Remote Control ns-1

by Andy McNab

  If she tripped up and hurt herself, she could get engulfed by what was about to happen.

  "Walk out very slowly, close the door behind you, then go out of the house and close the front door, really, really gently.

  Do not go back for Jenny or Ricky."

  "But I want them please. Nick?"

  I ignored her.

  "Then I want you to run as fast as you can up to the trees and hide. When you're running you will hear a big bang and there will be a fire. Don't stop and don't look back.

  And don't come out until I get there, no matter what happens.

  I promise I will be there soon."

  It was at times like this that I was pleased I'd done all the laborious, rote learning of mixtures and formulas for making incendiaries. At the time, many years ago, it had been mind-bogglingly boring, but it had to be done because you can't take a notebook on the job with you. I learned, by heart, how to make bombs from everyday ingredients and how to make improvised electrical devices. As clearly as even atheists remember the Lord's Prayer from the time it was drummed into them at school, I remembered the formulas and step-by-step instructions for making everything from a simple incendiary like the one I was using to try to kill Euan--Mixture Number 5--to a bomb that I could initiate by using a pager from the other side of the world.

  The phone started bleeping urgently, and then it just went dead. I visualized the glycerine in the antifreeze working on the mixture. In forty or fifty seconds it would ignite. If it was damp, maybe a little longer.

  Kelly had less than a minute to get out of the house; the instant the gas was ignited there was going to be a massive explosion and then a fire. Hopefully, it would take Euan down, but would it take her with it?

  Please, please, please don't go after those fucking teddy bears!

  I ran back to the car and started driving west. First light was just trying to fight its way through the clouds. It was the worst journey of my life.

  I saw a sign saying it was seventy miles to Wales. I raced along at warp speed for what I guessed was thirty miles, then another sign told me that Wales was sixty miles away. I felt as if I were running on a treadmill to nowhere and the treadmill was waist-deep in water.

  My body had calmed down from all the excitement and was telling me I was hurt. My neck was in agony. The flow of blood had stopped, but the eye Simmonds had gouged was starting to swell up and affect my vision.

  Euan, the fucker. The friend I had trusted for years. It was almost too painful to think about. I felt numb. I felt bereaved.

  In time, maybe that numbness would turn to anger or grief or some other thing, but not yet. In my mind's eye all I could see was the look on Kelly's face as the train left the station and the smile on Euan's.

  Where did I go from here? No fucker was going to move against me because they'd know that I still had the files. If the plan worked, Euan's package would sit in the post office now that there was no one to deliver it to. The killing of Simmonds would be covered up, no matter what. If some zealous policeman started getting too close to the truth, he'd be removed.

  It all made sense to me, now, that every time peace talks began, PIRA, or someone claiming to be PIRA, had dropped a soldier or a policeman or bombed the mainland UK. And why? Because it was good business to keep the Troubles alive.

  There were plenty on our side who profited from conflicts such as Northern Ireland and didn't want them to end. The Royal Ulster Constabulary is probably the highest-paid police force in Europe, if not the world. If you're its chief constable, it's your duty to say that you want an end to the war, but the reality is that you've got a massive police force under your command and limitless amounts of resources and power.

  The British army doesn't want it to stop, either. The province is a fantastic testing ground for equipment and training ground for troops and, as with the RUC, it means the army gets a bigger slice of the cake. Every year the army has to justify its budget, and it's up against the navy, which is asking for more funds for Trident submarines, and the air force, which is banging on about needing to buy the Eurofighter 2000.

  With Northern Ireland on the agenda, the army can talk about a "now" commitment, an operational imperative and no body's going to argue against the need for funds to fight terrorism.

  British industry stood to lose substantially from a cease fire, too. Major defense manufacturers design equipment specifically for internal security and make fortunes out of the operational conditions. Equipment that was battle-proven in Northern Ireland was eagerly sought after by foreign buyers.

  No wonder the conflict had made Britain one of the top three arms exporters in the world, with beneficial effects on the UK balance of payments.

