by Gary Weston
A flurry of jobs had followed her leaving school, never fitting into anything worth doing. It was during a stint at home with a cold, attempting to cheer herself up experimenting with chocolate covered popcorn, she had settled alone on the settee wrapped up in her robe, watching a film on television about a woman cop, a light went off in her head. She wanted to be a cop. Her height and weight would be an asset, right?
“lose some weight,” said the recruitment officer.
Easy for you to say, you skinny bitch, thought Mollie.
She'd had all the name calling, the teasing and downright abuse. She had put up with it all through her life. Even flattened a few kids at school, but hadn't found it as satisfying as she'd have hoped. But the thing that yanked her chain the most, was little miss bloody perfects, five foot five's petite women who could live on a diet of cream cakes and beer and not put on an ounce of fat.
Mollie held her smile. “Why?”
Little Miss Perfect, with her hair in a bun, dazzling blue eyes and a hint of gloss on her full lips, sat smugly back in her swivel chair and smiled, her long thin fingers with her perfect nails interlocked across her apple sized breasts, and a wedding ring probably from some hunk, said, “Training is particularly arduous. Fitness is where more recruits get weeded out than on the academic criteria.”
Mollie still held Little Miss Perfects Dazzling blue eyes, and fought hard to stop herself offering out the woman in the best of five rounds in the boxing ring.
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“Weight,” Mollie said, leaving out the “Shit head.”
“Ah!” Mollie could see it in the bitches eyes. the look had said, Shit!. This fat cow is really serious. But let's have some fun with her. “Thirty pounds should do it.”
I could saw my frigging leg off, thought Mollie. “In what time frame?”
“Three months. That's for the next intake.” Yeah. That should get rid of Miss Flabby.
Mollie stood up and blocked out the light from the sun. “Three months. I come back here in three months, thirty pounds lighter, I get a shot?”
Little Miss Perfect in her immaculate uniform and a face Mollie wanted to rip off and take home as a souvenir, said, “I don't see why not.”
Mollie may well have imagined the chuckle and the “In your dreams, fatso,” comment as she walked out the door.
She had never been so determined to do something in all her life. Ten pounds per month. Two and a half pounds per week. Less than half a pound per day. How hard could it be with a little will power?
Jogging, lettuce, gallons of water, no sugary treats, and burgers became something on posters on windows to salivate over, rather than actually consume.
Then, with clothes that once made walking painful, actually hanging off her, Mollie had barged her way into the recruitment office. Little Miss Perfect hadn't even recognised her.
“May I help you?”
“Three months, thirty pounds.”
“Oh!. It's you again.”
Mollie wasn't about to take any prisoners. “Three months, Thirty pounds. That's the deal.”
“I remember. Lets weigh you.”
Behind the screen, Mollie had her height rechecked, thinking, you idiot, I've lost weight, not bloody shrunk. Miraculously, her height was as before. Then she stepped on the scales.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“Twenty nine and a half pounds lighter. Maybe next time.”
Words like are you frigging kidding me? came to Mollie's mind. That face could be ripped off and sewn up into a dainty purse. But Mollie stripped off her bra, her pants, her sneakers and considered ripping out her pubes. Then she gave Little Miss Perfect an “I bloody dare you,” glare.
“Welcome to the force, Mollie Mulligan.”
Mollie shook the cool hand with the long fingers, manicured nails and the the wedding ring from the hunk, smiling and thinking, “Good job you said that, peaches, 'cus this could have turned nasty,” instead hearing the words from her own mouth saying, “Thank you. And thank you for your encouragement.”
“You're very welcome. Good luck with the training.”
And just five months later, she was on a stakeout on Monument Hill, looking for international terrorists, all by herself in broad daylight.
As Mollie Mulligan contemplated the police recruitment officer and the training, scraping through by a mere two points, she found herself hiding behind the big carved rock, as the flatbed truck drove up the tar-sealed road followed by another sixteen vehicles that parked up around it.
