I laughed and he clicked off.
I was watching the Blackeyes kid around. The Birmingham contingent had a blanket rigged up and they were flinging baseballs at it, trying to put a backspin on them. Apparently that was how you increased the accuracy of a thrown grenade. A backspin. Not how we did it when I was in al-Qaeda, but maybe things changed. Mishy and her little faction were laughing at the fact that they’d got Maryam to fall for the hammer and envelope trick. It was bound to befall her sooner or later as she was the youngest. ‘BASTARDS!’ she shouted as she stormed back in to main hall from the stores section.
My laugh registered with Dinger. ‘Share the joke?’
I explained the wind-up. ‘New kid gets given an envelope and a hammer, she has to take the note to stores to get signed before handing over the hammer…?’
He got it. ‘Ah, that. And the note says “give me all the stores or I’ll kill you with this hammer”. They did it to me once when I was in the Light Infantry. If it’s good enough for us I suppose it’s good enough for Saint Trinians over there.’
Fuzz, Roadrunner and Bang-Bang took main stage in the gym hall, in front of a large expanse of hung paper sheets. The sheets were scrawled with marker pen and one had projections lit onto it. The audience was a mix of black-flameproof-clad SAS, senior Army staff, and us. I could see Briney and Dinger. Their RWW team was gazing curiously at the motley crew of Asian girls that had assembled. To our left were our medical packs and as much weaponry as we’d been able to assemble. Rifles, PKM squad machine guns, some strange, squat black crude assault weapons… grenades… I could even see one RPG-7 launcher and projectiles. Uncle Khan had done well. Sadie was proudly cradling the vintage Dragunov sniper rifle he’d lent her for the event. She’d been given the lecture about returning it, as it was from a museum and he’d been given the contract to replace and relacquer the furniture. My Uncle Khan was sought-after as the best weapon restorer in Britain. Apparently Captain Peter Mason had got it from Vietnam on behalf of the CIA. It had pedigree.
‘On the tarpaulin before us is your personal kit for tomorrow’s big day out.’ Roadrunner, Fuzz and Bang-Bang began ticking it off. ‘Pay attention, you all need one lot of each. Field dressings, two, for the use of. Silicone ear defenders. Personal radios. They’re the Binatones, we’ve all used them before, stick to the same frequencies please and make sure your earpieces are in, and stay in. Use black tape if you have to. We have two combat medical packs with giving sets. OK, now personal weapons. Take your pick. We said overmatch to Uncle Khan and he’s lent us the following… two PKMs plus two belts each; three frag grenades; three smoke; AKS-74U oh that’s yours Holly; two AM-15s in .22 Long Rifle; one Ares Shrike belt-fed 5.56; two Alliance Armament Accelerator 12-gauge shotgun pistols. And a bunch of AKs. We’ve also got some Thales dazzlers, use them wisely. There is also an RPG but please leave that alone. It’s heavy and only Riz knows how to fire the damn thing. We’ve got enough firepower to kill more people than you’ve seen all day in as little time as I’ve said this sentence.’
The leaders started the blood-typing tests. A queue formed for the required prick on the finger and the swabbing. Bang-Bang picked up her carbine and went to fetch some tools. Roadrunner carried on. ‘Now you’re all bleeding and I have your attention… part two. Morphine autojectors.’ She held one skywards and everyone’s gaze tracked upwards with it. ‘Do NOT administer one of these to anyone with a chest wound or head injuries. Once injected, write “M” on the casualty plus time of injection, and attach the injector to their clothing where it can be seen. Got that?’
Roadrunner placed a bunch of black marker pens down. ‘One each. Probably the most important piece of kit you will carry tomorrow apart from your radio.’
There was a scramble to grab one. They got that. It was starting to sink in and the audience quietened. They were being given the tools to end life on a massive, rapid scale, and clot the approach of rapid death. Things were coming into focus. I retrieved an AK and checked its chamber. Roadrunner was glaring at Maryam, who had flung the hammer onto the ground and was throwing a strop. She then turned to address the bench. ‘No it’s not popular, I’m not here to be popular. If I wanted to be popular I’d be selling icecream, now clue in, and come here and get your tests! Then write the result on your armbands. Yes, that’s the issue orange armband with “Security Forces/MSSG” on it. Fail to wear that tomorrow and you’re liable to be shot. By both sides.’
