by Andy McNab
Jockey’s voice kicked off over the speakers. ‘Alpha, Blue One, we have the first Yankees coming into the service tunnel. The first lot are coming out now.’
Gavin grabbed the radio handset. ‘Roger that, Blue One. How many?’
‘A dozen so far – maybe more. Wait . . .’
Jockey kept his pressel down for a few more seconds. Gavin could hear screams, shouts and a few sobs as the team dragged the Yankees into the service tunnel; the trick was to calm them and grip them at the same time. Jockey shouted, ‘It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now – just wait there.’
The net went dead. He’d have taken his hand off the pressel. He came back on a few seconds later. ‘It’s got to be a hundred plus, so far.’
‘Alpha, roger that. Out.’
Gavin went straight over to the Slime’s desk. ‘Tell the police ops room they’re coming out. Tell them to get them out of the tunnel ASAP in case we have to go in again.’
Ashton leaned forward and opened Gavin’s mobile. He hit B on his contacts list, found the number he wanted and keyed it into his own phone.
The major moved away from the desk and out of the hangar. He turned immediately right through the shutters and kept walking until he was out of sight. Emergency vehicles and personnel buzzed around the front of the tunnel ahead of him.
The mobile rang five times before it was answered. ‘Yes?’
He’d have known that voice anywhere. ‘What the fuck are you playing at? I warned you so you could get away, not hang around and start the Third World War.’
The silence echoed in Ashton’s head.
‘Calm down, my very English friend. I’m eternally grateful for what you did. But I think it’s true to say that you still owe me enormously.’
Ashton wasn’t having any of this cool, calm and collected bullshit. ‘Fuck the friend bit, you psychopath. What the hell are you playing at?’
Laszlo responded with a theatrical sigh. ‘Marcus, we’ve helped each other very much indeed over the years. I scratched your back in Georgia, and you scratched mine in Hampstead. Things have gone very well for both of us. It would be a shame for this to end in tears. So I need you to do whatever you can out there to make sure my brother and I escape from this hole in the ground. If you do not, I need hardly remind you of the embarrassment I could cause you and your less than blameless fellow countrymen. What it boils down to is this: are you with me or are you against me?’
Ashton turned to face the hangar wall. The wind gusted, raising the short hairs on the back of his neck. Finally he muttered, ‘With you, of course.’
‘Excellent. We must get together, after this is all over.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘For old times’ sake.’
The line went dead.
Ashton stared at the screen with the kind of intensity he would have employed had Laszlo been there in the flesh. The South Ossetian held the key to unlocking his complex past, and the past was an ever-present danger to Ashton’s future.
The Antonov balancing act had taken care and skill. But his two most recent texted warnings, to Hampstead and the train, had had only one objective. Laszlo must not, under any circumstances, be taken alive.
101
WHERE THE FUCK was Ashton?
Gavin charged out of the holding area and scanned the outside of the building in both directions before deciding to head right, towards the tunnel entrance.
‘Boss! We’re back on. The train’s coming out, and we’ve got a sniper option . . .’
Ashton spun round, pocketing his mobile.
Gavin exploded – the major bending his ear was the last thing Tom needed right now. ‘I said not to call him, for fuck’s sake. He’s got enough on his plate!’
Ashton stood his ground. ‘When I want your advice, Warrant Officer Marks, I’ll ask for it.’ He turned and stormed back towards the entrance to the hangar.
Gavin followed, close on his heels. Something wasn’t right. If Ashton hadn’t made the call, why was he being so defensive? And if he had, why didn’t he have the kind of up-to-date int that Tom would know was vital to the formation of a plan of attack?
Gavin made himself a promise. One way or another, he’d find out what Ashton was up to. And if the boss had put Tom’s life in danger, he’d be in severe shit. Gavin would make sure of that.
They went through the shutters together. Gavin got straight on the net. ‘Hello, all call-signs, this is Alpha. Sit-rep. A Chinook will be landing in plus ten. And soon after that the train will exit the tunnel. The X-rays will exchange from the train to the heli.
