Soft Target 02 - Tank

by Conrad Jones

  The morning session was dull as the opposing barristers argued legal technicalities to and fro. Christina translated the narrative into Russian for her client, who appeared to be disinterested to say the least. He also seemed to be following proceedings himself anyway, which confused her. At lunch time the prison guards led Roman Kordinski downstairs to his holding cell and unlocked the plasti-glass dock to allow Christina to leave. She headed for the square outside and grabbed a coffee from a kiosk there. She sat down at a small table and lit a cigarette. Christina smiled at a face that was vaguely familiar to her. The woman returned her smile and walked toward her table. Christina noticed her press pass, and remembered her from the courtroom gallery.

  “Hi there, you’re from McDonalds aren’t you?” the woman smiled and took a seat opposite Christina.

  “Yes I am,” Christina answered recognising that her accent wasn’t local to Liverpool or England. The two women got chatting about their various adventures arriving in the UK, and how they were enjoying their new home. Natasha obviously lied through her pearly white teeth as she gained Christina’s trust. The hour adjournment flew by as the women chatted beneath the stony faced statue of Queen Victoria, which dominated the square outside the Crown Court. They finished another cigarette each and then headed back into the courtroom.

  As they approached the courtroom doors Natasha grabbed Christina’s elbow.

  “Listen we should meet up for a glass of wine after the session this afternoon,” Natasha said smiling.

  “Definitely, I’d like that,” answered Christina, opening the courtroom doors. The guards were leading Roman up the steep steps from the cells below. They spotted Christina and opened the side panel of the plasti-glass dock to allow her entry to her seat.

  “Look, I think this afternoon will be a long session, take this I’ll get another one. You can’t leave the dock once you’re in,” said Natasha handing Christina a bottle of red Gatorade.

  “Thanks, that’s a great idea,” said Christina as she entered the dock. The guards locked the bulletproof panel behind her. She took her seat next to Roman Kordinski, between two armed guards in the transparent plasti-glass cubicle. Christina took her coat off and noticed her new friend Natasha had left the courtroom already, which she thought was odd. Maybe she had gone to replace the drink that she had thoughtfully given to her. Never mind, she would see her later. She picked up her drink bottle and thought she could feel a minute vibration for just a millisecond, before the liquid gel explosive inside it detonated. The two guards, Christina and Roman Kordinski died instantly. The armoured plasti-glass cubicle remained intact which concentrated the blast-wave inside, it looked like someone had put a giant frog in a massive liquidiser and then switched it on.

  Chapter 52

  Yasser Ahmed/ Kizlyar

  Yasser was returning from the small town centre of Kizlyar when he spotted the Land Rover in the trees. There was a glint of sunshine reflecting off metal or glass in the distance that caught his attention. Whatever it was, it shouldn’t be there. He and a small group of Mujahideen were buying munitions and other supplies. Arranging drinking water and a sustainable food supply for the coming weeks in the mountains was difficult. The bulk of his force had remained nearby the hospital. The hospital was heavily guarded and his men could relax safely. The Land Rover that he had spotted was unmarked, and the soldiers inside were wearing non-descript uniforms without any identifying insignia. Yasser knew that they weren’t Russian troops for certain. Their weapons were too modern. Yasser and his men took cover behind a low stone wall and watched the soldiers through binoculars. Yasser whispered an order to a lieutenant and he scurried off toward the village. Five minutes later he returned with three young boys, who looked about seven or eight. The boys were spoken to sternly and they nodded their dirty faces in agreement. They were even more compliant when Yasser broke a chocolate bar and shared it amongst them.

  The three amigos skipped along the dusty dirt road toward the foreign soldiers, who were still sat unaware in their vehicle. The chattering boys were only spotted by the soldiers when they were yards away, and they weren’t deemed a serious threat. It was only when the first boy threw a primed hand grenade into the open window that the soldiers realised that they had been duped, and by then it was too late.

