Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  “We`ve got two down, but they`re making a lot of noise so I think they`re recoverable,” Dano knew that it was the quiet casualties that you needed to worry about in a fire-fight, if they were screaming then they were alive.

  “Fucking hell! Get them out of there Dano there`s blue lights heading in our direction from all over the city,” Jay hissed. He was still watching the cradle when he saw two men climbing into it from the apartment window.

  “How long have we got,” Dano asked.

  “You`ve got long enough to get our lads out of here, and don’t leave anything that can be traced back to the Brigade,” Jay instructed him.

  “Roger that, what about you?” Dano asked concerned about how Jay would get out of the building.

  “Don`t worry about me, I`ll give the police something else to worry about. I`ll see you back at the Turf.”

  Jay looked along the edge of the cradle wall and saw the power cable which ran from a petrol generator all the way down to the remote control box inside the platform. Omar was scrambling out of the window from the apartment, helping what looked like a half dressed blond after him. It was difficult to see exactly what was happening from that far away, but it was obvious that the Somalis had disabled Brendon and were using the cradle as an escape route.

  “Oh no you don`t my African friend,” Jay muttered to himself and he cut through the remote control line, leaving the generator power line intact.

  He laughed out loud as the men in the cradle started panicking because the remote box wouldn’t start the cradle moving downward. The master control was bolted to the wall and Jay firmly pressed the `up` button. The cradle jerked, and swayed before beginning the long slow journey back up the tower block. The petrol generator was housed in a long oblong shaped storage box. Jay could hear the motor chugging away under the strain of lifting the maintenance cradle plus four occupants up the towering building. He smashed a flimsy padlock from a rusted clasp and the door flew open. Jay shone his mag-light into the generator housing and saw what he was looking for. Just inside the door was a red plastic petrol canister, the type used for cars, full, and holding five gallons of unleaded fuel.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” Jay said smiling in the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Terrorist Task Force

  John Tankersley stepped out of the lift onto the top floor of the divisional police headquarters, Canning Place, Liverpool, on the banks of the River Mersey. The police station was built in the late sixties and early seventies at the same time as the country`s most advanced tunnel scientists were constructing three major traffic arteries beneath the river linking the city centre to the Wirral peninsula, a mile and half away. At that time nuclear conflict with the Soviet Union was almost a foregone conclusion, and the British government had a huge secret underground command bunker built beneath the city simultaneously with the road tunnels. The construction companies and their employees were all forced to sign the `official secrets act`, keeping the bunker and network of subterranean facilities covert.

  The huge number of subterranean sites that were being built under the river at the same time meant that the general public were completely unaware that anything more than traffic tunnels were under construction beneath their feet. The government bunker was central to everything that the British intelligence services did, both domestically and internationally. The network of tunnels spread for miles, incorporating training facilities, storage hangars for emergency military vehicles, which would be used in the event of nuclear attack. It was also the most technically advanced listening post in Europe.

  The key personnel of the taskforce had been summoned to a multi-agency meeting. Government ministers were becoming increasingly concerned about the level of violence being witnessed in Manchester and Warrington during the previous week or so, especially as it appeared there was a religious agenda as well as a criminal element involved. The country had been balanced on a knife edge since the extremist bombings of 9/11 and 7/7. The intelligence units of the British counter terrorist agencies were monitoring over two thousand suspected extremist cells at any one time. Every Muslim arrested drove the wedge deeper between ethnic communities; racism and racial prejudice were at an all time high. The inner cities were a religious time bomb waiting to explode. All it would need was a string of events similar to those recently encountered, combined with some insensitive scaremongering in the media, and public order would be lost.

  Tank walked into his office and looked out of the window toward the city. The regeneration of Liverpool had changed the vista outside of his work place dramatically. There was a whole mile square of new precincts called `Liverpool one`, which ran from the Albert Docks deep into the city centre, creating a magnificent shopping area. From his window the people looked like ants swarming along the streets, and the St. John`s tower stood like a sentinel above them.

  “Morning,” Major Stanley Timms disturbed his thoughts.

  “Morning Major, what are we to expect at the meeting?”

  “Every man and his dog are coming, there`s a real concern about the involvement of the Brigade in this recent violence. It could cause embarrassment in Westminster.”

  “Why? Because of the private security contracts?”

  “Yes, the last thing the government wants is to get into bed with something that is going to bite them on the arse further down the line.”

  “Well the American experience with Blackwater hasn’t been a pleasant one. Surely they can learn a thing or two from them.”

  “The thing is Blackwater haven’t lost a single asset under their control, and that`s why the government tolerate them.”

  “They are still a million miles away from the Brigade. It`s one thing providing bouncers and marshalling pop concerts, but another providing close personal protection in a theatre of war,” Tank hated mercenaries of any description.

