A Soldier's Honour Box Set 2 (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Box Set)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Crane tried not to think of the 100 foot drop as they crawled along the viaduct in the dark, the truck headlights crazily illuminating parts of the Yorkshire Dales as they swung around the arc of the viaduct. The press pack was swept by the headlights for a short moment and Crane felt the eyes of the world on him. All the major television stations were now in place, relentlessly showing live news feeds from their reporters in situ. Luckily Crane hadn’t told his wife Tina what he was doing. He knew she would be glued to the television along with the rest of the nation, indeed the rest of the world. She knew he was up in Yorkshire, knew Billy was on the train, but didn’t know the extent of Crane’s involvement in the negotiations.

  Crane and his men wore open necked shirts and trousers, having been made to take off their ties and belts. He could understand that it was less likely they could conceal weapons in that type of attire, but it made for a bloody cold and uncomfortable journey. By the time they arrived at the hijacked train, the hairs on his arms were standing on end and full of goose bumps. But whether the reaction was from cold or fear, Crane didn’t want to call it, so settled for a bit of both.

  Upon their arrival at the train, Crane and Dudley-Jones slid out of the truck and walked round to the back. They were met by another soldier, Frank Potts, who was one of the sentries at Ribblehead Station and had volunteered to help.

  Crane nodded at the two men accompanying him as they stood at the back of the pick-up, arms full, and started to lead the way. The weather was being kind and although cold, there was only the hint of a breeze, not enough to ruffle Crane’s short black hair. He had to resist the need to scratch the scar on his face, more concerned with not dropping the pizzas he was carrying, than he was with relieving the irritation. But all the same, it stood as a reminder that things weren’t always what they seemed to be. The IED in Afghanistan that had contained shrapnel which had slashed into his face had come out of no-where and he needed to be alert, just in case this mission went wrong as well.

  The headlamps of the truck illuminated the path as the three men walked past it, towards the train. The truck had stopped just a few yards short, so there wasn’t far to walk, thank goodness. Crane’s arms were full of pizza boxes and a box of plastic cups, Dudley-Jones struggled under the weight of four large water containers and Potts had four large industrial sized thermos flasks full of tea and coffee. Crane could see the windows on the train driver’s cab were covered by blinds, or paper, as they approached it. Whatever it was, it stopped Crane and his men seeing inside. All they could see were vague shapes behind the protective black out. As Crane passed the front of the train, the cab door was flung open, spotlighting a young girl stood in the doorway, with a gun pointed at her head.

  19:15 hours

  Kourash looked at the three men standing by the side of the train, all looking slightly stupid in their thin attire, just as he asked. His aim was to put them on the wrong foot, make them feel disadvantaged, so they would be more than likely to do as they were told. It would appear it had worked. Two of them looked decidedly uncomfortable, but not the man in the lead. That man had an arrogance about him. No, not arrogance, Kourash decided, looking at him closely. More a belief in himself. Their eyes met and the man didn’t flinch or look away, coolly meeting his gaze, until it was Kourash himself who dropped his eyes first.

  ‘Name,’ Kourash demanded, recovering.

  ‘Crane, Tom Crane.’

  ‘Less of the James Bond, please. This is reality, not some film set. Now, I’m going to move backwards and take this lovely young girl with me. My compatriots will come and take the supplies from you. Good behaviour means Emma here will live. Bad behaviour... well I think you get the picture.’

  Crane and the other two with him nodded their agreement and Kourash walked backwards, dragging Emma with him by her hair, as two of his friends moved in to take the supplies off the first two men. The supplies were placed on the floor of the cab and then ferried into the body of the train. The pizzas and water transfer went well, but then, as if in slow motion, Kourash saw the third man, who was carrying four large flasks, trip over the rail as he moved towards the cab door. Unable to protect himself with his hands full, he dropped the flasks and put out his hands to break his fall. Recovering from his stumble, the man started to straighten and put a hand in his pocket.

  As Kourash watched, the man pulled something out of his trouser pocket. Kourash instinctively reacted to the threat by swinging his gun around. Away from Emma. Towards the head of the third man.