Chapter 69
Mollie knew suspicious when she saw it. This lot might as well have had suspicious tattooed on their foreheads. She pulled out her cell phone and called Andersen.
'Hello? Inspector Andersen? Police Constable Mollie Mulligan. I got some suspicious looking characters just turned up. Monument Hill. Yeah. Loads of them. Right near the top of The Hill. Now? Hang on.'
Mollie wriggled along on her much slimmer belly, so that she was looking out behind the huge carved rock.
'Ooh!. I dunno. A bit foreign looking. All out of their cars. Sort of chattering together. No. I've no idea what they're on about. Oh,around forty of them. Yeah. Truck thingy. Big blue tarpaulin over the back. I might be able to get a picture on my phone and email it to you, if you want? Right. Don't risk being seen. I should stay put? Good idea. And if they see me? Run? That all you got? Run fast. I can do that. Now get your bloody asses over here,' then added just in case, 'Err, Sir.'
Mollie Mulligan retreated to the other side of the big carved stones, the panoramic view of the city laid out in its urban sprawling way, the International Conference Centre in all its uninspired glory, sticking up like a middle fingered salute to the much smaller buildings below it. Fifty yards away, the other side of the carved rocks, the men were jabbering on about what to do next. What she desperately needed to hear were the size eleven feet of the Tactical Enforcement team and many more police officers racing up Monument Hill.
'You lot had better bloody hurry up. There's just me up here. Me and lots of them. I'm big, but I'm not that bloody big.'
Then as she sat with her back against the strange carved rocks with meanings lost in the sands of time, she heard the men plotting their plots, scheming their schemes. Then suddenly her malaise, not exactly dissipating, was tempered with the wailing of the sirens getting closer and closer.
'Great. Not a good idea announcing your bloody arrival. All I need right now are jumpy terrorist's with lots of guns and missiles, and me thinking, who the hell will feed my bloody cat when I'm dead.'
All she could do was to stay put, wait for backup and pray the terrorist's didn't decide to have a casual walk around the top of The Hill. 'Here I am, crapping myself, three months into the job, and who gets to call in about the bloody terrorist's? Yeah. Frigging brilliant. I'll dine out on this for years. All I have to do is survive.'
Mollie closed her eyes, sighed, and prayed for the best.
Chapter 70
At the mansion, a long and restless night had slipped by. They watched the morning news on the television as they had breakfast. All except Steve.
Sandra scrambled eggs. 'Is Steve joining us?'
Frank said, 'He's messing with the helicopter. It takes his mind off things.'
'The Prime Minister's coming on,' said Hank.
'Oh, that'll be a hoot,' said Titch.
Sandra turned up the volume. '...here at the International Conference Centre, Prime Minister Sinclair Carlisle is about to give the concluding speech. We go live to the Prime Minister.'
Frank said, 'It looks like the terrorists had a change of plan.'
'Shush,' said Sandra.
'...have had a very productive conference. We have strengthened our resolve to trade our way to mutual prosperity. Much progress has been made on international trade issues and....'
Carlisle and the other world leaders were instantly covered by security agents as
the whole building was rocked by the explosion.
'Crap. It's happening,' said Hank.
Sandra grabbed the phone and poked numbers. 'Bernie. Sandra. My God. Yes. Right. And?...I know. Okay.'
'What was that about?' asked Ferret.
'Monument Hill. It's all happening at The Hill. I have to go.'
Sandra raced out of the mansion to where Steve was busy on the chopper. 'Steve. The first missile's hit the centre.'
'Bloody hell. Anyone hurt?'
'Not sure, yet. But they will be if they aren't stopped. A cop saw the truck arrive on Monument Hill. I called Bernie...'
'Who the hell is this Bernie?'
'He's my...never mind. The police have the whole damn lot pinned down, but can't get to the truck. Somethings wrong with the launcher and the terrorists are trying to fix it.'
'Get in the chopper. Hurry.'
Two minutes later, they were in the air. By chopper, they were just minutes away from Monument Hill. The others piled into cars to make their way by road.
