by James Adams
Whispering into his mike, Hodder ordered his men off the walkway and on to the track. Creeping softly forward, he wanted to bracket the doorway so that when the assault came it would be from all sides and at the same time.
Jonny could feel the pebbles move as he brought each foot down carefully towards the ground, his toes feeling for the gravel, ensuring that no stone was dislodged. He saw the shape of Hodder ahead of him duck even lower as he came to the doorway. Suddenly, Jenny’s foot slipped. It was just a tiny movement, a slight hesitation in his step but it was enough.
There was the rattle of rock on rock. In normal circumstances, the sound would have passed unnoticed. But this was terrorism and nothing was normal. If these people were half as good as they were supposed to be, Jonny thought, the rescuers were about to be in deep shit.
Inside the carriage, Kate Can had been waiting for an opportunity to strike back. She neither expected one nor knew exactly what she would do if one presented itself to her. All she knew was that she wanted revenge for the death of the man she loved, for the destruction of her family, for the frightening of her daughter and for the humiliation they had all suffered.
For two hours now she had been rolling and unrolling her Daily Mail. She had done it so often that she had almost forgotten just why it was she had begun to do so. The twisting of her hands around the newsprint had become a nervous twitch, an excuse for movement where no greater gesture was allowed.
Then she had heard the rattle of rock just outside the carriage door. She had heard enough noises in the past hours to inure her to such sounds. But there was something about this that pricked her senses. It seemed stealthy. She listened, but there was no other sound. Then she saw the bulk of a shadow move past the doorway. Her eyes had become extraordinarily attuned to the half-light created by the yellow lamps. She could see that the man was ail in black and appeared to have his head sheathed in some kind of helmet. This was not one of their guards. They were all wearing ordinary clothes.
She thought she could actually feel her heart leap. Rescuers. Help had come at last.
Her peripheral vision picked up one of the Chinese moving quietly towards her. He came level with her and she saw that it was the one she had nicknamed the Poison Dwarf, the little one, whom their leader called Kang Sheng. His machine-gun nosed out ahead of him, probing the doorway for the source of the noise that had disturbed him. He leaned over her, trying to get a view of the track outside without exposing himself.
Without pause for thought, Kate struck upwards. The rolled-up newspaper had the strength and composition of an iron bar. With all Kate’s fury and frustration behind it, the newspaper struck deep into the man’s throat. The blow jarred her arm and she felt the paper thrust against flesh of his neck, forcing it inwards. There was a cracking sound as the larynx was crushed and then the man jerked upward, gasping, unable to draw breath for the scream that his body demanded to be released.
Searching for air, Kang Sheng jerked forward again. Kate drew back and stabbed once more. The man’s downward momentum met the upward thrust of the paper. With a horrible squelching noise, his left eyeball was crushed as the paper drove into the eye socket. Still there was no sound, just a strangled gasp as his body tried to respond to this new level of pain.
Blinded and starved of oxygen, his body continued its downward fall and hit the steel floor of the carriage, He was dying now and Kate turned away, the frenzy over, revolted at the results of her handiwork.
Kang Sheng’s body twisted and jerked off the floor, arching so that his body bowed and only his toes and the crown of his head remained in touch with the ground. He spun away from Kate and fell through the doorway to land with a clatter on the track below.
The sound of the felling body told Hodder that surprise had been lost. Now seconds were everything and there was no time for hesitation.
“Go. Go. Go,” he shouted into his microphone. He rolled through the doorway of the carriage, turning over and over until with a bone-jarring crash he hit the far wall. Jonny followed, his elegant parachute roll turning into a jumble of limbs as he tried to reduce his body to a tiny ball while holding on to his gun. He peered around frantically, eyes darting first left and then right as he searched for the microseconds of warning that would tell him he was a target.
Outside, one of the men was shouting, “Stay down. Stay down,” in the hope that the hostages would remain still while the terrorists would be forced to expose themselves.
