FireWall ns-3

by Andy McNab

  I went into the bathroom. Its walls and floor were tiled, mostly brown, but others, blues and reds, had replaced some of the broken ones in the days when broken ones were replaced. The management's policy had evidently changed in recent years.

  There was another two-bar electric heater on the wall above the bath, as well as an ancient, oval-shaped gas water heater with a visible pilot light and a long steel tap which swiveled so you could fill either the bath or the sink. I was expecting the worst, but when I turned the tap on the pilot light became a raging flame, with sound effects to match. I was jealous. I wanted one in my house. The water was instantly hot, which was good news; I'd be needing a lot of that soon. Turning it off, I went back into the bedroom, where the heaters were starting to do their stuff. Pulling the curtain aside, I had a look out to sea. I couldn't see a thing, except snow swirling in the light spilling from the window.

  I closed the curtains and went down to unload the car, starting with two mines in a box and the my purchases from the gas station.

  The old woman never looked up once as I came and went, either because she knew better than to enquire into a customer's business, or because she was genuinely gripped by the dubbed version of the sixties Batman TV series.

  Once back in the room I started running the bath, slowing the flow to a steamy trickle. I used a screwdriver from the multi tool set to help remove the two mine caps and could smell the green PE the moment the first came off.

  Holding each mine in turn under the tap until it filled with hot water, I then lowered them into the bath, still letting the water run so that it would eventually cover them. Then I went down to the car and collected another two. They were heavy and I didn't want the drama of dropping one. It took three trips in all to get everything upstairs.

  On the final trip I took another newspaper from the back seat and covered the windshield.

  I kept unscrewing mine caps until all six were in the bath in two layers, representing a total of over seventy pounds of PE. Molten explosive would have been injected into the dull green casings at the factory and left to set to an almost plastic state; I'd have to wait for the hot water to soften it again before I could scrape it out.

  Back in the bedroom I turned on the television in time to see Batman and Robin tied together in a giant coffee cup, an animated American voice-over telling me I'd have to wait until next week for the next exciting instalment, followed by the Russian translation which said they really couldn't give a fuck what happened.

  I got hold of the reel of det cord, which looked just like a green clothesline, except that instead of string inside the plastic covering, there was high explosive. This stuff would have the job of initiating the two charges I was going to construct with the PE once I'd got it out of the mines. I cut off about the first foot of cord with my Leatherman; it was probable that the explosive core had been affected by the climatic conditions and/or age, but if so, the contamination normally wouldn't have penetrated further than six inches. The reel then went to the window side of the bed; only prepared kit would go this side from now on. That way things wouldn't get confusing as I became more tired.

  Without any announcement, Charlie's Angels suddenly burst onto the screen. I hoped it was the series with Cheryl Ladd. Farrah Fawcett never did it for me when I was a kid. As the monotone Russian translation started up I went back into the bathroom. The water level still had a way to go as the steaming water trickled out of the water heater.

  Time to check the batteries. They were normal rectangular 9volt ones with press-stud tops for the positive and negative terminals, the sort that are used in smoke detectors or toys. One of them would be the initiation device, providing the electrical charge that would run along the firing cable, which I still had to obtain. It would then initiate the detonator, which would fire up the det cord, and, in turn, the charges. All this could only happen if the power from the battery was strong enough to overcome the resistance from the firing cable and det.

  You attach the firing cable to a flashlight bulb; if it lights up when you transmit power along the length of firing cable, you've got enough juice to make the thing go bang.

  It was getting warm enough to take my jacket off now. I took the insurance policy out of the inside pocket; it was looking a bit the worse for wear, so I folded it neatly, fished around for the condom, and stuck it into the small key pocket on the front right-hand side of my jeans.

  Next, I pulled the plug off the bedside lamp and ripped the other end of the cord out of the lamp base, ending up with about five feet of firing cable-not enough. I needed to be close to the explosion, but five feet was suicidally close. The fridge cord gave me another five.

  The bath ought to have been almost full by now. I went and checked just as Charlie's Angels, dressed up as old women but still looking very glamorous and without a hair out of place, were about to infiltrate an old folks' home on some secret mission.

  All the mines were covered with hot water, so I turned off the faucet.

  I couldn't see a toilet brush anywhere, but there was a rubber plunger.

  Using its handle to prod the PE in one of the mines, I found it was still too hard.

  Footsteps in the hall signaled that the hotel had some new guests.

  There was a female giggle and lusty Russian male talk as they passed, then I heard the door next to mine bang shut. Stretched out on the bed watching Charlie's Angels free the world of evil, I connected the two lengths of flex and taped them up.

  Ten feet of firing cable was still not enough. The trouble was, I wouldn't know how much I needed until I was on target, and I'd have to err on the side of safety. I wished I had about a hundred yards of the stuff, but where would I find some at this time of night?

  Tomorrow would be too late; I wouldn't have enough time to mess around looking for a hardware store. I had to make more of my own, so it was bye-bye, Cheryl. Due to the positioning of the wall outlet, the power line for the TV was quite long; in total I ended up with about eighteen feet of cable.

  With the TV now off I could hear the romance developing next door.

