Zinner looked concerned, “You're not filling me with confidence, Orr.”
“It's not just your life on the line.” Orr protested, “But without that air cover you’re reducing our chances of making a clean get away.”
Cope rubbed his arms, he hadn’t anticipated just how cold it was going to be outside and had left his jacket inside. The small shop was ideal, just off a main thoroughfare, the street was busy enough to mask their movements but away from too much attention. Its windows, already boarded, shrouded activity inside from the curious public on the street. It had its own water supply and toilet, making it perfect for lying low.
Cope was just about to return for his jacket when he heard the sound of a large vehicle pulling into the parking lot. The engine grumbled to a stop followed by the sound of doors opening. Cope stepped out of the back door. The impending dusk cast a smoky blue tint to the world and the large white van. With the dimming light Cope couldn't make out the name of the fictitious shopfitting company plastered on the side of the vehicle.
“Evening boys,” he greeted the two men from the van.
“Evenin',” replied the older of the two men. Neither of the pair had seen a razor in the past couple of days. They both wore shabby casual clothes; dusty, paint stained and threadbare in places.
“What kept you?” Cope asked.
“Bloody one way system we had to circle round before we could find you.” the driver explained with an accompanying hand gesture.
“Fair enough, last thing we want is to get collared for a traffic violation. Come on inside I've got the kettle on the boil, its freezing out here.” said Cope.
“Best we get our tools in first,” the younger man said as he walked to the rear of the van. The back doors swung open and the two workmen pulled out heavy tool-bags before locking the doors.
“Right, you want to fill us in on the job?” asked the older man as he followed Cope into the shop.
Cope let the two men walk past onto the shop floor shutting the door behind them.
“We're clear in here,” Cope said dropping the pretence with the bogus workmen, “I've swept the place for bugs and the windows are boarded up.”
“Good, where do you want these stashed?” the older workman opened his tool bag to reveal an assortment of weapons.
“I'll leave it up to you two, not under the floor boards though if we need them we'll need them fast on this one. You OK to spend the night here?”
“Yeah, sure,” the younger workman piped up, “we'll pretend to do some work for a few hours then crash out till morning.”
Cope took a swift look at his watch, “I'll be back round first thing to drop my gear off and then I'll make my way to the rendezvous point. The plan is only to use this place as a back-up, so hopefully you'll not see me after that.”
The two workmen nodded their acknowledgement.
“Well, here's the keys,” Cope tossed them to the older workman, “and I'll catch you in the morning.”
Cope left by the front door, the street was still quite busy even though it had now gone dark. As he pulled the door shut behind him he heard a scraping sound and a clatter. He looked down to see that the “Opening Soon” sign had fallen off. He stooped down and picked it up. An edge had snapped off but otherwise the sign was intact and legible.
He hung it back on the door, “No point fixing you, this time tomorrow we'll have finished.”
Cope headed back to his hotel room to spend the night in far more comfort than his two bogus shopfitting colleagues.
“All I have to do now is wait,” he thought.
Section 22
“You want a soup?” Khosla asked his captain.
“No,” Baxsell shook his head lethargically.
Baxsell was engrossed in the flickering monitor in front of him.
Khosla wasn't hungry he was just looking for something to occupy his time. He peered round at the screen and took another look at the film his captain was watching. It was some historical adventure that held no interest for him.
“Too early to take a nap?” Khosla didn't expect Baxsell to answer.
“Take a nap if you like,” Baxsell snorted his disinterest, eyes fixed on the screen.
After her re-fit and the crew's brief respite, the Spirit of Tristia was set to work as a listening post. From her position, well outside Greda's Van Allen belt, she transmitted her data to the N.S.V. Dominion.
Unlike the months caged up in this cramped space craft during their escape from the Terrans, the pair had no common goal.
They may have had ample supplies and entertainment but it was a numbing role.
At least when they were racing to Greda there was a definitive end, something to pin their hopes and desires on, a finish line to aim for, they had something to work towards. Something to subdue the boredom, each minute brining them closer to home.
This new deployment was different though. Acting as the eyes and ears for the Neotran fleet they sat some distance from Greda on the expected path of a Terran attack.
They were here until their superiors deemed their task unnecessary. And that might not be until after the war was over, hell maybe even longer. Until they got their orders to stand down there was nothing for the two to do other than monitor the sensor data and while away the time as best they could. So they waited, scanning asteroids and counting stars.
Khosla gave an expansive yawn.
“Maybe I'll have a nap.” There was less of a questioning tone in his voice. The yawn having convinced him there was some merit in passing the time with sleep.
He stood up yawning and scratched at his belly.
“If you sleep now you'll be cranky when it's your shift.” Baxsell pointed out.
“You're not my mum.” Khosla replied, “What's that anyway?”
“What's what?”
Khosla pointed at a console, “That blip?”
Baxsell didn't look up from the film he was watching for the eight time, “Don't know, nothing probably.”
Khosla leaned in, “That's an awful lot of nothing.”
A second signal popped up on the sensors.
“Look at this,” Khosla beckoned.