  ‘Potts, no!’ called Crane.

  But Potts continued to pull something out of his pocket. Leaving Kourash with no choice but to pull the trigger. As Potts fell, the sound of the gunshot rumbled and echoed around the valley like thunder.

  ‘No!’ Crane shouted.

  Emma put her hands over her ears and began screaming.

  As Kourash’s men jumped down to recover the flasks of hot drink, Crane screamed, ‘You fucking bastard. He was only pulling out his handkerchief,’ and Kourash turned to see a strip of white material hanging out of the man’s trouser pocket.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Kourash replied. ‘You were warned what would happen if anything went wrong. You’re lucky I didn’t kill young Emma here.’ He turned to her. ‘Stop screaming you stupid bitch,’ he said and letting go of her hair, slapped her across the face.

  Emma fell to the floor, then half crawled, half stumbled out of the cab and disappeared back into the carriage.

  ***

  Crane and Dudley-Jones watched as the cab door was slammed shut in their faces and they immediately turned to Potts. Squatting down beside the fallen man, Crane placed his hand on Potts’ neck and was relieved to feel a pulse.

  ‘He’s alive, get his feet,’ he shouted to Dudley-Jones and together they carried the injured man back to the vehicle. Slinging him onto the cab bed, they jumped up beside him and Crane banged his hand on the driver’s roof. The man took the hint and after a couple of unexpected jerks, the truck drove steadily backwards, towards the safety of the station.

  ‘He’s been shot in the shoulder above the heart,’ Crane said to Dudley Jones, as he ripped off his white shirt. ‘Here, make a compression pad out of this and hold it against the wound. He’s losing a lot of blood, the bloody stuff’s everywhere.’ As Dudley-Jones obeyed the instruction, Crane looked back towards the train and thought about what he’d seen.

  It didn’t take long before they arrived back at the station and helping hands took Potts from them and loaded him onto a stretcher. As a paramedic took over holding the compression pad from Dudley-Jones, he asked, ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re covered in blood. Is it yours?’

  Dudley-Jones looked down at his once pristine shirt and shook his head. ‘No, no it’s not,’ he said and turned and walked into the station. His face was drained of colour, as if his blood had drained out of it and poured onto his shirt.

  Crane walked to the front of the vehicle. The driver was still sat there with the door closed. Crane opened it and looked at the frozen man inside. His face was glazed with sweat and his eyes blank with shock.

  ‘Come on,’ Crane said. ‘Let’s get you out of there.’

  The driver turned to his head to look at Crane.

  ‘My hands,’ he said. ‘I can’t move them.’

  Crane reached out and opened the man’s fingers, one by one, then helped the driver out of his seat and continued to hold him up as they walked together along the platform, towards a waiting ambulance.

  Once the driver had been delivered to the paramedics for treatment, Crane turned away to find Mike Keane standing in front of him.

  ‘What the fuck happened, Crane?’

  ‘Now hang on,’ Crane immediately bridled at the man’s language and tone of voice.

  ‘How can you get delivering supplies wrong, eh? What did Potts do to get himself shot?’

  ‘Nothing, Keane. He didn’t do anything wrong. He just fell, that
’s all.’

  ‘That’s all? There has to have been more to it than that!’

  ‘Oh, so whatever went wrong is our fault, is that what you’re trying to say? Or have you forgotten you’re dealing with a terrorist, Keane? A nut job who thinks he can take on the British government and win.’

  Keane took a few deep breaths. ‘Okay, let’s say Kourash over-reacted. But the question is, what did he over-react to? What did that bloody idiot do?’

  ‘From what I could see, he fell because he’d tripped over the railway line and then as he got up, he went to take his handkerchief out of his pocket.’

  ‘His handkerchief? You have to be joking.’

  ‘No I’m not. He must have wanted to wipe his hands clean.’

