"Run where?" yelled Tom, clicking on a torch the tunnel rats had supplied him with, as he chased after Roland who sped into a dark tunnel.
“Not a good time to explain right now Pal," shouted the Tunnel Rat over his shoulder without slowing. "Just stay close."
Two minutes later the Rat leader led them through a steel gate that at one time had closed off one of the lines running parallel with the main line. As the last of the troops raced through, Roland slammed the gate shut, pulled the heavy duty chain resting on it through the bars and snapped the padlock closed that was linked through it.
"How....how the hell did you know that lock and chain would be there?" gasped Bull, struggling to catch his breath.
"It.....it’s policy," struggled Roland bent double. "Every gate we ever pass through we leave ready to lock quickly in the case of a bleed.”
"So you knew this was set ready?” asked Tom.
Roland shook his head. "Knew the lock and chain would be here, just wasn't sure if it was open or locked," grinned the Rat Leader.
The sound of the WDs squashing up against the other side of the bars turned all heads, their arms stretching through trying to reach their food.
"Not today boys,” teased Bull walking up to the bars and staying just out of reach of the clawing hands.
""Come in Roland," crackled a voice over the radio.”Jack here.”
"Speak to me Jack," responded Roland.
"Got ourselves nine nice blue carriages and two engines," chuckled the Tunnel Rat.
"No good," snapped Roland. "We ordered red.”
"Piss off," came the instant reply, "We got the power to the track and we are ready to roll, what are your orders?”
"Get all of our people together and board them, the track is clear through to Bank but we will be setting the switches to bring you in on the parallel line."
"On it, but it's sure to take us a few hours," informed Jack.
"Be safe Jack," offered Roland, closing the call. "Ok Tom, what plan is in place to get your people down here?” asked the TR leader.
Tom held up a hand and switched on his own radio. "Craig this is Tom, come in please."
Two attempts later Anderson responded, "Tom, what’s the news?”
"All good Craig. We got ourselves a train.”
"Where are you?”
"Bank Tube Station.”
"Is the track clear through to Canning Town?”
"We are about to walk the line and find out.”
"OK, keep me up to speed and let the populace at Fort London know what you need them to do and when."
"How the hell are they going to get over to us?” asked Tom.
"How?" snapped Anderson. "Any bloody way they can. We got no transport and even if we did we don't have any fuel, so I suggest if they want to live, they run...run for their lives." Anderson moved out of earshot of his men before he spoke again. "One other important thing for you and blue watch Tom…"
Tom moved away to one side, blue watch code meant no one else should hear what was about to be said. “I’m listening Craig," responded his trusted colleague and friend, noting the subtle change of tone in his leader’s voice.
"If things turn ugly at your end you need to get Hope to me at any cost."
"Understood Craig. Look.......if things don't go to plan I....I just want to say...."
"No," snapped Anderson. "No goodbye speeches, it ain’t over til the fat lady sings."
"Yeah, well she's getting damn near to the mic," chuckled Tom.
"Take care," sighed Anderson.
"Always."
#
Time 10.50pm GMT 5.50pm New York Time.
The Preacher grabbed a flare gun from the shelf he had spotted during the hours he had spent in the store room and fired it into the roof of the bridge. As the incendiary rocket bounced and ricocheted around the room, filling it with throat burning smoke, every man dropped to the floor with their hands over their heads. In the confusion, the six feet eight black giant grabbed a second flare gun and two grenades from a full box, and ran from the bridge, cranking the door closed behind him. Once outside the door he pulled the pin from one of the grenades, jammed it behind the door handle of the door keeping the lever arm in place and ran down the gangway towards the office he had been held in when first brought onto the Destroyer. Halfway there he heard an explosion from behind him and guessed someone had exited the bridge releasing the grenade. Reaching the office he dashed in, pulled open the drawer where he had last seen the key fob placed, snatched it out and ran from the room. Passing the communications room, he opened the door and threw in one of the grenades, closed the door and continued his run along towards the only place he would be safe from attack, the armoury. Once inside, he heard muffled voices through the thick door.