The blood tests continued. Roadrunner took the samples and called out the results. Maryam said “ow” and they skulked back to their seats and wrote their blood types on their armbands.
Mishy put a hand up. ‘We got any body armour?’
Roadrunner gestured to a pile of stained, motheaten Second Chance vests. ‘More bad news, we could only rustle up four sets. As leaders we’re not going to take them so we’re giving them to the youngest and Sadie ‘cause she’s pregnant.’
Bang-Bang came back from the tarpaulins and stood next to her. ‘You lot need to be listening to Roadie. This stuff will save you and your opposite number’s lives tomorrow. Three more things. First, for our younger members, you don’t need face camo, you’re in Birmingham. Secondly, make sure you take enough ammo. Third…briefing finished. Now get out there and die in a loud, grotesque and military manner. That is all.’
The SAS guys started laughing. The briefing broke up to attend to details. The Brummie girls sparked up a laptop with Tweetdeck on it and showed the signals staff how it worked and the various hashtags they would track tomorrow. Mishy got her little group together and talked them in slow-time through the hand signals they’d use tomorrow… Stop. Go to ground. Attack.
Bang-Bang had a screwdriver in her mouth and that serious expression. She was speaking around it. ‘It doesn’t matter where you go in the world, you can never find the right Allen key.’
I produced the Allen key.
‘It was in the van, babes.’
She took the screwdriver out of her mouth. ‘You’re marriage material, Sabir.’
She took the key and started working on the sight. ‘OK so here we have my AKS-74U and a sight that we can’t put on the carbine, oh no.’
I hunkered down and watched. To our left was the issue loadout - four magazines in pouches, two oil cans and a little AK cleaning kit. Bang-Bang was muttering. ‘So in one hand I have a Kobra red-dot sight, and in the other an AKSU. Spoon - fork, fork - spoon…’ She slid the side mount apparatus onto the slide rail on the left hand side of the carbine and pushed down the lever. ‘And now, I have a Picalilli Rail.’
‘Babe. It’s a Picatinny Rail.’
‘Yeah one of them.’ She got the Allen key and worked on fitting the Kobra sight to the rail. ‘Sorted and it’ll hold zero, or so I’m told. Check out the CQB setting. Rounds will land between the three bars.’ She cycled the button on the sight and handed it to me. I tracked the weapon back and forth. It looked good. ‘Nice. Now you’re an expert, you can fix mine.’ I handed her my AK. She gave me that look. I took the cue and went back to the ops centre.
The staff were busy turning the centre into a replica of the main HQ back in London. In the time I’d been next door, they’d laid in loudspeakers for various command channels, new blown-up aerial photos, and three briefing boards, one each for callsign shouts, codewords and tomorrow’s order of battle. Dinger was jotting an entry in the duty log. He looked up at me. ‘They’re just kids, Riz. Are they any good? I mean when it really falls apart?’
I shrugged. ‘They may be shortarses but they’ll kill, don’t you worry about that, Dinger.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Besides, they’re all in Military Stabilisation Support Group, haven’t you heard?’
‘I had. Strange days.’
There was a green flash and a scream behind us. We turned. Roadrunner was beating Maryam around the head with a manual. ‘It’s a dazzler! Leave it alone. Turn that button off you gaylord! It’s a laser, it dazzles! Get me?’
<
br /> 11pm found me wandering between the various vehicles in the drill square; SAS Range Rovers, Army Signals four-tonners laden with radio kit; a few BMWs from the top brass. I bumped into Fuzz, Calamity and Bang-Bang poring over a city map of Birmingham spread over a car bonnet. Calamity was smoking. Bang-Bang was chewing the last of her Hollywood gum. She leant into me and smiled. ‘Can’t sleep either babe. Tomorrow is going to be the mother of all battles.’
‘Did you see the local news? 2000 UAF being bussed in.’
‘Yep. It’s gonna be a fuckup.’
Calamity was pressing buttons on an Army Bowman radio. ‘This is not going to work. Nope. Don’t understand it. We’ll take one for form’s sake, and one Airwave handset, and keep our Binatones. Go with what we know, yeah?’
The girls nodded.
I cleared my throat. ‘You lot. We need to try and catch some Z’s. At least try?’
