Lesson Learned- Mission Report 1

by G J Stevens

  Spitting out wooden needles, I edged forward and with a small click echoing through the tunnel, the fan ceased its complaint.

  Feeling around at the stopped blades, their surface jagged and bent from the assault, I had to pull the log away to give myself enough room and slid the remains of the ragged wood behind me.

  With my hands out in the centre of the tunnel, I found where the blades met in the middle. Working to the outside, I felt one of the misshapen blades before moving my hands to the side as I searched for the next one.

  The space between the metal was still nowhere near wide enough for me to squeeze between and I grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled it towards me, but it hardly moved.

  I tried again, this time pushing at the metal, then leant back and repeated with my feet. It still didn’t move enough.

  I remembered the heavy croppers the other side.

  Being careful not to scrape my arm with the rough edge of the metal, I managed to slide through up to my shoulders and the tips of my fingers found the tool. With purchase between two fingers I pulled back, finding more grip with each movement.

  A click echoed along the tunnel, coming from somewhere close to my right. Instinct had my grip releasing and I yanked my arm from between the blades just as they moved and were back to full speed before I’d taken a full breath, attacking the air with their newfound shape.

  I let myself settle for a moment before grabbing the log at my back and turning away from the shower of splinters as the blades ground to a halt once more.

  This time I waited, checking for the click to repeat whilst counting in my head and just able to retrieve the croppers with the long stretch of wood still in place. The safety cut-out control would give me thirty seconds or thereabouts before the metal would start the rotation again.

  After ten seconds with the blades not moving, the system would trip, waiting for an automatic restart.

  Leaving the log in place, I fumbled with the croppers to nip at the base of the metal before it tried to restart.

  After two more rounds I had two blades snipped free and at my back out of the way. Now I could fit through.

  Pushing the croppers back through the hole, I didn’t want to repeat what I was about to attempt; I let the system click out and yanked the log, pushing it to my back, the numbers counting up in my head. I grabbed the remaining blades at high level and catapulted myself forward, swinging through the space I’d made.

  My right foot hit the croppers against the wall, sending a jolt of pain up through my hip. My left hit something solid and I only just had my hips through the gap. The realisation hit me that the space after the fan was just short of my leg length. With fifteen seconds left, I bent my knees and crammed myself further in. With my torso in, bunched in the space, it only left my head between the last of the blades ten seconds before the shredded edge of the fan would whip around to grind at my neck.

  Fumbling with my lower body, twisting this way and that, kicking at the solid walls, I had five seconds.

  It was time to give up. I’d have to pull out and take more time to think. But no, that time had passed long ago.

  With one last swing of my legs I twisted and finding no resistance, my legs were in a gap.

  The relay echoed. I let go of the blades and with one last push I forced myself to the space I’d just found and had to hope it was big enough to save me.

  41

  There was enough room, but only just and now I’d stuffed myself in the space laying on my side with my hair dragging towards the spinning fan, strands pinging from my scalp. Pushing my hand to the wall, I squeezed a little further away to stop the pull of my hair.

  Now only able to move my feet and bend a little at the knee, I probed out with the soles, tapping and listening to their hollow report. Pulling my feet up towards my ass as far as I could, I kicked out with all my might.

  Bright light flooded the tight chamber as something released to the sound of metal clattering against a hard surface, echoing as my eyes squeezed shut to leave my legs hovering in free space.

  I twisted to my front, letting my legs down at the waist, but found no solid purchase. I shuffled further over the edge, pausing only for a moment as I tried and failed to guess my bearings.

  With little other choice, I dropped, bending my knees as I landed and stood squinting in a harsh white light.

  Forcing my eyes as wide as I could, I found myself in the tunnel I’d looked along a few days before. I stood alone.

  Taking a moment to enjoy the freedom from the claustrophobic bounds, I scanned along the bright magnolia tunnel.

  The view was so different from when I’d glanced down from the room to my far left. I could just make out the glass doors in the distance. To my right were another set of doors within a minute’s walk, behind which I saw none of the detail of the room I’d stood in at the other end. A faint sound of voices echoed towards me.

  Collecting up the white grill I’d kicked out, I did my best to bend it back into shape and followed up the dust-covered wall, pushing it back in place. It looked only half right, but I guessed in a few minutes its appearance would no longer matter.

  I turned down the long corridor to my left, squinting to the doors in the distance and thought about running towards them to take in the CCTV monitors and get a better feel for the layout.

  I turned and ran in the opposite direction. For now, I still had surprise as my advantage.

  I raced forward, light on my feet to the sound of the voices growing in volume and clarity, soon able to hear more than one person; those over-the-top commentators again.

  Without a sound, the frosted glass door at the end of the corridor slid open with my pull at the handle, but the volume of the hurried talk would have masked all but a gunshot.

  Following around the corner with a slow, cautious step, I kept my back to the wall with the Bersa in my right hand, soon bringing it to bear on the guy in the sharp suit. His jacket was two sizes larger than needed as he sat at a chair in front of a small desk with a compact television on top. The television blared with a cheering crowd giving a break from the two guys and their loud calls.

