Soft Target 02 - Tank

by Conrad Jones

  “We won’t be able to be specific until everything is analysed at the lab, but we can confirm that the explosion on the boat and the explosion in this van were not accidental,” the scientist said without making any speculative opinions. Tank nodded his thanks and walked through the car park toward the River Dee. A big yellow crane that was mounted on the back of truck, was in the process of lifting the riverboat’s shattered hull from the water. A four-foot brass propeller hung precariously from the wreckage as it was swung toward a waiting low-loader. Tank noticed a dark scorch mark about three foot long in the centre of the hull. He waved to the crane operator to stop the lifting. The man crunched a gear stick and the boat hull swayed back and forth from the chains which supported it. Tank pointed to a SOCO that was tasked with capturing photographic evidence and indicated that he wanted him to photograph the deep burn.

  “What do you think caused that John?” asked Major Stanley Timms as he approached Tank. The Major was the head of the Terrorist Task Force and had just arrived on the scene. He was a Major in the Royal Marines for thirty years before his secondment to the TTF, a Green Beret with a war record that would make Rambo blush. He was the only member of the Task Force that called Tank by his first name.

  “Hello Major,” Tank greeted him. “Can you see the triangular shape of the burn?”

  The Major stared at the scorch and could make out a triangular shape about three feet wide; he nodded to Tank in confirmation.

  “It looks like the residual burn mark of an IFD,” Tank said. “An improvised formed device, or shaped charge. They were first used by the Iranians to penetrate Iraqi tank armour. Now the technology has advanced and they are standard special operations tactics. The force of the blast is directed by an armour shield on one side of the device, forcing the blast in this case, upwards through the upper decks. This is no amateur job, Major, it is Black Operations technology. This bomb was planted with the sole purpose of leaving no one above it alive.”

  Major Stanley Timms nodded slowly and walked closer to Tank, linking his hand into the crook of his elbow, he led him away from the crane. The Major looked toward a guard tower on the Roman walls. The walls ran beside the River Dee for about two-miles and offered a raised vantage point to the press and curious onlookers. At this point of the river the walls were set back one hundred yards from the water and towered forty foot above ground level. Some of the best viewing points in the City of Chester were from the great stone walls. Tank followed his gaze, assessed the sight then quickly looked away so as not to attract attention. Tank could see that high up on the Roman walls stood three men wearing dark sunglasses. They were wearing dark suits and Arabian Ghutra headwear; two of the men were looking at the scene through binoculars. There were hundreds of ghoulish sightseers lining the Roman edifice but these Arabian men were very distinctive and were definitely not tourists.

  “I’ve had a call from Whitehall, John. One of the passengers on that boat was the daughter of a leading Saudi diplomat. They’re anxious for any information they can get their hands on. We need to make sure that we do not allow any information or speculation to leave our team. The last thing we need now is the Saudi Secret Service orchestrating some half arsed retaliation,” the Major whispered using the noise of the crane to hamper any listening devices that may be pointed in their direction. Intelligence departments all over the world now had equipment that could pick up a conversation from five hundred-yards away. Tank waved to the SOCO chief who was stood on the opposite side of the boat hull fifty-yards away. He placed his right index finger into his right ear and the chief copied his action. Tank nodded. The gesture meant that the crime scene could be under surveillance from undesirables. Without any undue activity the officers made the scene covert. Covers and canvas screens were used to cover anything that hadn’t already been assessed, and all conversation about the evidence was stopped immediately. The general public on the Roman walls would never have noticed that anything had changed. All the forensic scientists were now aware that they were being watched by agencies unknown.

  Two hundred young people had lost their lives to an act of terrorism, and it appeared that foreign militia were involved. Tank would take the culprits to task, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone who stood in his way.

  Chapter 3

  The 18th Brigade

  The 18th Brigade was formed when a breakaway group became dissatisfied with the political wing of The British National Front. The political party boasted fascist ideals, which were intended to appeal to the growing number of people who were becoming concerned about mass immigration. The merging of European borders in the early twenty first century allowed a tidal wave of foreign nationals to head to the British Isles looking for work. The appeal of high wages and a better standard of living was irresistible to poor Eastern Europeans. Many indigenous people were concerned with the crime wave that arrived simultaneously, and right wing political parties benefited from this demographic shift in opinion. Whilst contesting local elections were the British National Front’s main objective, the more extreme right wing members wanted affirmative action. Their idea of solving the issues of Islamic extremism was to meet violence with violence. Their solution to the fact that the National Health Service and the education department were collapsing beneath the weight of immigration could be solved by quite simply sending everyone back to where they came from. The cost to the taxpayers for the running of maternity wards had spiralled upward by two hundred and fifty million pounds in a five-year period, with one in four births belonging to immigrant mothers. Forced repatriation was the panacea to all Britain’s issues according to their racist opinion.

