Breakout

by A P Bateman

Big Dave nodded. “We need the cover of darkness. We also need to take down that communications tower. I doubt there would be a mobile signal out here without it. And it will black-out their radio comms, too.” He looked at his watch and said, “We’ve got around three-hours before darkness. I say, we use it to plan and evaluate.”

  Caroline backed up towards them, the shotgun still on the man. The man still on his knees. She said, “I don’t like the fact Alex has gone back. What can that mean?”

  Marnie walked over to one of the SUVs and put the laptop on the bonnet. It was almost shoulder height, but she fiddled with the touch screen and wound back the image. She typed something, and the image changed. “This is the helicopter going down,” she said. “And over here…” She moved the screen along and increased the focus. “This must be King, in the Jeep. It’s the only vehicle in the area. So, it has to be him.” She took the focus up, then typed on the keys and the image cleaned up. It’s a no brainer,” she said. “The other guy in the passenger seat is black. That must be King in the driver’s seat.”

  “But he’s in a uniform!” Caroline said. She had taken her eyes off the prisoner and he bolted towards the truck. “Shit!”

  “On it!” Big Dave took off after the man, who had made it to the open door of the big pick-up.

  The man was fumbling with the ignition when Big Dave got to him. He went for the door and Big Dave didn’t hesitate, punching through the glass and into the man’s face. He leaned inside, caught hold of him by the hair and his collar and heaved him out through the window. The man was screaming and struggling, but he couldn’t hope to contend with the big man’s strength. He bounced on the ground and started to get to his feet when he caught Adams’ boot in his face. He went down hard and lay still.

  “Hey, I said I was on it!” Big Dave protested.

  Adams grinned and said, “But we need him alive, big man…” He looked at the man laying crumpled on the ground, his face bloody and already bruising. He looked back up at Big Dave. “My bad. He isn’t looking great,” he said.

  “Well, he isn’t going anywhere in a hurry,” Big Dave replied. He bent down and caught hold of the man’s belt, lifted him clear of the ground and carried him over with one hand to the rear of the pick-up and swung him into the loading bed. “There’s some rope there, I’ll truss him up.”

  “We have a problem,” Ramsay said to the group when Adams and Big Dave had finished tying the man up. Powell and Tattooed Mick had joined them and got updated by Caroline and Marnie. The three SUVs were pulled into a sort of semi-circle, much like wagons on the range almost two-hundred years ago. “From what we can ascertain from the satellite footage King got out.”

  “Escaped?” asked Big Dave.

  Ramsay shook his head. “We’ve got real-time of King driving back with somebody in the passenger seat.”

  “I followed the indentations in the grass, made by the Jeep’s massive tyres. The grass has folded over, and before it springs back you get a good trace. It’s hard to follow, but it goes all the way back around five miles to a sort of clearing in the grassland.” She had captured the imagery into a short film. The men huddled around the screen.

  “Wait! There’s a body!” Powell said, his Geordie drawl difficult to decipher at best, let alone understand when he spoke quickly. “Aye, he’s nairn in his kacks, man!”

  Everyone frowned but seemed to get the gist of what the Geordie was saying. The guard lay dead, dressed only in socks and white boxer shorts.

  “All I can assume is that the body and the man in the passenger seat drove him out there, an altercation took place and King is now heading back to the prison to finish what he started. It looks as though he has the other man prisoner. Judging by the position of his hands. Nobody rides in a car with their hands behind their back.”

  “Go back to the body and magnify the image,” said Adams. He studied the screen, a little closer to Marnie than Rashid would have liked, his shoulder brushing up against hers, but it was difficult for everybody to huddle around. He shrugged it off, telling himself he was being ridiculous. “There!” Adams said, pointing to patches of deeper colour, greener than the grass around them. The grass a little longer, perhaps covered with clover. “I’ve seen that in Kosovo,” he said. “When I worked with the UN searching for mass graves. The soil has a higher nutrient content. Like fertilizer. Those patches are grave-sized, because I’d bet every penny that I’m earning on this job that there are bodies buried there.”

  “Oh, god!” Caroline said. “But if they were driving Alex out there…”

  “He’s turned the tables on them,” Rashid said. “He’s gone back for Zukovsky. He’s getting him out on his own.”