Baxsell swivelled round to look at the monitor.
A third and then a fourth contact registered.
“Shit!” Baxsell cursed.
“Holly crap,” Khosla sat back down and started typing commands on his keyboard.
“Aw shit this is bad,” Khosla shook his head, “This is bad.”
“I don't have any Neotran activity this far out on any of our schedules,” Baxsell said rechecking his information.
“It’s the Alliance, it’s the Alliance attack.” Khosla muttered.
“Get me Control on Greda,” Baxsell ordered.
“You fucking do it yourself, I'm busy,” snapped Khosla.
“Fine,” Baxsell toggled the transmitter, “Spirit of Tristia to Greda Control come in.”
“Greda Control here Spirit of Tristia how may we assist you.” the distant controller replied.
“Ah Baxsell,” Khosla pointed to one of the screens.
Baxsell looked down to see a group of needle thin blips streak away from the Terran armada straight towards them.
“They're coming in!” Baxsell screamed.
“Who are?” the controller asked.
“The Terran Alliance,”
“Roger. How many contacts? Over,” crackled the communications officer's voice over the radio.
“Fuckin' hundreds!” Baxsell screamed back and then turned to Khosla, “Get us the fuck out of here!”
Khosla glanced up at Baxsell, “An' I'm sittin' here with my thumb up my ass?”
Khosla had already primed the ship’s engines and was redlining every system trying to get them to maximum power. If the Terrans didn't blow them up Khosla just might.
The Spirit of Tristia wasn't built for speed, but the Alliance missiles were.
Hurtling towards them was a volley of hunter class nuclear
missiles. With their newly installed sensors Baxsell could have read the manufacturer's stamp on the casing, if he had time.
Behind the missiles came a wave of fighters, then the cruisers and then the Alliance battle ships.
Admiral Jager's fleet slammed head long into Greda's defences. The fighters were guided onto Greda's hastily laid minefields to clear a path but Neotran guns were zeroed in to take them out. Streaks of fire intersected with the fighters obliterating them as they dodged from mine to mine. The first of the Terran cruisers ploughed into range, her guns spewing trails of electric blue plasma.
The Terran guns took their first victim.
The Dominion's hull shattered like glass as the attackers’ concentrated fire smashed into her.
As if in divine retribution, the lead Earth ship struck a mine. The detonation tore her bow open sending her off course and side-on into a second mine. Her back broken, she spun away in two halves with jets of greedy yellow flame devouring the bleeding oxygen.
The fighters fortuitous enough to make it through, engaged the enemy. They buzzed around the Reverence opening welts in her skin as they screamed passed. The Reverence retaliated trying to swat the swarm with her point defences.
Larger, more deadly ordinance ripped into the Neotran fleet. Balls of plasma engulfed craft whole. Neotra's small and vulnerable ships manoeuvred for cover behind their cruisers.
The Terran battle ships traversed the last of the mines to their optimum firing positions.
Hopelessly out-ranged by the Alliance guns the Neotran ships knew they didn't stand a chance at long range. The Reverence put full power to her engines forsaking her guns and freight-trained into the devastating rounds.
Blistered and burst skin flayed away and flames billowed from her lesions. The incessant fusillade gouged massive chunks of flesh from her but still she charged on. By the time she reached the Alliance lines the only thing holding her together was tenacity. The holocaust of Terran fire finally tore through her superstructure breaking her apart. Rendered in two the shattered carcass carried on, locked in her ghostly charge. Not in vain had she perished, for eclipsed by her wake were the rest of the Neotran ships.
Deprived of their superior range the Alliance ships had lost their advantage, brute strength and determination would decide the victor.
Section 23
Cope sat on the bed in his hotel room idly flicking through the channels with his remote control.
It had been a busy day preparing for tomorrow's assassination but now all he had to do was wait and rest up.
The phone on the bedside table leapt to life. Startled by the sudden interruption he dropped the remote, the television screen jumped across to static. Cautiously, as if the phone could bite him, he picked up the receiver.
“Yes?” he said into the handset.
“Mr Calar?” asked the receptionist.
“Speaking.”
“A package has just arrived for you in the foyer. Would you like to collect it yourself or shall I have a porter bring it up to you?”
“That's OK I'll come down and collect it,” Cope hung up abruptly.
If the call was being recorded the less he spoke the less of a voice print there would be to identify him by.
Cope's mind whirled, “Who knows I'm here? What is the package? Have I been discovered? Is this a trap?”
He forced his mind to slow down and make sense of the situation, “If it's a package from my men in the safe house it means a change of plan. Either it's off or it needs to be modified for some reason.
“The second option is that I've been discovered by Neotran Internal Security. The package could be a way of luring me into a controlled area so that they could arrest me with the minimum risk to themselves and civilians.”
He picked up the remote control and switched off the television. The crackling static stopped, leaving the room quiet.
“If it is a change in the plan the quicker I get the package the quicker I can adapt to it.”
He stood up and walked over to the window, “If it is a trap by the N.I.S. there's no point trying to escape. The call to the room shows that they know exactly where I am.”