  The extreme views of the Nazi element within the right wing political parties caused massive rifts between the opposing factions. Small breakaway groups were formed as satellite associations to the British National Front. Groups such as Combat 18, Column 88 and the 18th Brigade used the numerals 18 and 88 in their names as a reference to their Nazi ideals. The number 18 is often used to represent the first and eighth letters of the alphabet, A+H, Adolph Hitler. The same rule applies to the numerals 88, H+H, Heil Hitler. These small extremist groups were intent on violent action against people of Asian, Black or Jewish backgrounds. Homosexual communities were often attacked. The predominantly Afro-Caribbean communities of Brixton in London were attacked with nail bombs several times in the 90’s, and the perpetrators were found to be members of white extremist groups. A neo-Nazi also attacked two pubs in the Brick Lane area of Soho in 1999 because of its homosexual clientele.

  The softening of Europe’s borders brought a whole new swathe of extremism with it. The incidents of organised crime, drug trafficking and forced prostitution exploded across Western Europe. The once small, politically motivated groups now affiliated with massive crime families. The Russian Mafia was especially successful as they were staffed by ex-military personnel. Their profits were in the millions because their discipline was brutal. Mistakes or dissent were not tolerated and the only way to leave such organisations was in a wooden box. The 18th Brigade was a local organisation that dabbled on the fringes of foreign crime syndicates. In comparison to its Russian affiliates it was like the boy scouts versus Predator. They were formed by Pete Dodge in 1998. Dodge was the landlord of a pub called the Orford Arms, which first opened its doors to thirsty customers in 1856. The building was a huge grey-stone Victorian monolith. It had twelve chimneystacks along its black slate roof and it was three storeys high. At the rear of the pub was a large courtyard surrounded by outbuildings that once would have serviced a stables and coach-horses. The old stables were once servants’ quarters and the home of the stable-lads and grooms had become a fully equipped gymnasium. Pete Dodge used the pub as the headquarters of the 18th Brigade. Its’ members frequented the bars and used the gym to learn martial arts and lift weights. The Brigade members operated a door security firm servicing the local cities of Liverpool and Manchester with over three hundred bouncers. Door security contracts and the opportunitie
s that came hand in hand were big business. The standard charge to a brewery for a door supervisor was eighty pounds per man, per night; when all three-hundred men were employed it equated to twenty-four thousand pounds per night, seven nights a week, three hundred and sixty-five nights a year. The 18th Brigade was turning over nine million pounds per annum legitimately.

  “Not a bad business for a bunch of Nazi thugs,” Pete Dodge said frequently. When the profits from the sale of drugs within the licensed premises they guarded were added to it, then the sale of muscle and brute force was a very lucrative business. Providing door supervisors gave the 18th Brigade control of the drugs trade in the north of England and Wales. Cocaine and cheap ecstasy tablets were imported and supplied to the Brigade by the Russian Mafia. The 18th Brigade’s network of club doormen provided contact with an endless supply of customers, and also gave them the authority to stamp on any opposition drug dealers that tried to operate on their patch. This gave them the complete monopoly. Steroid abuse amongst the doormen was an essential part of maintaining the Brigade members’ size and fuelled the aggression that enhanced the Brigade’s reputation. Gang wars between rival crime families were commonplace, but were often played down by the government and law enforcement agencies as isolated events. When the amount of money involved in the business is looked at in detail, then there is little wonder that rival gangs fought to control territory.

  It was during a drug deal with Russian importers that Dodge was offered the opportunity to be involved in the kidnapping of a young female student from Chester College. The job seemed to be simple enough for an outfit like the 18th Brigade, and it could only increase their credibility within the crime world. Dodge had over three hundred soldiers on the payroll and most of them were very bad men. Kidnapping a young girl should be a piece of cake. The Russian Mafia man offered Dodge seventy thousand pounds to deliver the girl to them.

  Pete Dodge was only five feet three inches tall but was a Judo champion in his twenties and he was no pushover. He had a stocky build, thick black curly hair and a drooping Mexican moustache, like an extra from a spaghetti western. He looked completely out of place amongst the huge skinheads he employed. The contract to kidnap the Saudi girl was discussed in detail, and the Russian was insistent that the snatch had to be carried out at the riverboat party, despite Pete’s concerns about the number of witness’s. The Russian had guaranteed that there would be a diversion set in place that would distract attention. Dodge had no inkling that the diversion was going to be a huge bomb. Now he had a major dilemma, the Saudi girl was unconscious and bound up on the third floor of his building, and every law enforcement officer in the country was looking for the bombers. The national news was saturated with the terrible events that had taken place on the River Dee. Fortunately there was no mention yet of any kidnapping. The Russians made sure there was no one left alive to mention the Arabian girl who was taken away in an ambulance minutes before the explosion. Pete Dodge felt that he was disrespected by his Russian colleagues but he didn’t want a war, it would be bad for business.

  Pete Dodge sat in small anteroom at the rear of the Orford Arms playing cards with four Brigade members. The men in the bar were all skinheads, large men, most of them pumped up on nandrelone injections and dianabol tablets. Four more skinheads were playing pool in the main room when the front door opened and two men walked in wearing dark overcoats. They approached the bar and asked to speak to Mr Dodge.

