The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  Wright coughed and spat. ‘You and me both,’ he gasped. He flicked his wet hair out of his eyes. ‘Are you telling me that the VC did that every time they used the tunnel?’

  ‘Sure did. Probably with a bit more finesse than you, though.’ He fastened the straps of his knapsack, then took Wright’s out of its plastic bag.

  Wright put his knapsack on and wiped his face with his hands, then picked up his flashlight. Bamber was already crawling down the tunnel and Wright followed him. The air seemed staler, and it was an effort to breathe. The tunnel bent sharply to the left and for a few seconds Bamber was out of sight. Wright had a sudden feeling of panic and he crawled faster.

  Bamber had stopped around the corner and Wright almost bumped into him. The FBI agent was pulling at a hatch in the floor. He tossed the wooden cover to the side and peered down.

  ‘This is where we go down?’ asked Wright.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bamber. He opened the map case and studied the hand-drawn plan of the second level. ‘We’ve got several chambers to get through, but the tunnels linking them are quite short,’ he said.

  Wright nodded. ‘How does air get down to the lower levels?’ he asked.

  ‘Ventilation tunnels,’ said Bamber. ‘There are a few marked on the map. They’re small tunnels that lead up to the surface, usually facing into the wind so that air blows into them.’ He slipped the map case underneath his shirt. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said. He lowered his legs through the hatchway and dropped down. Wright took a couple of deep breaths to steady his nerves and then followed him.

  Peter and Emily Hampshire’s house was a neat mock-Tudor semi-detached in a tree-lined avenue off the main road that cut through Sale, much the same sort of house that Gerry Hunter had lived in as a child. A small patch of grass was surrounded by carefully pruned roses and next to the front door was a wooden sign on which had been painted ‘The Hampshires’ in white flowery script. Hunter pressed the doorbell and a tune he didn’t recognise chimed for a full ten seconds.

  The front door opened and a woman in her sixties frowned out at him. Hunter smiled and showed her his warrant card. ‘Mrs Hampshire? I’m Detective Inspector Gerry Hunter, I spoke to you this morning.’

  The woman peered past him as if fearing he’d parked a squad car with flashing lights in her driveway, but she visibly relaxed when she saw his blue Vauxhall Cavalier. Hunter figured he was probably the first policeman to have called at her house. She opened the door wider and ushered him inside. She was a large woman, only a few inches shorter than Hunter and considerably broader, and he had to squeeze past her in the narrow hallway.

  ‘My husband’s in the sitting room,’ she said. ‘Just to your right.’

  The sitting room was feminine and fussy: lace trimmings on the sofa and armchairs, glass display cases filled with pottery figures and glass animals, brass knicknacks on the mantelpiece, ornately framed pictures on the walls. Among the clutter Hunter almost overlooked Mr Hampshire, a small man with bird-like features, perched on the edge of the sofa as if he feared being engulfed by the overstuffed cushions. Hunter shook hands gingerly, his own hand dwarfing the older man’s.

  ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ asked Mrs Hampshire. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’ She had a barrel-like figure, the excess weight blurring her breasts, waist and hips into one smooth, featureless body mass. Her face, however, wasn’t fat at all and she had strong cheekbones and thin lips. It was a forceful face and Hunter reckoned she had probably been quite attractive when she was younger. She was at least twice the weight of her husband and Hunter couldn’t stop himself picturing the couple in bed together. He wondered what positions they favoured, because if she went on top there was a good chance the poor man would be crushed to death.

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ he said, smiling.

  He sat down as she left the room and smiled at Mr Hampshire who was wearing a blue blazer with a regimental crest on the pocket and grey slacks.

  ‘How were the roads?’ Mr Hampshire asked, peering at the detective over the top of tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses.

  ‘Fine,’ said Hunter. He got the feeling that Mrs Hampshire had told her husband not to discuss the reason for his visit while she was out of the room.

  ‘The traffic just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?’ Mr Hampshire pushed his glasses up his nose with his finger. ‘Do you collect stamps, by any chance?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ said Hunter.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Hampshire. He looked at the lace curtains around the bay window and raised his eyebrows. The two men sat in silence as a grandfather clock ticked off the seconds.