Over by the nearest MH-6 a voice called. An RAF Flight Lieutenant was sitting by the chopper, with a tarpaulin in front of him. He was cleaning some cut-down special weapons.
‘So, these are our new Black and Tans, huh?’
Calamity threw down her cigarette stub. ‘Is he being racist?’
I held her back. Bang-Bang eased herself off the bonnet and smiled at him. ‘Nope, we’s just God-fearing, mosque-going folks.’ She grinned and popped some gum.
The Flight Lieutenant got up and wandered over to the map, bringing a penlight with him and a carbine SA80 which Bang-Bang grabbed and started cooing over. Calamity eyed him warily. He flicked the penlight over the map and spoke to everyone and no-one in particular.
‘I’m Cope from Joint. I’ll be one of the people flying top cover tomorrow morning. Show me what to look for on this and what frequencies we should be on.’
Behind him Fuzz had got into the MH-6 he’d left and was steering the nose cameras right and left and waggling the control surfaces. I glared at her and she got back out and walked over with a butter-wouldn’t melt look, hands behind her back. Our new arrival was watching Bang-Bang trace the march routes on the map as Calamity read from two printed out itineraries. All lines converged on the city centre, the Bullring, the train station, and then seemed to veer off to one or both main mosques.
‘Do we know which mosque the demonstrators are going for yet?’
‘Nah. That’s why Duckie will be in the middle of them. The second she finds out, we formate on that mosque.’
Cope started sketching on the map with a Lumycolour pen. He began talking to his new rapt audience of Blackeye commanders. ‘Right. Those two MH-6s behind us, loaded, have a sortie time of no more than three hours. Once we put them up, three hours afterwards we have to fuel them up, so I’m figuring we bring in an ALARP at Birmingham International care of Squadron…’
Calamity spoke. ‘What’s an ALARP?’
‘Airborne Land Refuelling Point. It’ll be a Chinook from 7 Squadron with fuel tankage. OK what will you ladies be doing tomorrow?’
‘Drivin’ around, running over Infidels, shooting lots of guys, hunting a tanker… defending the mosques inshaaaaaaaarrrrllah.’
‘OK. We are tasked to take out vehicles from the air with our onboard AW50s, but we can’t go brassing up everything and blowing everything to hell.’
Bang-Bang grinned again. ‘We can.’
‘I bet.’
Midnight clicked on the wall clock. No use, no way I could sleep. In front of me were the standard UK Land Orders, which I knew by heart. “Army Division and Regional Brigade HQ will continue to act as Focal Points, but TAOR HQ, when activated, will take over the responsibilities of Nodal Points for all establishments within the TAOR. Details of the Wartime Focal Point System are in Part 1 of the United Kingdom Commanders-in-Chief Committee MHD Plan.” It depressed me slightly. I knew that, silently, and all around me, the UK military rule plan was rousing itself from its slumber and red telephones were being dusted off. It would take a few days to grind into full swing, but grind it would. I was watching YouTube videos of previous EDL and UAF dust-ups, trying to see what to expect. Cope and Briney brought some paper mugs of tea over.
‘Any ideas Riz?’
I stretched the kinks out. ‘No, not really.’
Briney jerked a thumb at the growing infestation of displays and printouts. ‘There are three separate command centres for tomorrow including this one. West Midlands Police AND the local council and emergency service’s Regional Ops Centre, plus the Regional Civil Contingencies Committee being dragged out of their houses. Whoever approved this setup has obviously been listening to Emperor Mong. I can’t believe they can invoke half the Civil Contingency Powers and not bring themselves to ban static demos.’
Cope spoke up. ‘One reason they can’t put a blanket ban on demos yet is because of the counter-protests. The local pols can’t be seen to alienate their voters. You can’t ban one side without banning the other, and they want their voters to be able to have a pop at the EDL.’
We all looked at him in disbelief. I shook my head.
Cope shrugged. ‘Unions.’
‘What a mess.’
Briney laughed. ‘What happened Cope, did you read a book?’
‘Better than that, Briney, I majored in political science before I joined the RAF. Listen - councils are unions and unions are council. And the unions want their day defending the city.’
Briney shrugged. ‘S’all bollocks.’
The local news came on. Something caught my eye and I turned it up. A Texaco tanker had been hijacked at gunpoint from a filling station in Bromsgrove.
