by Andy McNab
Tom stumbled to his feet and swayed for a moment before hobbling on as quickly as he could. If Laszlo, Sambor and Delphine needed breathing apparatus, then so did he.
105
DELPHINE FELT LIKE Laszlo’s mule. She was pushed and hustled along the tunnel, fifteen kilos of oxygen tank loaded on her back.
She dragged her feet, partly through pain, partly because she was still hoping against hope that Tom would find a way of escaping from the train and catching up with them.
Not for the first time, Laszlo read her mind. ‘He is not coming back for you, Delphine. So keep moving.’
They passed the body of the old man she had so briefly befriended. She hardly had time to look down at him. It was almost a mercy that Laszlo kept pushing her on.
The stench hanging in the air – of charred equipment and something else, something sickly sweet that she couldn’t quite identify – caught in the back of her throat. Then they tumbled into a segment of the service tunnel that seemed to be filled with burned-out vehicles.
Sambor hauled himself swiftly up a steel ladder set into the wall. Light streamed through a hatch above his head. She watched him push through the two skateboards and disappear. Laszlo hustled Delphine after him. She tried stalling again, but only managed to antagonize her captor.
‘Move!’
Laszlo drew a knife from his belt and jabbed it into her calf, drawing blood. She cried out and tried to jerk her foot away from him, but only succeeded in dislodging her shoe. As it tumbled to the ground, he simply dug the tip a little further into her flesh. ‘If you continue with this foolishness,’ he breathed, ‘I will be forced to remove this from your leg, and insert it into your stomach instead. Your child’s life is entirely in your hands.’
She clambered up the ladder.
Once inside the conduit, she kept her head low to avoid the power lines buzzing overhead. Sambor was standing maybe twenty metres ahead of them, next to a large steel pipe. Something seemed to be strapped onto it, and twenty or thirty slabs of some revolting green substance were piled on the floor beneath it. The reek of linseed made her gag. She guessed it was some kind of bomb.
106
TOM SHOOK HIS head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. Waves of pain pulsed through his body and fresh blood oozed through the makeshift bandage. But he had to keep moving.
He limped past the shattered remnants of the two South Ossetians from the gun team. Their bodies had been mangled by hundreds of tons of train as it rolled towards Folkestone. Body parts were strewn along the track. Tom checked the torsos for mobile phones in the dull red glow. He found none. He wiped his freshly bloodied hands on his jeans and carried on down the tunnel.
Another body lay sprawled to one side of the track, a shock of white hair, matted with blood, plastered across a terrible wound in the head. Tom patted him down in the dull red glow. He found what he was looking for in his jacket pocket, and felt like the worst kind of thief as he dragged it out. He steadied himself against the wall, switched on the mobile and dialled.
It rang just twice.
‘Yeah?'
'Gav? It’s me.’
‘Fucking hell, mate, thank fuck for that. I’ve been flapping here big-time. You all right?’
Behind the almost jocular tone, Tom knew Gavin was fighting to hide his emotions. There was work to do.
‘What you got for me?’
Tom, too, had to cut away and get on with business. ‘Gav, listen in. The train’s heading your way. Antonov is not on board – repeat, not on board. He has a decoy, a Yankee, in a Eurostar uniform. He had the grab bag over his shoulder the last time I saw him. The X-rays are hiding their weapons. They’re going to try and blend in. Antonov is still in the tunnel, and still has the initiator. The device must still be active. Gav, do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Mate, got it. We know about the train. We’ve got an option on it at the exit. It’s all we’ve got left. If I fuck it up we have another major drama on our hands. You stay right where you are – I’ll come in and get you straight after the option.’
‘I can’t.’ Tom slid his back down the wall until he was sitting on the concrete. ‘Gav, the fucker’s got Delphine . . .’
‘Oh, shit. Be careful. Find her, but be careful.’
‘I don’t have a choice.’ Tom hesitated for a moment. ‘She’s pregnant . . .’