‘This is a warning order for a sniper option. All Blue and Red Sierra call-signs, return to the holding area now. All other Blue and Red call-signs to remain in the service tunnel for orders over the net. You are to detain all of the Yankees in the service tunnel. I say again, all Yankees to remain in the service tunnel until after the option. Blue One, acknowledge.’
‘One, roger that,’ Jockey said.
Gavin could still hear screams in the background. He glanced through the window. Emergency vehicles were being hurriedly moved away from the killing area. He saw Ashton striding towards the Transit van. He kept one eye on him as he started to write a quick set of orders for the sniper option. Something definitely wasn’t right . . .
The sniper option was a co-ordinated shoot, all weapons firing simultaneously at multiple targets. Blue and Red marksmen would both be on the ground, as close to the killing area as they could be without compromise. The normal distance was about three hundred metres. They’d position themselves at as many different heights and angles as possible. Each X-ray would be allocated at least two snipers, to increase the odds of at least one hit.
Keenan would place both teams’ snipers as soon as he’d done a quick recce and been shown the killing area – the twenty metres that the X-rays would have to cross between the train and the Chinook. Keenan would then go and tie bits of tape to fences unless there were enough wind markers already – a flag maybe, fluttering on a flagpole. There usually were some in places of strategic importance for exactly that reason. He’d put a series of indicators at different heights, so the snipers could judge and compensate for the varying strengths of wind. They had to get it right first time. The objective was one round, one kill.
Since X-ray One was carrying the initiation device, Gavin wanted Keenan and two other snipers on him. He’d normally have commanded and co-ordinated, and not taken a shot. But Gavin wasn’t sure how many X-rays were going to be coming out, and it was all hands to the pump.
The objective – to drop every X-ray a split second after Gavin had given the ‘go’ – involved a major feat of co-ordination. The Yankees would take a second or two to assimilate what had happened, like deer caught in oncoming headlights. Bodies would have tumbled to the ground, blood spurting and splattering all over the place. Some would go into shock and stand frozen to the spot; others would scream, shout, run around, drop to the ground. There would be absolute chaos.
Also on the ‘go’, at the moment the snipers fired, the assaulters would pour out of the service tunnel and swamp the killing area. They’d aim to control the Yankees and take on any X-rays who hadn’t been dropped or were just wounded. The theory was simple, but Gavin knew these options rarely went according to plan. The X-rays didn’t always do what you wanted them to do. Sometimes they were too well covered by the Yankees for a sniper to get a clear sight picture on them. Which meant the assault team had to deal with them. And fast.
The Sentinel SCS (sniper co-ordinated shoot) device helped Gavin give the ‘go’ at exactly the right moment. It looked like a fat laptop. A series of green and red lights – three rows of eight – sat side by side beneath the lid. The call-sign it represented could be written alongside each pair. Gavin could therefore have twenty-four snipers on one co-ordinated shoot. He wished he had more than half that number today.
When each marksman had a clear sight picture on his allocated X-ray, he’d take first pressure on his trigger. A
transmitter in the weapon’s butt would signal the Sentinel’s console to switch the light from green to red, telling Gavin that he could take the shot.
If the sight picture was lost, first pressure would be released, and the light would return to green. No individual sniper had any idea of anyone else’s readiness. It didn’t matter. They weren’t co-ordinating the shoot. All they had to do was concentrate on their own perspective and wait for the ‘go’.
Gavin’s eyes would be glued to the screen as the X-rays exited the train and crossed the killing area. In a perfect world, he’d be looking at ten red lights. In the real world, they blinked from red to green and back to red. If he waited too long for a complete set, he could screw up and lose the shoot. If he went too early, they might leave too many X-rays alive. The result hardly bore thinking about: more dead hostages as the team came out of the service tunnel; more dead team members; and a South Ossetian madman with an initiation device they had to assume would detonate the pipeline charge.