  “Bugger me,” said Big Dave. “The guy’s got fucking balls of steel!”

  “We’ve got to go in now,” said Caroline.

  “We won’t stand a chance!” Adams argued. “We need a plan, darkness at the very least.”

  Rashid shook his head and made his way back to his truck. He started to reload the BR99. “I’m going,” he said. “Who’s with me?”

  Caroline followed, the shotgun in her hands looked almost as long as she was tall. “We’ll need a diversion at the very least,” she said.

  “We need to take down their comms,” said Big Dave. He was heading for the Dodge Ram. “Seeing as we haven’t got any ordnance, I’ll have to find another way.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Adams said. “It can’t be done!”

  “Rashid! You all have comms, right?” Marnie asked, juggling her laptop and heading for the SUV.

  “Of course. Two-way, short range.”

  Marnie looked at Ramsay. “Get on the phone to GCHQ and get something over that location right now. A reverse thrust, slow pass should allow me to be their eyes. We could have up to five minutes overview, and I can spot any hostiles.”

  “I’m on it,” Ramsay said. “But I lost my phone.” Caroline tossed him her own and he started to dial. He wasn’t going to mess around and was dialling Director Amherst’s private number.

  “Eh, fuck it…” Tattooed Mick tossed his cigarette and tightened his belt. “I’ll take one of those captured M4s. It’ll make a decent support weapon. I’ll lay down three-hundred metres out and take out as many as I can.” He picked it up and waited for Rashid to toss him a spare magazine. He caught it and checked both magazines and the weapon over. The sight was decent enough and had a magnification of four. It wasn’t a sniper’s tool, but it would be good enough if he got down in the longer grass at the fringe of the runway.

  “Seriously?” Adams shook his head. “What about the assault?”

  “I’ll have some of that,” said Powell. He shrugged and made for one of the Yukons. “Shit, lad. It’s what we’ve been paid to do.”

  “We don’t need all of the vehicles,” Rashid said. “But if you’re bugging out, I’d appreciate your weapon and ammo.”

  “I’m not bugging out!” Adams snapped. “We just need a plan, that’s all.”

  Caroline turned around and said, “Things changed, this is as good as it gets. You don’t have to come with us, but I’d appreciate you stop wasting time and either load up or ship out.”

  Adams shook his head and took off his utility vest. He picked up his shotgun from where he’d leaned it against the vehicle and walked it over to Rashid’s vehicle. “Sorry, but you guys are committing suicide.” He tossed them into the vehicle and made for the last Yukon. He got behind the wheel, drumming it impatiently with his fingers as he watched the two GMCs and the Dodge pickup truck turn and head Southwest.

  Chapter Fifty

  King waited for the three trucks to tear across the runway before heading across the apron and pulling up in the lee of the hangar. He had tensed when he saw them drive erratically out from the hangar, was amazed they had not seen him. They made directly for direction of the downed helicopter. Two of the vehicles were open-topped Jeeps, both crammed full of bodies with rifle barrels poking out in every direction. The th
ird vehicle had been a Ford F-150 with a growling V8 engine. There had been at least six men in the bed, another three or four in the double cab.

  “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch,” Cole commented. “But even the best of the best big dog couldn’t take on a small army like that with just a pistol,” he said incredulously.

  “Not going to let it go, are you?” King said. He switched off the engine and pocketed the keys. He had the guard’s 9mm Beretta in the belt holster he was now wearing, and the .40 Sig in his hand. “Get out,” he said coldly.

  “I can’t use the finger ID pad with my hands behind my back.”

  “Got a pocket knife?”

  “No.” Cole frowned.

  King shrugged. “Want the big dog to chew off your index finger?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, when I uncuff you, you’d better behave.”

  “You really are one to hold a grudge, aren’t you?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” replied King. “Especially when people I’ve risked my life to save try to suffocate me.”

  “I told you why.”

  “And yet, here I am. Still alive, despite both yours and Johnson’s efforts.” He stepped out of the Jeep, walked around and pulled Cole out of the vehicle. He used the guard’s key to unlock the handcuffs, shoved Cole forwards and took a step backwards. By the time Cole regained his balance and turned, King was six-feet away with the pistol aimed at the man’s torso. “Do what you have to do,” he said. He watched as Cole pressed his finger against a pad on the wall. The great doors started to part. King kept the pistol on him, got back in the Jeep and pulled it forwards, parking it directly over the roller gutter in the doorway. The vehicle was completely in between the doors when they started to close. He got out and could already see two men approaching behind Cole.

