The Omega Sanction

by Tomas Black

  “Roger, receiving. The plod should be expecting you. Out.”

  Fucking well hope so, thought Poacher. Otherwise he would have some explaining to do. He imagined the conversation. And what’s in the case, sir? One of Britains best-kept secrets: an AS50 semi-automatic sniper rifle. An effective range of eighteen hundred metres. And do you have a licence for that weapon, sir. Fuck off, sonny.

  He approached the Underpass and, as promised, it was cordoned off. Two police cars blocked the road. He slowed to a stop and wound down his window. He waited for someone to approach.

  “Evening sir.”

  Poacher leaned out of the window. “Poacher”.

  The policeman looked at the side of the van then back to his colleague who was examining his onboard computer. The policeman nodded.

  “Thank you, sir …” He hesitated. “What’s in the case?”

  “You don’t want to know. Now open up. I’m in a hurry.”

  The policeman ran back to his car. Engines started and the two police cars pulled back allowing Poacher to drive through.

  He drove for a short way before re-emerging onto the Embankment. He passed the vault on his right. He slowed and glanced to his left. An elevated wooden hut rose up from a mooring on the river. Bingo. It was perfect. He cruised on by until he spotted another mooring a few hundred metres further on. He slowed the van and stopped. It was quiet. No traffic and no pedestrians. McKay’s planning had come good.

  Poacher spotted them. Two women coming up from the mooring. Little and Large. Best keep that thought to himself. Fern tapped on the window. He opened the door and jumped out, looking around as he did so.

  “Good timing,” said Fern. “Any problems?”

  “Sweet as a nut. Keys are in the ignition.” He leant inside the cab of the van and grabbed his rifle case and kit bag. “Communications?” Stevie was staring up at the Poacher with a big grin on her face. “That’s you, my lovely.”

  “Oh, right,” said Stevie. “All good.” She gave him a smile.

  Poacher took a small round item, the size of a hockey puck, from his bag. “When you drive by, stop and slap that on the door. It’s sticky on the back. Make sure the cameras are off.”

  Fern gingerly took the puck.

