Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  "Whatever you're doing keep doing it."

  If only she knew what she was saying, thought Roy. If only she knew! He believed himself to be different, he actually felt better, it was like an emotional catharsis. "I love you, Joan," he whispered.

  ***

  The following day was bright. The blowing blinds rang against the bowl. Roy awoke. He lay there quietly contemplating the ringing from the windowsill and soft breathing next to him.

  In the Gulf they would often listen to the sound of the rain beating the Warrior with the same metronomic beat, often at night when they would be resting or sleeping under their CARM (Chemical Agent Repellent Material) which hung like half a tent from the side of the vehicle. There was never peace. Often kit had to be brought in from the rain, at night a difficult and somewhat dangerous business. Roy remembered one particular night in early February 1991 when it seemed hell had broken loose. The artillery had put up a horrendous barrage and this with the night's storm had brought what Dante imagined Hell to be to their part of the desert. Lightning, rockets and shells illuminated the night sky exploding into colours of eerie transparency, their glow showering the wet desert with the reflective heat while in reality the accompanying rain and cold wind whipped the huddled figures ferociously as they lay semi-alert beside the Warrior. It would, they hoped soon, be reveille, a time when all the team would stand to inside the vehicle for thirty minutes. It was thought that the enemy would likely strike at this time of day so all had to be ready. A klaxon sounded and the words, "Gas, Gas, Gas!" filled the air as the six sardine soldiers struggled with respirators, a routine that many could do in their sleep but it was just another false alarm. Roy knew that G day would be anytime and this filled him with a fear and an excitement that proved a stimulating cocktail. He would be in the desert eighteen more days but out of his Warriors group of six, he was to be the lucky one.

  The delivery of the morning paper shook him from his reminiscing. He checked his watch, 6.30. He dressed in running gear and moved quietly downstairs, poured some fresh orange juice and retrieved the paper. The headlines were dull in comparison to recent front pages but the cartoon made him smile. Smiling in the morning. Wonderful, he thought. He drank the remaining juice and left the house.

  It was 7.45 when he returned. The run had gone better than he had thought and today he felt as though he could run for ever. He showered and then woke Joan.

  "You were up early, you should have woken me," her greeting seductive in its sleepiness.

  He kissed her. "Breakfast won't be long, I'll run the shower for you."

  "Busy day today, Roy?"

  "Not too bad but I must ring Dr O'Brien, he wanted to see me this week."

  Joan went to shower as Roy prepared a simple breakfast of cereal and toast. It was ready when Joan came down. They chatted about their day and Roy prepared to leave. "I may be late tonight but I'll ring you about 4.30. Will you be at home?”

  "I'll be home," replied Joan.

  The door closed and Joan moved to the front room window, coffee in one hand. She stood and saw Roy drive away and instinctively she waved. He was not looking and no wave was returned; she had not expected one, he would not know she was there. She watched the car leave the street and returned to the kitchen. She tried to think round the fears she had felt last night, the callous aura that she sensed was probably nothing. She knew she would have to put it into perspective. As she approached the bedroom she found herself attracted to Roy's study and instinctively she allowed herself a visit. It was organised and tidy for Roy. On the table sat his palmtop computer, it was always there. She picked it up and ran it through her fingers, her eyes unfocused. Something was not right and here, surrounded by his secret things, her female intuition was at its peak. Was there someone else?

  ***

  When Roy had settled himself at work, he rang the psychiatrist. His secretary answered.

  "Dr O'Brien is with a patient at the moment, may I take your name and number, or you can ring him between 10.30 and 10.45, he should be free then."

  "Please tell him that Roy Hanna called for an appointment."

  "I can make an appointment for you Mr Hanna. Have you seen the doctor previously?"

  "Yes, yes but I would like to talk to Bill before making an appointment." He slipped in the doctor's Christian name to make the process slightly less formal.

  "That's fine, Mr Hanna. Does the doctor have your number? Then I'll get him to ring you at his earliest convenience. Thank you for calling."