  “What are you doing, man?” one of the men shouted. ”You know can’t park that there!”

  Cole didn’t turn around, but he shook his head at King. King raised the pistol and fired twice one side of Cole’s face, lifted the pistol and settled on the second man, who was reaching for his own pistol. King fired twice more. Both men were down and still.

  “Bastard!” Cole spat at him.

  King shrugged. He had a narrow window; the three vehicles had taken a lot of men out to the crash-site. He could hear the doors butting up against the Jeep behind him. The motors whining under the strain. He swapped the pistols over. He preferred the lighter recoil of the 9mm, and the Beretta had more rounds in it. He gave Cole a wide berth. “Is your finger getting me in there?” He nodded to the main entrance across the hangar space. “Still attached to your hand, that is?”

  “Yes.” Cole was subdued. He had protested but showed no sign of chancing a move. Not yet, at least.

  “After you, then.”

  The hangar housed a helicopter and a light aircraft. King recognised the helicopter as a Bell and the plane as a Piper twin-prop. He wasn’t expert enough in aviation to know the model numbers. He followed Cole across the smooth concrete floor and towards the first locked door he had encountered. He wondered who was watching him on the CCTV. But there weren’t masses of guards yet, so he figured he was in the clear until the three vehicles returned.

  Cole pressed his index finger against the pad and the door clicked open. No fancy sliding doors with a Star Trek whoosh, just a simple click and Cole pushed the door inwards.

  And that’s when the world erupted.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The antenna towered over one hundred and fifty-feet into the air and a concrete block building about eight-feet by ten-feet and eight-feet high was attached to one side. This housed the electrical output, generator and receiver unit. The antenna itself was a complex construction of woven carbon fibre, fibre-optic cables and woven steel wire. It started out about the radius of a football at its base and tapered to a fine tip. It was enclosed in a metal grid and held from moving in the wind against the sides of the grid by a series of welded loops.

  Big Dave stepped out of the Dodge and shouldered the BR99. He checked on the unconscious man tethered in the bed of the pickup, then made his way across the open ground twenty-metres to the building. The building appeared unguarded but looks could always be deceptive. The building did not have any windows, but as he drew just a few steps away, he noticed the CCTV cameras on each corner. He hesitated, listened for movement. He took another pace and the door opened inwards, a rifle barrel protruding. He dodged to his left, the angle more acute, forcing the gunman to show himself if he was to fire. Big Dave fired at the doorway, cursed as he saw the effects of rock salt on the half-opened metal door and doorframe. A burst of white dust puffed into the air. The gunman ducked out and knelt low as he aimed using the corner of the building as covered. The next round in the BR99’s magazine stack was a solid rubber slug and it took the gunman clean off his feet and he sprawled in the doorway. Big Dave charged forwards with the weapon aimed at the man and the doorway. He fired two rounds inside the building, the first round was rock salt and the second was another ballistic gel slug. He could hear it bouncing around the confines of the building, then heard a solid thud and a scream. As he swung into the doorway, he kicked the downed gunman with a solid boot to his gut, then fired at a stumbling figure who was holding his head with both hands beside a bank of switches and monitors. The man dropped and groaned. He’d taken the alternated round of rock salt in the chest and it had torn through his jacket and shirt and he was bleeding from thirty or so individual holes. The salt hadn’t penetrated deeply, and no doubt stung like a million bees, but he’d live. Big Dave slung the weapon over his shoulder on its webbing sling and took out a roll of duct tape. He wasted no time trussing both men’s wrists and ankles, then helped himself to spare magazines and both M4 rifles.

  “Sorry, chaps,” he said quietly. “But it’s a hell of a lot better than lead.”