  “Catch you later.” And with that, he jogged back to the mooring opposite the vault. All he had to do now was break in and set up. He hummed a little ditty.

  ~~~

  Drum was making one last monumental effort to reach the iron gate when a hand came out of the blackness and grabbed his arm. Brock held on to the gate with one hand and pulled Drum in with the other. Eventually, Drum grabbed hold of an iron crossbar and relaxed. He tried to calm his breathing. He checked his air gauge. He’d used more than half his supply. He turned to Brock and pointed up.

  They broke the surface, pulled up their masks and spat out their mouthpieces. Rain lashed down around them as they bobbed up and down beside the gate. The tunnel was completely submerged.

  “Thanks,” shouted Drum. “I’m knackered.”

  “Let’s get moving. We’re behind schedule.”

  Brock unhooked a pair of bolt cutters from his belt. He shouted in Drum's ear, “I’ll go back down and cut the locks. Careful the gate doesn’t swing out and knock you off.” He replaced his mask, bit down on his mouthpiece and slid beneath the water.

  Drum heard a clanking and then a dull snap. The gate moved suddenly but stayed shut. Drum clung on. Eventually, Brock resurfaced and replaced the cutters back on his belt. He pointed down. Drum pulled down his mask, inserted the mouthpiece of his air supply and sank below the surface. Brock was pointing to one side of the gate. Drum grabbed hold and both men pulled. There was a dull clunk and one side of the gate swung open.

  Even with both flashlights, visibility was down to just a few metres. The only good point was the current had diminished. Drum checked his watch. They were fifteen minutes behind schedule. They needed to make up time. They carried on swimming, keeping as close to the tunnel roof as their tanks would allow. After five minutes they came to a junction – which was a problem because it wasn’t on the map.

  Brock turned to Drum. Left or right, he mimed. Drum had no idea. It was fifty fifty. He checked his air gauge. Just a quarter of a tank. He didn’t have the luxury of making a wrong turn. Don’t get lost in the tunnels.

  Drum was still trying to decide on a direction when a large rat swam past his mask. He pulled back instinctively. Another rat followed. Then a partially decomposed corpse drifted into view. Both men recoiled and let it drift past along the roof of the tunnel. It had come from the right-hand fork. Drum made his choice.

  They swam up the right-hand fork for several more minutes. The water level had still not dropped. Then they saw it. A gated alcove. Drum shone his flashlight through the bars. All he saw were old packing crates, bobbing against the roof. He checked his air gauge. He had only a few more minutes of air. He decided to press on. He indicated to Brock to keep swimming.

  Soon, Drum noticed a change in the water. An air gap of about half a metre appeared above them and he could make out stone steps coming up from the bottom of the tunnel. They paused and moved forward slowly, keeping just below the surface.

  The stone floor came up to meet them allowing Drum and Brock to push up their masks and spit out their mouthpieces. They gulped in the air. It tasted rank and smelt bad – as if something had just died. Then Drum heard it. A whimpering sound and a slight cough, a little further up the tunnel. They pushed forward and found a second gated alcove. Drum again shone his flashlight through the bars. It was Harry, standing on a packing crate, up to her knees in water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Extraction

  Drum played his torch around the alcove. Harry stood there, shaking from the cold and sheer exhaustion. She slowly turned towards the light.

  Drum put his finger to his mouth. She acknowledged with a barely perceptible nod. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Brock tapped Drum on the shoulder and indicated with his hand to look further up the tunnel. Drum could make out a faint glow. He nodded. He would clear the tunnel; Brock would free Harry. He undid his weight belt and let it sink slowly around his feet, then he carefully removed his air tank and lowered it gently to the tunnel floor. He discarded his mask and removed his fins. He unstrapped his H&K and unfolded the stock, checking the mag and screwed the suppressor onto the short stubby barrel. Drum knew the suppressor would not completely silence the weapon, but he hoped it would be enough to prevent the sound of gunfire from reaching the upper levels of the vault. He racked the slider on top and chambered a round. He flipped off the safety and selected single fire. He would need to conserve his ammo. He turned off his torch and waded up the tunnel.

  Drum headed towards the glow, moving slowly and as silently as possible through the dirty water. The lights in this section of the tunnel had blown. He could barely make out the sides of the walls. The water receded with every stride. He came upon another alcove on his left, the iron gate open against the wall. He pressed himself against the gate and listened. Nothing. He peered inside the dark recesses of the alcove but it was empty. He pressed on.

