Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  They made their way back over the field, avoiding the CCTV camera they had encountered on the way to the farm. By the time they reached the surveillance unit rain had turned into icy sleet. Conrad spoke briefly with the team leader of the Armed Response Team while Wallace briefed the rest of his men. Their position, elevated on a hill, gave them a distant view of the farm buildings.

  “The farm and the barn must be kept under surveillance round the clock. I want everybody on the alert. I need not remind you that the gang is highly dangerous.” He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost 04.00 hours. “It will be light in another few hours so I don’t want them getting twitchy. There’s a stone wall about half a mile from the farm. If they get the wind up they could try to escape. Stay behind the wall out of sight. Whatever else you may see happening stick to your orders. Is that clear?” Wallace barked.

  It could get very rough. He cursed under his breath. His men were putting their lives on the line without knowing the real reason. As far as they were concerned they were dealing with an armed gang of bank robbers.

  Conrad got into the passenger side of the unmarked police car next to Wallace. Wearily, he knuckled his eyes. It felt as though someone had thrown sand into them. He spoke urgently into his satellite phone then listened, his face set like concrete. The Generalissimo’s drive for power had escalated over the last twenty­four hours. More installations had been targeted; an oil rig in the North Sea and a refinery in Texas.

  “Banks right across the country have been targeted, from Edinburgh to Cardiff and Plymouth,” Pearce informed him. “ATMs have stopped paying out. Banks have refused withdrawals, because their systems are down.”

  Customers had started to panic, demanding access to their accounts. It had been a field day for handbag snatchers and muggers, especially when small businesses were paying in their daily takings.

  “You’re right Jack. This is just the tip of the iceberg. The maniac intends to destabilise the economy before he employs the full force of Black Crystal.”

  “There must be a way to stop him accessing the banks’ computer systems?”

  “They’ve had experts working on it. It’s hopeless. As soon as they eliminate the threat, another virus infects the system.”

  Conrad snapped his phone shut. Why is the Generalissimo stalling? Why are the attacks on installations scattered so far apart? Why hasn’t he launched Black Crystal into cyberspace? What is he waiting for?

  *

  In the temporary incident room, Conrad and Wallace stared intently at a computer screen. Clive Pearce’s distorted, troubled image stared back at them.

  “We have to strike before the Generalissimo realises we’ve sussed him out, Clive,” Conrad said. “It’s the only way.”

  “The Americans are kicking up a storm. I’m having a hard job keeping them at bay. They already have CIA agents operating covertly in London and other major cities. What they don’t know is that we already have the Generalissimo under surveillance. It won’t take long for them to sniff it out. I can’t keep stalling for much longer. I needn’t tell you that the Russians have their spies out too.”

  “All the more reason we go in as fast as possible.”

  Pearce stared into the near distance, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He didn’t respond for a full thirty seconds. Finally, he stared back into the screen.

  “Okay, Jack. I’ll speak with Gilbert immediately. The SAS is already on standby. They’ll be waiting for your instructions. All contact will be via satellite phone, unless they are disabled. Washington is a few hours behind us. By the time everything is put in place it will be too late for them to object. If you don’t succeed in capturing the Generalissimo… ” He didn’t finish the sentence. He leaned over his desk, his face close to the camera. “Good luck.”

  He flicked a switch and his image quickly faded.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Shropshire, England

  The predicted light falls had turned into heavy snow. Now it was turning into a full-scale blizzard. Already, a howling wind was whipping up deep drifts against tree trunks and fences. Branches heavy with snow drooped under the extra weight. At the edge of the small wood Conrad and Wallace waited.

  “Are you okay?” Conrad asked.

  “I’m fine,” Wallace replied in a surly tone. He was beginning to realise just how out of condition he was after his excursion to the alpine facility.

  “This is all we need!” He peered through the curtain of snow to the distant farm. “Trust the bloody Met Office to get it wrong again!”

