Soft Target 05 - Blister

by Conrad Jones

  “Jesus,” Barnes whistled as he spoke. “Please tell me our men weren’t anywhere near that.”

  Grace swallowed hard and looked through the field glasses again. The remnants of the lightship were scattered like burning confetti across the quayside. With the upper decks blown clear the exposed hull looked more like a large rowing boat. A tower of flame burned fiercely from the hull. There was no sign of life, no sign of the two Land Rovers’ headlights, and no sign of Chen and his men.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Tank

  John Tankersley was half a mile from Seaforth docks when the lightship exploded. He was driving a Territorial Army Hummer, which he had acquired outside of the Southport General hospital. Tank had stripped the taskforce pickup truck of its weapons and ammunition. His colleague had the only set of keys to the ignition, and he wasn’t likely to hand them over to him without causing a fuss, and so the Hummer was the obvious choice. He’d watched from the casualty department window as the army vehicle had been parked at the rear of the hospital. Its occupants climbed out and entered the building leaving it unguarded. Two of the part-time soldiers were half dressed in protective suits, while the others were in standard fatigues. They didn’t seem to be taking the evacuation training very seriously. Tank sneaked out and raided the taskforce vehicle for weapons and then headed for the abandoned Hummer.

  Stealing the vehicle was a piece of cake. He’d driven back to the old funfair before searching the rear of the vehicle for equipment; there were half a dozen NBC suits stored in a crate. He checked the size of each suit in turn, and then climbed into the largest one. It was a tight fit to say the least.

  Tank had followed the tyre tracks along the beach up to the point where they had exited it. He had driven past the dead soldiers, slowing down slightly to check their identities. None of them belonged to the taskforce, and more to the point none of them were Grace Farrington. The Hummer had a wide wheelbase and it made short work of the snowfall as he neared the city’s docklands. The pain in his face had been reduced to a dull ache by the drugs he’d been administered. The nurses had applied an icepack to it to bring down the swelling, but he still resembled the elephant man. The gash in his cheek had been closed over with adhesive stitches, which had stemmed the bleeding for now. The fracture was a bad one but a cocktail of painkillers and adrenalin allowed him to function at eighty percent. The dock road had been empty as he neared the perimeter wall and that’s when he’d seen the fireball climbing skyward from the river.

  Tank turned up the volume control on the Hummer’s coms unit. The set was buzzing with a dozen people talking at the same time. The Territorial Army had men stationed at the dock’s main entrance. He could make that much out of the chatter but not much else. Nobody could identify where the explosion was located, except that it was on the docks somewhere. Grace would already be there, and there was a chance that chemical ordinance was there too. He slammed the Hummer into third gear and floored the accelerator. The road bent to the right following the perimeter wall and the vehicle slid sideways as he took the bend.

  Tank saw a figure in the middle of the road but by the time it had registered it was too late to avoid hitting him. The bend obscured him until the last moment, by which time it was too late to stop. There was a thud as he bounced off the bonnet and a cracking sound as the windshield shattered into a thousand segments. Although it was fractured, it remained in place which made it impossible to see through. He stamped on the brakes and the Hummer went into a three hundred and sixty degree spin. There were vehicles parked across the road, which was madness, but they were there anyway. Tank assumed that they had been abandoned by their owners in the blind panic of the evacuation. The Hummer careered toward them and all Tank could do was hold on tight and wait for the impact to come. When the impact came, it was a bone crunching smash which sent vibrations through every inch of his being. The fracture in his face sent white needles through his brain and his upper teeth felt like every nerve ending was exposed. He held tightly to the steering wheel and waited for the pain to subside, but all the time his brain was processing the visual information that his eyes were gathering.

  There were shapes moving amongst the abandoned cars. Dark shadows and hooded figures flitted behind them like ghosts. At first he didn’t comprehend what was happening, and then there was a loud crack as the passenger window cracked. There was a small hole in the reinforced pane and a spider web of fractures surrounded it. Another projectile smashed into the panel followed by others hitting the bodywork. Tank saw a shadowy figure climbing onto the bonnet of a dark Ford. The arms were extended like those of an archer. A steel ball bearing hit the damaged pane and Tank was showered with shards of glass. The figure reloaded his powerful hunting catapult and fired again. Hunting catapults can fire a ball bearing with enough velocity to penetrate a human skull like a knife cutting through butter. This time his aim was not as sure and the ball bearing slammed into the door before ricocheting fifty yards across the road.