  I knew now why McCann, Farrell, and Savage had had to die. Enniskillen. The backlash against PIRA. People signing books of condolence. Irish Americans stopping their donations. Dialogue and reconciliation must have looked a real prospect. Simmonds and his mates couldn't have that. They had to create martyrs to keep the pot boiling.

  Me? I was probably just a very small glitch in a well-oiled machine. Come to that. Northern Ireland was probably only one item among many in their company accounts. For all I knew, these guys also provoked killings and riots in Hebron, stirred up Croats against Serbs, and even got Kennedy killed because he wanted to stop the Vietnam War. As Simmonds had said, it was business. There was nothing I could do to stop them. But I wasn't worried about that. What was the point?

  The only thing I had achieved--perhaps--was revenge for Kev's and Pat's deaths. That would have to be enough.

  I got off the freeway and onto the secondary highway to Abergavenny. The rain had stopped, but it was a stretch of road notorious for repair works. Euan's house was about ten miles on the other side of the town, on the road toward Brecon.

  I weaved in and out of traffic, the other drivers hooting and waving their fists. Then, in the distance, I saw the red of brake lights. The morning rush hour had started. I slowed with the volume of traffic heading into the town and eventually came to a complete standstill. The jam was caused by resurfacing work; it looked as though there was a mile-long backup.

  I drove onto the shoulder. As I sped past them on the inside, stationary motorists honked angrily. The noise alerted the workers laying the asphalt up ahead. They ran and shouted, trying to wave me down, gesticulating at the roadwork sign. I didn't even acknowledge them. I only hoped I didn't get caught by the police. I dropped a gear, picked up speed, and shifted back up.

  I got to Abergavenny and stayed on the ring road. The traffic slowed at a long set of stoplights so I had to bump up onto the curb and edge my way to the front of the line.

  Once I was on the other side of the town I was in the sticks and the road narrowed to a single lane in each direction. I put my foot down and bombed along at seventy to eighty, using the whole road as if it were my own. Seeing a left-hand bend, I moved over to the far right-hand side. I could hear the hedgerow screech against the side of the car. From this position I could see more of the dead ground around the bend.

  Not bothering with brakes, I banged down through the gears to second just before turning. Once on the bend I put my foot down and made use of rubber on asphalt. Out of the bend, I shifted into fourth and stayed there.

  After a mile, a slow-moving truck was taking up most of the road. Its large trailer of sheep on two levels had a sticker asking me if I thought the driving was OK--if not, to call the head office. I had plenty of time to read it, laboring behind the fucker at twenty miles an hour.

  The road twisted and turned; the trucker could see me in his mirrors, but there was no way he was going to pull over for me to pass. The speedo dropped to fifteen mph. and I looked at my watch. It was 9:05; I'd been on the road for just under three hours.

  I kept pulling out, looking and tucking back in again. Even the sheep were staring at me now. The truck driver was enjoying himself; we had eye-to-eye in his side mirror, and I could see he was laughing. I knew this road, and
I knew that unless he let me pass I was doomed to several miles of driving at his pace. By now the road had a two-foot mud bank on each side, then trees and hedges. It was wet and slippery, with small streams running along each side. I'd have to take a chance, just hope that nothing was coming. On this road, all corners were blind.

  Preparing for the next bend, the truck driver shifted slowly down through the gears, and I accelerated past him on the wrong side of the road. If there was anything coming around the bend, we'd both be killed. He flashed his lights and honked, probably doing his best to distract me and force me off the road. For the first time today, I was in luck. The road was clear; I'd soon left the truck far behind.

  Fifteen minutes later I was at the turnoff for Euan's valley. I hung a left, and within a hundred yards the road petered out into a single lane. If I came up behind a tractor or farm machinery, there would be few passing places, but luck stayed with me and there was nothing ahead. Another twenty minutes and I got to the valley.

  As I approached the brow of the hill I could already see the spiral of smoke. The walls were still intact but most of the roof had collapsed, and there were smoke and scorch marks around the window frames. Two fire engines were there, and the firemen were still damping down. They looked wet, tired, and stressed. On the other side of the house was an ambulance.