  Her precision was polite and professional if somewhat cold and clinical. The return call came as a surprise at 10.15.

  "Thought you'd forgotten about me," jested Bill, testing his response.

  "Sorry, Bill, been hellishly busy trying to catch up on things." He lied of course.

  "You sound perky. When do you wish to meet me? I'm free on Thursday later in the afternoon."

  "That afternoon would suit, say 5pm?"

  "Look forward to it. 5pm, my clinic? I'll see you then."

  Another brisk efficient call left him holding the receiver seconds after the call was concluded. Roy was uncertain about continuing the meetings after this one, as he felt vulnerable to the inquisitive questioning; nothing could be divulged, he was too far down the road, too near his target but there was always that chance and risks were to be cut to the minimum.

  That night he sat in his study after supper. Joan was marking and preparing, a side to teaching that few people outside the profession understood but one that was real and added considerably to the stress. The palmtop was open on the desk; next to it sat an electronic labelling machine. This clever little device allowed self-adhesive coloured labels to be printed. Thousands of these machines had been sold and Roy believed this was the best way to communicate his demands to the police and then the government. He pressed the 'on' button and the palmtop came to life. The agenda of his personal bombing campaign filled the small screen. He began to type the message on the labeller:

  'GULF, GULF, GULF. NEXT BOMB, NO WARNING. EXPECT FIREWORKS BUT LIMITED LOSS OF LIFE FOR THE MOMENT. FULL LIST OF FUTURE DEVASTATION CAN BE HAD FOR £2,000,000. CHEAP REALLY FOR A LOST LIFE AND SO MANY TO SAVE. WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE WHAT YOU READ, WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR THE BANG!'

  Roy could see that on Wednesday at 2am two bridges on the M25 would be blown, bringing chaos and a change from the north to the south of England. He wiped the plastic-coated label with a cloth and placed it in an envelope. This would be sent to a leading newspaper during the Tuesday night.

  His agenda showed timings of the bombs and their targets written as co-ordinates. He had noted the exact position of all placements using his handheld Magellan Global Positioning System, a relatively cheap tool he had used in the Gulf. Each Warrior was equipped with one to ensure exact positioning. It also gave details of the messages to send and when to send them. Everything was in this treasure trove of information; it was the heart, the nerve centre. He switched it off and closed the lid. Considering its importance, he showed only minimal respect for its security. He knew Joan would not be able to find information within certain sections as they were protected by passwords but he was also a firm believer in fate and if the plan were to fail, then it would fail! However, he had stored all the information on a small black hard disk and that was hidden.

  Chapter Ten

  It was the wagon driver who had spotted it. His wagon had thrown a tyre with the customary explosion whilst cresting the hill on the motorway, a sound that filled him with despair as it would mean a late arrival home. He slowed the Volvo articulated wagon to a halt, metres before the motorway crossed a deep valley. The motorway itself was cut into a hillside and although the late afternoon was unusually warm, the wind was channelled down the grassy sides. He applied the brakes expelling a loud, sharp hiss and then banged on the steering wheel with his fists, pronouncing to the world his anger. He grabbed the phone from its cradle and hammered in the number printed on the label stuck to his
windscreen for such emergencies. He had been lucky, this was only his first blowout this year. The tyre firm operated a twenty-four hour call out service and estimated they could attend in forty minutes. He gave his position and hung up. He rang the depot to explain he would be late, and then his wife. He anticipated a delay of an hour but said to expect him when she saw him. He would ring again once on the move. She had been anxious with the recent spate of bombings and he was only pleased to be able to reassure her things were fine.

  He put the phone into the pocket of his fleece jacket, sidled across to the passenger seat before climbing down onto the hard shoulder. The traffic was busy. The chill made him need to urinate. Normally he would pee against the tyre of the wagon – no one would see – but for some reason, maybe the proximity of the bridge, he walked to the edge of the valley. The concrete structure slowly descended until the span grew from the grass bank. The driver walked down the incline holding the concrete wall for support until he could walk under the bridge. Even though it was out in the wilds, kids had drawn on the steel and concrete.