  “Tell him Alexis sent us,” said one of the men in an Eastern European accent.

  The barmaid opened a serving hatch that opened into the back rooms of the pub.

  “There are two blokes here that say Alexis sent them, and could they speak to Mr Dodge. Mr Dodge, that’s a laugh,” said the peroxide blond, she had at least two-dozen piercings in her face.

  “Shut the fuck up Charlie and send them through here,” Pete replied. He was balancing a fat cigar between his discoloured teeth. “Be on your guard lads this could be the ruskies or it could be the police, either way it is trouble.”

  The two Russian men walked into the rear barroom, their hands deep inside their overcoat pockets. They looked around the group of bald men one at a time. The silence was deafening. The skinheads stared hard at the intruders, testosterone reaching dangerous levels. The atmosphere felt like the public house was about to explode.

  “How can I help you gentlemen? Your boss Alexis said that he would telephone me about our business,” Dodge spoke first.

  “We have come to pickup our package; there has been a change of plan. I am afraid we need to move our goods immediately,” the older of the two Soviets said, referring to the kidnapped girl, his accent was thick and guttural.

  “I bet you do after the stunt you pulled. I would imagine that your property, as you put it, is too hot to handle at the moment,” Dodge wanted the girl taken off his hands quickly, but he wanted them to squirm first. “I am afraid that the price has increased due to the extra risk that your little diversion has attracted. I also need cash on delivery.”

  “It would not be wise to anger Alexis, Mr Dodge, you should hand over our goods and then discuss your issues with him tomorrow,” the Russian said, his jaw muscle tightened and twitched as he tried to keep control of his anger. The skinheads who were surrounding Dodge were big angry looking men; the Soviets had also counted at least another half dozen in the front barroom drinking and playing pool.

  “Fuck off Trotsky and you can tell your boss to do the same. The girl will be kept safely until I receive one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Pounds, Dollars or Euros are all acceptable as long as they are used notes. You can call it a bonus for all the trouble you have caused. Now leave my bar, you are interrupting our card game,” Dodge took the cigar from his mouth and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray. He never took his eyes away from the Russians stare. The Soviet’s jaw twitched again while he deciphered what the English man had said, the vein in his right temple throbbed visibly as he decided what the next step would be.

  Terry Nick was the biggest Brigade member in the room. He was also the Brigade’s Lieutenant and its main enforcer. He stood over 6 feet tall and weighed nearly twenty stone. He was injecting nandrelone twice a day to maintain his huge muscle mass, and he held a third Dan Judo belt. Hand to hand combat was like second nature to Terry, so he wasn’t scared of the Soviets, but he knew that the Russians were packing guns. They would never have walked into the Orford Arms unarmed, this was 18th Brigade’s turf. Guns or no guns, he needed to call their bluff. Terry Nick walked up to the Russian who was doing all the talking and pressed his nose against his face.

  “Mr Dodge has just told you to fuck off. I suggest that you do just that,” Terry snarled in to the Russians face. The Russian moved back slightly, the big skinhead’s fetid cigarette breath repulsed him; he turned toward the barroom door as if he were about to back down and leave the room. Terry Nick turned toward his bald friends and started laughing at the Russians. The skinheads at the card table joined in the jeering but they stopped laughing when the Russian stopped.

  The Russian looked set to leave with his tail between his legs, instead he picked up a square topped bar table and jammed it between the door handles, stopping anyone from the adjacent room opening the door. He turned round in one fluid movement drawing his Berretta 9mm automatic simultaneously. The Russian fired two shots into Terry Nick’s right foot causing a fountain of blood to splatter the ceiling with red dots. The monstrous skinhead toppled backward over the card table screaming in pain as his shattered foot burned in pain. The second Russian drew a .44 calibre Bulldog and fired it into the nearest Brigade member’s thigh. He was a huge fat skinhead covered in Nazi insignia tattoos. The bullet smashed through his thigh muscle and splintered his femur into pieces. The fat skinhead grasped his hands over the massive rent in his leg in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding but the wound sprayed a red jet of fluid between his fingers. The Mafia man closed the gap to the table quickly and brought the heavy Bulldog
revolver down in a clubbing motion into the screaming Nazi’s face. His cheekbone imploded beneath the devastating force and his face collapsed on one side resembling a deflated football.

  Pete Dodge and the remaining two Brigade members held up their hands in surrender while their two colleagues screamed in agony on the floor. The hatch burst open and the peroxide barmaid, Charlie poked her head through, an expression of shock spread across her pierced features as she took in the bloody scene. The big Russian punched her hard in the mouth splintering her front teeth and driving her incisors through her top lip. She was thrust backward from the small wooden opening and dropped out of sight. He slammed the wooden serving hatch closed and jammed a stool between the handles. The thudding noise of the 18th Brigade members from the front bar trying to gain access was reaching a splintering crescendo.

  “Tell your people to remain calm and there will be no more violence Mr Dodge, we just want the girl,” said the Soviet. “You will still get the money that was agreed if you hand her over and you and your men will live. If not Mr Dodge you will all die.”