  ‘Jesus H Christ,’ Keane shook his head. ‘At least Kourash didn’t shoot to kill.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,’ Crane said as they walked back to the command centre, their anger dissipating as they once again focused on the hostage situation. ‘I don’t think he deliberately shot Potts in the shoulder. I don’t think he’s a very good shot. He could have been trying for his heart.’

  ‘Really? Interesting.’

  ‘I saw his hand briefly wobble before he squeezed the trigger,’ continued Crane. ‘It was just a moment’s hesitation, but I don’t think he’s shot anyone before. At least if he has, not at such close range.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Keane mused.

  ‘Yep. Maybe they’re not military trained. They could be more a band of brothers who have come together to get their families released, just like Kourash said. That makes them vulnerable.’

  ‘And makes our job easier.’

  ‘Well, the job of the lads who eventually go in, yes. It makes their job easier.’

  ‘On the other hand...’ Keane stopped and looked at Crane. ‘It makes them more likely to react impulsively. Means they’re more volatile.’

  ‘Which puts the hostages in greater danger,’ Crane said.

  19:20 hours

  As the smell of pizza permeated the carriage, the hostage’s spirits lifted and their mouths filled with saliva. Billy smiled at the look of anticipation on Charlie’s face. The young boy’s upset at wanting to go home to his mum, temporarily forgotten. Two of the hijackers passed around the pizza boxes, one per two people, with instructions that the remaining boxes were to be held over for breakfast.

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Charlie. ‘Pizza for tea and for breakfast!’ causing his father to smile indulgently.

  Billy had a piece of pizza half way to his mouth, looking forward to it as though it were his favourite meal of steak and chips, when the gunshot echoed through the carriage. It immediately dispelled the upbeat mood that had spread amongst the hostages.

  Peggy and Hazel screamed, with Peggy calling out, ‘Emma! Emma!’

  Mick took one look at Billy, then putting his arms around Peggy, he turned her away from the sight of Emma tumbling through the door.

  Billy, though, didn’t have the luxury of doing nothing, so he rose out of his seat and grabbed Emma as she emerged from the driver’s cab. Pulling her to her feet, he quickly ran his hands along her arms and legs, to check for wounds. Her face and top were covered in blood, so he asked, ‘Emma, is that your blood? Are you hurt?’ He thought she was okay, but needed to hear it from her.

  ‘No, no,’ she gulped, ‘I’m okay, it’s the other man.’

  Guiding her to a seat and asking Mick to get some water for her, Billy sat next to her and said, ‘Emma, can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘One of the men bringing the stuff fell and the next thing I knew Kourash fired his gun. There, was, um, blood everywhere. Did he kill him? Billy, what are we going to do? He’s going to kill us all!’

  Emma’s voice had risen and Billy held her close in an attempt to stop her cries, which were upsetting the others in the carriage.

  ‘Shhh,’ he soothed. ‘It’ll be alright. We’ll get out, just you wait and see.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Definitely.’ He was quite enjoying the sensation of having Emma in his arms, so decided to try and keep her there for a little longer.

  ‘What do you do, Emma?’ he asked, hoping to distract her from her fear and shock.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you do? Where do you work?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a student, English literature.’ Emma was calming down, her breathing becoming more regular.

  ‘Ah, so that’s why you read so much.’

  ‘Um, suppose so.’

  ‘And look so bookish,’ Billy teased.

  ‘Oy, you,’ she pushed herself upright. ‘Do I really?’

  ‘Afraid so. I think it’s the glasses.’

  ‘I’ll have you know they’re very fashionable,’ she said and pushed them up her nose indignantly, but the corner of her mouth had started to go up in a lopsided smile. Until she tried to see through the glasses. She ripped them off her face and handed them to Billy.

  ‘They’re, um, it’s his, oh shit,’ she said and began to cry.

  Billy looked over at Peggy, who was quickly becoming a mother figure among them and at a nod from Billy she got out of her seat, walked over to Emma, put her arms around the young girl and helped her from her seat.

  ‘Come on, love, let’s get you cleaned up.’ Turning to the hijacker standing guard over them and positioned at the toilet door, she said, ‘We need to go in there.’