"You want me to lob in a grenade?” came one.
"You want me to throw you over the side?" snapped the voice of the Captain. "He's in the armoury you pillock, put two men on the door and if he pokes his head out, blow it off.”
"He's had two grenades," reminded the first voice. "What if he sets off the one he's still got?”
"If he had a death wish," challenged the Captain, "he wouldn't bother hiding. Trust me he will be planning to break out of there at some point so stay alert.” The Captain moved up to the armoury door and raised his voice, "OK Preacher here's the deal. You come out and I promise you safe passage off this ship.”
"Why don't you come in and we can discuss it," came back the deep sonorous voice.
The Captain smirked and walked away barking over his shoulder as he went, "Watch that damn door.”
"What if he sets that grenade off Captain?” called one of the guards.
"He won't," called the Captain without turning. "He's a man of God, unlike us he has principles.”
The Preacher looked skyward. "You got a plan in mind for me Lord, then now would be a good time to share."
#
On both sides of the Atlantic, frantic, super human efforts, were taking place amongst various factions and groups, each faced seemingly insurmountable challenges, each worked towards their own goals and agendas. The paths they were following would all cross at one unique point creating the conditions for the perfect storm of a confrontation. That point was City Airport London, the outcome was unknown but one thing that was certain was that it would be explosive.
#
Anderson and his team worked feverously throughout the night having accessed the site generator which powered multiple banks of flood-lights that bathed the vast airport in a milky white light. The brightness and the noise of their activity drew every WD and Mutant from every alley and every derelict building. For miles around they poured from every corner of the city. The four metre fencing around the airport creaked and swayed under the sheer deluge but held, allowing Anderson and his team to focus on their seemingly impossible task as they pulled, dragged and rolled damaged aircraft, vehicles and masonry from the 4,000 feet of runway. Backs ached, muscles were damaged and the skin on each pair of hands soon became blistered and torn yet still they worked on, knowing that the task was defeating them but what else could they do for to give up was to admit defeat, to lie down and die. Never going to happen as far as Anderson was concerned, never going to happen.
#
Bruger had achieved his goal, to create an unstoppable army to pursue his dream of ‘Vanquish’, his campaign to seize the entire British Isles and claim his place in history as one of the greatest conquerors the world had ever seen. He would use it as a platform to extend his power, his control to Europe, to the interfering Americans and then the rest of the world. In his deluded mind it was all possible, creating an aphrodisiac cocktail of power and control. His army was ready, he was ready and come the morning he would march south and claim his destiny.
#
Hog and Bryan had hit the wall, the Apache helicopter was defeating all of their efforts to fire up the awesome craft. Their hopes of saving The Preacher lay in tatters as h
ordes of Mutants beat, in a deafening tattoo, on the walls and doors of the vast hangar that would almost certainly become their tomb, a tomb miles from their friends and their loved ones and as their energy, like the seconds, minutes and hours, drained away, they prepared for what seemed to be the inevitable conclusion of their brave but now seemingly, foolhardy rescue attempt.
#
The Preacher sat quietly within the confines of the armoury aboard the Destroyer. Running through his mind were dark thoughts, thoughts that he may be left with only one option to prevent Bruger’s Destroyer delivering death and destruction upon Fort London as it unleashed the awesome, chilling power of a nuclear strike. The tannoy, he could hear from the decks outside, told him that preparations were rolling forward towards a launch. Not for the first time since the plague he questioned his faith, his belief that his God had a plan, a reason for bringing down this shadow of death over all mankind. His belief that the almighty had saved him for a purpose was fast evaporating as time slid away taking his faith with it. He made a pledge, he would wait until the last moment, until no other option came forward, but they would not launch that missile. Eyeing the contents of the armoury he calculated what it would take to send it all up taking the ship with it. He had no wish to play God but he could not, would not, stand by and allow this atrocity and if that cost his life then so be it. It was a price he was prepared to pay.