  The water was now up to his ankles allowing him to move a little faster. The light grew brighter. He could make out markings on the tunnel walls. He took another stride, stubbing his toe on the bottom of a stone step. He swore quietly under his breath. He could hear the sounds of a conversation. He raised his weapon and mounted the steps.

  He rounded a shallow bend, crouching low. The floor was wet but had yet to flood. Bulkhead wall lights illuminated a widening corridor that ended in a large space and the elevator shaft. The sound of conversation intensified as Drum crept closer. A room came into view to his left. Two men were drinking and playing cards, the door ajar. Drum pressed himself against the opposite wall to lessen the chance of being seen and crabbed closer. He reached the elevator and slid silently against the wall, coming to the side of the door. The men were talking in
Russian, relaxed, enjoying their game. Drum stepped into the middle of the door frame and kicked the door fully open.

  The conversation stopped. Both men frozen at the shock of his entry. Drum put a single bullet in the chest of the furthest man who was reaching for a gun. The impact spun him backwards over his chair. In his peripheral vision, Drum saw the second man coming for him. Too slow. Drum put two bullets into his chest at close range, the impact felling him like a tree, pushing him back against the wall. Drum entered the room and put a second bullet through the head of the first man, just to be sure. He quickly surveyed the scene, then left the room and headed back down the tunnel.

  He rounded the bend, splashed down the stone steps and switched on his torch, flashing the light four times. Brock returned the signal. There was a dull clang followed by the screeching of rusty metal hinges. It took him only a few more minutes to reach Harry’s makeshift prison.

  “Give us a hand,” said Brock, struggling to get Harry down from the crate. “I think she’s suffering from hypothermia.” His hand struck the water. “Fucking rats … get off me you bastards.”

  Drum handed Brock his H&K and waded into the alcove. He reached up and grabbed Harry around the waist. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Harry looked down. “Ben …”

  “Later,” said Drum. “We gotta move.”

  Harry stepped off the crate, clinging to Drum’s neck, her body shaking. Brock took her arm and they waded out.

  “I’ve got her,” said Drum.

  Drum half carried and cajoled her up the tunnel. Brock followed close behind. They had reached the stone steps when Harry sank to her knees.

  “Sorry … legs are cramping. Been standing for hours.”

  “Not far now, Harry. A few more steps.” Drum heaved her up and they staggered on until they were back at the room near the elevator.

  Drum lowered Harry to the floor and propped her up against a wall. Her head drooped forward. She didn’t look good. He went into the room and spotted a flask, a half bottle of vodka and a couple of mugs. He stepped over the two dead men and retrieved the flask. He opened it and sniffed. It was coffee and still warm.

  He knelt beside Harry. She looked asleep. Brock was trying to wake her.

  “Let me try.” Drum poured out some of the flask’s muddy contents into a mug. “Wake up Harry. Drink this.”

  Harry’s eyes flickered open. She smelt the coffee, grabbed the cup with both hands and downed the contents in one gulp. He refilled the cup, adding a slug of vodka.

  “Slowly this time.”

  Harry sipped from the cup. She half-closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. “Thank God you found me …”

  “Better late than never,” said Brock. He broke out the comms, donned his headset and turned on his radio. “Comms check, comms check. Stevie are you there?” All he heard back was static.

  Drum donned his headset and secured his radio on his belt. “We’re still too deep. The tunnels are shielding the signal.” He tightened the straps of his webbing and checked his gear.

  He looked down at Harry who was now shivering. He went back into the room and looked behind the door. Sure enough one of the guards had a parka hanging there. He brought it out and wrapped it around Harry’s shoulders. “Let’s go, Harry.”

  They helped Harry to stand and then moved over to the elevator. “The only way is up,” said Brock. “You find an access card?”

  Drum thought for a moment then searched each pocket of the parka and pulled out a plastic access card.

  “How did you know it would be in the coat?” asked Brock.

  Drum smiled. “Because that’s where I keep mine.” He placed the card against a panel on the wall. A light illuminated green and they heard the soft whine of the elevator motor as it descended to their level.

  Brock stepped back and trained his rifle on the door. He waited. The doors slid open. The car was empty. “All clear. Let’s go.”

  They piled in, Drum supporting Harry. Brock tried the radio one more time. “Comms check. Stevie, are you there.” Again, just static. “No joy.”

  “Punch it,” said Drum.

  Brock leant forward intending to punch the button for the lobby when the doors suddenly closed. “What happened?” The elevator motor spun up and the car lurched upward. “Shit, someone’s called the elevator.”