  Hammack used the point of his knife to pry open the hatch. ‘I’ll take over from here, Bernie,’ said Doc.

  ‘I don’t mind going first,’ said Hammack, putting his knife away.

  ‘No,’ said Doc, sharply.

  ‘There’s nothing down there, Doc,’ said Hammack. Doc stared at Hammack, his jaw set tight. ‘Okay,’ said Hammack. ‘Have it your way.’ He crawled over the hatchway and turned around.

  Doc shuffled over to the hole, his face impassive. He sat back on his heels and looked down into the dark. Twenty-five years earlier, he’d sat in the same position. Hammack had been there, and Ramirez. Horvitz had been at the rear, with Eckhardt, and Burrow had been just behind Doc, waiting to hear Doc’s decision. O’Leary had been marking the hatchway on his map. And Jumbo had been there, looking over Doc’s shoulder, saying that it was his turn, that he should go down first.

  Doc had thought long and hard, back then. They’d mapped the first and second levels, but this had been the first time they’d found a way down to the third level, so it had meant going into the unknown. Ramirez would usually have been Doc’s choice but the Latino had taken the lead for three hours and the strain was starting to tell on him. Horvitz had volunteered but he’d almost fallen into a punji trap earlier in the day and his nerves were still on edge. Hammack was just about the least experienced of the Tunnel Rats, and Burrow, well, Burrow was with Psyops, psychological operations, he wasn’t a tunnel specialist. Jumbo had been the obvious choice, and he was so damn keen.

  Jumbo had drawn his knife and checked his flashlight, then slowly eased himself through the hatch. He’d reached the bottom, then looked up and grinned at Doc. Doc had wanted to warn him, to tell him not to let down his guard, but before he could open his mouth there had been a flash of steel around Jumbo’s neck and a look of terror in his eyes, then the knife had disappeared and the blood had flowed in a scarlet curtain down his chest.

  Doc had plunged headfirst through the hatchway and grabbed Jumbo under the arms. Jumbo was gurgling, his legs thudding against the tunnel floor, his eyes wide and imploring as if begging Doc to help him. Burrow had pulled Doc’s legs and together they’d dragged Jumbo back up to the second level. Doc had done his best, but the cut was too deep. It had taken Jumbo more than a minute to die, sixty seconds during which Doc had had his hands clamped around Jumbo’s throat in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood, whispering words of encouragement even though he had known it was hopeless.

  ‘Doc?’ said Ramirez.

  Doc shook his head. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going down.’

  Ramirez put his hand on Doc’s shoulder. ‘It was Jumbo’s decision,’ he said.

  ‘No, Sergio. It was my call. He wanted to go but it was my call.’

  Doc’s knife was in its scabbard, hanging on his belt. He reached for it but then hesitated. Hammack was right, there was nothing down there. The VC had long gone, taking their place above ground as victors of the war against the Americans. He nodded curtly at Ramirez and Hammack, and lowered himself through the hatchway. The vertical tunnel was three feet deep, so Doc had to bend his knees and duck his head to look around the third level. He turned his body through three hundred and sixty degrees, his heart racing, images of Jumbo flashing through his mind. The tunnel was clear, north and south. He looked up and gave Ramirez a thumbs-up.

  Do
c crawled a short way down the tunnel so that Ramirez and Hammack could join him. As they dropped down into the tunnel, something bit Doc on the back of his neck and he slapped it with the flat of his hand. It was an ant, half an inch long. He felt another sharp pain, just below his ear, then another, on his ankle. He shone his flashlight along the tunnel wall. There were hundreds of ants scurrying around. He’d been so intent on checking that the tunnel was clear that he hadn’t seen the insects. He jerked his hand back as an ant bit him on the thumb. ‘Watch it, guys, ants!’ he said, as he took off his rucksack.

  Ramirez and Hammack scuttled backwards. Hammack began slapping his legs and cursing.

  Doc pulled a can of insecticide out of his rucksack and sprayed the sides of the tunnel. The ants shrivelled into black balls and dropped to the floor. The bitter smell made Doc gag and he put his hand over his mouth and nose. Dead ants fell from the tunnel roof and rolled off his cap. Live ants were still biting at his neck and he slapped himself.