  Yasser and his men picked through the wreckage of the Land Rover. One of the soldiers was still alive, and despite shooting him five times in the legs he wouldn’t divulge his mission before he died from shock. Yasser knew they were Special Forces, there were not even wristwatches to indicate their origin. They carried nothing that would divulge their nationality. Beneath the rear wheel arch Yasser found the vehicle identification tracking device and he smashed it with a rock. They removed the weapons and the radio coms unit, and headed overland toward the hospital facility. Yasser knew there would be more soldiers, although he couldn’t really understand how they knew that he was here. That’s the only reason anyone would send special forces into Dagestan, to capture or kill Yasser Ahmed, he thought.

  As they neared the minefields the sound of a fierce fire-fight reached them. Heavy machinegun fire and loud explosions retorted across the hills in the distance. Yasser scanned the ridgeline in the distance through his binoculars, and he saw the familiar shape of unmanned drones above Kizlyar. The huge wasp like shape of an Apache helicopter gunship appeared into view with its guns blazing. Whoever they were looking for they had sent a formidable force to find them. He signalled his men and they moved forward carefully picking their way through the minefield. Yasser’s guide skipped over the ground with a confident gait, because he had travelled this path many times before. They reached the top of a low hilly knoll and watched the battle raging below them, lying in the dirt on their bellies. A convoy of armoured Land Rovers was speeding across the dusty hills toward a road that ran along a rocky ridgeline. Roof mounted 50 calibre heavy machineguns were tearing up Mujahideen positions all along the ridge. An Apache gunship was wreaking havoc firing its deadly payload with frightening accuracy. The Mujahideen were being blown to pieces.

  Yasser turned the glasses toward the hospital building and saw two Mujahideen carrying a casualty across a shell hole ridden plateau. He focused the glasses and gritted his teeth in anger as he realised that the men weren’t all that they first appeared to be. The casualty was a woman of Middle Eastern appearance, and it dawned on him that she was the focus of this incursion. The Land Rovers reached the road and parked in a circular formation. They continued laying down covering fire with the 50 calibres. The soldiers inside the Land Rovers exited the vehicles and adopted positions of safety to fire from, to protect Faz and Chen as they approached the evac site. There was little resistance left. The Apache flew low over the ridgeline and landed in the centre of the Land Rovers, and the side door was slid open. Two Special Forces men carried their injured colleague and placed him on a stretcher inside the helicopter. They ducked low beneath the rotor blades as they returned to their vehicle.

  Yasser scanned the Land Rovers and stopped suddenly on the lead vehicle. Stood by the passenger door holding an M16 on his hip was the big agent that he had seen with his brother Mustapha. He had seen them near the Anfield football stadium in Liverpool. Yasser thought he was killed in a bomb blast, but he was obviously alive and well. He stared at the bald agent and saw the look of concern on his face. The bald man was looking worriedly toward the two disguised men, who were carrying the girl, and shouting encouragement to them as they neared the Land Rovers. Yasser focused again on the trio in the minefield. The black skinned man was a woman. He could see that clearly now. Her attractive chiselled features were exposed as the downdraft from the rotor blades blew her headscarf from her face. Three agents broke cover and grabbed Jeannie Kellesh. They rushed her into the waiting helicopter where she was taken by aircrew and laid in a canvas gurney. Grace Farrington ran toward Tank’s position, where she crouched down next to him against the Land Rover. Tank squeezed her arm tightly and they exchange
d a glance, which communicated their affectionate concern for each other in the face of danger. Chen scurried next to them and nodded at Tank. Tank nodded back to him and smiled. They had done well so far, they had the girl. Even though they had lost men they had removed several dozen extremists from circulation. As Tank was assessing their situation he saw a muzzle flash from a knoll in the distance. A second later Grace Farrington was slammed into the Land Rover’s door by a high velocity bullet which hit her in the chest.