There was the ripping sound of a machine-pistol on full automatic and the carriage was lit briefly by the red and yellow flame sprouting from a gun barrel. The image of the carriage was seared on to his brain: the cowering passengers, bodies huddled together, old and young, male and female, all merged into an uneven bumpy mass of fear.
Then his eyes locked on to a terrorist, the one who had fired his gun. Jonny swung the barrel round and let out a short burst of four rounds. The man was lifted off his feet and fell back on top of some of the hostages.
There was screaming in the carriage now, the confined space magnifying the noise, expanding the terror. Each of the hostages felt that every bullet was aimed at them, each gun pointed at their heads.
There was more firing from the far end of the carriage. This time, Michael Leung was not bothering to attack his attackers but was doing what he had been ordered to do if attacked: kill the hostages. Like a gardener with his hose, he was spraying the bodies around him. As each bullet struck, there was a visible reaction as nerves were cut, muscles torn and limbs broken. Arms, legs and torsos flailed in the air as if massive jolts of electricity were being sent through the carriage floor.
Jonny felt the adrenalin of raw rage spurt through him. Disregarding training and caution, he leaped to his feet and charged the man, firing as he went. The terrorist was concentrating too hard on the easy targets and his reactions were slow. As he looked up and his gun changed direction, the first bullet struck him in the groin. Jonny allowed his barrel to move upwards with the recoil so that the bullets formed an upward pattern, following the body as it was lifted up and back. Each bullet drove the man further back until he smashed into the rear wall of the carriage, hung for a moment and then slumped to the floor.
If inside the carriage was raw power and mayhem, outside it was a stealthier battle. Dai Choi had heard the first shots and knew that the attack they feared had begun. He wanted to run but wanted, too, a chance to make the attackers pay a heavy price. Killing the hostages was his goal; killing the attackers a matter of survival.
He was hidden under the rear of the carriage and watched as a small group of men walked quietly by him heading for the guard post twenty yards in front.
Reaching into his pocket he drew out the cheese wire with the wooden stakes at either end and hefted it in his right hand. As the last man moved past, Dai Choi pounced, his right hand releasing one end of the wire and throwing it around the man’s neck. His left hand caught the wooden stake and with a single fluid motion he brought the wire of the garrotte into the flesh of the neck.
The garrotte is the deadliest of silent weapons. It is simple but, when applied correctly, absolutely lethal. Dai Choi hoisted his knee into the small of his victim’s back and then brought his fists together until they were touching behind the man’s neck. He pushed with his knee and pulled with his hands. The wire cut through flesh and sinew, only stopped by the bone of the vertebrae.
Jake Ellis felt a moment of agony, the hot dampness of blood, and then he died.
Dai Choi lowered the body to the ground and slunk back underneath the carriage. The sounds of the dead and dying were all around. He could see the probing torchlights of the enemy as they searched for the living among the dead and wounded. Escape was impossible, a deal inconceivable. He knew that he was going to die and was ready to accept his fate. But if he was going down, he would take all these bastards with him — if he could. The controls to the explosive charges were just ahead. He began a slow, sinewy crawl up the track, his body hu
gging the ground. He could feel the pebbles grate against his chest and stomach but the discomfort meant nothing to him. He was going to make it. He could already imagine the fire storm that the explosion would unleash inside the Tunnel, the burning human flesh, the cordite.
The carriage was secure and Jonny jumped down on to the track. Now that he was still alive, his real purpose had resurfaced and he wanted Dai Choi, even if it was only to stand over his corpse. He looked underneath the train and then began walking slowly towards the British end of the Tunnel. The firing had died down now but he knew that this was often the moment when the unwary dropped their guard and paid a heavy price for their stupidity. He came to the end of the carriage and peered around. He saw a body lying in the track and recognized the dark suit of one of his own team.
