Bullet Time.

by David A. McIntee.

Prologue.

They say that history is written by the victors, but that's not strictly true.

History is sometimes written by appointees of the victors, or followers of the victors. Even fans of the victors. Sometimes it's written by those hoping to cash in on the victors. Whichever is the case, it's almost always - at least while the victors are still in control of things - written by people who don't know all the best, juiciest secrets of how the victors got to be that way.

Victor or not, everyone who spoke of it agrees that this story began at five to one, on a mild November night aboard a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser cruiser The USS Westmoreland's dog watch was usually quiet, even in the red-lit Combat Information Centre. Most of the senior officers would be catching dinner, or doing paperwork, while a few promotion-hopefuls kept an eye on the computers and radar screens. You didn't expect to see much beyond logging in the regular passage of scheduled airliners overhead.

That was usually. On that night, the CinC was bustling when Captain Davis answered the summons to duty. The late call-outs from his cabin had died out a couple of weeks into the cruiser's tour of duty, as her crew got used to the Aegis radar and weapons systems, and to recognising elements that combined into false alarms. That suggested to him that tonight's call was for something more likely to be serious.

Davis exuded an aura of calm as he walked in. Despite the speed with which he had responded to the call, his uniform was perfectly neat. This was all showmanship on his part; all part of the example that he liked to set to his crew. 'What's all the fuss, lieutenant?'

Lieutenant Jones, the Duty Officer for the night, used a light pen to circle a radar track one of the screens. 'This one, sir. Inbound bogey with no IFF signal, about twelve miles out, altitude three miles.'

'An airliner?' Three to five miles was the usual altitude for commercial flights, and they had certainly tracked enough of them.

Jones shrugged. "That's what we thought at first, but at fifteen miles uprange she was five miles high. I don't think it's a coincidence that it's descending.'

Davis, like the rest of his crew, doubted that this was anything more than a civilian flight, but he wasn't stupid enough to ignore the possibility that it might not be. 'Have we picked up any comms traffic from them?'

Jones shook his head. "That's the other thing I don't like about this: they're maintaining a radio blackout. No transmissions to or from them. If it was an airliner, there would always be something.'

'Try and get in touch with them on the local commercial frequencies. Ask for confirmation of the ID and flight plan.' Davis turned to a nearby ensign.

'Get in touch with shore. Have them check civilian schedules, and find out if this track matches any filed flight paths.' He squinted at the radar display.

'How far is the nearest carrier group?'

'Too far, sir. The unknown will get here before an F18 could.' While the ensign worked, Jones was back at the radar track. 'Inbound bogey now ten miles uprange.'

'Any response to our requests for identification?'

'Nothing. Maybe they didn't hear.'

'You kidding?' But, there were rules for these kinds of days. 'Repeat the dema -' Davis stopped himself. 'Repeat the request, for ID. Try every frequency you can think of, civilian and military'

The ensign was back a few moments later. 'Sir, there's no scheduled flight plan on file for any civilian traffic on this course tonight.'

'Keep trying.' Even as he spoke, he willed whomever was flying that thing to respond. He guessed that pretty much everybody else was too, except maybe Hennessy. Hennessy thought Captain Rogers of the Vincennes was a role model. He'd grown up in the white South, being raised on tabloid news. Davis wasn't sure which scared him most.

'Range now seven miles,' someone called out. The CinC was beginning to feel a lot more cramped and oppressive to Davis, though no-one else had entered. 'Come on,' he muttered. 'Even telling us to go to hell would make more sense than this.'

'Six miles. Descending steadily'

Davis nodded to Jones, 'Light them up.' He hoped that the shock of being targeted would prompt some kind of response from the pilot. Within three miles of the ship, any unidentified aircraft would be considered hostile, and could be attacked at the commander's discretion. Davis admitted in his after-action report that he would rather not have been put in that situation, but nor would he endanger his ship or crew by not responding appropriately.

'Arm a Standard missile.' He went over to the Ensign's station, and picked up a microphone himself. 'Unidentified aircraft, this is Captain Davis of the USS Westmoreland. We have a radar lock on you, and a missile armed.

Identify yourself and alter your heading immediately, or we will be forced to fire upon you.'

The seconds passed, until Jones announced, 'No response. Two-and a half miles, altitude decreasing.'

Davis sighed. It was said that war became easier as the distance between killer and killed increased over the centuries, but it didn't feel easy for Davis. Everyone else in the room was as calm as clerk in a bank, working at a spreadsheet instead of a weapons system, but they didn't have to choose whether to kill or not.

'Fire.'

The flash of the rocket launch momentarily lit up the ship, like a cinematic lightning strike. Then it was gone with a roar, and only the radar would indicate that a missile was in flight.

On the radar screen, the missile's track was running true, directly for the unidentified aircraft. The unidentified aircraft's blip wasn't even trying to evade the missile.

Even so, Davis wasn't taking any chances that night. 'Arm a second missile.'

Three miles northeast of the Westmoreland, the missile hit as true as anything ought to, with that amount of development dollars behind it. It rammed home into a gleaming silver expanse of metal, and burst through.