  Chapter 53

  New York/ Zareta Katharina

  Madison Square Garden, 2008, is the third incarnation of the world famous sporting venue. Situated above the Penn Street railway station in the centre of Manhattan, it’s the ideal venue for a large political rally. Political rallies don’t get any bigger than when the President of the United States of America is attending. She had the remarkable role of being the first female president, and the first black president combined. If she was gay too, then all the bases would have been covered. Hilary Rice had achieved the top job in American politics by appealing to the electorate’s desire for change. The majority of her voters were America’s female population, and a large percentage of the country’s black vote.

  Today Hilary Rice had a dilemma. She was the key speaker at a woman’s rally, which was attended predominantly by ethnic minorities. The problem was that a foiled attack on Florida’s Disney parks had raised security status to critical. The successful assassination of a Jewish Russian exile that was in the custody of, and under the protection of the British Counter Terrorist Agencies, underlined the seriousness of the situation. It appeared that liquid explosive was used in both bombs. There was no way to stop all liquids coming into proximity with the president. It was also widely believed that the attackers were of Chechen origin, and female. The general consensus of opinion was that the attacks were of the genre favoured by Yasser Ahmed and his ‘Ishmael’s Axe’ group.

  The president could not abort the conference speech as too many sections of the community would be offended, or made to feel isolated. She most definitely could not take the risk of becoming Yasser Ahmed’s sitting duck either. Video presentation teams were brought in and a ten minute film was produced. The President narrated the film which incorporated successful women in America’s industries with, community, business and judicial role models. The short film was designed to be a shot in the arm for the audience. A heart thumping sound track was added, and fireworks would be arranged as a finale to the film. The plan was to stamp the president’s presence on the memories of everyone that attended, without her actually saying a word. The key to the plan was deploying the president’s stand in look-alike. With everyone focused on the big screen the stunt double would not be scrutinised by the audience. Stunt doubles were used throughout history to keep important leaders safe from assassination attempts. Churchill, General Montgomery and Adolf Hitler himself all used look-alikes several times through the Second World War. More recently Saddam Husain used several doubles to ease his paranoia. Sometimes it was because an assassination attempt was imminent, but the plan was not known. Other times it was used to flush out co-conspirators from within their own ranks.

  While Hilary Rice made her movie and prepped her look-alike, Zareta was making preparations of her own in a motel room. She was given money and detailed plans to follow. She had begun by going to a supermarket and buying a roll of polythene ice-cube bags, and some duct tape. Zareta filled the ice-cube bags with Tovex liquid gel explosive, and then taped it around her breasts and back. Beneath her clothing the lethal polythene roll felt like fat. If she was to be frisked then nothing untoward would be suspected. She wore a bright red ornate silk robe and head scarf to match, which was the traditional formal attire of Indian Hindu women. Zareta painted a red spot on her forehead and glued a tiny diamante stud into the centre of it to finish the disguise. She felt nothing as she prepared herself. Zareta had long since lost her self esteem, and everyone she loved was dead, stolen from her. Her heart was numb, cold and cruel. Any compassion that she had was ripped from her when she watched her son’s murder. Now all she wanted was to join them, and this last act of destruction was her passport to everlasting peace.

  Zareta placed a mobile phone into her purse, placed a silk shawl around her shoulders and stepped out of her hotel. The hotel was called the Penn Towers, and was across the street from the station that shared its name. Taxis and limousines lined the street dropping off their passengers. The steps, which led into the Madison Square Garden, were fifty yards away, and were awash with women from every continent. There was a heavy uniformed police presence all around the building. National dress and formal costumes were the order of the day and every effort was given to this prestigious occasion by its attendees. Zareta saw the women arriving, all excited and chattering to each other. She recognised several women wearing the traditional dress of her country, and it saddened her. She felt incredibly alone as she pulled her shawl tightly around her. The wind chilled her to the bone as she stepped into the road. Tyres squealed and a car horn blared making her jump backward in fright. The car stopped just inches short of Zareta, and the driver opened his window and hurled abuse at her. Zareta stared at the driver blankly before setting off again on unsteady legs. As she passed the bonnet of the car confused and frightened she stepped blindly into the next lane. Traffic screamed to a halt again as another car stopped just short of hitting her. Zareta realised that she was getting the jitters. She was walking aimlessly to her death, but she was putting her plan in jeopardy. She had to get a grip, but her mind felt like it had turned to fudge. She couldn’t think straight because she was so scared.

