by Gary Weston
'That all,' said Frank. 'No worries, then.'
'Hey,' said Steve. 'Pull your bloody head in. I think these two have done a brilliant job.'
Frank said, 'I'm just saying, there's no way we can check all those sites out just us. Tomorrow is the third day of the conference. We've been lucky the place is still standing. We need to do something with this information.'
'He's right,' said Titch.
'I agree,' said Sandra. 'We need backup. Bernie.'
Steve said, 'Who the hell is this Bernie?'
Sandra grinned at him. 'With your recent track record, you don't want to know. Leave Bernie to me.'
* * *
Mother in law and son in law stared at each other in Sandra's bedroom. Sandra had been expecting it.
Ferret said, 'I'm coming with you.'
Sandra shook her head. 'No. I'm going alone.'
'I could just take off anyway, you know?'
She knew that. 'I'm quite surprised you haven't before now.'
'This is killing me, Sandra. I've gone along with this but I need to see Poppy.'
'Three more days, Fred. That's all we're talking about. After that, you go home.'
'You don't need me any more. You know what they are doing, where they might be. Go be Sheriff Sandra and round up Deputy Bernie and go get the bad guys.'
'One question. How did we find Steve and his family?'
'Some computer work. Some leg work.'
'And how did we find the terrorists?'
'Same. Computer and leg work.'
'Right. And we are dealing with a bunch of highly intelligent and technically capable terrorists, probably paranoid, looking for trouble.'
'I've heard this argument before. You don't want to risk even the slightest possibility of any connection between us and our family. But come on. That is such an infinitesimally remote risk, is there even a risk at all? I'm seriously beginning to wonder.'
Sandra held his shoulders in her hands and looked him in the eyes. 'This isn't just your wife. We are talking about my brother and daughter. I've given up my life with them to keep them safe. Are you telling me you can't give them three more days?'
Fred looked at the strangest mother in law a man could possibly have. 'Fine. Right. I'll do it. But this is the end. After this, I'm with Poppy for the rest of my life.'
'You'd damn well better be, Fred Ducket. Goodnight.'
Chapter 65
'How the hell does she do these things?'Bernie asked himself.
The envelope was on the seat of his car as he got in it for the short drive to the police headquarters. Somehow, his sister had unlocked the garage, hadn't tripped the alarm, opened his car and dropped the envelope inside without tripping the car alarm, locked it all up and disappeared into the shadows of the night. It was her calling card. He opened the envelope. “P. 9 A M. S.” Dressed like a police chief? Not a good idea. He hurried back into the house, almost bumping into Poppy on her way to the bathroom.
'Morning, Uncle Bernie.'
'Morning. I just gotta...in there...don't mind me.' He grabbed a long worn raincoat and a woolly hat from the bedroom and ran back to the car and drove off to the park. 'Great,' he told himself as he checked his appearance in the wing mirror of the car. 'I'm going into a park looking like a dirty old man.'
He made his way to the bench just one minute before nine. He sat down. He didn't look around for Sandra. He didn't have to wait long, before he heard a strange shuffling sound. A walking stick tap tap tapped a painful beat on the tar sealed path.
Bernie could feel the pain in that slow walk, each tap emphasising the agony of her every step. An old lady with a bad limp and a walking stick hobbled along the path. She was carrying a brown greasy paper take away bag. She paused in front of him, wobbled uncertainly on arthritic legs, and dropped her stick. Bernie got up and helped her, picking up the stick. The bag was thrust in his hand.
'This will explain everything,' she whispered. 'Hurry, Bernie. We're running out of time.' She limped along one way, Bernie in the opposite direction.
He took off for his car, only checking the contents of the greasy bag briefly as he got in. It was enough to make a hurried call to his secretary. By the time he got there, Andersen, Morris and Crowe were waiting in his office. Passing P A Monica Nolan and secretary Amy Jones, he gave the papers to Amy. 'Good morning. Three copies, please.'
'Nice coat,' said Andersen.
The Chief had forgotten he was even wearing it. He threw the grubby coat and hat into the corner of the room. 'Sit.' They sat. Amy entered, handing him the copies. 'Thank you. Hold all calls.' To the detective's he said, 'I've only glanced at this. You can guess where it come from.'
In silence, they studied the information. It was a lot to take in. Crowe said it first.
'Shit.'
'Any comments not involving four letter words?' the Chief asked.
'Sandra?' said Andersen. 'There's six letters.'
Morris summed it up for them. 'The conference has two days to go with today. We have a whole bunch of terrorists with a mobile missile launcher with explosive missiles, nerve gas missiles and sorry, but shit, a thermonuclear missile and seventy two possible launch sites. I'm guessing Ferret put this together. Sirs. Tell me what we have to do?'
The Chief didn't beat about the bush. 'You're the detective's. You have more clues than you can shake a truncheon at. You have every cop, suit or uniform, for one hundred miles at your disposal. One question.'
'Sir?' said Andersen.
'Why are you three still here?'
* * *
In Andersen's office, three detectives minds went into warp-drive.