‘You dirty bugger. You’ve only been on that train a few hours.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Mate, seriously . . .’ Gavin went silent for a moment. ‘Something fucking strange is going on this end. Did Ashton call you? I don’t know what the fuck he’s up to.’
‘No. Antonov took my mobile. Last time I saw it, he dumped it in the driver’s cab. I didn’t have time to get it back.’
‘All right. We’d better sort that shit out later. Please be careful. And one more thing . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can I be godfather?’
Tom somehow managed to raise a laugh. ‘You couldn’t even spell “godfather”. But, hey, why not? As long as we don’t have to call the poor little bastard Gavin.’
He cut the call, got himself back on his feet and staggered through the green security gate. He stumbled across a pile of rubble and through the hole that Laszlo and his mates had blown in the steel fire screen. The air was still heavy with the stench of burning and death.
Light streamed down from the hatch above as he headed for what was left of the appliances. He saw at once that his mission was hopeless. The fire-fighters were little more than charred carcasses. None of their oxygen sets had survived.
He turned back to the steel ladder leading up to the pipeline conduit. And at the bottom he found one of Delphine’s shoes.
107
SAMBOR MOVED TEN paces further down the conduit to a red access door into the airlock chamber welded onto the gas pipe. He reached for the locking handle, but Laszlo held him back. He turned to Delphine. ‘Do you smoke? Do you have matches, a lighter, anything electrical on you that we didn’t take? The pipe is full of heavily concentrated gas. It can ignite instantly.’
Delphine checked her pockets, slowly and methodically, for the lighter and matches she knew she did not have. Finally, she shook her head.
Laszlo pulled his full-face oxygen mask over his head and handed Delphine hers. His voice was instantly muffled. ‘Make sure your hair is pushed back, so you don’t break the seal with your skin. When you breathe it will give you oxygen on demand.’
Laszlo switched on her set as Sambor pulled open the access door.
‘But remember, do not breathe too heavily – or you may run out before it is time.’
Through her mask, Delphine saw Laszlo reach out to help his brother with his breathing apparatus. She turned and ran back towards the hatch.
She didn’t manage to get far. The oxygen set was heavy, and she had only one shoe. She heard the scuffle of boots on the floor and muffled shouts behind her. A hand grabbed her hair and yanked her backwards, off her feet. The weight of her oxygen tank brought her crashing down. The clash of metal on metal as it cannoned against the side of the pipeline echoed along the conduit.
The air was punched from her lungs. As she struggled for breath, Laszlo dragged her backwards. The escape attempt had been futile. She had known it would be. But it had slowed them down.
108
TOM WAS HALFWAY through the hatch before Sambor realized what was happening.
Laszlo’s hand grabbed for his carving knife but Sambor was quicker. He whipped out his own double-sided fighting blade. ‘Brother, I will take care of this. I, too, have a debt to repay. Go. I will meet you at the other end. If I don’t, promise me to fulfil your pledge. For both of us.’
Laszlo nodded. ‘Be quick, brother. I will take her, just in case.’
Sambor ripped off his mask, dumped the oxygen tank and ran towards Tom, who was now through the hatch. Sambor knew he wasn’t invulnerable: he could just as easily los
e this fight as win, but even losing would buy Laszlo time and distance.
As soon as Laszlo was on French soil the device would be detonated. Sambor wanted to be with him when that happened. If that wasn’t possible, he had to die some time, and this would be the best way. His debt to his brother had been a heavy weight to carry; now was his chance to repay him. He would make sure Laszlo was free to carry out the pledge of revenge.
Sambor advanced to within a pace of his adversary, no hesitation, no fear, eyes glazed as he aimed for a quick kill.
Sambor angled his blade, ready for the fight. Tom glanced beyond him to see Laszlo and Delphine disappear into the airlock, then ripped off his jacket and wrapped it as fast as he could around his left hand and forearm.