  A handful of people had gathered, locals in their slickers and boots, who'd driven from the other side of the valley to rubberneck.

  I drove on and stopped by the gate. A couple of firemen turned around, but they didn't say anything; they were too busy doing their work.

  I got out of the car and ran across the road to the small copse about fifty yards away, hollering and shouting like a madman.

  "Kelly! Kelly!"

  Nothing.

  "It's me it's Nick! You can come out now!"

  But she wasn't there. Deep down, I'd probably known all along that she wouldn't be. She'd been dead from the moment she'd picked up the phone.

  I turned away and walked slowly up the track toward the throng of spectators. They gave me the once-over, obviously not liking the look of my damaged face, then turned back, more interested in the remains of the house.

  "Was there anyone in there?" I asked nobody in particular.

  A woman spoke.

  "His lights were on last night. The ambulance crew has been inside already. Oh, it's such a shame. He was such a nice young man."

  I walked beyond the group and a fireman came toward me, lifting a gloved hand.

  "Excuse me, sir, if you could stay well back. We haven't made the area safe yet."

  "Radio Wales," I said.

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  I looked over his shoulder. Other firefighters were dragging out charred remains of Euan's house and placing them on a pile that was being damped down. I could now smell the burning.

  I looked back at the fireman. He said, "It looks as if there was a fire and then the gas bottles blew up. If you could move back, sir."

  "Was anyone killed or injured?"

  As I asked, something one of them threw on the pile caught my eye. It was Jenny or Ricky, one or the other I never could tell which was which. Not that it mattered now.

  Whichever one it was, it was now burned black with only half an arm left.

  "It will take some time before we'll know for sure. But no one could have survived that blast."

  He was right. In any other circumstances, it would have been an explosion to be proud of.

  Kelly was dead. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad. It would be a bitch, but I'd get over it. What could I have offered her?

  Kelly would have been in bad shape when she realized what had happened to her; she would probably need psychiatric treatment. Besides, she'd been starting to like the way we'd been living. Her death would tidy things up. I wouldn't have to protect or worry about her anymore.

  I started back toward the car, deep in my thoughts. What was done was done; I couldn't change it, couldn't turn the clock back. I'd find out more from the news.

  Behind me, in the distance, I heard the squawk of a bird, maybe a crow. It almost sounded like my name.

  I stopped and turned.

  And there she was, running toward me from beyond the trees.

  I started to run toward her but checked myself. I wanted to make it look casual, even if my insides were shaking off the Richter scale.

  She flew into my arms, burying her face in my neck. I pulled her back and held her at arm's length.

  "Why weren't you at the trees?" I was half-angry, half-relieved, like a parent who thinks he's lost a child in a crowd and then finds her again and doesn't know whether to give her a good old chewing out or just a hug and a kiss. I didn't know what to do, but it felt good.

  "Why weren't you by the trees where I said?"

  She looked at me in disbelief.

  "As if! Because you always make sure you stand off and watch. You taught me that!"

  I got hold of her hand, grinned, and said, "Yeah, that's fair."

  Still smiling, we walked toward the car. She was soaked, her hair matted to her head.

  We reached the car and got in without exchanging another word.

  I looked at her in the rearview mirror. We had eye-to-eye.

  She smiled, and I snapped, "Put your seat belt on!"

  I turned the ignition and we drove off.

  The Author

  A former member of the crack elite force the Special Air Service, Andy McNab has seen action on five continents. Now, in his explosive fiction debut, he has drawn on his seventeen years' experience of active service to create a thriller of high-stakes intrigue and unstoppable action.

  In January 1991, McNab commanded the eight-man SAS squad that went behind Iraqi lines to destroy Saddam's scuds. He eventually became the British Army's most highly decorated serving soldier, and remains closely involved with the intelligence communities on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Because of the highly sensitive and clandestine nature of his work with the SAS, McNab is wanted by a number of the world's terrorist groups. His whereabouts, therefore, cannot be disclosed.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 4db57209-3d34-4811-843f-40ca040584d8

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 26.5.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Andy Mcnab

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