. “This one is alive. Get him out and tend to his wounds. Don’t let him die, the KGB will want to interrogate him.”
“Yes, Comrade Major.” Trubitsin swore he heard the young man's boot heels click, which should be impossible since he was sprawled across the front of the aircraft. He was a good soldier of the empire. Followed orders, impeccably neat, fiercely loyal. Exactly what you wanted in a second-in-command. Someone who would back your orders without question, who the men could respect.
He explored more of the fuselage as he heard several of his men begin to extricate the now moaning pilot. From outside he heard an excited Corporal yell. “Comrade Major, come! You must see this!” Trubitsin frowned. He should have gone to his Sergeant first. Follow the chain of command! He decided to ignore him.
“Comrade Lieutenant, you and the Major must see this!” This time it was his Sergeant, Boris Yakovski, a career military man who had seen action in more conflicts than the empire admitted to being in, who was excited. Trubitsin wasn't sure he had ever heard him excited about anything in the two years Yakovski had served under him.
Trubitsin climbed down from the cockpit and rounded to where the rest of his platoon was now staring. A bomb bay door at the bottom of the fuselage was torn away, revealing a missile inside.
A tactical nuclear missile.
This time Trubitsin smiled outwardly.
Alamut, Persia
November 18, 1256 AD
Faisal, exhausted, slowly shoveled the food into his mouth. Every muscle in his body ached. Covered in cuts and bruises, some new, some days or weeks old, he ignored them, the pain no longer registering, but the fatigue inescapable. The training he had undergone was beyond anything he had ever endured, and in training for most of his life, that was saying something. Both his father and eldest brother were members of the Hassassins, the name given to The Order of the Assassins, whispered in reverence by their supporters, and in fear by their enemies. His father had reached the rank of Greater Propagandist before being killed in battle against the Saracens a year ago, and his brother was now a Propagandist. They had prepared him for the better part of ten years to join with them in their quest to maintain balance between Islam and the infidel Christians, a task handed down by the great Sabah, The Order’s founder.
But now he was on his own. His brother and father could no longer help him; he had been handed over to The Order. He was shocked at first by some of the rituals. His kin had hinted at them, but never filled him in on any, begging off his questions by citing the oath they had taken when accepted into the fraternity of The Order. And as a good son, a good brother and a good Muslim, he hadn't pressed. He knew they had their reasons, and it made him all the more determined to join The Order and learn its secrets.
His entire squad had trained for four straight hours with the sword and bow on foot and on horseback, followed by sessions studying the Quran with the Imam, and finally another four hours of unarmed hand-to-hand combat, all with no food and little water. The sun had now set, this meal and fresh water their reward, a reward that would last for mere minutes before they would be sent for evening prayers and study, then bed.
The double clap of a pair of hands raised the drooping heads in the mess hall, all eyes now on the Lasiq who had entered the room. He scanned the room, and pointed at a student at a nearby table. “You, report to the corral!”
The young man rose from the table, and dutifully hurried to the exit. Everyone in the hall lowered their heads, trying to avoid eye contact. No one wanted to report for corral duty. Faisal tried to hide behind the piece of bread he had just taken a bite of.
The Lasiq pointed at him. “You!” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating Faisal should follow his companion.
Faisal’s heart sank. I hate corral duty. He rose from the table and headed through the tall stone archway of the mess and glanced back to see who else would receive the duty usually reserved for new recruits, not those who had trained for almost a year. He smiled when his friend Jamar was selected, and outright grinned when the son of a camel’s behind, Momar, was also chosen, the look of shock on his face at being selected for such a task worth whatever amount of dung required shoveling tonight.
The four were brought into the corral, one side the high southern wall of Alamut, the massive mountain-top fortress that had served as the Hassassin stronghold for over a century, the other three of piled stones, about chest high, but the horses normally held here were nowhere in sight.
But their manure was. Faisal flashed back on his first weeks, thankful they were over—nothing was worse than cleaning up horse droppings in the baking Persian sun. But it appeared that was not to be their task tonight, as their instructor stood in the center of the corral, beckoning them to hurry. The four students lined up in front of him and bowed.
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