  “Apparently not,” the Major said cryptically, picking up his paper briefs for the upcoming meeting in the bunker below.

  “I don’t follow you Major,” Tank quizzed him further.

  “I think that this meeting is going to be a real eye opener. The Chief constables for Cheshire, Merseyside and Greater Manchester are all attending, along with four senior aides from the Ministry of Defence. It`s all a bit bizarre really, but we`ll see what comes out in the wash. You know that the meeting has been elevated to grade one don’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Tank flushed red, anger rising. A grade one meeting excluded all the taskforce members except himself and the Major, and it was usually a precursor to underhand political hamstringing.

  “They sent e-mail confirmation of the change of status this morning, which makes me think that there is trouble afoot,” the Major explained.

  “We don’t even know what we are investigating yet, the chances are that everything outside of the Westbrook incident is a police matter,” Tank picked up his own brief and flicked through the paperwork looking for some indication as to why Westminster aides were so keen to take control of the situation, especially when the lines were still so blurred.

  “There is obviously more to this than meets the eye, but one thing is very clear, they do not want the Terrorist Task Force investigating the 18th Brigade`s security arm,” the Major opened the door and indicated that Tank should walk with him.

  Tank picked up a dark blue taskforce bomber jacket from a row of coat hangers outside of the office, and struggled into it, squeezing huge biceps into sleeves designed for much smaller men. Grace was across the office at her desk, and seeing the two of them heading toward the lift she stood up, and pulled on her own jacket. Tank held up his hand palm facing her, signalling like a traffic cop that she wasn’t invited to the meeting downstairs. She shrugged her shoulders and pulled a disappointed expression, and then removed her jacket and sat back down at her desk. Their work was always of the upmost secrecy, always covert, and nine times out of ten the bulk of the team didn’t find out what they were involved i
n until the last minute. Being excluded from a meeting was just par for the course for Grace.

  The lift door opened and they stepped inside. The buzz of voices in the taskforce office faded as the doors slid closed, and there was a mild sensation of descending as the express elevators hurtled toward the secret bunker below.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Salford Towers/ Gemma

  Gemma climbed out of the darkened apartment. The smell of cordite hung in the air, sticking to the back of her throat and stinging her nostrils. Her home was in tatters, a dead body lay stinking on her precious sheepskin rug. She remembered the day she bought that rug fondly, deciding to buy it despite having no spare funds to pay for it. Gemma used the electric bill money to buy it and then pulled double shifts all week to cover the money. The sheepskin was her pride and joy, her living room centre piece and her comfort blanket on the many nights she spent alone watching the television with a bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate. She loved the feel of the sheepskin against her skin when she lay on it, but now it was covered in bloody goo and from the smell of it, much worse.

  Gemma stumbled into the cradle and gazed around in shocked disbelief. The twinkling lights of the city spread out before her almost seemed pretty despite their precarious situation. She really couldn’t grasp how it had come to this. Her mind raced backwards in time to the day she had met Omar. Gemma had spent most of her teenage years and early twenties bouncing from one party to the next. Her work as a receptionist was well paid and it funded her shopping habits and her wild social life, but only just. She hopped from one handsome guy`s bed straight into the next one, never truly finding a man that she could stay with, and when she did like someone they usually dumped her for the next easy blond that came along.

  Omar had approached her in a club that she frequented. It was late in the evening and there wasn’t much going on. Her best friend had left earlier with a gorgeous Italian bloke, leaving Gemma on her own talking to a fat sales rep who had spent half an hour explaining that his wife didn’t understand him. Omar oozed menace and confidence, and he stepped between Gemma and the fat man without a word to him, offering only his back to complain to. The man scurried off with his tail between his legs, annoyed that he had invested four expensive cocktails into Gemma only to be blown out. Within ten minutes Gemma realised that Omar was at the top of the cocaine tree, and she found his menacing persona exciting. She was at a loose end and craved excitement. She shared a few lines of top quality cocaine with him, and then had rough sex in a toilet cubicle. Within a week Omar was virtually living with her, his friends came around all the time to pick-up drugs and drop off money. Her front door was reinforced, as a precaution, and the flat was turned into a fortress, all before she had had time to draw breath.

  Omar and his friends were arguing with each other. The cradle wouldn’t move, and then suddenly it did, but the wrong way. It started going up rather than down.

  “Press the other button man,” Omar shouted at his confused friend.

  “I have done Omar, nothing is happening, init,” he passed the remote to his leader trying to placate him.

  Omar thumped the red stop button half a dozen times but nothing happened. The cradle swayed gently as it climbed. The wind blew and it whistled around the corner of the building, an icy blast which brought Gemma back from her memories.

  “What`s going on Omar?” she asked, her voice quivering.

  “Shush babe, everything is fine,” he dismissed her trying to get a response from the metal box.