'There's the conference centre,' said Steve. 'God, what a mess.'
A pall of black smoke belched from the damaged side of the building, flames from the the compromised electrics flaring out like dragons tongues, licking the sky.
'Get us to The Hill.'
'Just a couple of minutes.'
Steve banked over towards The Hill as the second high explosive missile slammed into the centre. They saw the flames and the smoke bellowing out. Even above the roar of the engine they could hear the sirens, and Sandra thought she could smell the fear blended with the acrid black smoke.
'They've fixed the launcher,' said Sandra.
'No shit. The next missile will be nerve gas.'
They could see the the chaos at Monument Hill; police cars, flashing lights, more arriving by the minute; ambulances and fire appliances filling the roads. They could also hear the sound of gunfire. In the middle of everything were more then twenty vehicles surrounding the missile launch truck.
Shielded by their own vehicles the terrorist's were holding the police at bay from the launch truck with intermittent gunfire from their AKSU74's. Tactical returned fire with their AK74's
Steve swooped as low as he dared over the truck, taking out the tops of several trees. Below them, three men were were loading the third missile. The first of the nerve gas warheads.
A lucky police shot hit one of the loaders and he fell from the truck, dying, blood spurting from his neck. He writhed on the ground, his legs kicking out erratically, then with a final convulsion, his tongue extended from his mouth, his eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites showed. Foamed blood gurgled from his mouth then he called out to his god as he died.
The police were sent diving for cover by return gunfire and a police patrol car exploded in a ball of flames. One officer was standing too close and his jacket caught fire and he rolled in the dirt to extinguish it. He was back on his feet, singed but unhurt, more determined than ever to get his own back and kick ass.
He ran at the missile launcher and shot a terrorist in his leg who started hopping around, swearing incomprehensibly as the next missile was launched, guided by the laser with deadly accuracy. Then the terrorist laughed obscenely, danced awkwardly on his one good leg, and he pointed and cursed at the police, took another hit in his chest, then fell to his knees with such force, bones must have broken. His final smile was rearranged on the ground with smashed nose and teeth. A final shudder and he willed his spirit to another world; success was not guaranteed in the small print. His passing was ignored by those around him. Perhaps in another land, a candle would be lit to honour his passing, but not that night.
In the chopper, 'That's the nerve gas missile gone,' yelled Sandra.
'I noticed,' said Steve.
Morris, Crowe and Andersen stood behind something big, bad and angry.
Hancock growled, 'See him? Simpson's T shirt? I got a special recipe for cooking that bastard's intestines. Great with garlic bread.'
'Okay for an entrée,' agreed Andersen.
Hancock took careful aim and the top of a head sprayed brains. The man fixed them with a surprised dead grin as he folded slowly, down on his knees first, then came the sound of a slow smacking of a face into the ground. Not much moved after that.
'One less to worry about,' snarled Hancock behind his black visor, looking for another head to blow away.
But the terrorist's bullets were still splitting the air, with several shots aimed at the chopper and Steve banked away and took them out of range on the other side of The Hill. He rounded the crown of The Hill, around the huge, revered carved stone, as the second nerve gas missile burst out of launcher.
'That's it,' Sandra shouted, trying to make herself heard. 'Thermonuclear next.'
'Hold on. Keep your head down.'
Steve skimmed the ground, and pulled a lever. The gallons of weed spray at twenty pounds per square inch, soaked the enemy below them. The terrorists were down on their knees, gasping for air, their eyes stinging from the spray. Three men were trying to load the thermonuclear missile as they choked and gasped. The police took advantage of the situation of the men rolling on the ground, choking, trying to wipe their eyes free from the stinging chemical assault.
Steve landed the chopper, keeping the engine running.'Stay put. I mean it.'
'I can't play?'
'Not this time.'
Steve ran to the launch truck, grabbing one man and pulling him over the side of the truck, smashed his fist into his face. The other two men were struggling to load the final missile with the deadly thermonuclear device, still suffering from the effects of the spray. One man keeled over, the spray from the chopper filling his lungs. Then the other man left holding the heavy weapon was buckling under the weight. He swayed and wobbled, unsure of which way to fall.