  “Ready… 02:25 hours,” Conrad whispered. “Synchronise your watch.” Even a few seconds were vital to the success of their operation.

  Impeded by swirling snow and deep drifts, it took them longer than they anticipated. Twenty-five minutes later, they crouched behind the wall poised for the slightest sound or movement. The sky was black with storm clouds, but the night was illuminated by the brilliance of the snow. The black clothes they wore would stand out rather than camouflage them.

  They made their way across the fields until they reached the crest of the slope. Suddenly, a figure sprang up behind them. Conrad spun round, his Glock at the ready.

  “Still quick on the draw, Jack.”

  “Bloody hell!” Conrad recognised the resonant public school drawl of George Bentley, ex-military intelligence. “You’re lucky I didn’t clobber you!”

  “That’s no way to treat an old friend.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Conrad asked, noting the winter camouflage Bentley was wearing.

  “SAS, old chap. My men are in place waiting for my instructions,” Bentley whispered. “They’ll move in as soon as you give the order. You can’t see them, but they can see you.”

  Bentley spoke quietly into his two-way radio. A head popped up above a snowy mound and quickly disappeared.

  “We go at 03:00 hours. There may be some Militia asleep in the farmhouse, but most of them are working in the barn. I’m certain that the Generalissimo is in a secure metal room,” Conrad said. “We tried to get in, but the door is solid steel. We’ll have to blast our way in.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Bentley replied smoothly. “My boys will see to that.”

  “It’s vital that we get him out alive. He’s no good to us dead. Once the attack starts he’ll know via his computer link with the main facility. I’m sure his personal quarters will be reinforced against attacks like they were in Switzerland. He’ll try to escape amid the confusion. That mustn’t happen.”

  “I doubt there are more than twenty there altogether, including two women,” Wallace interjected. “Don’t be fooled. They’re as highly trained as the men and probably just as vicious.”

  Conrad scanned the farm area through his thermal night-vision goggles. Nothing stirred. The guard was probably sheltering inside the outer door. He glanced at his wristwatch. One minute to 0:300 hours.

  “Get ready.” Bentley spoke rapidly into his radio as Conrad counted down the seconds.

  “Go!”

  Jumping up they ploughed through the snow over the crest of the rise. Half crawling, half stumbling, they moved towards the farm that lay like a country Christmas card below them. One by one they dropped to the ground under cover of the copse. There was still no sign of movement anywhere in the vicinity of the farmhouse or the barn.

  “Take the farmhouse and the outbuildings,” Bentley said to the man closest to him. “The rest of us will take the barn.”

  Like snow leopards they stalked the farmhouse, moving in and out of the shadows. Splitting into pairs they crept towards the stone buildings. A seasoned SAS sergeant held up his hand and listened at the door of the first dormitory building. Not a sound. He moved from building to building looking through the small sash windows. His infrared imaging goggles immediately told him the first room was vacant. Quickly, he moved to the next dormitory. This time he heard loud snoring coming from within. He ascertained that two of the rooms were unoccupied. The
others must be in the barn. That made life a whole lot easier.

  Just as I expected, no security men outside the barn, Conrad thought. Cautiously, he opened the door. A guard was lolling against the wall, half asleep. Recognising the uniform he waved them in, his eyes bleary with fatigue. Conrad showed his key card and inserted it into the lock. The guard grunted and turned away. In a split second Conrad chopped him on the back of the neck, caught his limp body and lowered him to the ground.

  Bentley and his men charged through the open door into the facility. He slammed a startled security guard with the butt of his rifle. Without a sound he fell unconscious to the ground. Suddenly, pandemonium broke loose. Security men swarmed from various points behind the units. There were more of them than he had anticipated, but they had been taken completely unawares. He threw a tear gas grenade into the nearest computer unit while his men tackled the rest.