  A traffic cop noticed the commotion and walked toward the stationary cars.

  “Are you ok lady?” the cop asked brashly, “do you have a death wish or something? The pedestrian crossing is just ten yards away for cripes sake.”

  He approached the vacant Asian woman and grabbed her roughly by the arm, trying to guide her back to the pavement. A symphony of different car horns blared again as drivers lost their patience with the woman. The policeman held up his hand to the angry drivers as he pushed Zareta back toward the hotel side of the road. She allowed herself to be pushed by the lawman, and it took her back to that day on the bridge when she had lost her sons and her dignity. Zareta had had enough. She couldn’t go on any more. She felt like she was walking through treacle. The policeman leaned close to her face and she smelt stale cigarettes and whisky. Although she saw his lips move she couldn’t understand what he was saying. He sneered at her with a twisted smile, and Zareta looked into his soul as she triggered her bomb, ending her sadness forever.

  Chapter 54

  Grace Farrington/ Tank

  Tank opened his mouth in a silent scream as Grace was blown off her feet by the bullet that smashed into her chest. Her battle vest took much of the impact and spread the shockwave through its specially designed material. The bullet was an armour piercing 76mm round and it compromised the vest, and had penetrated her chest just above the left breast. The bullet was flattened as it impacted with the battle vest, making the wound beneath it wider and more ragged. Dark blood poured from the wound, which indicated that the spleen was ruptured. Chen quickly pulled a field dressing from Tank’s webbing and applied pressure to the wound. Faz’s eyes were wide open in shock. A second bullet ripped through her right bicep muscle and pinged off the Land Rover door. The ricochet looped high in air before dropping onto Tank’s leg. The sight of the flattened slug covered in Grace’s blood and tissue shocked him into action. Grace’s eyes started to glaze over and her dark pupils were dilating.

  “Stay with me Grace,” he said as he picked her up in his big arms and sprinted to the Apache. The medics jumped from the departing helicopter and went to work on her wounds while Tank held her. They took her from him and put her into the aircraft. Tank watched through tears as the rotor blades increased their speed and the Apache climbed steeply hundreds of feet every second, taking his Grace with
them.

  “Put everything we have onto that hill,” Tank ordered with a venom in his voice that defied question, “Pilgrim one where is the drone? Put everything it has got onto the knoll 300 yards due east of the evac zone.”

  The truck mounted 50 calibres turned their deadly barrage onto the knoll, and the first two foot of rock and soil was blown to dust and smithereens in seconds. The drone flew over their position and two Napalm filled Hellfire missiles screamed from beneath its wings. The knoll turned into a plume of boiling flames, which tumbled and rolled upward to form a familiar mushroom cloud.

  “Pilgrim one the drone is picking up four fugitives one hundred yards from the knoll, seeking permission to engage,” said the voice from mission control. They were here to extract Jeannie Kellesh by any means necessary. Enemy soldiers taking flight were not legitimate targets.

  “Negative pilgrim one,” Tank replied, “they’re mine.”

  Tank climbed into the Land Rover, and his men did likewise in silence. The sight of Grace Farrington taking two hits had knocked the stuffing out of every soldier there. The Land Rover wheels span in the dust as the driver gave it full torque, and it lurched toward the escaping Mujahideen.

  “Pilgrim one, the other side of the knoll is charted as minefields Tank,” said the static voice from mission control. Tank didn’t reply. The driver of the vehicle glanced at Tank momentarily, but he chose not to comment. Tank chambered a new clip into his M16 and filled the grenade slide. Chen and the men in the rear were doing similar in silence.