He risked a quick flash of the Maglite that was fixed underneath the barrel of his gun. In its white glare he saw the crumpled shape of Jake Ellis. His head was almost severed from his trunk and there was blood everywhere. But then Jonny’s brain registered the trail of blood leading away from the carcase. Holding his gun away from his body, he turned the light back on and saw that the killer had crawled through Jake’s blood to make his escape. The trail was wide and distinct. A flick of the wrist and the killer was trapped in the white of the light.
He had imagined this scene so often; not the setting but the time when he could become this man’s nemesis. He had played the conversation over dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. But now the moment had come, he found he really had nothing to say. They both knew the whys of this final confrontation. All that needed to be decided was exactly how it would be resolved.
“So, Mr Turnbull,” Dai Choi began, the old confidence returning as he saw Jonny’s finger relax slightly on the trigger. “Finally you have an opportunity to make an arrest for which I will have no alibi.”
“Wrong, Dai Choi. No arrests, no lawyers, no alibis. This is where it all ends.” He spoke with such absolute finality that Dai Choi realized that Turnbull intended to kill him. He began to edge backwards, moving a fraction of an inch at a time. His right hand was just outside the pool of light and his fingers were searching, groping through the pebbles for the small black box and the detonator button.
Jonny saw the movement and pivoted the Maglite a few inches to his left. Dai Choi’s fingers were inches away from the box. There was no hesitation. Jonny moved the gun fractionally and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck Dai Choi in the shoulder, shattering the bone and leaving the arm hanging limp and useless. Dai Choi was flung backwards and skittered two feet along the gravel. As the pain hit him, he screamed, a taut, high-pitched cry of agony.
Jonny moved forward to stand at his feet, his torch now flooding his enemy’s body with white light. The blood from the shoulder wound glowed bright red in the reflection from the torch. Jonny wanted to fire again, to end it all, but paused for a moment to take in the fear that he saw cross like a cloud over Dai Choi’s face.
“So how does it feel?” he asked. “After so long giving out pain, what is it like to suffer a little yourself? Can you understand just some of what I felt when Sam died?” Dai Choi grimaced, struggling to maintain his composure. He wanted to regain the ascendancy in a relationship he had controlled for so long. But the levers were gone. “You think you’ve won.” He squeezed the words out between teeth clenched with pain. “Well, you’re about to discover just how ignorant you really are.”
“Cut the crap, Dai Choi,” Jonny replied. “It’s over. You lost. We won. Simple.”
Dai Choi let out a long sigh of pain and his head fell back. For a brief moment the whites of his eyes showed and then he struggled back to consciousness.
“Simple?” he asked. “It was never as simple as you thought. Our Leader planned for just this moment. Negotiate and there was a chance. Attack and whatever happens we all die.”
“But there’s nothing you can do,” Jonny insisted. “You’re finished. Your men are all dead or taken.”
“No, you stupid man. I do not matter. I never did. White Lotus controls me and now controls you. It’s too late for us both.”
Jonny squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet hit Dai Choi’s kneecap squarely in the centre, the second missed the right knee, hit the ground then ricocheted off the stones into his thigh and exited leaving a gaping hole about two inches across. Another scream was tom from him, the agony transparent. Jonny moved over and knelt by Dai Choi’s head.
“Now that’s control,” he breathed into his ear. “Can you feel that blood on your leg? That’s an artery. Another few minutes and you’re a dead man unless I do something about it. So, what’s this great plan?”
Dai Choi had seen too many men die at his own hand not to be frightened of death himself. Now that the reality was moments away, he wanted desperately to live, wanted the pain to stop, wanted to assert himself over Turnbull just one last time.
“On the bottom of the sea above our heads there is a nuclear bomb. If the radio message isn’t answered, then it will be detonated. You, me, everyone in here will die. So, Turnbull, another game you’ve lost.”
Jonny jerked upright, stepped over Dai Choi’s body and kicked the detonator out of reach. He looked down at Dai Choi. Then he turned and walked away from the dying man, leaving the blood to pump out the last few minutes of his life into the gravel of the Tunnel floor.