  There were mutual grunts on the floor, but neither man was fully coherent. They were bound tightly and going nowhere. Big Dave studied the array of switches, buttons and monitors. He shouldered one of the M4s and emptied the thirty-round magazine into everything with an electrical circuit. He changed the magazine over and peered outside before making his way back to the Dodge pick-up. He dropped the captured weapons onto the passenger seat and studied the antenna, before looking at the rear of the substantial truck. He shrugged. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was more than he’d had a few minutes ago. The Dodge started with a growl, its Hemi V8 roaring with almost four-hundred horsepower on tap. He swung around and lined up the rear with the antenna. There was a heavy-duty tow-hitch back there and it was almost four-feet off the ground. Big Dave selected reverse, kept his foot on the footbrake and allowed the revs to build. The automatic gearbox held for a while, the rear wheels starting to squirm. When he finally released the brake and mashed the throttle, the heavy beast shot backwards, the engine and twin three-inch exhaust pipes snarling. Big Dave had a sudden realisation that he’d forgotten to put on the seatbelt and move his prisoner out of the bed, but he was too invested now, and hoped the force would simply send him into his own seatback. He wasn’t entirely convinced the guy in the back was going to have a comfy ride.

  The vehicle struck the antenna at an indeterminable speed, but it was considerable, and the big pick-up rose in the air as momentum drove through the structure. Big Dave was at first pushed into his seat, but the Dodge powered into the air and came down hard on top of the fallen antenna. The rear wheels caught up in the steel frame and bit in hard. There was an audible crunch and the rear axle gave under the stress and smoke billowed out from underneath the vehicle. Big Dave had lifted out of his seat and came down on his stomach across the two seats, his chest taking the impact against the gear-shift. He groaned and struggled to get out of the cab, falling onto his backside as he got out. He grimaced, knowing he’d cracked a rib or two in the impact. He was about to try to get to his feet again when he heard the familiar ‘click’ and ‘zing’ of gunfire. H
e ducked down, and a few bullets struck the vehicle. He rolled onto his stomach, howled at the pain, then shuffled his bulky frame underneath the pick-up truck. He looked back over his shoulder and could see two men rushing towards him, both semi-shouldering their rifles and covering the ground quickly. He turned back and heard some more bullets striking the bodywork and glass. He got his Beretta out of its holster. He’d loaded the BR99 with non-lethal rounds, but he hadn’t bothered with the pistol. He’d figured if he had to use a pistol, then he would be in the shit deep enough already. He rolled out of the other side and twisted around in time to see the first man’s legs and waist, his body out of view as the truck covered him. Big Dave aimed and fired three shots. The man’s legs buckled, and he fell. Another shot split his head like a watermelon, and Big Dave pushed himself backwards and pressed his back against the wheel and front panel. He listened, tried to take in the noise around him over his pounding heart. He could hear distant gunfire, but as he tried to rationale the noises of this, the ticking engine of the truck and the sound of fluids leaking from underneath the chassis, he heard someone behind the vehicle taking cover behind the twisted wreckage of the antenna and tripod. He closed his eyes, the loss of one sense highlighting another. He could hear a scrape and some metal on metal. He slinked down onto his stomach and opened his eyes, started to crawl on knees and elbows on the grass. He made next to no noise, but could hear someone moving, could picture the man in his mind – impatient, scared – uncertain of what had happened and why they had been drawn into a fight.

  Big Dave could hear the person moving again. A creep and peep. No doubt they could see the body of their colleague and that would change their perception, challenge their guile and resolve. They would be under more pressure because they had caught a glimpse of their fate if they did not win. Big Dave estimated the distance. He knew how long the tripod was, how long the vehicle was and what cover the person could hope to be afforded from the twisted metal. He took a breath, decided to make his move. He was a tall man, but he was a big man and big men made easier targets. He rose up fast, saw the man curled up against the twisted metal, and fired a double-tap. He knew he’d missed, and the man had time to return a volley, but Big Dave was already sprinting, bent over almost double, he lurched out from behind the truck and kept running for fifteen to twenty-metres before stopping and squaring up for another shot. The man had rested his weapon amongst the metal to aid accuracy and in the instant Big Dave had fired, he had seen the fundamental mistake. Big Dave aimed and fired, and the man was unable to bring his weapon around on him as he attempted to counter. The rifle struck a length of metal rod and went nowhere. Big Dave fired three shots into the man’s back, and the man had known a fraction before he’d been hit that he was going down. The grimace was enough to say it all – he had been out-manoeuvred, and it had cost him everything. The three bullets struck in a close group and the man slumped forwards.