Guy Fawkes Day
Page 111
***
The Central Lobby was hardly recognisable to Neil Smedley when he finally reached it. The barricade they had erected was swamped by fallen masonry from the vaulted ceiling. He hoped those shitty mosaics of St George, St Andrew, St Patrick and St David had similarly perished.
He found the grilled door and climbed the stairs leading to the walkway above the entrance to the Lords. Some of the ceiling had fallen in here too, and he had to claw his way up the steps, pushing dust and rubble out of the way. But his ancestral mining expertise was stronger than the lung-choking dust and it wasn't long before he made it to the walkway overlooking the Central Lobby, with a clear view right through to the Commons.
Smedley had bags of respect for the men he was about to fight and maybe kill. His dad had been in the forces for a while and Neil Smedley didn't take lightly to the idea of firing on like. But like the rest of the world, the SAS men had to learn to question the corrupt bastards who ordered them about. If only they could be made to see what sort of scum they were really serving!
The dust was clearing and he didn't need infrared headgear to see the first figure shadow-walking in from the east doorway. He waited while the figure turned north towards the Commons and was rewarded with the appearance of a second figure.
Smedley took the second man out first, connecting with his third shot. The first man had dropped to the ground and was already returning fire, but Smedley had miner's eyes in the dark and he strafed the ground all around with his thirty-round magazine till he heard the yelp he was waiting for.
Only just in time. The stonework around him sung with the incoming fire from at least three SAS men in the east doorway.
Smedley hit the floor and crawled along, surfacing five yards later to let off a couple of rounds.
His reappearance only attracted more intensive fire and two grenades. They both exploded into the walls above, but the second was close enough to fill him with a gutful of shrapnel.
His stomach and lower back felt like they had been torched by burning petrol. Writhing in agony, Smedley crawled another couple of yards westwards then levered himself up again above the stone ledge ready to fire.
But Neil Smedley didn't even have time to squeeze off a single round. A single headshot killed him instantly and he buckled forward, leaning over the parapet, dropping his Kalashnikov onto the rubble below.
The surviving men from Disraeli platoon took no chances, continuing to pump the terrorist's body full of bullets with their Sterlings, watching the torso twist and dangle over the ledge as the bullets literally ripped it in two.