Chapter 32
"We can't leave the stragglers"
Tom, Bull and his troops left Roland shortly after the tube train came whistling to a stop at the track they had secured at Bank. They had already walked the line to Canning Town, without incident, finding it intact and free of WDs. Jack and his team brought the train through to them at Canning Town after Roland gave them the all clear to travel. Leaving the Tunnel Rats at Bank, Tom, Bull and his team raced from one of the stations exits, that was chained behind them, along the empty streets towards Steve Knight. The distance was a little over one and a half kilometres which in no way taxed the seasoned troops, however, as the SAS man ran, he had grave doubts about the populace waiting at Zone 12. There were some older members of the group and a number with injuries so the chances of them all making the run unscathed was slim. The team made the run down the A1213 from Bank, past the Royal Exchange, along Leadenhall Street and into Zone 12 at Whitechapel in just over six minutes. In that time they saw only a handful of lumbering WDs who were dispatched on the run by the team. Tom intended to move the entire populace of Zone 12 in one group and jam them into the safe area they had created at Bank, there could be no return trip for once that massive crocodile began its run it would stretch for hundreds of metres. It was inconceivable that all would make it, inconceivable that WDs would not be drawn like moths and once they started arriving, the streets would fill with them. Tom had already made up his mind that Bull would take Hope and Andrew to the front of the run, they had to get through, had to survive. He and the rest of his team would make every effort to get as many through to the safety tunnels as possible, but even before they started he knew in his heart that their efforts were going to be left wanting, people were going to die on that run for life, possibly all of them.
#
President Nelson was tired of being tired, tired of being the one who needed to make decisions that lives depended on but there was light at the end of the tunnel, it was thin and it struggled to shine within the darkness of the plague but it was there. The child, Hope, proved that mankind could beat the curse that threatened to destroy them and all of their efforts had to be focused on finding what it was about this small child that could put the world back to normality, back on its axis. He had grown a thick skin over the years of the plague but it was battle scarred, battle scarred and bruised beyond all belief and no matter what the outcome he would never again enjoy a sleep that was not plagued with the ghosts of the decisions he had made and would need to make again.
#
The mood at Zone 12 was upbeat, groups formed all over discussing the seemingly impossible rescue mission being prepared by the Americans. Steve Knight, fortunately, had managed to shake off his earlier pessimism and could now actually believe that they could make a new start across the ocean that with Hope and Andrew there was a future free of the plague. Saphire, although worrying about Hog, stayed close to Hope and Andrew, keeping the promise she had made to Craig Anderson, the man who had saved her life when he cut her arm off following the attack at the Zombie Chapters stronghold. She played silly games with Hope and managed to make her laugh and even Andrew giggled. Then Tom and his team arrived, breathing heavily. The run they were to make was explained to them, the dangers described. The upbeat mood evaporated, its place taken by fear, blind fear.
#
The Captain of the Destroyer had no communication capability, The Preacher had seen to that, but the instructions of Bruger were clear, the nuclear missile they had ready and armed was destined for Fort London. Problem was he was supposed to wait for the launch instruction from Bruger, now he would have to use his own judgement call, a call that held no fear for him for he, like Bruger, was completely insane.
#
Roland and his entire community waited aboard the train sat on the track at Bank for, as per their agreement, his people were to travel on the first run, however as they waited with the doors open listening to the growing screams and moaning coming along the tunnel he was sceptical about the near impossible run the SAS men had to take from Whitechapel . It was only 1,500 metres but as far as he was concerned it might as well be 1,500 miles, they could not make it. However he had made a promise and he would wait until the last possible minute before leaving the station and once the last train had pulled out there would be no hope for the survivors at Whitechapel . The screams grew louder, the low monotone moaning of creatures locked in purgatory turned into a constant rolling thunder. Roland checked his watch for the hundredth time.