  There were plenty of oohs and aahs, a bit of giggling and a few slaps on bare flesh. I didn't need the dubbing.

  I joined the last section of wire together using the Western Union pigtail method. Chinese laborers used it to repair downed telegraph lines in the Wild West; it's basically a reef knot with the tail ends twisted together. It not only guarantees conductivity, but makes it unlikely the connection will get pulled apart.

  The three lengths were all of different thicknesses and metals, but as long as they conducted electricity that was all I was worried about. I wrapped the copper wires at one end around the flashlight bulb and taped it in place. Now all I had to do was complete the circuit with the two steel wires at the other end of the cable on the battery terminals and bang, perfect, the bulb glowed.

  I repeated the process with the other battery, and both worked for now.

  If they both failed on target and I didn't get detonation, I'd have to switch to plan B and put on the bandanna.

  Untaping the wire from the bulb, I twisted the two copper wires together, then the two steel wires at the other end, and earthed it against the back of the fridge. That would take away any electricity still in the cable; the last thing I wanted was to connect the wires to a detonator and have the thing explode immediately. That wouldn't be a good day out.

  The coil of firing cable joined the det cord on the window side of the bed and I placed the two batteries on top of the TV. You never keep the initiation device with the detonators or the rest of the equipment; the fuckup factor is never far away, and I wasn't taking any chances.

  The only time all the equipment should come together is when you are going to detonate the charges, a lesson one or two Provisional IRA boys learned the hard way back in the eighties.

  The foreplay was over next door and they were getting down to the heavy stuff. Either she was really enjoying it or she was going for an Oscar as the
bed tried to bang itself through the wall and into my bathroom.

  When I checked the mines, the water in the bath was rippling with the vibrations coming through the wall. There was still a while to go before I could start digging out the PE; to use the time productively, I took a sheet of toilet paper with me, put my jacket back on and walked out into the hall. The shag fest reached a rousing crescendo as I placed a small strip of the toilet paper by the bottom hinge and closed the door on it, checking there was just enough paper to be seen.

  Silence fell next door as I left my neighbors to their cigarettes and Charlie's Angels and headed for the stairs.

  The old woman was still glued to her TV. Frozen air clawed at my lungs as I peeled the newspaper off the Lada's windshield. The engine turned over sluggishly after I'd zapped the starter motor, but eventually it sparked up. I knew how it felt.

  37

  I cruised slowly around town looking for the materials I needed to construct the explosive charges, attacking another four aspirin to sort out the headache that I'd developed after playing with the mines.

  Spotting a row of dumpsters behind a small parade of shops, I pulled in and sifted through the old bits of cardboard packaging, tins and rags.

  There was nothing that would do for me, apart from a partly broken wooden pallet resting against the wall. Three sections, each about a yard long, were soon in the back of the car while a dog, cooped up in one of the shops, barked its head off in frustration at not being able to get at me. One section was going to help me get over the wall, the other two were going to prop the charges in place on target.

  Lights were off and curtains were drawn as I left the area in search of more stuff, driving through the heavy mist that rolled in from the sea.

  After ten minutes of patrolling the ghost town I saw a building that was worth a closer look. Trash was piled up outside it, but it was the structure itself that made me curious.

  It turned out to be an air-raid shelter, built in the days when they were expecting Uncle Sam's hairy-assed B-52 bombers to come and dump on them big time. There was a concrete stairwell down to below ground level and a thick metal door, which was padlocked. The stairwell was full of wind-blown litter and heavier stuff that had been fly-tipped, and it was in among all this that I found some expanded styrofoam packaging. I selected two pieces, each just under a yard square. The corners were higher than the middle, which was contoured to fit the shape of whatever it had been made to protect; here and there holes had been punched to save material and give the structure a bit more strength. I now had the frames for the charges.

  It reminded me of having to make claymore antipersonnel mines out of ice-cream cartons before going into Iraq during the Gulf War.

  The last item I needed was a brick, and in a place like this I didn't have to look far for one.

  Back at the hDtel, the old woman had deserted her post and the TV was running what looked like a Russian talk show, with the host and his guests talking at each other very glumly. It looked as though they were trying to decide which one of them should commit suicide first.

  I walked up the stairs with my finds in my arms, feeling pleased that I had everything I needed for the attack and could now sit tight.

  The old woman had just come out of the door next to mine and was heading along the hall away from me with rumpled sheets in her arms.

  The room was probably rented by the hour, and she was cleaning up after the latest event.

  With the faint sound of the talk show in the distance, I checked the telltale. It hadn't moved. I opened the door and waited for the heat to hit me.

  As I took the first step inside, I knew straight away that something wasn't right. The plastic log-effect fire wasn't dancing round the walls, but it had been when I left.

  I dropped the stuff I was carrying. The brick hit the carpet as I started to step back into the hall. And that was the last thing I did for a while, apart from trying to get off the bedroom floor, only to get a blow to the kidneys that put me back down. It was grit-theteethandcurl-up time. There was no time to draw breath. I was roughly turned over and a weapon muzzle was pushed hard into my face. I felt my jacket being pulled up as a hand frisked me.