  Behind him stood a door I guessed he should have been protecting.

  As I came around the corner, he glanced up as if annoyed at the distraction, then double-took in my direction, his eyes going wide as if he knew I should be dead already.

  His reactions were hair-trigger quick, but he made the wrong choice to underestimate my skill; his left-hand slapped at a panic button before I could stop him, tones already ringing out before my bullet smashed through his skull.

  He should have gone for the gun first; instead, his hand dropped before it could reach the Glock 17 on the desk.

  I paused for no longer than a second on the black composite. A generation three.

  Self-defence, I said, but my voice disappeared into the ring of the alarm as I shouldered the door wide enough to get through.

  Running along the short corridor on the other side, I soon came to its end to find the doors still unlocked and I wondered at the purpose of the panic button.

  Dismissing my question, I pushed through, half expecting to see a stream of workers walking from their rooms or finishing their tasks whilst laying whatever tools they had to the side and heading away from their stations.

  There was nothing orderly about what I saw.

  The view told me the panic button was the last resort. The ringing tones only called for real trouble and they should run from this place and abandon to the hills.

  In a bright corridor with glass walls either side, I saw the vast rooms I’d glared at on the CCTV monitors. Trolley after trolley sat loaded with people. If they were asleep or unconscious I didn’t know as they were unmoving, their skin gaunt in the dim glow. A rhythm of monitors sat at each side with a faint line tracing a heartbeat, twin blood pressure digits and other vital signs. They were at least alive.

  Towards the end of the room, metal clattered to the floor,
small instruments pinging to the polished concrete with white coats running to exits in the distance; their screams heard above the two tone as they jostled their way through the bottleneck.

  No matter what monstrous act they’d just been committing, I’d have to leave them be. Unless they had a gun pointed in my direction, or in their hand, or wore a suit or a badge or a decrying look that marked them out as high on the organisation chart.

  A shot rang off the glass wall at my side and I replied with my loud response dead ahead to doors which had just opened.

  Two shots more and a suit fell to the floor, leaving the door to swing open at his back and expose the two more taking cover at the frame.

  I reeled off another two shots in their direction. They ignored my fair warning, leaping forward to die soon after.

  I flashed the gun left and right, down to four .380s in the Bersa. I promised myself single shots from now on.

  Gritting my teeth at the waste of the rounds, I fired once, twice, three times at the glass a few panels down before it shattered. With one more shot to my right, I discarded the spent Bersa, then finished up the job with one from the Glock.

  Jumping through the first gap I’d made and bending low to keep my head and back below the level of the trolleys, I shuffled forward, trying to avoid the debris abandoned in the panic.

  I was three or four trolleys away from the glass corridor before I went to my knees and dared a look back.

  Seeing three guys had appeared in oversized suit jackets, with their heads swivelling either side, I ducked back down when I watched them moving off in different directions whilst one stayed in the corridor.

  I shuffled forward to put as much space between me and the guy hunting me down.

  With my head low, I searched for the exit in the vast room, knowing only the rough direction from a hurried glance. As I crawled, I had to force myself to keep focus, to stop staring at the faces and trying to turn off the recognition as face after face alarmed my internal database. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at the faces of those who I’d glimpsed on one of the many coaches, or walking to and from the diner.

  I couldn’t help but pause as I recognised the motionless form of the boy who’d waved from a coach as the driver stopped to offer help. His gaunt, pallid face still showed the faint lines on his forehead where the head brace had once been. Close up, most looked like they were asleep, but others seemed in a painful restless trance. Each seemed to have a body part missing; limbs no longer there. Stumps ringed with red-raw stitches, or blood-soaked bandages.

  I forced myself to move on, fighting to keep silent but soon realising I’d lost track of the guy who’d been following. Only the occasional clatter of metal gave me any hint of how close he was getting.

  My view cleared between several trolleys. I was just a short sprint through empty space from the double doors which had been the scene of the hurried mass-escape only moments before.

  Glancing back, I jumped from my crouch with the Glock pointed out and aimed in anticipation.

  My assailant had the same stance and saw me rise, ready with a reaction. Both of us corrected our aims and two rounds rang off at the same time. Each was a good shot, but I had less work to do. I’d known in the moment I would fire; his had been a reaction.

  He went down, the round smashing into his shoulder.

  He’d had a good aim; a little to the right and we would both have been on the floor clutching at a hole that shouldn’t be there.

  The thoughts didn’t have time to linger. Our exchange had alerted the remaining two and I could see through the glass they were changing direction, following the sounds and would soon be ready to half the odds, thinking they would still win.

  I hurried through the double doors and found some sort of anti-room with another door opposite. Strong disinfectant hung thick in the air. Stainless steel counters lined up either side, above which glass-fronted cabinets rested to the walls, each full of white boxes with markings that looked medical and names I thought I could unscramble if I paid any attention.

