Free Traitor by Murray McDonald Page A

nearly six years in the region and had witnessed more than any man ever should. The sight of the children playing so innocently filled him with hope that one day it may finally be over.
    With the sun hanging low in the sky and evening approaching, the families began to gather around a fire that had been prepared. It seemed a celebration was under way. The village was nothing more than a few ramshackle buildings built around a small communal area at its center. Nick watched the celebrations commence. They were for a wedding. His headset burst to life, his call sign was followed by a notification that a drone strike was inbound.
    Nick requested the details of the strike. He was informed that information had come to light of a gathering of senior Al Qaeda and Taliban leaders at the village. After confirming the wedding that was taking place contained the villagers and that no visitors had arrived over the previous few days under his watch, he requested the strike be cancelled. The request was denied.
    Nick broke cover and ran as fast as his legs would carry him across the rocky terrain. With literally seconds to spare, he cleared the village and saved the fifty innocents that would have been slaughtered. Caught in the blast, he suffered a concussion and woke up the following day in a camp surrounded by the fighters he had spent the last six years hunting.
    Nick Geller couldn’t have been happier.

Chapter 19
     
     
    Carson held the door for Frankie as they arrived back at the NCTC. The activity level had increased above the already hectic pace from when they had left. Frankie headed straight for Turner’s office, Carson following close behind. Frankie’s meeting with the President had given her a newfound energy. The toxic feeling that had plagued her all day was brushed aside by the one man whose opinion truly counted.
    Turner barely acknowledged their presence as he pored over a map with a group of agents.
    “Did you get the black box?” asked Carson, looking at the large scale map of Northern France and Southern England.
    “No,” said Turner, “but we think we may not need it. Lieutenant, can you explain?” he asked, turning his attention back to the map.
    A fresh faced young man stood upright and turned to face Carson and Frankie. “It’s quite simple really, they couldn’t open the door at high altitude as they’d have to depressurize the cabin, killing everyone inside. Therefore, the only opportunity to leave the plane was at any point they dipped below the point at which the cabin pressure was equal or above that of their surroundings. The aircraft was a Gulfstream G650 which maintains cabin pressure at an altitude equivalent to between 2,850 feet and 4,850 feet, depending on the altitude of the plane. So for example, if they were flying at anything up to 41,000 feet, the cabin pressure inside the plane would be maintained at 2,850 feet which is very low. Most commercial planes have the pressure in the cabin at the equivalent of about 8,000 feet. The lower the pressure, the more comfortable the ride.”
    “Okay,” nodded Frankie, following the logic.
    “So we have tracked the plane’s route and the only point at which they flew below this level was as they approached Le Touquet.”
    “Or just after takeoff?” suggested Carson.
    “Well, yes, technically,” replied the Lieutenant awkwardly.
    “But that makes no sense,” smiled Carson, patting the lieutenant on the back. “It’s good work, Lieutenant, very good work.”
    “So what’s the area?” asked Carson, pushing into the group to get a clear view of the map.
    Turner pointed towards a large oval drawn over the English Channel, stretching from twenty miles out to sea to three miles from the coast.
    “We’re concentrating efforts at the last point before the F-15s had them in sight,” he said, pointing to three miles from shoreline. “From their reports, there was no way anything fell or left the aircraft once they were on scene. From that,