As far as Gavin was concerned, as soon as he had two red lights on X-ray One, he was going to give the ‘go’.
102
THE TWENTY REMAINING hostages were still in Coach Three. Laszlo’s men had herded them together into the centre of the carriage, where the windows were still intact. They sat, as ordered, in the aircraft brace position, guarded by half a dozen seated gunmen.
The Black Bears rose as one to their feet when he and Sambor appeared. Laszlo was moved to see the expression on their faces. He knew this was an emotional moment for them too; a moment they had planned and prepared for as long as any of them could remember.
‘All passengers, stand!’ Laszlo barked. As they complied, exchanging nervous looks, his men walked up and down the line, scrutinizing them closely. Laszlo stopped opposite the man in the black Puffa jacket, whose freedom he’d suddenly denied. ‘You – take your clothes off.’
‘What? Why?’
Laszlo slapped his hand so hard across the man’s aquiline face that the sound echoed through the space. ‘Do it now!’
Unable to hide his fear and humiliation, the man unbuttoned his jacket and began to undo his belt.
Laszlo pulled a day-sack off the shelf above the seats and emptied it onto the floor. He pulled the initiation device from the grab bag and placed it in the day-sack, then unwrapped a chocolate-covered PowerBar and chewed it while he, too, stripped off.
When the man was down to his underwear, Laszlo threw him the Eurostar uniform and grab bag. ‘Put these on.’ He raised his hand, as if to strike him again.
The man flinched and swiftly complied.
Laszlo pulled on his clothes. The jeans were a little big around the waist but the brown leather belt soon rectified that problem.
Sambor followed suit, exchanging his clothes with the tallest of the hostages. The six gunmen exchanged jackets and put other items aside for their brothers at each end of the train. They then concealed their sub-machine-guns under their fresh clothing.
The previous owner of the Puffa jacket was shaking so badly Laszlo thought he might pass out. He straightened the grab bag over his shoulder then took the man’s face gently in his hands. ‘Just be calm, and do as you are told. Take a deep breath – go on, deep breaths – try to control yourself. It may just save your life.’
Sambor embraced the six, exchanging a nod and a few words with each in turn. Laszlo, too, hugged and kissed them all, knowing that, whatever the outcome of the next few hours, they would never meet again.
The fighters, for their part, were just proud to have repaid their debt. Their guilt was expunged. They thanked him for giving them back their dignity.
If they survived, he told them, the gold was theirs. They had been unwavering in their loyalty over so many years; it was the least he could do for them. Whatever happened now, it was better to die like a Black Bear, if it enabled Laszlo and Sambor to escape and continue the fight. They all promised that they would do so with smiles on their faces, knowing that the brothers would take their revenge. Knowing they would kill the country.
The embraces and valedictions were over; the last handshakes were done. Laszlo and Sambor left their weapons and headed back towards the front of the train, Laszlo with the day-sack on his back and a new jacket under his arm, for the man guarding Tom and Delphine.
When they reached the bomb-damaged door to Coach Two, Sambor jumped from the train and Laszlo continued forward.
103
TOM WATCHED LASZLO wipe the dust off the Perspex lenses of two oxygen masks.
‘Prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance.’ Laszlo grinned. ‘You British, you taught me that.’
‘The same people who now want you dead?’
‘The very same people.’ Laszlo smiled ironically. ‘You also may not find them as . . . reliable as you might hope.’ He reached into his jacket and tossed Tom’s mobile towards the front of the carriage. Tom followed its flight, then his eyes jerked back to the door as Sambor lugged a third set of breathing apparatus into the compartment.
He felt Delphine’s grip tighten on his arm.
Sambor opened up the valve and listened to a two-second hiss of pressurized oxygen.
Laszlo squatted beside Tom and Delphine while his brother retested all three sets. ‘Tom, you will not be joining us on the next part of our mission. But we will be looking after your girl – and your unborn son – as long as you don’t do something to make me change my mind.