As he hurried off into the darkness, searching for Hodder, he shone his torch on his watch: 14.35, just twenty-five minutes to go before the next radio message. It was going to be damn close.
He saw Hodder in the distance, herding some of the hostages out of the train carriage and on to the track. He shouted to attract his attention.
“Mike. Mike,” he called. Hodder broke away from the group and came towards him. “Mike, there’s a nuclear bomb on the sea bed. It will go off on the hour unless we can warn Campbeltown.”
“Christ Almighty,” Hodder swore. A moment and then he had made his decisions. “Right, I’ll have to stay and get the hostages out. You go with my sergeant in the submersible. You should be on the surface in ten minutes or so. Alert Campbeltown and then it’s up to them.”
He turned away and began shouting at his men to gather the hostages together for the journey out of the Tunnel.
Jonny felt his arm gripped and was propelled back the way they had come to the ropes and the escape hatch.
“Able Seaman Williams here is the man you want to watch,” Greaves explained helpfully. The console in front of him is the UAA1 Electronic Warfare system. He can detect any vessel by its radar emission. By comparing that emission with our computerized data base he can give me course, speed and ship type within a few seconds.”
Jonny peered at the screen, amazed at the number of small green dots that seemed to pepper the circle.
Williams spun the roller ball under his right palm and brought the cursor ever a green dot that appeared to be about two miles astern of Campbeltown. His left hand pressed some keys of what looked like a small typewriter keyboard.
“That tells the system to interrogate the target, identify all known characteristics and report back,” Greaves said.
A moment later a short line of letters and numbers appeared on the screen.
That tells us she is a French destroyer of the F70 class. Probably the Jean Bart. She’s been with us almost since this began.”
“So what happens if we pick up a message?” Jonny asked.
“Comms will pick up the signal and give us the cross-bearing. Williams here will identify the target and then we decide on what action needs to be taken. If we pick up a signal, I want you to translate it as it comes in so that I can keep my options open.”
Greaves glanced to his left and saw the digital clock change from 14.52 to 14.53. Jonny had made it just in time. The most difficult part of the journey had been climbing back up the damn rope to the escape hatch. It had been agonizingly slow and he had only managed it in the end because the sergeant had gone first and pulled hi
m up most of the way. The Avalon had taken them smoothly to the surface and they had climbed up a scaling ladder lowered over the side of Campbeltown.
The crew were already at action stations, alerted by a radio message from Avalon. He had been escorted directly to the gloom room where Captain Greaves sat perched on his leather fighting chair.
“Do you have any idea of the type of weapon it is?” Jonny asked him.
“It could be all sorts. I assume it’s one of those that are supposed to have reached the market from the former Soviet Union. The Soviets had a portable nuclear weapon, known as the backpack nuke, for use by their Special Forces. They had plenty of nuclear mines which are small and are easy to transport. We just have no idea. In a sense the type doesn’t matter, it’s how it’s set off we care about. If your chum down below is right and it detonates on a radio command then we might just be able to do something about it.
“The trouble with radio these days is that there are just no certainties. With frequency hopping in use everywhere, we can jam one signal and the radio hops somewhere else and it always takes us a moment or two to catch up. It’s that moment when we could all be blown out of the water. If you’ll forgive the pun,” he added sarcastically.
Having survived the terror of the Tunnel, Jonny found the tension in the gloom room almost an anticlimax. There was none of the shouting and shooting of the Tunnel. Instead, the machinery was noisier than the operators speaking quietly into their small boom mikes. But it was all an illusion. If the next few minutes went wrong, he and everyone here would be at the heart of the explosion. They would all be melted by the heat, the water in their bodies instantly vaporized. It would indeed be Dai Choi’s final triumph.
Jonny’s headphones chattered with a message from Comms. “Signal just came in, sir,” the voice announced. “We’re tracking now.”