  The man looked Emma up and down before he nodded his head and moved out of the way of the door.

  As Peggy ran water in the sink, Kourash returned to the carriage. The remaining passengers looked at him and it was as if they collectively held their breath. It was Hazel who broke the silence.

  ‘Emma needs a change of clothes. I’ve got a spare top in my bag. I’m going to get it for her,’ and she stood, arching her back and placing a hand on it as she stood, her swollen belly pushed forward. Billy noticed she hadn’t asked Kourash for permission, but told him. Perhaps there was some backbone in the hostages after all.

  Hazel pushed her way out of the seats and stood in front of Kourash. Billy watched the stand-off, wondering what Kourash would do. As he moved out of the way, Billy wondered if the fact that Kourash had just backed down was a sign of weakness in the hijacker. Maybe. It could be Hazel’s pregnancy, just respect for her condition. But studying Kourash, Billy could see the gun tremble slightly in his hand and hoped to God it wasn’t out of fear. Fear made people unpredictable and prone to do stupid things.

  ‘Come on, everyone, let’s eat,’ Billy called. ‘No point in letting the pizza go cold and we need to keep our strength and spirits up.’

  As everyone nodded in agreement and once more lifted the food to their mouths, Kourash turned away and walked back into the driver’s cab. One to us, Billy thought. A small triumph, but a triumph all the same.

  20:00 hours

  The gunshot had stirred up a different hornet’s nest. That of the press pack. There was no dismissing the noise as a car backfiring. No point in denying that what everyone had heard was a gunshot. So the authorities didn’t. But they did ask the press for their discretion when it came to the hapless soldier that had been shot. No one was to name him, or even try and find out his name. He was recovering in hospital and that’s all they were to report. It was an unfortunate mishap. Failure to comply would result in the newspaper or television crew being barred from the press area and from any further press briefings. Faced with that sort of determination, they had no option but to comply. So it was a rather muted Harry Poole and Diane Chambers who left the briefing.

  After receiving the cryptic message from Crane earlier in the day that she should find Harry Poole, she had done as he’d asked and was delighted with the outcome of their meeting. Harry had said that if she left Billy’s name out of her stories, he would help further her career and give her valuable experience. At first she’d been sceptical, as Crane had blindsided her on more than one oc
casion. But it seemed that Harry Poole was a pretty straight guy, or if not completely straight, pretty bloody persuasive.

  ‘I’m happy to have you work with me,’ he’d said. ‘But I run the show and you do as you’re told. I write the day and night leads, concentrating on any interviews and the news conferences in and around the press centre. Oh, and I edit everything you write and have the final sign-off.’

  ‘What exactly am I to write then, if you’re doing all that?’

  ‘You’re to go out and get me as many sidebars and features as you can. I want plenty of facts and colour. I want to know all about the hostages - apart from Billy, of course. He’s out of bounds. I want details of Bagram Detention Centre. I want to be able to feel I’m in there, walking around. I need the sights, sounds and colour of the place. I want background on President Karzai and the line that he and the Afghan Government are taking on the prison and the prisoners in it. I also want any other hostage situations that we can compare this one with. How did they turn out? What were the outcomes? How many survived? I think that lot should keep you occupied for now.’

  Diane had tried very hard not to show her pleasure and excitement and had bitten the insides of her cheeks to stop the grin that had been threatening to spread across her face. Adopting a casual attitude, she’d then said, ‘And what about when they storm the train? Where will I be then?’

  Harry had stood considering her for a moment. ‘Then you can be with me, on the front line nearest the train. We’ll write that one together.’

  ‘And my by-line?’ Diane wasn’t going to comply without confirmation that she would get credit in a national newspaper for her copy.

  Harry had nodded, ‘You’ll get credit for the copy you write and for the big article we write together when the army go in.’

  Resisting the temptation to fling her arms around Harry Poole, especially as he was quite attractive in a rugged, rumpled kind of way, although a bit old for her, she’d merely said, ‘It’s a deal,’ and held out her hand.