The helicopter touched down. The rain had now stopped. The bomb disposal team began to clear away. Smoke continued to spiral skywards, clearly marking the burning pyre that sheltered beneath the now fragile span. The bomb had done its job.
Chapter Eight
Roy had just pulled up outside the house, his brain buzzing with anticipation. His thoughts were broken by the reality of a newsflash on the radio warning drivers that delays on the M6 were now tailing back eighteen miles and that there was serious congestion on all roads in the vicinity. He was gratified to hear that this ‘problem’ might last a number of days and drivers were being asked to seek an alternative route. He turned the ignition key and the engine's rumble ceased. He closed the car door and went in. Joan was sitting watching the television, a coffee in one hand. He smiled and put his jacket on a hook by the door.
"Any news?" His question was without sincerity as he was still mulling over his success and the aura he exuded sparked Joan's curiosity.
"Not really, work was as usual. Have you heard the news of the bombing?"
He tried to look surprised but replied that he had caught snippets on the radio, "Somewhere on the M6, I believe." He felt his face flush slightly and he knew that Joan had noticed. "Anyone hurt?"
"Apparently the bomb de-railed a train that was travelling under the bridge and they believe many were killed. There were no cars on the bridge as a warning had been issued. We live in a world of mad bastards. Who on earth would want to do a thing like this? What could it possibly prove and what might they gain?" She looked at Roy squarely, as she often did but on this occasion he felt uncomfortable. His eyes diverted to the television before settling back to hers when he had regained some of his composure. He was shocked. There was a genuine feeling of nausea building in his stomach, and he left and went to the bathroom. He vomited.
His appearance in the mirror was one that shocked. He suddenly looked old and his skin pale. Guilt had started to take its toll.
"Are you all right, Roy?"
He heard the sound of Joan coming up the steps and he flushed the toilet quickly and took a drink from the tap to refresh his mouth. "Yes, just a little queasy, must be something I ate at lunch."
He opened the door and smiled at her. She looked confused and concerned. She held out her hands and hugged him. "Go for a lie down. Would you like something to drink?"
"No, no I'll be fine." His mind whirled and the thoughts of the killings filled every cavity of his brain. "I'll be fine. Let's go downstairs."
He was not a murderer, he never had been. He had been taught only to kill the enemy and he found difficulty in visualising this universal pariah; all too often the propaganda posters of the World Wars came to mind and although they stirred the spirit of a nation, they only confirmed that his victory today was pyrrhic.
His night was the most disturbed he had experienced since his time in the Gulf. It was a montage of all that had been bad in his life, colourfully collated into random snippets that caused him to toss and turn, sweat and call out in his sleep. At 4am he moved from the bed and made his way to the kitchen. Light was no good to him; he needed the dark. He re-ran some of his nightmare if only to convince himself that he was a key player in this madness, it had happened to him, he too had suffered, more than he could put into words. The ignorance of the medical profession in being incapable of helping him brought a light to his process of thought; a light that would guide him, rightly or wrongly from this labyrinth. The more he juxtaposed his arguments the more brightly the light of conviction glowed until he was in the light. He returned to bed and slept.
The pictures in the morning papers failed to touch his senses. He had donned emotional armour that helped strengthen his resolve to see this through. If more deaths resulted then they were the enemy, and that was that.
***
In the days that followed he watched with growing interest the way the damage to the bridge was handled. After two days of constant repair they had succeeded in opening single lanes in either direction for cars and light goods; heavier vehicles were set the task of avoiding the area completely. The long-term prognosis was yet to be determined and he hoped that as that was reached another bridge would fall a few miles further north to add to the already confused area. He would follow the same procedure, carefully selecting the phone box. The fact that on this occasion the bomb warning was going to be a morning call meant he would need to be out bright and early himself.
He left Joan sleeping, kissed her hair before going downstairs. He did not breakfast; he was too tense. The car started with the first turn of the key. The time was 04.46. He drove out towards the motorway heading for Huddersfield. The M62 was again quiet. Pulling off he followed the brightly lit way into the centre of town before turning for Holmfirth. The road turned and snaked through housing. Some newsagents were opening. Milk floats crawled silently. Soon the trees bordered the road and Roy knew he was close. On his approach to Holmfirth he turned right. The road was steep. Soon he was nearing the top. A church nestling in trees sat on a sharp bend, a war memorial faced him. "Someone's enemy, someone's father, someone's son, someone's brother ... dead." He pulled up on the bend and looked at the white marble and black lettering. Remnants of poppy wreaths lay at its base, withering like the memories of the old. He turned right and parked the car away from the houses. He climbed out and moved to the poppy-red phone box. It was now 05.50. The sky was lightening and the clouds were a spectacular orange colour. He looked at them before taking in a lung full of the fresh morning air. He picked up the receiver and dialled the same free phone number.