He looked down to the street below, “The second floor is a long drop to the ground and even if I did try to escape they would have the window covered by snipers.”
Cope checked the room and his pockets for any receipts or tickets he hadn't disposed of. If this was a trap seemingly innocent scraps of paper could put his comrades in jeopardy. He had nothing on him that would incriminate him to the authorities. If he were picked up it wouldn't prevent the mission from going ahead.
Cope decided to collect the package.
The corridor to the elevator and the stairs was deserted. He could hear music behind one of the other guestroom doors.
From his training Cope recalled that, “Loud music, building work or similar innocuous sounds were often used to cover up the movements of ambushers.”
He took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. The stairway was as bereft of life as the hallway. That might not be anything unusual but it served to heighten his paranoia.
The bottom of the stairs came out opposite the reception desk, sitting behind the desk was the same woman who had checked him in.
He looked along the foyer to the exit. Through the glass door he could see the street out side.
“Mr Calar.”
Cope looked back at the reception desk.
“Yes,” he said bringing a weak smile to his face, “I believe you have a package for me?”
“Here you are, Mr Calar,” the receptionist said as she lifted a briefcase-sized object from behind the desk.
“Thank you,” Cope tucked the package under his arm.
“This is it,” he thought, “This is where they'll pounce.”
He turned and started up the stairs. He paused at the first landing and looked backed down at reception. All was quiet, the receptionist was still behind her desk and no ambush had been sprung.
Back in the room Cope laid out the contents of the box on his bed.
It looked like the inside of a waste bin. Scrunched up confectionery wrappers, discarded food containers, battered drinks cans. Different brand names, different sizes, different shapes. But none of the seemingly cast-off objects were what they appeared to be. Each innocent scrap contained a remote detonator and a small amount of high explosive. The circuit board for the remote detonator and aerial were etched on the inside of the packaging rendering them invisible from the outside. The plastic explosives were shaped and coloured to look like discarded mouthfuls of food. It all looked quite convincing at first glance but it wasn't difficult to spot the difference. The packets felt grossly overweight for their size. The explosives could be moulded to look like the contents but they couldn't be made the same weight. The circuit board pattern could be seen on the inside and to allay suspicion further discrete detonator wires led into the disguised explosive. It wouldn’t take long for a trained eye to spot the deadly forgeries. Cope stuffed the camouflaged explosives into a couple of carrier bags. In the lid of the box between the layers of cardboard was an encoded note. Cope unfurled the note and deciphered it in his mind, “Target area as decoy.”
He picked up the phone and dialled for room service. Scouring the room he found the other items he needed. He placed a small shaving mirror, the sachets of soap, shoe polish and a small hotel towel into the various pockets of his long-coat.
There was a knock at the door followed by a call of, “Room service.”
Cope tipped the porter and took the bottles of beer and water, these too he slipped into his coat pockets.
Now he was ready.
There had been no one at the reception desk as he left. Cope assumed they must be in the back office or taking a sly break. No one would notice his departure, hopefully he could slip back in unobserved too. Once outside the hotel he found a quiet back alley. There was a wintery breeze being channelled down between the skyscrapers. Cope shu
ddered as the cold embraced him. The sky was a crisp azure with just a handful of the brightest evening stars heralding the coming night.
Cope opened the bottle of beer he had brought. Raising the neck of the bottle to his mouth he took a long gulp. Lifting his head he gargled with the alcohol like it was mouthwash. Next he spat it out clumsily down his front.
He poured some of the frothy liquid onto his head and rubbed it into his hair, a dribble of sticky liquid trickled its way down his temple.
Lastly he took the shoe polish and smeared the tiniest amount over his face and coat to give him the appearance of an unwashed, drunken bum.
Cope shuffled round the corner and took his first look at the Bor hospital. The sun had set quickly and the street lights had buzzed into life. Their artificial orange tinge forming islands of pale illumination against the darkness.
Cope brought his cupped hands to his mouth and puffed out a hot breath. The plastic bags with the explosive litter dangled from his wrists like bizarre bulbous shackles. Clasping the iota of warm moist air he rubbed his hands briskly together before thrusting them back into his pockets, the plastic bags slapping against his legs as he did.
As he shuffled his way down the winter streets his walk took on a penguin like waddle as he tried to conserve heat and play the part of a dejected vagrant. A head of him there was an empty plinth where a litter bin once stood. The vacant space had crystals of ice creeping across it bathed golden yellow by nearby the sallow street light.
“Reaching the start of the cordon,” Cope noted, “They’re trying to reduce the number of places a bomb could be hidden.”
The street he now walked was adorned with police warning signs taped to the street lights, “No Parking”.
So far he had wandered unnoticed through the evening streets. Well after the end of the working day and the streets were quiet, bereft of all but the weariest commuters. Occasionally passers-by had eyeballed the dirty tramp, to which Cope would stick out a grubby hand and ask, “Change, Sir?” This phrase rendered him invisible. But now he was in a controlled zone.
From the Torment of Dreams Page 15