  Once I had curled up again and played nearly dead, I risked opening my eyes. The oldest of the Good Fellas towered above me, wearing his silver fur hat and black leather coat.

  I could also see another pair of legs belonging to someone else, also in black. The two men stood on either side of me now, whispering aggressively to each other with lots of arm movement and pointing at the dickhead on the floor.

  I made the most of this time while they waffled, trying to take long deep breaths but finding I couldn't. It was too painful. I had to get by with short, sharp gasps, trying to minimize the pain in my stomach.

  Then I looked up and saw Carpenter. Our eyes locked and he spat at me.

  I wasn't scared, I was just depressed that this should be happening to me, so much so that I couldn't even be bothered to wipe the mucus from my face. I just lay there not really caring. How had Carpenter even known I was here? Fuck it, who cared? I'd been dropped by two very pissed-off people and I didn't know if I was ever going to leave the room alive.

  They pulled me up by my armpits, one man on each side, and propped me up on the end of the bed. Pushing my hands into my armpits, I tried to bend forward and get my head down onto my thighs to protect myself, to be the damaged gray man that was no threat to anybody.

  It wasn't going to happen. I took a blow on the right side of my face, which took me straight down onto the bed. I didn't need to pretend; it had done me some damage.

  Expecting more, I curled up on my side. Starbursts did their best to black me out as pain scorched through my body. I could feel myself starting to lose it, and I really couldn't let that happen. I worked hard to keep my eyes open. I was a bag of shit, but I knew that I had to pull myself together or I'd be dead.

  The two of them were still talking, arguing I couldn't tell which in the background somewhere. I just lay there taking short, sharp breaths, keeping my eyes open and coughing blood onto the furry blanket.

  My jaw joint was grinding on itself. I probed with my tongue and discovered one of my side teeth moving as a numb, swollen feeling developed on the right side of my face. I felt as if I'd just had a session with a psychopathic dentist.

  With my head on the bed, I was level and in a direct line with the coffee table. My fuzzy vision locked on to the large glass ashtray.

  I switched my attention to Carpenter and the old guy. They didn't even stop their waffle as a couple of people passed our door, heading toward the end of the hall. The older guy had a pistol in his hand; Carpenter had his weapon in a shoulder holster, which I could see as he put his hands on his hips and pulled back on his unzipped jacket.

  They were both pointing at me. Carpenter seemed to be explaining who I was, or at least what I had done.

  I could also see now what the older guy had hit me with. His hands could have done the job just as well, judging by the size of them, but he'd opted for a leather strop that looked like a big dildo, and which was probably filled with ball bearings.

  The two of them were a couple of yards to one side of me, and the ashtray was one yard to the other. Both men were still more interested in their argument than in me, but would no doubt come to a decision very soon as to how to kill me probably slowly if Carpenter had anything to do with it.

  I had to act, but I also knew that first I had to take a few seconds to sort myself out. I was still fazed; I'd have to break my actions down into stages in my head or I was going to fuck up and get killed.

  I squinted at the heavy lump of glass on the table that might save my life and, taking a deep breath, I sprang off the bed. Keeping my head down, I charged at the two black shapes in front of me. All I needed was to get them off balance to give me just a few seconds. Holding out my arms, I bulldozed into the two lots of black leather and, not waiting to see what happened to them, I swun
g my head round and looked for the ashtray. A wheezy gasp came from behind me as they made contact with the wall.

  Eyes still fixed on the glass shape on the table, my body pivoted as my legs started to move toward it. Muffled shouts came from behind. That didn't matter, the ashtray did. If they were fast enough to recover, or I was too slow to react, I would never know about it.

  Slapping down my palm, as if swatting a fly, I gripped the ashtray. My body was still facing the table with the two guys behind me. Swinging my head round, I focused on the old guy's now hatless head. My body turned as I took the three paces toward him, brandishing the fistful of glass in the air like a knife.

  I closed in, ignoring Carpenter as he came toward me from the right.

  The one I wanted was the old guy, the one with the pistol in his hand.

  His face didn't register surprise or fear, just anger, as he pushed himself off the wall and raised his weapon.

  My eyes were fixed on his face as I swung the ashtray downward, making contact above his cheekbone. His skin folded over just below his eye, then split open. He fell with a scream, his body banging against my legs on the way down. Stage three was complete.

  I heard, rather than saw, the black shape from the right, almost on top of me.

  I didn't have a stage four. It was open house now. Not even bothering to turn and look at Carpenter, I just lashed out wildly. The thick glass hammered against his skull twice on his way down, both times with such force that my arm jarred to a halt as I made contact.

  I jumped onto his chest and continued to rain blows onto the top of his head. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I'd lost it, but I didn't care. I was just remembering the way this fucker had kept firing rounds into the woman in the elevator, and the bastards who'd ruined Kelly's life by hosing down her family in Washington.

  Three times there was a crunching, cracking sound as his skull gave way.

  I raised my hand, ready to hit again, but stopped myself. I'd done enough. Thick, almost brown blood oozed from his head wounds. He had lost function in his eyes and had a vacant stare, wide open and dull, pupils fully dilated. The blood spread onto the carpet, which soaked it up like blotting paper.