The blast blew out a ragged exit wound on the other side of the target, which immediately began to bank, trailing blue fire. The metal began to shake, as it lost flight stability, and plummeted earthwards.

The smaller blip on the screen converged with the larger one in a textbook example, and vanished. Less than a second after the radar screen showed the impact, the larger blip quivered, as if to break into smaller sections, then vanished.

'That's a confirmed kill,' Jones reported. 'Whoever it was has gone down.'

Davis merely nodded, and prayed that his target had indeed been hostile.

Bangkok, March 1997 It was gone noon when Sarah Jane Smith flagged down a taxi on Thanon Prachitapai. The mud-coloured interior felt like an oven and smelled like an old patent-leather shoe. She had to wind the window down even as she was giving the driver directions in badly pronounced Thai straight out of a tourist phrasebook. When the car set off, the open window didn't help much more than psychologically. The wind flooded the car with spices and sweat, fruit and dust, pollution and heated paint. Somehow it managed not to be unpleasant; it was exhilarating rather than repulsive. It was air with character.

The trip to the airport wasn't too unbearable, though the heat made Sarah feel uncharacteristically car-sick. When she got out, it was a blessed relief.

The airport was pretty much like any other she had travelled through over the years; a polished rat-trap filled with hectic, sweaty masses going nowhere fast, and falsely smiling vendors looking to sell them overpriced designer labels before they got there. It was the modern world in a nutshell, with branches all over the globe.

At least Sarah didn't have to exert herself with heavy luggage, as she was there for a strictly local jaunt. She passed through the Don Muang domestic terminal, to the helicopter taxi lounge.

The difference between the hectic main terminal and the lounge mostly seemed to be that the latter was more what she'd call 'executive'. Smart suits and immaculate casual, with nary a rumpled, sweaty tourist in sight.

Sarah was less at ease here for some reason; she identified more with the weary tourists than with anyone who was able - or willing - to power-dress for travel before breakfast.

The few people waiting, reading their English-language papers with a fortified morning coffee, were split into two types. The Suits were clearly businessmen - most likely in the tourist industry - waiting for short hops to the resorts or plantations they managed. The uniformity of their business garb made her think of yuppie stormtroopers on a battlefield where nothing was ever quiet on the Exchange front. The rest were like herself: freshly-pressed slacks or combat trousers, baggy shirts, and all with a press pass stuffed somewhere in wallet or handbag.

'Ah, the star in our midst,' someone said as Sarah entered. The Suits all looked up as one, then returned to the financial pages.

'Hardly that,' Sarah protested to the woman who had spoken.

Someone from Singapore TV, if Sarah remembered rightly.

'Modest as well,' a black American man said. He wore a loose casual suit and looked like he worked out now and again without being a fitness junkie.

He looked about five years younger than he probably was, if Sarah was any judge. 'Like it or not, you're today's star of the Press Corps.' He handed over a newspaper with a grin that Sarah immediately liked. 'Syndicated worldwide this morning.'

It was a copy of today's Bangkok Post. The headline was 'Sex Tourism Launders Golden Triangle Harvest'. Below the bylines that proclaimed some of the publications the article would appear in - the Washington Post, LA Times, Hong Kong Star - was a small stock photo of Sarah with curlier hair and a pink suit. She hadn't expected the photo. Sarah had never sought that kind of physical recognition; she was a journalist, reporter and writer, not a news anchor. If she wanted fame she would have taken up that offer to present Tomorrow's World Tomorrow's World. 'Probably the worst picture I've ever had taken.'

'Here for the trip to Phanom Rung? Ms Smith?'

'Sarah,' she replied. 'And yes. A piece about the Khmer monuments for Metropolitan. Though why I still bother to write for a magazine whose publisher changes personalities more often than he changes his shirt Habit, Habit, I suppose.' I suppose.'

'I know the type. My name's Tom; Tom Ryder' He offered a hand, and she shook it. 'Going out to take a few pictures for National Geographic' His attention went somewhere beyond her. Looks like you have a great sense of timing.'

"The flight to Phanom Rung,' a voice said behind her, 'will be leaving in twenty minutes.' It was a balding man with a Thai Helo Services ID tag on his blazer. 'But the helicopter is ready if anyone needs to board early.'

'Time for one last drink,' Tom said, with an expression that made the line a tempting invitation.

'It's a little early for me, thanks. Actually I'd like to go and get aboard.

You never know what stories you might get from the pilots. New leads, places they've been; that kind of thing.' 'I'll catch up with you in twenty minutes, then.' Sarah nodded, and went towards the door to the helipad.

The man with the Helo Services ID fell into step with her. 'Welcome aboard, Miss Smith. I trust the flight will be pleasant.' He gestured towards Sarah's ride. It was a red and white executive helicopter, the sort of thing that shuttled Richard Attenborough and company around in Jurassic Park. The pilots were visible through the canopy, doing whatever it was that pilots did before takeoff. 'How many of us are there for this flight? Is it full?' He shook his head. 'Just the six of us today' Sarah stepped aboard. Though the helicopter had looked small from the outside, there was plenty of legroom, and Sarah suspected that it could probably fit in twice as many people. The seats were soft and comfortable, with a large floorspace in the centre. A couple of red parachutes were strapped to the rear bulkhead.