  At the periphery of his vision, he saw a man raise his gun. Before he could fire Bentley downed him with a single shot. The chatter of machine gun fire filled the air as militiamen fired wildly around the barn. Computer operatives ran towards the open door coughing, tears streaming down their faces. Security men shot them in the back as they ran. They knew their orders. When there was a security breach they shot to kill, even their own.

  Taking advantage of the chaos, Conrad and Wallace ran down the corridor to the hidden door. An SAS man wielding an ILAW, a single shot Interim Light Anti-armour Weapon rocket launcher, followed close on their heels.

  “The back blast area is clear. Get that door open!” Conrad ordered.

  The soldier pulled out the safety tab, placed the rocket launcher on his shoulder and fired. There was hardly any recoil from the launcher as the rocket slammed into the metal door. The entire facing wall was demolished by the blast. Debris fell inwards into the room impeding their progress.

  “Just as I thought; it’s a single unit bunker!” Ignoring the danger, they scrambled over chunks of metal, stone and shards of wood from wrecked furniture. In the far right-hand corner a smaller steel construction caught Conrad’s attention. Kicking aside the debris he revealed an opening about three-feet square. “Over here!” he shouted. “It’s a tunnel!”

  “He’s well away by now,” Wallace scowled, lowering himself into the aperture after Conrad.

  Storm lanterns, suspended from beams supporting the tunnel roof, hung either side at the foot of a narrow flight of stone steps. Conrad pulled out a powerful flashlight and shone it into the tunnel. The light cast eerie shadows on walls that glistened with moisture.

  The roof and walls had been shored up with timber props like the ones used in old mines. They made their way along the tunnel, keeping to the flagstones placed strategically along the floor. A thin film of ice laced the walls, glistened underfoot.

  “There’s another set of steps,” Conrad said over his shoulder. “It must lead… ” He stopped mid-sentence holding up a hand. Both men pressed themselves against the wall waiting with bated breath. A scrabbling noise came from the darkness a few yards in front of them. Wallace cursed as something darted across his feet, temporarily unbalancing him.

  “Bloody rats!”

  At the foot of the steps an icy blast of air blew in from above them. He climbed up and stuck his head through the opening. Snow fell in soft flakes, settling on his face and eyelashes. Hauling himself up, he pressed his body flat on the snow.

  “Where the hell are we!”

  Wallace scrambled out behind him. They were in a small wooded area; the same thicket they had hidden in before.

  Sounds of gunfire and shouting came from the farmhouse. Suddenly, an explosion ripped through the air. The barn was a blazing inferno. Flames shot into the air lighting up the night sky. Illuminated figures dodged among the farm buildings and burning vehicles. A lone figure ran out into the snow, his clothes ablaze.

  Frantically, the militiaman rolled on the snow trying to extinguish the flames. Other figures emerged from the stone outbuildings, prodded by SAS men. Overhead, the thunder of a helicopter engine drowned out the noise from the farm.

  “How the hell did the SAS get their chopper out in this weather?” Wallace shouted.

  Scrambling up the slope they ran towards the stone wall. Suddenly, the chopper loomed out of the snow right in front of them. It hovered about twenty feet off the ground, swaying dangerously from side to side. A single shot rang out, quickly followed by the chatter of a light machine gun.

  “Get down!” Conrad yelled. “They’re not SAS. They’ve come for the Generalissimo.”

  He dropped to the ground and fired his Glock over the head of the illuminated form crouched in the snow. All they could do was try to disable him. It was imperative he was taken alive.

  A blurred figure leaned out from the helicopter and threw something out – a harness. The figure on the ground attached it to his waist. His body lurched violently from side to side as he was winched upwards. Seconds later, the chopper rose unsteadily into the curtain of snow and disappeared into the blizzard.

  “I can’t believe they’re flying in these conditions! It’s lunacy!” Wallace said. “The chopper must have been camouflaged somewhere on site.”

  Conrad and Wallace made their way back down to the farm. Bentley’s men had rounded up all the survivors. SAS men had pistols aimed at wounded militiamen huddled against the stone outbuildings.