  ‘Throw me the spray, Doc!’ shouted Hammack, and Doc tossed him the can. Hammack pushed it down the front of his pants and sprayed himself, wriggling his legs so that the insecticide could work its way down. ‘The little bastards are biting my nuts!’

  Ramirez was laughing at the black man’s discomfort, but then he too began to slap himself. ‘Fuck, they’re everywhere,’ he shouted.

  Hammack sprayed the inside of his shirt, then the ground on which he was sitting. He passed the can to Ramirez.

  More ants ran along the tunnel walls, hundreds and hundreds of them. Doc pulled another can of insecticide out of his rucksack. He took off his cap and used it to cover his mouth as he sprayed the walls and floor. He felt ants wriggling along his back, biting his flesh, but he ignored the discomfort as he crawled down the tunnel, spraying everywhere. Hammack and Ramirez crawled after him.

  After fifty feet or so the walls were clear and the floor of the tunnel behind them was littered with dead insects. The three Americans sat down and disposed of the remaining ants on their bodies, with slaps and sprays of insecticide. Doc pulled up the legs of his trousers and inspected his legs. There were dozens of small red bumps where he’d been bitten and they were already starting to itch. Hammack asked Ramirez to clear his back and Ramirez pushed his shirt up and killed them one by one.

  May Eckhardt finished attaching the thin metal wire to the bamboo cage and backed away. When she was a safe distance she turned around. In the distance she could hear the Americans talking. When they’d come across the ants she’d heard them from five hundred feet away as she lay in a sleeping chamber in the second level. The sleeping chamber was a safe place to hide: there were four exits and entrances, two of which were booby-trapped. They were careless, the Americans, because they weren’t afraid. They thought that there was nothing down the tunnels that could harm them. She smiled to herself. They were so wrong.

  She bent double, her spine parallel to the floor of the tunnel. With her head down and her knees slightly bent she could run, moving at a speed that would be beyond the Americans. She ran silently towards the hatchway that led down to the third level. Soon they would realise that the tunnels were now more dangerous than they had ever been.

  Wright and Bamber emerged from the tunnel into the chamber. ‘My God,’ said Wright. ‘It’s huge.’

  Bamber dropped his knapsack on the floor and stretched. ‘It’s where they used to show movies, hold lectures, stuff like that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The air’s fresher, too, did you notice?’ He pointed at two large holes close to the ceiling. ‘It’s coming from there.’ He held his palms up. ‘You can feel the breeze. VC airconditioning, huh?’

  Wright took off his knapsack and put it on the floor. He stripped off his shirt and screwed it up to wring out the water, then used it to wipe his face and hands. ‘How far underground are we here?’ he asked.

  ‘This is still on level two, so about thirty feet, I guess.’

  Wright looked around the chamber. ‘How the hell did they dig this out?’

  ‘With their hands. Small shovels, maybe. Like I said, during the rainy season the clay is softer.’

  ‘But all the earth must have been carried back along that tunnel. It must have taken for ever.’

  ‘I guess they figured they had for ever,’ said Bamber. ‘The VC philosophy was that they didn’t have to win the war, they just had to make sure they didn’t lose.’ He knelt down and picked up a squashed cigarette butt. He sniffed it, then dropped it back on to the floor.

  Wright went over to the white sheet pinned to the wall. To the right was a hole in the floor. He looked down at the sharpened bamboo stakes that lined the bottom. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

  Bamber joined him. ‘The VC used to smear them with shit so that any wounds would get infected.’ He unfolded his map, looked at it, then nodded at the tunnel that led from the middle of one of the chamber walls. ‘This way,’ he said. He put his knapsack on and crouched down, using his flashlight to illuminate the tunnel.

  Wright looked around the chamber. It was a relief to be in a place where he could stand up and where the walls didn’t feel as if they were closing in on him. It was just about bearable. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled across the reed mats to the hole. It was smaller than the tunnel they’d arrived in, so narrow that his shoulders brushed either side as he crawled into it.

  The tunnel walls weren’t as dry as they had been in the upper level, and the air smelt damp and fetid. The knees of Wright’s trousers were frayed and torn and he winced with each movement of his legs. His hands were grazed and bleeding, too, but he gritted his teeth and continued to crawl. He’d come this far, and he was damned if he’d give up now just because of a few cuts and scratches.