‘Most people, they disgust me. Their self-pity is so unattractive. But you two, you have something that needs to be preserved. There have been moments in the last few hours when I found myself wondering whether your ancestors might have come from South Ossetia . . . ’
Laszlo shouldered a small day-sack and one of the oxygen sets. Sambor followed his example. ‘But that is precisely why I have to control you both. Delphine, you will come with us. And you, Tom, are staying on the train.
‘Once our work is done – and without interruption – we will release Delphine. The question you need to ask yourselves is quite simple: live or die? The choice is yours.’ He opened the cabin door and stepped out.
Sambor grabbed Delphine’s arm. She leaned across and kissed Tom before she was wrenched to her feet. As her lips brushed his cheek she whispered, ‘I love you . . .’
Sambor left him in no doubt that following Delphine out into the tunnel was not an option. He raised his hand and a gunman appeared, wearing a long brown corduroy coat and an expression which told Tom that pulling the trigger would give him nothing but pleasure.
The two Black Bears embraced. Sambor picked up the two oversized skateboards leaning against the wall and thrust Delphine in the wake of his brother.
Mr Corduroy yanked Tom back through to Coach One.
104
TOM EASED BACK a little from the carriage window, where he’d been planted alongside the other hostages, and slowly turned his head.
A thin man in a Eurostar uniform stood five bodies along to his left, with the strap of Laszlo’s precious grab bag firmly across his shoulder. He was too busy trying not to shit himself to be a totally convincing double, but a quick look at him through the sniper optics and you still might pull the trigger.
Tom had given up trying to second-guess Laszlo, but had started to build up a picture of how the South Ossetian was hoping the next hour or so might pan out. He was intrigued by their performance with the oxygen sets, and that none of the Yankees had been zip-tied; they were hands-free, just like the X-rays.
He risked swivelling his head further.
One of the guards spotted the movement, yelled, and forced Tom’s face back against the glass.
The background hum of the electric power suddenly changed in tone, and there was a loud hiss. It sounded to Tom as if the brakes had been released. The train lurched, and began to move back up the track towards Folkestone. The hostage immediately next to him gave a small whimper of anxiety.
Tom leaned his face against the window, trying to s
ee outside, but the reflection from the internal lights made it impossible. He pressed his cheek against the cool of the glass to try to distract himself from the throbbing pain in his thigh. Then, swaying back with the movement of the train, he shot another glance along the aisle. He managed to get eyes on Mr Corduroy, the nearer of the two gunmen guarding him.
‘Where’s Laszlo?’
No response.
Tom moistened his swollen lips and tried again. ‘Laszlo is my very good friend. I worry about him—’
The man swung his sub-machine-gun towards Tom’s head, then made the mistake of leaning over to confer with his companion.
Tom shot out his left hand and grabbed the barrel of the weapon, pushing it upwards as he launched himself into both men. Still gripping the weapon with his left hand, he extended the right, propelling them backwards. As they lost their footing and toppled over the armrest of the seat on the other side of the aisle, the weapon fired a burst. There was no sound, just the judder of its recoil and a cascade of glass fragments as the ceramic rounds pulverized the window behind him.
Tom had already jinked to his right. Now he swivelled back towards the empty frame and launched himself through it. A rush of air hit him as he met the slipstream from the accelerating train. Tucking his head into his chest, he tried to roll for the landing. The next thing he knew, he hit the wall, ripping his clothes and grating the skin from his knees and elbows. He bounced off and plummeted onto the equally unforgiving concrete track bed.
He lay there for several seconds, dazed and winded.
Another burst of suppressed fire followed him out of the window, but the Eurostar had already moved too far up the track for Mr Corduroy to get a clear shot. A couple of rounds rattled harmlessly above Tom’s head as the sound of the train faded into the distance. Apart from a line of low-level red LEDs at twenty-metre intervals, the tunnel was now almost completely dark.