  ~~~

  Fern sat in the cab of the Ives van. All the traffic on this stretch of the Embankment had ceased, leaving things eerily quiet. Only the occasional riverboat broke the silence of the night with a mournful sounding of its horn. She had parked the van in a dimly lit side street, as close to the wall of the vault as possible. The rough brick wall blocked out the driver’s side window, adding to the gloom of the cab’s interior the only light came from Stevie’s laptop screen. She wondered what she was doing here, sitting and waiting on someone else's command. Usually, she was the one in control and it irked her that all she could do was count down the minutes. She checked her watch.

  “That’s the fifth time you’ve checked your watch,” observed Stevie.

  “What are you, the clock police?”

  “Just saying … there’s no need to be nervous.”

  Fern turned around. “I’m not nervous, just frustrated at being stuck inside this van listening to you fucking poke at that laptop.” She gripped the steering wheel and turned to face the street once more. “Try them on comms. That’s your job right?”

  Stevie touched a small bone mic attached to her ear. “Comms check. Comms check. Come in please.” She paused. “Nothing but static.”

  “Are you sure your gear is working?”

  “We always knew they would be in a radio black spot in the tunnels … or perhaps their radio wasn’t as water-resistant as we thought.”

  Fern slumped forward and rested her head on her hands. “That’s just great!” She looked up. “Try Poacher.”

  Stevie sighed. She switched channels on her radio. “Comms check, Poacher. Still awake?”

  The dulcet tones of Poacher floated over the airwaves. “Hello, my lovely. I was thinking of you.”

  “Good grief,” sighed Fern. She touched her bone mic. “Any activity at the front of the building?”

  There was a pause then a crackle of static. “As quiet as a graveyard, Commander.”

  “You all set?” asked Fern.

  There was another pause, longer than before. “As ready as I was the last time you asked me, Commander.”

  Stevie quickly interrupted, “Thanks, Poacher. Comms check out.”

  Fern groaned. “I can’t believe I just asked a SAS veteran if he was ready.”

  “Ben will be alright.”

  “Ben?” said Fern.

  “Yeah. Why do you two call each other by your last names? What is that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. Drum’s ex-military …”

  Stevie smiled sweetly. “Well, he certainly stood to attention when he was in bed with me.”

  Fern turned to face the young Russian. “Listen, you little Russian tart. I have a Glock 17 strapped to my thigh. So I’d quit with the aggravation.”

  “Right, just kidding …”

  A crackle of static filled the cab. “Which channel was that?” asked Fern.

  Stevie checked her radio. “It’s Ben’s channel.” She made a few adjustments. “Ben, Ben are you receiving.” She waited. There was another crackle, then what sounded like ‘Evie’.

  “It’s Drum,” said Fern.

  Stevie kept trying to tune the radio. “They must be up from the tunnels. But where?” She fiddled with the radio again. “No good I can’t get them back.”

  “Fuck,” said Fern. “If we go too early they won’t make it to the second floor.”

  “What do we do?” asked Stevie, her voice rising.

  Fern pounded the steering wheel with her palms. “Wait, wait. If they’ve made it out of the tunnels then they must be in visual range of the security cameras. Can
you punch them up?”

  “Right!” exclaimed Stevie. She turned to her laptop. The video feeds from several cameras appeared in neat squares across her screen. “They’re not on the first floor.” She punched up more feeds. “Not on the second floor. Nor the lobby …”

  “What about the vault?”

  Stevie frowned. “Why would they be in the vault?”

  “Just do it …”

  Stevie brought up the vault feed. The square of video blinked onto the screen and the vision of Drum and Brock, walking down from the elevator towards the vault, guns blazing.

  ~~~

  Drum sat Harry down in the corner of the elevator. “Stay down.”

  “Let me help,” said Harry.

  “You can help by not getting shot.”

  “Ready?” asked Brock.

  Drum moved beside Brock and readied his rifle. “The only way is down the corridor, to the left, towards the vault door. Watch for a room on the right.”

  “Roger that.”

  The elevator car bumped to a halt and the doors opened. Two big men in the grey uniform of the bank’s security guards froze in front of them. Drum recognised them as the ones who had dragged Harry to the vault. Drum fired first, taking out the guard directly in front of him with a head shot. The second guard only had time to move his hand to his jacket before Brock took him out with a similar shot. The force at point blank range threw each man back onto the opposite wall, adding their blood and brains to the decorative marble. Despite the use of suppressors, the noise from the weapons echoed off the walls.

  Drum and Brock trained their weapons down the corridor. The vault’s monstrous door was open as was the balance room beside it. Drum saw no movement. He waved Brock towards the wall while he moved over to the opposite side. He crouched down and keyed his mic. “Stevie, are you receiving?” Static filled his earpiece. He adjusted his radio, trying to fine-tune the frequency. “Stevie, are you receiving?” He shook his head and indicated they should move forward. They needed to clear the area. Both men crouched and moved towards the vault, weapons raised.