'Evacuate the bloody conference centre,' said Crowe. 'It's a no brainer.'
Morris had expected that. 'Vince. These jokers are watching their every move. Move people out, the best that could happen is the terrorists just vanish. Worst thing is they lob those damn missiles into the heart of the city, just because they can.'
'How many officers can we throw at this including suits,' said Andersen.
'Tactical as well?' asked Morris.
'Including anybody who can actually stand up without falling over.'
Morris made a quick head count. 'Drag in all the shifts, between two hundred and eighty and three hundred and ten. Can we include the army?'
'Why the hell not?' said Andersen. 'But just very top brass need to know, only. The army will be needed to deal with any missiles going off. If we have hundreds of soldiers marching around the possible launch sites, the terrorist's will see them coming a mile away, do a runner and we'll be for ever wondering when they're going to raise their ugly heads again. My question is this. How do we get our asses around seventy two possible launch sites, without having them ducking and diving from us?'
Crowe came up with, 'Seventy two undercover cops, one for each site. Like, dressed in civvies. Walking dogs, pushing prams.'
Morris added, 'All with phones to mobilise everyone the second they see anything suspicious.'
'I like it,' said Andersen, 'Drag everybody in here and let's not hang about.'
Forty minutes later and the cafeteria was full of curious men and women, the thin blue line that every day, put everything on the line to keep the rest of us safe. Andersen took the floor.
'Listen up. This is probably the most important case we have ever handled. Success depends on your common sense and professionalism. Also, keeping a lid on the information you're about to get is imperative, so reveal nothing to anyone. I'll keep this as simple as possible. As we are all well aware, at the International Conference Centre, are ten of the worlds leaders, including our own Prime Minister. We have it confirmed that we have terrorists in our country, armed with various missiles to attack the centre.'
He let the gasps and comments die down. 'Quiet, please. We have information pinpointing the missile launch site to any one of seventy two possibilities. That's where you all come in. You will all dress in your most casual street clothes. You will take one
of these lists on white paper. And you'll see your names are against a number.
We need to rotate so we don't look obvious. On the hour, go to the next numbered place on the list. Those not on the white list will be on the blue paper list. Those on the blue list, go home and rest. You'll take over from those on the white list. This is what we are looking for. A truck like this. Under some sort of cover on the back will be something like that.'
There was a chorus of expressions of disbelief.
'If you see this truck, do not approach it. Calmly get away from there and call my number. We'll be waiting around the clock, and we will deal with it from there. I expect you know what's at stake here. Your country is relying on every one of you. In fact, not just your country. The whole world. Off you go.'
Chapter 66
The whole day had Carlisle's head in a spin. There was no escape. He had agreed to incarcerate himself in the conference centre so the other leaders didn't feel disadvantaged. Naturally, Chrissie had been less than impressed, and had decided to have a break with her parents in the meantime. For all that, Carlisle decided to be focused on the job in hand, and feel totally deprived for being forced to enjoy fine wining and dining in tax funded luxury. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.
lashes of groundbreaking inspiration were few and far between. By the end of the fourth day, nothing much practical had been achieved. Tweaks and promises to trade agreements and tariffs were as far as they got. The various merits of belt tightening against printing money were hotly debated with nothing mutually conclusive agreed upon. It would be hard to put a positive spin on it all for the benefit for the closing day media coverage.
After another tedious nine hours, Carlisle joined President Milliner in a drink. Milliner was a down to earth rags to riches man Carlisle could relate to, even his home spun philosophy. Carlisle smiled patiently as Milliner told it as it was, or at least his rendition of it. That didn't encourage Carlisle much.
'I tell you, Randy. Show-pony conference or not, I'd have thought we could have come up with something more significant. I'll not be looking forward to talking to the media tomorrow.'
Milliner said, 'I guess we are still thinking locally, not globally. Maybe it's true people get the leaders they deserve.'
'Poor devils. Goodnight, Randy.'
* * *
Morris, Crowe, Andersen and the Chief shared the hours in Andersen's office by the contact phone. The reception had been told to keep all other calls destined for that phone to be relayed elsewhere. They played darts. Debated if they were handling it the right way. They ate. Morris lost to Andersen at chess. Drank tea, coffee, dozed. Crowe even spent some of the time doing sit-ups and crunches. Around the clock, officers rotated, pushing prams, walking dogs, jogging, cycling. The white list team were replaced by the blue list team. And still the detectives waited by the telephone.
Chapter 67
It was time to strike out at the Western world. Prayers had been said. Probably their last prayers and that was fine. They were all prepared to give up their lives for the cause. Their reward would come in heaven.
Four of them had met up at the unit on an old industrial estate. It had been a perfect location for manufacturing all the parts they needed. Due to be closed down with the new units completed ten miles away, only two of the units had been in use for months. The other one had been an antique furniture restoration business, only used three days a week.
The four men were in their unit, where the expensive machinery was capable of achieving accuracy within microns. It was a combination of complimentary skills, honed to the highest possible degree. Only perfection was acceptable. Some of the materials, such as the irreplaceable isotope, was handled with consummate care.