  “Don`t fucking tell me to shush!” Gemma lost her composure completely. She stood up rocking the platform violently.

  “For god`s sake get her sat down man,” Omar`s colleague shouted.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Omar turned on him.

  “Don`t fucking tell me to shush, you just blew my flat up!” she screamed now starting to panic. The cradle tipped almost forty five degrees and the Somalis grabbed the edges of it clinging on for dear life.

  “Gemma, sit down woman!” Omar grabbed her arm and tried to pull her down, but she struggled away from him. The platform jerked again, tipping the other way, starting to rock from side to side like a huge pendulum.

  The wind blew again freezing Gemma to the bone. The cradle rocked making her feel sick and dizzy at the same time, but still the cradle climbed.

  “Calm down babe, just calm down, we`re going up to the top of the building that`s all, and then we`re getting off it and away from the police,” Omar soothed her gently, trying to stop the platform from swinging.

  “You`ve destroyed my home. There are dead people on my rug,” she started to bubble, and tears ran down her face reflecting the millions of streetlights in the dark. Omar held her tightly calming her completely, allowing her sobs to subside before lifting her face to kiss her gently.

  “I`ll buy you a new rug babe, don’t worry for now. Everything will be alright,” Omar whispered in her ear. He just had her settled when the first drops of petrol hit them.

  The droplets became a deluge of stinging flammable liquid, soaking their hair and clothes. Omar looked up into the darkness and saw a small flicker of flame, a lighter or match striking. Then the flame grew larger, a burning rag or something similar. He looked down at the streets below them, contemplating their chances of survival if they jumped, zero.

  “What`s that on me?” Gemma whined and held him tighter, hiding from the nightmare around her.

  “Don`t worry babe,” he held her tightly, and stroked her head.

  One of the Somalis panicked and grabbed a passing window ledge, trying to gain purchase from it if he left the cradle. He leaned awkwardly almost tipping the platform over completely. Omar hooked one of the metal cables into the crook of his elbow, and then he kicked out hard at the man. His foot connected with the man`s buttocks and flipped him over the edge. He clung momentarily to the window ledge, fingertips gripping just inches of aluminium frame, sliding toward the edge, and then he fell. The darkness swallowed him up long before he hit the ground. Still the cradle climbed steadily upward.

  Omar shuffled to the left and looked over the edge again, his mind racing, searching for a way out. The fear of falling from a great height seemed to be more powerful than the fear of being set alight, and then they switched places, maybe jumping was preferable. He felt his foot nudge something on the floor. He looked down and the steel head of a claw hammer glinted in the dark. Omar glanced upward and saw the burning rag falling toward them. He grabbed Gemma`s arm tightly and reached down for the hammer. She screamed as she realised that the fluid she was soaked with was petrol.

  “Hold me tightly,” he shouted at her. He turned toward the building and launched himself at a passing window. The hammer shattered the glass and Omar and Gemma tumbled from the cradle, through the apartment window, just a second before the burning rag landed on the petrol soaked platform. His colleague wasn`t so lucky, frozen with fear he tried to follow his leader through the window a second too late. The cradle was climbing too fast and he succeeded only in crashing into the passing brickwork. The burning rag hit the platform and turned him into a human torch. He stumbled about desperate to escape the burning fluid but he was covered in it. He opened his mouth to scream and the flames frazzled the delicate tissue in his lungs. The pain was incredible and he tumbled from the ascending platform. It was a long painful journey to the pavement hundreds of feet below.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Rashid Ahmed

  Rashid Ahmed stood in the living room of his Anglesey holiday retreat. The property had been built by an American actor who once played the evil nemesis Lex Luther, opposite Christopher Reeves`s superman character. It was the absolute celebrity bolthole. The building had once been a remote hill farm, becoming nothing more than a derelict pile of bricks in the sixties. The lack of running water and electricity, combined with its mountainous position, made it very unattractive to potential buyers. The actor had spent a small fortune connecting it to the main power grid, pipin
g fresh water up the mountain and constructing a building which could withstand the elements at such an altitude. The only thing that couldn`t be fixed was the access road. There simply was no solution, except to use all terrain vehicles or quad bikes to reach the residence.

  The American actor had built the house upside down. The living room was situated on the upper floor, and connected to an open plan dining room and kitchen, while the bedrooms and bathrooms were downstairs. The upper floor was built facing due north, floor to ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the cliffs, and the tall isolated rocky stack which rose from the rough seas and towered a hundred feet above the crashing waves. It was a natural rock tower, a portion of the massive cliff face which had withstood the power of tidal erosion. It gave this part of the mountain its name, North Stack. From the kitchen at the rear of the upper floor the vista looked over the huge stone breakwater at the base of the mountain slopes several miles below. There was a clear view of the marina and the deepwater harbour port beyond, and across the island to the snow capped peaks of Snowdonia in the distance.