Again with unwavering efficiency a friendly voice answered and Roy went through the same procedure, notifying place and time of the bomb, leaving the word GULF before hanging up. He walked back to his car. At the same time the telephonist notified his supervisor and the police were informed. They went into action with speed and precision and the traffic on the motorway was halted. The code word had brought an almost instant respect and no chances were taken. The hotel close to the bridge was also evacuated, guests hurried out, many dressed in nightclothes. The traffic moving along the A59 was also brought to a standstill. They knew that should the bomb detonate, they were in serious trouble but they were impotent, nothing could be done but wait for the deadline of 06.57. The procedure was a replica of the earlier bombing. The Expo, Sam Phelps, controlled the operation with the same degree of circumspection. The call on his mobile had woken him, he had not had time to shave just to grab his things and leave. The helicopter was waiting with two other officers. A cautious respect was being developed for the Gulf Bomber. Sam, Paul and Mike sat in the helicopter as it lifted off. No one spoke.
It never ceased to amaze Sam the number of people who would telephone the police after a major incident, claiming responsibility; some even give their names and addresses, they would even send their admission on email! The sad thing was that valuable time was consumed investigating them as one might turn out to be guilty. As the noise of the helicopter droned he was convinced in his own mind that this was not the work of one man but a group, a presumption that proved precipitate, inaccurate and one that was to cost him dearly.
The helicopter had landed away from the bridge but close enough to give them a clear view of proceedings. The morning was bright and a light mist hung over the river bringing a warmth to the scene.
"Least it's not fucking raining," chirped Mike as he jumped to the ground, arms full of equipment, his boots shining. "Not shaved chief?” He glanced at Sam and continued to unload.
As soon as the equipment was removed the helicopter left, the rotor blades biting into the peace of the morning. It hovered for a moment before flying away from the bridge to a safe height. There predator-like it hovered. Time was against them as Gulf gave little warning. Their game plan was to wait; five minutes was no time in which to ascertain the correct judgements. At the designated time the blast happened with positive effect.
The sharp anger of the initi
al flash seemed to make the whole bridge convulse like the spasm of a dying man, sending debris high into the air followed by a crack that echoed menacingly. Smoke, almost white, followed strangely before drifting away with the wind like a spirit.
"They've done it again. Obviously same type of device and clearly placed accurately. They're teasing us and I guess this is just the start."
As a precaution, Sam dressed in bomb suit and visor; it was heavy, weighing seventy kilograms. His first task was to check the bridge for further devices. The likelihood was that should they exist then they would be in the drains or beneath the bridge supports. The drains proved easier to check as the majority of covers had been blown away but caution had been his saviour in the past and every move was carefully planned. He approached each hole with a search mirror, its telescopic handle giving greater depth. Sam was concerned about introducing too much light into the darkness as another smaller bomb could be triggered using a light sensitive switch. The danger was always complacency, particularly when there was a lot to absorb.
The morning traffic was beginning to grow, particularly northbound. Many of the drivers, especially those in heavy goods vehicles, had spent too much time already negotiating the diversion further south and finding a total blockage again did nothing to ease the tension. Many were out of their vehicles as others patiently waited for the police to divert them away from the scene.
It was apparent that the bridge was clear. Sam now had to check below. That too was clean and to their relief the guests of the hotel were quickly ushered back inside.
Another police helicopter arrived on the scene bringing with it forensic experts, one of whom was Carl Howarth, a man in his late forties. From his inspection of fragments embedded in the concrete pillars of the Gathurst site, he had made a guess that the TPU was some kind of electronic organiser. He had also found traces of PETN, a chemical used in plastic explosives such as Semtex. He was quite clear in his mind.
Carl greeted the bomb disposal team, he knew them reasonably well, some better than others but the way things were developing they would be best of friends if the bombing rate was to continue at this pace. He shook Sam's hand firmly. "Didn't expect to see you men so soon after the last time. Seems we have a real problem on our hands, particularly if my hunch is correct and we are only dealing with the tip of the iceberg."
"Being so cheerful really keeps our chins up. Found much from the first blast?"
"TPU is in a palmtop computer lined through to Semtex is my guess. Quite straightforward stuff. Simple, and as you’re experiencing, effective. He's certainly not about blowing things down, just causing enough damage to disrupt a large percentage of the traffic network in the area. His placement is accurate too. I'm amazed though that one of these devices has failed to be spotted. If he's planted a few you'd have thought some vandal scrambling under some of these bridges would have had a tug and a pull. They must be well concealed."
Sam moved with Carl Howarth towards the underside of the bridge. The main blast area was clearly visible and the damage as expected.
"Seems he's placing the charges on the bearings of the bridge and around the expansion gaps in order to cause the most damage. He also has the opportunity of concealing the stuff with grease." Sam broke off his conversation and showed where the bomb had been sited. He demonstrated that it was easily accessible and easily executed. "Clearly there's a bridge design fault but then …" he paused as if mentally correcting his stream of thought. "Should we be making allowances for any nutter who wants to take a pot shot at his fellow men?"
Carl nodded appreciating the observation. He had experienced the aftermath of many such incidents. "There’ll always be an Achilles' heel and always a Paris to exploit it. The bridges are becoming clipped birds. They’re still there but fail to function. How many is he collecting?"