  Tank selected reverse with a crunch and hit the accelerator. The Hummer shot backwards as more projectiles pinged off the vehicle. There was a whooshing noise and Tank could see flames through the shattered windscreen. A glass bottle exploded on the bonnet and the Hummer was engulfed in flames. A second petrol bomb smashed against the passenger side of the vehicle. The Hummer sped backward and crashed into a two door saloon. The impact threw Tank sideways against the headrest and the pain in his face flared up again. A hooded figure appeared out of the darkness next to the driver’s door. Tank glanced at the figure as he thrust the vehicle into first gear. This time there was no catapult in sight, but there was a silver revolver in the gloved hand. A fat forty five millimetre slug hissed past Tank’s face as the Hummer roared away from the roadblock. He drove the vehicle a few hundred yards before yanking on the handbrake and pulling hard left on the steering wheel. The Hummer went into a slide and came to a halt facing the roadblock. Tank flicked the lights onto main beam and assessed the situation. His face was beginning to cause him severe pain again.

  In the middle of the road was the body of the person that he’d rundown. Two hooded figures ran to the prone body and lifted the person to their feet. The wind gusted and the injured person’s hood blew down to reveal long blond hair and a pretty feminine face. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her nose was bleeding but her eyes were open and she seemed to be talking to her helpers. The hooded figure with the revolver joined them and he raised the pistol and aimed it at the Hummer. Tank was aware of the drug gangs, and gun crime in that part of the city and it looked like the gang members had chosen not to leave. Whatever their reasons for building the roadblock were, Tank didn’t have the time or the inclination to empathise. The hooded figure fired and a bullet hissed past the vehicle and pinged off the perimeter wall. Tank took out a nine-millimetre Glock, which he had taken from the taskforce pickup. Firing it would alert the office to his whereabouts and they could then track him, but it was no longer an issue. Tank placed his elbow onto the door frame to steady his hand. He aimed the pistol through the shattered driver’s window and fired once. The hooded gunman was knocked off his feet as if he had been hit by an invisible sledgehammer. His friends scattered in different directions like rats leaving a sinking ship.

  There was a four foot gap between a Toyota and a Mini. Tank aimed the Hummer between them and stepped on the accelerator. The vehicle’s five litre engine roared and the wheels skidded in the deep snow as it hurtled toward the roadblock. He braced himself for a fresh onslaught of bullets and ball bearings but none was forthcoming. The perpetrators had run for cover. Tank steered the huge front wheels of the Hummer over the body of the teenage gunman to further deter any would be attackers. The body burst beneath the immense weight and blood squirted across the snow in a fan pattern. Tank gritted his teeth as the Hummer smashed through the roadblock and sped on its way toward the docks.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Barnes

  Barne
s jumped out of the pickup truck and inspected the tyre tracks that had been left in the snow. There was evidence of two vehicles. Grace Farrington drove the pickup at speed across the quayside toward the site of the explosion. She spoke into the coms unit as she approached the burning shell of the lightship.

  “What’s the situation Zulu chief?” the fat controller asked. The explosion had registered on the trackers at the taskforce bunker.

  “The lightship is shredded,” she shook her head in dismay as she surveyed the scene. There were pieces of metal strewn across the dockside, and the hull of the ship was still ablaze.

  “Roger that, what about our men, is there any sign of survivors?”

  “Negative, I’m going to check the Land Rovers now,” Grace reported. She stopped the pickup fifty yards short of the burning ship, and put the vehicle into neutral before opening the door and climbing onto the quayside. The closest Land Rover was seventy yards to her left, next to a four high stack of cargo containers. The headlights and windscreen had been blown out, and the driver was hanging out of the door with his head on the dock. Grace crossed the dockside quickly. She was careful not to disturb any of the debris as she moved. The quay was littered with charred material, and she knew from experience that some of it was the remains of her taskforce colleagues. She was desperately hoping that Chen had been blown clear, or that he’d orchestrated the search from the Land Rovers, but she knew that he was gone. Grace reached the driver and moved the neck section of his NBC suit. She placed two fingers against the side of his neck. There was no pulse. His face had a swollen spongy appearance, which indicated that his internal organs and bone structure had been turned to pulp by the force of the concussion wave. Grace used a gloved hand to close his eyelids before moving away from the vehicle. She skirted the cargo containers and approached the second Land Rover. The driver was sat upright in his seat. There was a two foot metal pole protruding from his chest, and it had pinned him to his seat. His chest was heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Red team driver is still breathing, but he is seriously injured,” Grace called into the coms.

  “Roger that, we have army medics en route. What about Chen and the others?” It was the Major’s voice this time.

  “Negative sir, they didn’t have a chance,” she replied. Her voice was breaking up as she choked back tears. Chen had been her close friend since the day she had been selected for the elite troop, and she would miss him badly.

  “Is there any sign of Christopher Walsh and his men?” the Major asked.

  “Barnes is following a set of tyre tracks on the opposite side of the harbour. They lead away from the site of the explosion along the quay toward an old boatyard. I’ll back him up now I know that medics are on their way sir,” Grace said as she ran toward the pickup. The snow was piling up and it was hard going making progress whilst wearing the clumsy NBC suit. She stumbled and fell onto her knees.

  “Zulu one here,” Barnes called into the system.