This wasn't anything that could be done by trial and error. Blasting off test trial missiles for fine tuning, wasn't an option. It would help them to have their God on their side, as well as their engineering excellence. It was time to put the plan into action.
They had a simple hand operated boom hoist with which to manoeuvre the missiles in place. The single launcher on the back of the flatbed truck had been winched out of the way, so the five missiles could be stowed safely underneath. The total weight of each missile, including the propulsion system, came to one hundred and seventeen pounds. They had been carefully laid across two beams of wood with foam rubber between it and the missile to protect the outer shell.
The hoist boom straps were slipped underneath the first missile, the two loops were separated to provide even distribution. With three men steadying the missile, the fourth man wound up the handle, raising the missile off the table. Inch by inch, it was manoeuvred closer to the back of the truck. The cone of this missile was light blue. It was one of the two explosive warheads.
The R D X, or cyclonite explosive charges, had not been fitted inside the missile cones, because it was too sensitive to being set off by impact shock. Two R D X charges were in a specially made steel case with foam rubber packing to protect it from shaking during the journey to the launch site. They were to be fitted prior to the missiles being launched.
Each missile had its own specially made runners to rest on, one pair for each, extendible to pull two feet out of the back of the truck when required.
Of the four small stability fins at the rear of the missile, the one adjacent to the propulsion system on the top, was eased into place. Working as a team, the missile was slotted in place on the runners, and then slid back on the ball bearing rollers until it was as far back as possible, the soft nylon webbing strap was tightened with the ratchet. Four more to go.
It took an hour from start to to finish to get to the fifth missile. This was the only one painted black at the nosecone. Dropping the missiles, would have been disastrous, especially the black tipped one. Nervously, the hoist boom straps were slipped under the body and spread apart. With sweaty hands, the hoist eased the missile off the table. More sweaty hands reverently handled the missile to the final place on the bed of the truck. The bottom stability fin slotted perfectly in place and all it needed was to roll back to line up with the others. One man man gently placed a hand either side of the front of the missile and pushed. It rolled back on the pair of runners and made it half way and then it stuck.
The man pushed a little harder, but it didn't budge. Another go. Nothing. The four men looked at each other. Neither man fancied his chances getting the missile in place. Then the hoist operator had an idea. Instead of shoving it harder backwards, he pulled it forwards, and it slid easily. Then he looked at the rear of the runners. He started laughing, reached into the runners and pulled out a very dead rat. He held it up by the tail for the others to see. The sight of the dead rodent broke the tension and they all laughed.
With the missile lined up and secure, the launcher was lowered to cover them, then a large blue tarpaulin was tied in place to cover everything. They checked their AKSU74's. At 19.3 inches with the folding stock, it was a shorter AK74. They were using those for ease of concealment when not in use, but were using the standard 5.45 x 39.5 MM cartridges.
It was time for them to go. Depending on traffic,it was a little over half an hour to the chosen launch site. The others would meet them there at the appointed time. The truck was driven out of the unit and the roller shutter door pulled down and locked. It was time to meet their destiny.
Chapter 68
Police Constable Mollie Mulligan was at once feeling, nervous, excited, confused and a little lonely. There was nothing dainty about Mollie. At five eleven in her bare feet, and a well padded one hundred and seventy four pounds in her ill fitting undies, she made an odd sight in her pink tracksuit. Deciding the likelihood of her bumping into a gang of terrorist's was somewhere between zero and zilch, she might as well do her odd version of power-walking to get in some much needed exercise.
Monument Hill, or The Hill as locals referred to it, was an ideal location for such activities. A tar sealed track, one vehicle wide to allow access for anyone w
ishing to park near the top to enjoy the panoramic view of the city, rounded the peak to head back down the other side. The steady incline to the top was popular with joggers and skateboarders, but being a weekday, Mollie had the track to herself.
On her third lap of the track, she paused on the peak, and stared out over the city, pleased to see how much countryside still surrounded it. She paused to study the strangely carved rocks. Books and papers had been written about the carvings, and estimations of their age ranged between two and ten thousand years. Mollie just thought they were interesting and fun.
She contemplated more power walking, perhaps a final lap, but a person could overdo the fitness thing, she decided. Instead, she sat on the grass with her back against the rocks. She took out the phone from her breast pocket. The clock on it told her she still had another twenty minutes before she was to move on to the next destination on the list. Maybe she'd join a gym club, one day. Perhaps meet a man there. Maybe a police uniform would be a turn-on for some men. She smiled, thinking it would be fun to find out.
She had certainly earned the right to wear her uniform. Like the rest of her life, she had bruised her way through the police academy as she had done with all of her twenty seven years.
“Big Bones,” her mother had said, during her preteen years.
“Probably hormonal,” her father had said as she charged her way into her teens.
“She's a fat cow who pigs out too much,” said her acne riddled younger brother.
Through it all, Mollie ignored the comments, ate the burger and fries, grew like a weed to be a head and shoulders above her parents, and had given up with any aspirations of being glamorous by the time she was fifteen.