He stood his ground and waited.
Tom felt the rush of the knife against his cheek as his left arm deflected the stab at his head. Then he heard a rending sound as the blade, keen as a razor’s edge, sliced through the jacket’s leather. Sambor struck again and again, shredding the fabric as Tom parried the strikes. He felt a searing pain as the blade sliced through the material bunched around his fist and pierced his knuckles. But, finally, he managed to get inside the giant’s reach.
The fight was now more even – or, at least, it felt that way to Tom. He pushed his weight into Sambor, forcing him backwards against the pipe, knowing that if he could not finish him quickly, they were all fucked. He couldn’t take much more punishment. Keeping his head hard against his opponent’s chest, he threw a flurry of punches into his body. He heard Sambor grunt, and the knife clatter to the concrete.
But it wasn’t over.
A flash of light exploded in his head as Sambor’s fist smashed into his temple like a jackhammer.
Tom forced himself to rally. Sheer willpower made his body respond. He launched another attack, unleashing the same combination of punches that he had used to knock out Ashton during Fight Night. But Sambor didn’t go down: he just seemed to soak up the punishment as Tom got weaker. Tom threw everything he had, every ounce of his being, into one last blow, a savage, twisting uppercut to Sambor’s chin.
Sambor still didn’t go down, but he stumbled. He lunged at Tom, his fingers clawing at his face, searching for his eyes.
Tom seized his chance. He piled a vicious right to the other man’s kidneys and as Sambor reeled, dived across the concrete, scrabbling wildly for the knife. He felt the air being driven out of his lungs as Sambor toppled onto his back – but at that instant his left hand closed around the knife handle.
Stabbing backwards, he felt the blade tear into the soft flesh beneath Sambor’s ribs. He stabbed again, not caring where, and worked the blade into whatever part of the big man’s body the weapon penetrated. He twisted the blade into Sambor’s soft tissue and heard him grunt and moan. He churned his hand up and down and round, any way that he could to maximize the damage.
At last the Russian started to shift his weight, now desperate to remove himself from Tom’s immediate killing area. It was enough for Tom to extract the blade from his side, turn, and ram it into Sambor’s chest. He felt the steel jam momentarily, as it wedged itself between the man’s ribs.
Managing to get both hands on the handle, he pushed it home. Then he held Sambor close, so he couldn’t do any more damage to him as his life ebbed away.
109
GAVIN’S EYES NEVER left his monitor. The emergency vehicles had been pulled back from the killing area. So had all personnel. The only movement near the tunnel mouth came from the ramp of the Chinook and one of the team’s Transits parked beside it.
Gavin watched as Ashton and the heli’s two pilots and load-master trans-shipped the last of the crates. He knew the same pictures were being beamed to COBRA’s screens, too. They also had access to the Sentinel display. They’d soon be listening in to the Sierra call-signs as they took up their fire positions.
The Chinook’s engines had been cut, and they were going to stay that way. Keenan didn’t want the rotor-wash deflecting his snipers’ rounds. And there was something about the roar of a helicopter’s engines and the sight of whirling blades that got people sparked up. They rushed towards the aircraft like they expected it to lift off any second. Those in command of the killing area didn’t want that happening today. They wanted the X-rays to hang around in the marksmen’s sights for as long as possible.
The three air crew looked as if they were struggling with the weight of their body armour as much as the weight of the gold. Up to their chins in Kevlar, their orders were to position themselves in the cockpit and make sure the X-rays spotted them at the controls. As soon as things kicked off, they were to make a run for it to a carriage inspection ditch sixty metres away – and not come out again until they were told to.
Gavin’s eyes flicked to Sentinel. All the lights were green. Keenan would still be making sure he covered all angles and heights. The higher the sniper, the better the sight picture, and the better the arc of fire. The ideal was looking down at about forty-five degrees. Wherever they were, they’d be using unsuppressed weapons. Once this option kicked off, it didn’t matter who heard what.