  He unzipped his blue trousers and started to urinate initially against the wall but then he turned and began to spray down the valley like a child competing at school as to who could piss the furthest. He giggled at his own puerile behaviour but it lifted his mood. “You're bloody mad. If people could see you now!" he said out loud.

  His eyes followed the span of the bridge out over the void, stopping about a third of the way along. Something was hanging loop-like between the gap of two pillars. He finished and zipped his trousers. His eyes were again drawn to the wire hanging and swaying. Had the kids who had written their names so crudely also made a swing? Surely not, this was not a playground. For one it was too far away from anywhere, and secondly the drop was too great for even the bravest. He turned and moved away and made his way back to the motorway. As he reached the barrier he noticed he was not alone. Two uniformed police officers were looking at the wagon; one was already inside the cab whilst the other stood below.

  "Can I help you officer? Been for a pee."

  "This your vehicle, sir?"

  "Yes, as you can see had a bad blow out on the back near side. Tyre people on their way."

  "The wagon seemed abandoned close to the bridge; we can't be too careful with these explosions. We'll need your documents, please."

  The driver jumped into the cab next to the other officer. He reached into the compartment behind his seat producing a small case. He handed the documents to the officer.

  "Please climb down and follow my colleague to the Range Rover."

  He jumped down and did as he was bid, kicking the shredded tyre as he passed. Blue lights flashed brightly behind the wagon. All three climbed aboard and the documentation was cleared. Once satisfied that things were in order the officers relaxed more. The driver removed his cap.

  "Listen, I don't know if it's anything," said the wagon driver, "but whilst I was having a piss, I noticed some cable or wire hanging from under the bridge, probably something and nothing but it caught my eye and who knows these days?"

  The officers looked at each other, the older one of the two raised an eyebrow, "Let's take a look Tonto." He smiled at his partner and then at the wagon driver. "Can you show us please?"

  All three climbed from the Range Rover and trudged past the wagon just as the tyre repair van arrived. They walked towards the van. The driver gave his instructions and the three disappeared beyond the bridge. As they edged round the concrete corner 'Tonto' slipped on the wet grass.

  "Shit!"

  "Piss I would have thought," jibed the other policeman. "Some detective you'd make if you can't tell the difference."

  The driver laughed before apologising, although for what he was not sure.

  The officer wiped himself down, now more concerned with his damp uniform than the driver's pointing finger.

  "It's hanging between the second and third pillar, see it?"

  "What do you think?" asked the older officer. "Forget your fuckin' pants for Christ's sake. Look!"

  "I've really no idea but let's not take any chances. We'll let others make that decision." All three moved back towards the motorway, avoiding the damp patch as they went.

  The tyre was off the wagon and the spare was being rolled into place.

  "Shouldn't be long now!" shouted the fitter above the sound of the compressor. The police officers called in over the radio and explained the situation. The duty officer eventually connected them to bomb disposal and they described in detail what they had seen.

  "Stay there, we'll enforce a speed restriction in the area and get to you as soon as possible. There's no point in closing the motorway for a child’s swing," instructed Sam Phelps.

  Sam had decided it was probably nothing but he could not be sure. Maybe they could catch a live one. Who knew the clues it might hold?

  The car, another Range Rover, this time without the bright coloured bodywork but with blue flashing lights, ploughed its way through the traffic with siren wailing. It pulled onto the motorway and headed west. It never ceased to amaze Sam how cars spread as their drivers spotted the flashing blue lights. He often said he felt like Moses parting the Red Sea. They were soon on the spot.

  The wagon had gone but the remnants of the tyre lay by the edge of the road. The position of the two vehicles certainly brought the speed of the passing traffic down. Many drivers were too busy gawping.

  Sam and Mike shook hands with the officers and introduced themselves.