  “Roger, Zulu one,” the Major acknowledged his call sign.

  “The tyre tracks run to the rear of a boatyard approximately five hundred metres along the dockside from where I left Zulu chief. There are a couple of vans and a Bentley Continental hidden in an annexe to the rear of the boat shed. I can see several sets of footprints from three people, maybe four, outside of the annexe leading to a side entrance. I want permission to move inside sir,” Barnes was whispering.

  “Negative Zulu one,” wait for backup the Major instructed him. There was nothing but a static silence on the coms. “Zulu one, did you copy my command? Wait for backup.”

  Barnes had been selected for the Terrorist Task Force from the elite Paratrooper Regiment. He had joined the Paras at the tender age of seventeen and had served for thirteen years before joining the counter terrorist unit. Barnes had completed two tours of Iraq and three tours of Afghanistan. He had volunteered to stay on extended duty for every tour that he’d served on. Wherever there was action, Barnes wanted to be at the forefront of the conflict. His talent as a combat veteran had made him an obvious choice for several elite military units, but his gung ho attitude was bringing his decision making qualities into question.

  “Major, this is Zulu chief,” Grace interrupted the coms.

  “Roger, Zulu chief, Zulu one is not responding,” the Major said.

  “I heard his request to enter the building. I’m two minutes away Major, if he’s playing the role of a glory hunter then he’s off my squad forthwith,” Grace was frustrated and angry. Chen and two full teams of taskforce operatives were dead. The last thing that she needed now was a maverick running about thinking that he was Rambo.

  “Zulu one, give me one click if you are compromised,” Grace instructed him. If an operative was in close vicinity to an enemy agent, and their position could be compromised by speaking, then they could flick their coms unit and a single click could be heard at the other end. One click was affirmative, two was a negative response. Grace heard nothing but silence and static, which was created by the snowstorm. “I’m getting nothing from him on the coms, Major. I’m at the point where we split up, so I’ll leave the pickup and follow his trail.”

  “Negative, Zulu chief, I want you to wait for backup. We have lost enough men today,” the Major growled into the coms. “We have a weapon discharged signal from a Glock registered to us. It’s been discharged about six hundred metres from the dock gates. It was assigned to Gomez.”

  “Where is he?” Grace asked.

  “He’s still at the hospital looking for Tank,” the Major replied.

  “Roger that, I think I know who fired that Glock, Major.”

  “Roger that, Zulu chief, I’m not a brain surgeon but I think I’ve a good idea who it was myself,” the Major replied sarcastically. “We have green troop kitted up and ready to move. Wait for backup.”

  “Did you hear me, Zulu chief?” the Major asked gruffly.

  “Zulu chief, are you receiving me?” he asked again impatiently, but there was no reply from Grace either. The only noise was the sound of the wind howling as the snowstorm became a blizzard.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  URI

  Uri pointed the Uzi at Christopher Walsh as he climbed up the metal ladder, which led into the bridge of the L2. Christopher was sweating from the exertion of closing the lock gates. He was also beginning to panic about the length of time he’d been exposed to the blister cloud without any protection. The damage to his lungs would become irreversible if he didn’t use a protective mask of some description soon.

  “Where is the money that you keep on the boat?” Uri asked him as they stepped onto the bridge. He could see over the top of the lock gates from the bridge, and out across the harbour. Thin beams of light were still moving across the old lightship. Someone was paying it more than a little attention.

  “Uri, I need to put on a protective suit and treat my skin, and I need to do it now,” Christopher folded his arms sulkily. His freckled cheeks had been affected by the blister agent, and although he felt no pain yet, they were beginning to redden. They made him look boyish.

  “My men and I need to be paid, Christopher. Pay us what you owe us so far and then we can all get out of here. My men are loading your precious salvage into the vans as we speak,” Uri peered over the stern of the L2. There was a white Ford van parked on the quay. One of his men was using a lifeboat winch to shift a sledge loaded with mustard gas shells onto the dock.

  “I don’t have that kind of money in my arse pocket Uri, I’ll need to get it from my safe deposit box,” Christopher lied.

  “You have cash on the boat, Christopher,” Uri looked toward the back of the boat again. “You don’t have much time.”

  “I need to go below decks and treat my skin, Uri.” Christopher walked past Uri with a defiant gait. Uri raised the black machine pistol and brought it down on the back of Christopher’s head. Christopher howled and dropped onto his hands and knees. He had one hand on the back
of his head and the other was flat on the deck supporting his weight. Uri slid off the safety catch and fired a short burst from the nine millimetre weapon. The Uzi is capable of firing nine hundred bullets a minute. In the fraction of a second that he’d activated the trigger, eight high velocity bullets had been fired. Five of them ripped through the flesh and sinew of Christopher’s hand. He screamed and rolled onto his back. His little finger was hanging in tatters. It was still joined to his body at the wrist, but it was barely recognisable as a finger anymore.