  Without lingering I was through the double set of doors and into another place I’d seen on the CCTV; an operating theatre, thankful the table stood empty.

  I carried on through to the other side, but I didn’t continue out of the room. Instead I headed to the far-right corner and waited with the borrowed Glock pointed at the noise I’d heard at my back.

  A moment later, the double doors swung wide. I shot with no hesitation.

  Two shots rang off from the Glock, replied by two in return, but their blind firing did little else than dent the counters. Mine took one of them to the floor, jamming the door wide and giving me a perfect line of sight for his companion in the last few moments of his life.

  I scolded myself at my lack of will power, checking the remaining rounds as I crossed the theatre to the bodies.

  Twelve discharges from the Glock. Fourteen left in the Ruger.

  Stooping over the nearest, my feet on the edge of a thick soup of crimson and other liquids I didn’t want to think of, I hesitated as I heard the rattling of trolleys beyond the door.

  My pause passed and I pulled the warm Glock from his limp hand, slipped the magazine from the grip and let the rest drop, leaping away from the splash.

  Turning back and through the single door, I continued my journey into another corridor with the same glass lining the walls as before. However, this glass was dark and gave the impression of thick concrete either side.

  The corridor ended and I listened at its steel door, giving a twist to the long handle before nudging it to open to a crack. With no sound warning me from the other side and with a virtual cacophony of danger from where I’d just come, I let the door swing open.

  A set of concrete steps stood in the centre of a wide foyer, the stairs rising as they circled.

  Doors to my right seemed to head back to the warehouse of unwitting guests. Beside those doors was another single door, and I had to conclude it was the other theatre I’d seen on the screen. The one I’d caught sight of the gruesome operation.

  In front of me were two more steel doors, banding with steel plate riveted across its surface. Another sat to its right. I had no idea what these rooms could hold, but both were important enough to be buried in this secret underground complex.

  42

  Stepping out into the foyer with the activity beyond the door at my back growing louder, I checked the Glock whilst running from the door to the concrete of the stairs as a shield for my back. I couldn’t help but wonder if my pursuers would be foolish enough to burst out from the corridor.

  Whilst I’d run, I noted the doors as I passed. Both were secured with swipe card locks, but I’d seen no one wearing ID passes.

  I waited, unable to hear their chase now the steel door had sealed. The only sounds I could catch were from above. The long blast of a car horn. A second with a short burst in reply. Then an orchestra of horns of all tones, but each ending with a dull crash and grind of metal.

  The noise above was soon in the distant past, their intrusion forgotten as my attention snapped to the heavy metal door and the face peering out, the legs sliding past the safety of the barrier. A Glock pointed out from the crack of the door to a place where I wasn’t. Another joined at his side.

  I almost felt sorry as I ended their lives, but I had no time to take careful aim and disable their arms from holding the killing machines, or their legs from running to safety and fighting another day. Instead, I did them a favour; I saved them from the trauma of crippling pain and years of incarceration, if they’d been lucky.

  As the echoes died to silence, I heard nothing from above. Nothing from behind where the two dead guys lay.

  Pulling out from behind the safety of the stairwell, I padded over to their bodies, taking a moment to rifle their pockets whilst trying not to settle on their faces. I didn’t need to see who they’d been.

  The eerie quiet continued as I searched and found what I hoped for. Taking the un
marked white plastic key cards from their back pockets, I stepped away from the blood before the growing pool reached my feet.

  Neither card worked on the first door, but the second opened on the first try. Humming fans and a wash of cooled air greeted me as I pulled the door wide, where I saw a blanket of blinking LEDs.

  Flicking on the light switch, I ticked off an objective as I scanned the fronts of the servers, but before I could congratulate myself too much, my survey caught on a monitor to the side and a brace of CCTV images.

  After scanning each of the sixteen views across the screen, I turned back to the large computers. On finding the small book-sized tapes, I held my fingers to each of the power buttons. With the newfound quietness of the room, I ran my fingers along the front of the computers, unlatching each of the front-loading drives.

  With the drives piled at my feet, I turned back to the door and searched around the room for something to carry the load in. All I could find was the metal bin, and I loaded drives and the back-up tapes to fill to the top.

  Turning back to the matrix of images, I lingered to get my bearings. In the top left corner, four images showed what I guessed to be the outside of the factory, which I soon confirmed when in the last of the four I saw the base of the giant chimney visible for miles around.

  In each of those four images, the roads filled with grid-locked traffic. Cars edged forward in short angry movements, but all in a common direction. I followed the flow, not helped by the cameras looking in different directions, but after a moment and a short leap of logic, I reassured myself they were all running towards the exit gates.

  In one screen I watched a disturbance. Smoke rose from a car blocking the road. People were jumping out of their vehicles to point and shout, then gathered to push the wreck to the side of the road.

  Only a wide tanker lorry battled against the flow, reversing from the opposite direction to head towards the base of the chimney. I couldn’t help but imagine what sort of monster, or massive force, they thought had come to their place of work that meant they had to be in such a hurry.