  "Where's this mystery wire?" requested Sam in all seriousness. "Down here, mind you don't slip," said the officer smiling at his colleague. The private joke went unnoticed as the two Expos followed them. "There, can you see it?" The officer was pointing a finger out over the void.

  The explosives officer followed the direction of the pointing finger and there in the dim light was the hanging wire. "Don't know, just don't know," muttered Sam, his eyes searching for a route out along the span. "Mike, we need a helmet light and a camera then we can begin." He said this in almost a whisper and the two officers were hanging on every word. They quickly hurried up the grass bank to the vehicles. He discussed the situation in more detail before moving round to the boot.

  "You or me, Sam?" asked Mike.

  "Sorry, my turn."

  He dressed in a Bristol Armour Type Twelve search suit. This offered him the flexibility to move and climb. The helmet was fitted with intercom and lights. In a waist bag he placed a small video camera. He checked the helmet lights and then the video. "Mike, can you receive? One, two, three, four, test."

  "Reading you five, Sam. Take it carefully."

  Sam turned to the two officers who were standing close by. "You two need to go to the car and move clear, just in case. I'm only going for a looksee but who knows." He smiled at them both and watched them turn.

  "Good luck, Sam," they both said in unison.

  He left the visor of the helmet open as he moved down the banking towards the span.

  "Don't slip," suggested Mike, more out of something to say rather than to be amusing.

  He began to make his move along the base of the girder. The light danced on the underside of the structure as Sam's head darted from side to side, constantly scanning for clues. It was ridiculously easy to traverse the span, providing heights held no fear.

  "Couldn't be easier, Mike. The girders are wide and the wind's not as strong as I'd anticipated. Not far to go." On approach Sam paused. He could see that something was not right. "I think there's something here. Can't really make it out. I'll describe as I go along. The wire is attached to what appears to be grease. The grease is smeared into the underside of the support and the support looks as though it's on a bearing. There’s masses of the stuff. It seems to run along the underside towards the pillars but I can't clearly make that out."

  "What's the other end of the wire in, Sam?"

  "Hard to tell from this distance. I'm going onto the lintel." His fingers touched the wire.
"Two core, smeared in grease running into what looks like a large blob of grease.” From his bag he took the video camera and recorded the details, the bright light illuminating the nooks and crannies. "Hope it's not light sensitive." Sam put away the camera and removed a rag from the bag. The traffic noise, audible through his helmet, seemed louder or was it just the beating of his heart? He wiped some of the grease away to reveal a black, slightly corrugated case, wires leading into the back. "We've got ourselves a device here. Get the motorway closed, Mike, I'm going to check the explosives if they're there."

  "Careful, careful!" Mike called base. "Able One, Able One."

  "Go ahead Able One."

  "Device located positive, set procedure 'Charlie' in operation immediately. Repeat, establish operation 'Charlie'. We also require back-up squad. Over."

  "Roger Able One, ‘Charlie’ procedure. Immediate backup notified. Out."

  Charlie, the code for closing and detouring motorways, had been devised after the second bombing.

  Although traffic was still flowing it would not be long before an eerie silence would descend on this stretch of the motorway, and if ‘Charlie’ were to be effective it should alleviate some of the queuing that had been so frustratingly uncontrollable on the previous occasions.

  Mike relayed that ‘Charlie’ was in place as Sam crested the banking, cigarette in one hand and his helmet in the other. He raised his eyebrows signifying they had found the real thing.

  “I think it's Semtex B, enough too but the detector should confirm. The TPU looks like our old friend the palmtop computer but everything’s just covered in bloody grease. Two core cable, strands of the stuff, is wired somehow behind. I presume the devise is glued to the bridge. Must be the GULF’s. Get the detector, I'm going to confirm."

  The portable detector could identify a variety of commercial and military explosives and its non-contact probe meant that if anti-handling devices were present there was little fear of triggering. The results would be instantaneous, results that would be needed when decisions were taken to defuse. Whilst Sam busied himself below, Mike watched the video on the playback.