#
Time 4.30am GMT 11.30pm New York Time
"I have Mr Anderson," confirmed the President’s aide.
President Nelson had meant to call Anderson earlier, he now only had possibly minutes until the satellite window closed and international communications would be lost until midday the following day. "Mr Anderson, I need to be quick as we are on the edge of our satellite window and we are likely to lose you at any moment.”
"I understand," responded the Fort London security officer, his voice already breaking up on the President’s radio set in the military jeep transporting him to the centre preparing their latest rescue mission.
"How are preparations going at your end?” enquired Nelson quickly.
"We are up against it on every front Mr President. Runway was strewn with abandoned aircraft and debris but we're getting there. However we have swarms of WDs attacking the boundary fences that are barely holding and just to add to things, we reached out to a rogue group to help get our remaining two thousand populace here to City Airport but we haven’t heard from them since last night."
"Why remaining populace?”
"Long story sir."
"I don't wish to sound callous but....is the child safe?”
"She is with someone I trust," skirted Anderson, pushing away black thoughts created by radio silence from both Tom and Steve Knight.
"OK, look I am about to witness the take-off of our aircraft Mr Anderson, we aim to be with you at noon GMT at your City Airport.”
"Not sure we......do our best." Anderson’s transmission was breaking up badly. "God speed Sir, we will be watching the Ski......" Anderson’s radio went dead as did the President’s.
"Hold on," shouted Nelson as if the SAS man might hear him.
"Sir they need you urgently in the hangar," called one of his aides.
President Nelson climbed from the jeep. He was exhausted, sleep evading him for the last thirty hours. His shredded nerves left him feeling physically sick and vulnerable following the deaths of the entire crew of The Spirit of the Sea but he was the President, it was
his duty to be here and watch the nine aircraft leave US soil on this second mission. His gaze swept the cavernous hangar as he entered and spotted General White near the parked aircraft striding towards him. He switched on his Presidential smile as his long purposeful steps closed the distance between them however they slowed as he took in the clearly heated discussion that his General in Chief was having with a number of ground staff. Fifteen feet out White saw him and broke away from the troubled group and came towards him with heavy steps.
"Not sure I dare ask," spoke Nelson as the two men came together.
General White wiped a large paw of a hand over tired features. "There's no easy way to say this Sir but......we got a problem.”
"No shit," replied Nelson, "Would never have guessed.”
White looked back towards the aircraft and the group of men who were poring over a jumble of papers spread across a steel topped desk, clearly looking for inspiration.
"Just tell me Chuck," spoke the President quietly, "How bad can it be?”
White turned back to face the President. "Bad Sir.....very bad. We've just discovered that a batch of fuel that we sourced is contaminated.”
"So, don't put it in the planes," shrugged Nelson.
"Too late," sighed White seeing a twitch form at the corner of the President’s left eye.
"Which plane?" asked Nelson, struggling with the twitch.
White shook his head forlornly. "We don't know."
Nelson stepped quickly away from his General in Chief, rubbing his hand over his head before turning back to the uncomfortable man. "What the hell do you mean you don't know?" snapped Nelson. "Where were your checks, your protocol?"
General White tried to explain, "Sir we........"
"Don't Sir me," yelled Nelson, his face turning a healthy hue of red. "You’re supposed to be a professional......"
"We didn't have time to follow protocol," yelled White equally as loud, stepping up toe to toe with his leader. "Every God damn man here has been working his ass off since your orders without sleep or food, we haven't checked every drop of fuel, we haven't carried out a tenth of the pre-flight lists on those aircraft that we should have and we are placing way too much of our faith in good old fashioned luck and what’s more........" White suddenly stopped as he realised he had been jabbing a finger at the President of The United States of America at every point he had been making.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 26