  The tunnel was thankfully short and opened up into another conical chamber, this one with three exits. Wright looked up at the apex and flinched. The top of the chamber was filled with a mass of white feathery cobwebs, and several dozen large spiders stared down at him. Each spider was about the size of Wright’s hand with long, hairy legs.

  ‘Jim,’ said Wright. He pointed with his flashlight.

  Bamber looked at the spiders and shrugged. ‘They won’t bite,’ he said, unfolding the map.

  One of the spiders stepped off the web and moved down the side of the chamber, its beady eyes fixed on Wright. Two black jaws clicked back and forth.

  ‘Come on, Jim, let’s get out of here,’ said Wright through gritted teeth.

  ‘We have to choose the right exit,’ said the FBI agent. ‘The wrong one could be rigged with a booby trap.’

  The spider stopped. Another, slightly larger, moved off the web and walked slowly down the chamber wall. It raised its two front legs and seemed to be sensing the air with them.

  ‘Jim . . .’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Bamber.

  The larger spider ran down the chamber towards Wright. Half a dozen more left the web and began moving down the wall in a black, spindly mass.

  Wright lashed out with his flashlight and squashed the big spider against the wall. It fell on to Wright’s leg and he jerked it out of the way. The spider rolled on to the floor, its legs scrabbling in the air. Wright stamped on it, keeping his head down so that he wouldn’t brush against the web.

  The rest of the spiders kept coming and Wright hit them with his flashlight. He squashed one, then another, but still they came down the wall towards him.

  ‘Okay, this way,’ said Bamber, crawling into the right-hand tunnel.

  A spider dropped from the web and landed on Wright’s head. He gasped and used his flashlight to knock it from his hair. He knelt down and smashed it with his flashlight. The glass shattered and the bulb went out. He was alone in the dark. For a moment he panicked, forgetting which way Bamber had gone. He groped with his hands, trembling at the thought of touching one of the spiders, then found empty space and knew it was the exit. He ducked down and crawled into it, immediately seeing the yellow glow from Bamber’s flashlight. He crawled
after the FBI agent, breathing furiously. He glanced over his shoulder, but it was pitch dark behind him and he had no way of knowing if the spiders were pursuing him.

  He practically stumbled into the back of Bamber. ‘Hey, easy,’ said the FBI agent.

  ‘The spiders . . .’ gasped Wright.

  ‘They won’t bite,’ said Bamber. ‘And if they did, it wouldn’t be fatal. There isn’t a single spider in the world with a fatal bite, unless you’re very old or very young.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Read it somewhere,’ said Bamber. ‘National Geographic, maybe.’ He emerged into another chamber and Wright hurried after him.

  ‘My flashlight,’ said Wright. ‘It’s broken.’

  Bamber turned around and shone his flashlight on Wright’s.

  ‘It’s the bulb,’ said Wright. ‘Have you got a spare?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  Wright threw his useless flashlight to the ground. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m going to use the goggles.’

  ‘I’d save them if I were you,’ said Bamber. ‘You’ll need them on the way back.’ He illuminated the map. ‘We’re almost there, Nick. Stick close to me, you’ll be all right.’

  Bamber shone his flashlight around the chamber. It was huge, twice the size of the one where the VC had showed movies. The walls were covered in a dark green silky fabric. Wright reached out and stroked it. It was soft to the touch.

  ‘Parachute silk,’ said Bamber. ‘Watch where you put your feet. According to the map they didn’t check all the floor area. There could be traps.’

  They walked together to the centre of the chamber. ‘What is this place?’ asked Wright.

  ‘The map says it’s an ammunition chamber,’ said Bamber. He played his flashlight on the ceiling. It was reinforced with sheets of corrugated iron and thick steel beams that had turned brown with rust. Long-disused oil lamps hung from the beams.

  Wright shivered. He was still soaking wet from the water trap. He stood close to Bamber, not wanting to get too far from the flashlight in the FBI agent’s hand. The disc of light travelled along the roof and down one of the walls. It picked out a row of machines, vertical lathes and grinding equipment, covered with dust and cobwebs. Behind the lathes was a stack of wooden boxes. Bamber went over to them and pried off one of the lids.