  “There’s a snow plough on its way clearing the country lanes so we can get this lot out,” Bentley said, indicating the prisoners. “They’ll be taken to a military hospital under close arrest. The rest will be transported to a secure military installation for interrogation.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Shropshire, England

  Near the Welsh border, south of Hereford, the helicopter pilot struggled to control his craft. Suddenly, it lurched then spiralled towards the snow-covered field. The Generalissimo teetered towards the open cabin door. They were only about fifteen feet above the ground now. He screamed as a gust of wind sent him hurtling out of the cabin into swirling snow. The pilot struggled to maintain control of the craft, but it was useless. Bucking like a mule it plunged to the ground and burst into flames, the pilot trapped inside the mangled fuselage.

  On the ground, the Generalissimo stirred slightly. The breath had been knocked out of him, his leg hurt. He felt as though he had been kicked by a dozen mules, but he was alive. Gingerly, he stood up wincing as he put his weight on his injured ankle. Nothing broken – his fall had been cushioned by a deep snowdrift. Miraculously, his laptop was still slung around his back. In the near distance, sodium lights glimmered through the curtain of snow illuminating the sky with a muted orange glow.

  Searing pain shot through his ankle when he tried to stand, but he managed to take a few steps. By the time he reached the main highway, he was exhausted with pain and the effort of ploughing through drifts. Snowploughs had been out clearing the road, but there was very little traffic moving. He straddled the verge, stopping occasionally to rest. He saw nothing for a full ten minutes, then he heard the deep growl of a truck labouring towards him. Headlights cut through the swirling snow, closer and closer, until they were almost upon him. Stepping out into the road, he waved frantically. Startled, the driver swerved then slewed dangerously to a stop.

  “What the hell?”

  A man limped towards the passenger side of the truck and banged on the windscreen. His head was covered in a fleecy snood like the ones used by skiers. It was pulled right up over the lower part of his face. Denny could only see his eyes. He lowered the window and leaned over.

  “You bloody idiot! You could have been killed!”

  “My car got stuck over there.” He pointed to a barely visible side road. “I’ve injured my leg. I must get to a hospital!”

  The truck driver hesitated slightly then reached over and hauled him up inside the cab. Across the field, lights glimmered from a cluster of isolated homes. He had been on this same run for ten years delivering goods t
o out-of-town hypermarkets. Why would the man trudge over the fields for help when he could have gone to one of the outlying cottages?

  “You should have walked to one of those houses over there,” Denny said.

  “I’m a stranger to these parts. I panicked thinking I would get lost. The pain seems to be easing off a bit,” he said. He rubbed his ankle. “I think perhaps I’ll be all right now. Where are you heading?”

  “Cardiff.”

  The Generalissimo started as a disembodied voice crackled from the two-way radio.

  “What’s it like with you, Denny?”

  “Still on the road – slow progress, but at least I’m moving. It’s just stopped snowing and the wind is dropping.”

  “Don’t take any chances, Denny. Over and out.”

  The Generalissimo smiled inwardly. It couldn’t have worked out better. Flights would probably be grounded, but the intercity train to London could be running later today.

  “What are you doing?” Denny asked curiously when Plushenko booted up his laptop. “You won’t get a signal in these parts. Another few miles and you may be in luck.”

  He couldn’t believe his laptop was undamaged. When he finally managed to get online, he booked a seat on the Cardiff to Paddington train. Getting a seat on Eurostar to Paris at the right time was more difficult. His ribs were sore, but the tension in his chest evaporated when he managed to book a last-minute cancellation in business class.

  His attacks on computer systems had been selective. Everything had returned to normal, but only until he decided otherwise. Now all he had to do was tolerate this moron Denny for another few hours. Wrapping his scarf round his neck and face, he settled back and closed his eyes. Lulled by the warmth of the cab, and the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers, he drifted into a dream-filled sleep.