This was it. The newsreader was showing CCTV images of two men who’d been wearing police uniforms and high-viz jackets. One was Lionheart. Chris Fletcher. ‘KTS says positive match, Riz. That’s him.’ It was. They’d pulled in to the forecourt in a white car with blue lights on the roof, bold as brass, pulled the driver out and driven it away. The onboard tracker had been deactivated within minutes. I clapped my hands to get the centre’s attention. ‘Guys! They’ve surfaced! Get the local news on the wall. Are the planes up still?’
A signaller placed his hand to his headset and nodded.
‘For now, yes. Thoughts?’
I looked at the dioramas and smiled. ‘Yes. A good one, or at least this is how I’d do it. This might be the only break. I reckon I know how they’re gonna get the tanker truck where they want it. They’re going to drive the police car ahead of it. That’s what we task the planes to look for.’
Pixie held a headset to her ear. ‘Yes. That’s them. We’ll grab those screenshots. Wait one.’
The left-hand wall display was now divided into two sections, one marked “Champion”, the other “TrapWire”. On the TrapWire side, mugshots and photos were starting to go up, with names marked underneath and affiliations. It was starting to come together.
I got onto a table and whistled to get the room’s attention. ‘Guys. TROOPS. We have a lead. The enemy may have slipped up and we might have our first stroke of luck. We are looking for a fuel truck AND a police-type car with it. I reckon the police-type car will be leading it in. Let’s get looking. Birmingham city area.’ I indicated behind me to screens. ‘These are the ringleaders to look for tomorrow. Jean-Pierre Jesko. Davey Smythe and Ray Connelly from Combat 18. Westey aka Pierce Drury from the North West Infidels. Bahadur Singh Briah from Sikhs Versus Shariah, and finally… Lionheart himself - Chris Fletcher. TrapWire will flag up hostile reconnaissance, and the GCHQ systems will analyse the Champion feeds using their facial recognition software.’
A text popped up on my phone. The Colonel. It read “The PM has signed off on this just now. All yours.”
So that was it. Military Aid to the Civil Power was in effect.
Fuzz went to the front of the auditorium and clapped her hands. ‘Listen UP. Camper wagons will head off to mosques. Raggydoll’s lot will stand to at Birmingham Central. Holly and the rest of us, Green Lane. Custom Fords go looking for the tanker. SAS stand off near the demo and liaise with
police. We go?’
Dinger nodded. ‘We’re go. Ok, final ops orders. I’ll go over Ground, Situation, Mission and Execution, Service and Support and Signals in a second. Synchronise watches at… time hack, 01.12 Zulu.’
The Blackeyes looked at him blankly and Bang-Bang laughed to herself. ‘Dinger. They don’t have watches.’
‘Ah. OK. Well, synchronise your iPods then, or whatever kids have these days.’
‘Good. We’re set. Listen to Dinger.’
41
0611 Zulu
October 7th 2012
Zero Day
Outside the rotors were turning on the MH-6s and their navigation lights were strobing. We formed up and ran outside in lines into the dewy dawn air to our respective transports. Our drivers had started the engines on the vehicles. Roadrunner revved the Capri and it barked like a rabid hyena. Hanging in the tiny rear window was a yellow sticker reading “Baby On Board.” Calamity jogged past and grabbed my hand. ‘Till the final RV bhai.’ She held up the severed ear she kept on a lanyard round her neck. ‘Lucky charm!’ She jumped into the Cosworth and cranked the mill to join the chorus of rotors and engines. Dinger whacked my arm as he ran past and shouted ‘fucking Irene!’
Yeah, I thought to myself, we all know how that operation panned out. I looked down at the Thales MBITR secure personal radio Cope had given me to talk to them on their channel. I switched it on and tested the channels. Good to go.
Bang-Bang came over, racking the action on her carbine and clicking the safety up. She gave me a wry smile and we watched as the helicopters lifted into the dawn air, their landing lights strobing the main road and the trees in flashes of red and white. And they were gone. She turned to me. ‘So we live to die again, huh?’
I shrugged. ‘Fisabillillah. That we do.’
‘So be it. I’m taking my lot to stand off at Green Lane mosque, we’ll formate on there and lay in defences, you cool with that?’
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 32