He peered at the aerial view, fed in from a camera on the hangar roof. Some of the snipers were in buildings, set back from the windows, in shadow. Others were out in the open, using whatever cover was available. They didn’t just have to conceal themselves from the X-rays and Yankees. Operation Stack was still in force. Trucks were parked up only 600 metres away. They couldn’t risk a driver inadvertently raising the alarm.
Gavin had eight snipers ticked off on the marker board so far, but it wasn’t good enough. He got on the net. ‘Sierra call-signs, this is Alpha. You need to get a move on. We haven’t got long. Out.’
The two remaining marksmen must still be trying to find a good fire position that supported their weapons. The train might stop in the tunnel. It was no good contorting yourself into some weird and wonderful position for hours: your body had to be naturally aligned into the point you were aiming at.
And you had to have muzzle clearance. The optic sight could be as much as four to six inches above the barrel, depending on where you set it for your individual eye relief. It didn’t make much sense having a really good sight picture of the killing area 300–500 metres away if your barrel was pointing directly at the mound of earth in front of it.
Gavin had had better days. ID-ing the X-rays was going to be next to impossible unless they openly carried weapons. He wasn’t even sure how many of the bastards there were.
The executive decisions had been made much higher up the food-chain. COBRA had told Gavin the way they wanted this to play out. The home secretary’s instruction had been clear and concise. The decoy with the Eurostar uniform must be treated precisely as if he were X-ray One. The grab bag was the last known location of the initiation device. It was all about the grab bag, not who was carrying it. It was a tough call but, hey, it was a tough world. The only certainty was that there were going to be more dead Yankees today. It was inevitable.
Gavin watched Ashton sling his ready-bag over one shoulder. He picked up one of the half-metre-square aluminium crates by its handles and lugged it to the ramp, then disappeared into the bowels of the Chinook.
Gavin accepted that the powers-that-be couldn’t take Tom’s information and assessment as gospel. It was a big decision, and the home secretary was the one being paid the big bucks to make it. Regret, fear, worry: they were all equally unproductive, before, during and after any job. The best they could do was work with the information they had – or thought they had – and what it might mean. There was no such thing as a perfect solution.
Ashton emerged from the heli and made his way back to the Transit. He no longer had his ready-bag. Gavin knew nothing about a bag going on board. Was this connected with Ashton going to the MOE wagon? Why had he insisted on supervising the loading when he should have been joining the Red and Blue teams in the service tunnel, ready to lead the assault? Was there another agenda Gavin hadn�
�t been told about? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Decisions were made. Depending on your pay grade, you were either let in on them or you weren’t. Maybe COBRA or the DSF had another little option tucked away in case the job went tits up. But if that was the case, he should definitely be in the loop. Gavin felt the first stirrings of anger. They could be putting the whole team at risk here. Ashton should be protecting them. He was supposed to be one of them – he was their gatekeeper, not some Whitehall lackey.
He took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time. The train was going to emerge any minute and he had a job to do. If he did it right, there would be no need for any secret option. And he’d find out soon enough if Ashton had tried to call Tom and risked compromising him. Gavin would make fucking sure of that, but only after the job was completed. Then, if there was shit on, he’d be leading the charge.
A speaker burst into life: ‘Sierra Four, ready.’
‘Alpha, roger that. Test.’
Sierra Four took first pressure on his trigger and red replaced green on the tablet screen.
‘Alpha, that’s a red.’
They’d tested the comms before they left the hangar, but they had to test them again. The best fire position in the world is no bloody good if you can’t tell the commander you have your target.
Gavin felt a hand on his arm. He looked up as Woolf placed a paper cup of tea on the trestle table.
The speaker barked again: ‘Sierra Eight, in position.’
‘Roger that. Sierra Eight, test.’
His red lit up.
‘Alpha, roger that. All call-signs, the Sierras are in position. We now wait out.’