'It looks pretty cosy, actu -' Sarah's words were cut off as the man clamped a chemical-scented pad over Sarah's mouth and nose.

The last thing Sarah remembers of that day is slumping against his chest, and only then noticing that the picture on the ID was of a totally different person from the one wearing it. From then on until she woke up in an ambulance, she knew no more.

Fran a police wiretap: 22/04/97.

13:12 (local tine) "cringing tone> Respondent: 'What?'

Caller: 'It's little Erarfa.'

Respondent: 'This had better be important. You're interrupting filming, and these girls charge by the hour.'

Caller: 'We've just acquired the gift you wanted.'

Respondent: 'Ah. Where are you?'

Caller: 'Still at the airport. We have a .. little extra.'

Respondent: 'Extra?'

Caller: 'an American, looking to unwrap your gift for himself.'

Respondent: 'Who cares? Take him with you. Drop them off where we agreed.*

Caller: 'CK.'

To hear Tom tell it, in a Wanchai bar that was trapped in a fifties echo, he was more athletic and resourceful than James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jackie Chan put together. To hear him tell it, he was a Hero, and you could hear that capitalisation in his tone. To hear him tell it, you had to endure a half-drunk shout, desperate to be heard over the scratchy voices of the locals playing mah-jong on the dented formica tables.

He had come out of the lounge a couple of minutes after Sarah, bringing her a cold bottle of Coke to try to smooth the way with her. When he reached the chopper, he saw that she seemed to be asleep. Then he noticed the white pad in the attendant's hand, and realised otherwise.

'What are you doing?' he demanded, trying to check Sarah for a pulse, and wishing he was armed. The attendant just swore in Thai, and pulled a gun on him. Tom waded in, trying to disarm the man. Tom was quite strong, and memories of his college boxing days came back unbidden to give him the upper hand. Then something exploded in the back of his head. The next thing Tom knew, he was slumped in a seat next to Sarah, and the chopper was vibrating with the effort of clawing through the air.

Opposite him were the attendant and another man, carrying a Kalashnikov.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to work out that the Kalashnikov's butt was what had put him down. Sarah was still out cold, and he wondered how long the drug they'd given her would last.

Tom wasn't allowing himself to be scared, of course. He had a damsel in distress to protect, so this was no time to be whimpering. He was pretty fit, had boxed for his college, and had seen some pretty scary things in his time as a photographer in South-East Asia. After the minefields in Cambodia, this wasn't so bad.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'Over the coast,' the attendant answered. 'Don't worry, you're getting off soon.' His expression and laugh didn't inspire any confidence in Tom that the chopper was going to land first.

'Why?'

'You're in the Wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing personal.'

'I meant, why have you kidnapped Miss Smith?'

'She upset somebody she shouldn't.' The attendant prodded Tom's fallen newspaper with his foot, turning the headline towards Tom by way of explanation. 'Anyway' he added, as the engine's pitch changed, 'it's your stop.'

Tom glanced out the window, seeing cloudless sky, and a very distant ocean impossibly far below. The helicopter had taken up a hovering position miles from anywhere, and Tom knew what must be coming next.

The attendant pulled open the large side door, exposing the passenger compartment to chilly air. Then he hauled Sarah out of her seat. Tom tensed to move, thinking that maybe a quick one-two would turn the tables, but the other man jogged his memory with the muzzle of the Kalashnikov.

Sarah groaned as she was manhandled out of the seat. 'Is it time to - Are we there already?' She asked muzzily.

'Yes,' the attendant said. 'Time to disembark.' He guided her to the door.

'We hope you'll fly with us again sometime.'

Her legs clearly not yet working, Sarah stumbled forward; at the last moment, she woke enough to realise the truth. 'What the -'

"This'll be a warning to others with long noses,' the attendant snapped.

Sarah screamed, trying to get further back into the passenger compartment, but she was too groggy to put up much of a fight against the compact attendant.

With a last scream of horror, surely knowing that she was dead, Sarah vanished from Tom's view.

Tom knew that time was paramount. Instead of trying to catch Sarah, as the thugs were prepared for, he headbutted his guard, wrenching the Kalashnikov from his grasp. In under two seconds he tore the parachutes from the bulkhead, and tossed them out the door.

The attendant and co-pilot were reacting, but with the expectation that he'd try to jump them and get to the cockpit. He doubted anybody would have expected him to go the door's edge voluntarily; not even after he had flung himself backwards into the sky. Their astonished faces in the doorway were a testament to that.

Arcing shoulders-first into free-fall, Tom let rip at the shrinking chopper above, draining the Kalashnikov's magazine in a few heartbeats. With the wind rushing so loudly in his ears, he didn't even hear the gunfire; just felt the weapon judder in his hands, trying to throw him off balance and into a tumble. Every round spent in the shortest of moments, he opened his hands and let the gun spin away.

His last view of the chopper was one of it descending, trailing vapour. Then he was rolling onto his stomach, and letting his arms fall back, to give him more aerodynamic control over his fall.