Their eyes met and Sam realised that he respected this man. Here was someone who saw possibly more, saw through the smoke, had empathy. Sam left him to get on with his work and walked back to his team. They were busily clearing away. The traffic was still snarled up and the day was only just beginning. For many it was miserable but for one it was a day too long and another step forward.
Chapter Nine
At the same moment in another part of the country, Roy was meeting his first appointment. He was trying to complete the agreement for a new order for a large supermarket chain. He sat with the manager negotiating the fine financial details of the deal. The new computer system was expensive and this was the culmination of long, hard tendering but it was now his order, or soon would be. They had worked together in the past and even though payment was often slow they ordered large.
The manager had been concerned about the delays to the distribution and it was conveyed to him that a further explosive device had brought chaos yet again to the M6. One of his drivers had phoned in to say he feared very long delays.
"It's all we need, Roy, more delivery delays; these bloody shysters need sitting on the bloody bomb themselves."
Roy pictured himself as a shyster and then sitting on a bomb, it was a cartoon-like image that filled his mind. He controlled the grin. "Any casualties this time?" An amazing amount of surprise in his voice.
“The driver didn't say, just that he was stationary and had been for well over an hour."
The deal was signed and Roy confirmed delivery, "Subject to bombings, of course." He realised his joke was not appreciated and left whilst ahead.
He headed back towards Bradford, his mind not fully on his driving. It would soon be time to play a key card, probably the key card, one that was sure to cause the greatest amount of fear as it would surely bring death. The radio was interrupted with the latest news regarding the bomb, advising drivers to stay clear of the area for the foreseeable future as both bridges had been structurally weakened. He slowed and looked in the mirror. It was working. Roy Hanna, a nobody, a Gulf War casualty, a forgotten soldier was changing the face of today and was sure to change the face of tomorrow.
It was clear too in Whitehall. The Home Secretary wanted to see more action being taken. He needed co-operation and an involvement of the army and the police to bring a swift end to this terrorism and he wanted, nay, demanded it, sooner rather than later.
It was agreed that the armed forces and police would work closely to inspect major motorway bridges. It was becoming clearer where the devices were likely to be placed; their own experts could tell them that. The co-ordination would fall under the responsibility of the Metropolitan Police and a main operations room would be established. It was obvious to date that only the north west had suffered, but they could not at this stage make any predictions.
***
Roy enjoyed Drew's pleasure. "Well done Roy, that order is just what was needed, can't afford to lose you." He meant every word. Roy, when on form, was superb at his job but there had been changes and Drew could only watch helplessly the deterioration in his friend. However, he had noticed a more positive Roy of late. He put it down to a determination to beat it, overcome whatever it was that gnawed away inside.
Roy was pleased himself by his success. It had not been easy maintaining the concentration or motivation for sales when he was in the midst of what was to him the most important gamble of his life, but he was doing bloody well and this motivated him, fired him with a drive he had not faced since before the Gulf. It felt good, fucking good.
The next four days were a blur as he listened attentively to the news bulletins and read the papers with interest. Funeral services were being held for some of the people who had died in the blazing train, the majority had been identified from dental records. The image of a dead Iraqi soldier filled his mind's eye, famous in its gruesome detail. He had remembered clearly the photograph and it had shaken him on first seeing it. The victim was a grinning, charred Iraqi casualty killed on Multa Ridge during his attempted dash for freedom from Kuwait along with countless others. He still remembered peering from the wagon to be greeted by a corpse, its r
ictus smile of death grinning as if it were a last act of defiance; black teeth and hollow-eyed. He remembered he had stared at it, soaking in every detail at the time. Now he was amazed how unmoved he was at seeing the grieving relatives, even young children carrying flowers for a lost parent. The television reporting was sensitive and moving. Joan's angry responses to the images were those of a normal human being and even her anguish failed to ignite the smallest pang of doubt or guilt. He just seemed to revel silently in its blackness but his callous coldness did not go unnoticed. Joan was alive to it and it somehow disturbed her. It threw her off balance and the more it happened the more she watched. "What's going on in that head of yours, behind those icy eyes?" she asked herself more than once. She would find the heart of this man. If there was a future it was to be her goal.
"Terrible business," he heard himself say as if to destroy the embarrassing silence that was growing.
"Just to think, Roy, that could have been you or me. Those innocent people left for work that day never realising what lay in store. Some mad man blew them to pieces and for what? Some religion, some political statement or some petty grievance; remember Dunblane? It just makes me so angry." She watched his every move. “React Roy, react. Show something!” she shouted silently in her head. Roy moved over to her and enveloped her, squeezing her tightly.
"Let's hope they catch whoever did it soon. I worry about you when you are out and about."
She wondered; she really did. He pulled away and looked at her. He lifted her face and kissed her. He touched her face with his left hand. It was as cold as his soul. She smiled at him before moving away.
"You've been different the last few days, a new man. Whatever you are doing it's obviously having an effect."
Roy had been better in himself and she recognised that and wanted him to know. Maybe this callous streak was a way of dealing with things.
Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed) Page 6