As his strength gave up, he staggered back and forth, his eyes becoming wild and confused, tottering around with the total weight of the missile in his arms. The one that if launched would change the destiny of the whole world. He saw the hands of the man trying to stop him, trying to grab him. He kicked out and missed, the sirens and lights filling his mind; the screams filling his soul. Thoughts of his family, so far away, family who perhaps one day would understand and be proud.
He stood as if his life was over. And it was. His family would understand. He turned to face the barrage of lights, sirens; the well aimed single shot from Hancock hitting the spot between his eyes. He was about to hit the ground, the warhead primed and ready to take out life.
Steve dived forward as the missile and man landed on top of him. They hit the ground hard and Steve was winded. Sandra had dived from the chopper and raced over to help. She rammed her knee between the terrorists shoulder blades, got his head in her hands and twisted hard, snapping his neck, then she dragged the dead body off Steve.
All around them, bullets were flying and police officers and terrorist's were exchanging bullets and blows. A silver haired man walked through the mayhem, pausing to drive his fist into a terrorist's face, dropping him to the ground.
'Sandra. Are you okay?'
'Never better, Bernie.'
'This is Bernie?' Steve asked.
'Steve Telford, this is my brother Bernie.'
'Nice to meet you,' said Steve. 'Mind getting this damned missile off me?'
'My pleasure, Steve.'
'Careful, Big Brother. That's a thermonuclear warhead.'
'Yeah? Any reason why these red numbers are flashing?'
'Oh, crap,' said Sandra, kicking the dead man with the broken neck. 'It has a timer built into it. Shit-head here set it off.'
Barnie and Sandra carefully lifted the missile off Steve who struggled to his feet and asked, 'How do we turn it off?'
'Pass,' said Sandra.
'I thought you knew all this shit?'
'Can't know everything, Steve.'
Bernie said, 'Does this mean what I think it does?'
'Twenty four
minutes before it goes off,' said Sandra, staring at the ominous red numbers ticking away just above the tail fins.
'There's an army bomb disposal expert on the way,' said Bernie.
Steve said, 'No time. Help me get it the chopper.'
'Are you crazy, Steve?' said Sandra.
'I can get it to the sea in twenty minutes. Hurry.'
Bernie said, 'You can't do that.'
'Not if we stand here arguing about it,' said Steve. 'Come on. I need help with this thing.'
The three of them hauled the missile the fifty yards to the chopper.
'I've some rope back of the seats. Help me get the missile across the spray boom. Easy. Easy. Closer to the body of the chopper. Hold it like that.'
As Sandra and Bernie held the heavy missile across the boom, Steve got a length of rope from behind the passenger seat and lashed the missile tight.
'I'm not putting knots in it,' Steve said, 'I just need somebody to hold the end of the rope until we let it go over the sea.'
'I'll do it,' said Bernie.
'Move out of the way,' said Sandra.
'Not this time,' said Bernie. 'You've done more then your share.'
'We got twenty one minutes,' said Steve, climbing inside the chopper.
'You're not going, Sandra, and that's final.'
Sandra hooked a leg around Bernie's legs and pushed him hard in the chest and he was down on the ground. 'See you soon, Big Brother.'
She climbed into the passenger seat and grabbed the end of the rope and pulled it tight. 'I have it. Go, Steve.'
All Bernie could do was to watch as his sister took off in the chopper, hanging onto a rope that lashed a thermonuclear missile to the side of it. He could see the red numbers flashing as it sped away towards the sea.
'You crazy, wonderful woman,' he heard himself say.
Chapter 71
They flew towards the sea, over small commuter towns and villages. The heavy missile on one side of the chopper was causing an imbalance, making controlling the bird difficult.
'We have a problem,' said Steve.
'I know. I'm hanging on to it,' said Sandra, the rope biting into her hand.
