Bailey grabbed Leah’s arm. “You too, Hooker, on your feet.”
Chisholm smiled at the tacticals. “We’ll be off then. I’m sure your unit has important stuff to do. Like licking windows and eating crayons.”
“I’m reporting you for insubordination, Chisholm,” the inspector hissed, “who d’you think you are?”
“Who am I? I’m the secret-fucking-police,” Chisholm grinned, revealing a mouthful of wobbly teeth. “I reckon you might enjoy a transfer, maybe Free Medway? Delicious! IEDs, beheadings, kidnaps. Not to mention friendly fire, when one of them drones goes wrong.”
“You’re talking bollocks.”
“We’ll see, shall we?” Chisholm replied. “Check your email when you get back to base. Now fuck off.”
The inspector grunted an order, the tacticals disappearing inside the carrier. It rumbled away, roof-gunner glowering. Chisholm and Bailey giggled and did a high-five. “That shit never gets old,” said Bailey.
“What’s this about?” Hooker groaned. He’d bitten his tongue, blood running down his chin. “What do you want with us?”
Chisholm spun on his heel, still smiling. “You and Miss Martinez are assisting us in a matter pertaining to National Security, under Section Twelve of the Emergencies Act.”
“Sounds like an arrest to me,” Leah replied.
“Sounds like you need a lawyer,” Chisholm smirked.
“Oh shit,” Bailey interrupted, enjoying the double-act. “On a Section Twelve they ain’t allowed legal representation, Detective Sergeant Chisholm.” He took a drag on a cigarette and smiled.
“I know, Detective Constable Bailey, it’s a proper liberty,” said Chisholm. Now, get these two in the car and let’s get outta this shit-hole.”
Bailey grabbed Hooker’s elbow. “Easy, big man. All will be revealed at Millbank.”
“The Puzzle Palace,” Chisholm nodded. He ran his tongue along his gums and giggled. “You’re gonna love it. Fucking delicious.”
“Hurry up, Chisholm,” said Bailey, getting in the car. “It’s gonna kick off big-time ‘round here. Man, I hate the Goons.”
Leah shimmied along the BMW’s backseat. “What is this bullshit?”
Chisholm opened the car window. Plugging a nostril with his finger, he blew a gobbet of snot from the other. “Fucked if I know,” he said, “but I’m on overtime, so who cares?”
fourteen
Paolo dressed for war – black ceramoweave armour, flame-proof coveralls, combat boots and an assault vest. He stowed magazines, grenades, spare fobs and gold in pouches and pockets. On his belt he wore his HK35 and a fighting knife. Standing by the apartment door, he motioned for the others to leave.
“What will you do with the girl?” said Abid.
“She’ll be fine here. I’ll return shortly.”
The Yemeni frowned. “We should take her.”
“No,” Paolo replied, “I don’t want the Spanish to know we’ve got a hostage.”
“Paolo’s right,” said Rourke, checking her stuff. “Where can she escape, anyway?”
“As you say,” the giant shrugged. He folded his arms, resting them on his explosive-packed chest armour.
Rourke rested a hand on the giant’s shoulder. “Come on, don’t you be worryin’ yourself about stuff like that.”
One of the Spaniards stood guard outside, rifle shouldered. He nodded when he saw Paolo and led them to General Ignacio’s quarters. The General and his henchmen stood around an omni showing a three-dimensional schematic of the estate. The Commune stood at the centre, the Crosland to the west and the river to the north. Paolo cleared his throat and pointed at the map. “Our vehicle is garaged to the west, General, in the old industrial estate.”
Ignacio looked Abid up and down. Then he laughed. “You’re sure this one needs our help getting anywhere?”
The Yemeni shrugged. “I need to get to my vehicle without fighting.”
“Don’t worry, we have a tunnel between us and the Crosland,” said Ignacio, lowering his voice. He pointed at two of his men, dressed in camouflaged cloaks and goggles. “This is Oscar and Miguel, they will be your guides. Be warned, you may have to wait underground for a while, until the way is clear.”
“Yes,” Oscar replied, tapping the schematic with a dirty finger. “Our scouts report cop activity on the other side.”
“I hope we won’t be delayed too long,” Paolo replied.
“We’ll leave soon,” Oscar replied. “Comrade Paolo, we have eyes and ears everywhere. Don’t worry.”
Rourke nodded and checked her watch. “I’ll call when I’m on the other side, Paolo.”
The Spaniards escorted Abid and Rourke away, the Irishwoman giving a small wave. When they were gone, Ignacio took another swig of beer. “I was thinking of putting devices on the perimeter, by the gates to the…”
“May I?” said Paolo, spinning the schematic with a finger. “I would divide the remaining explosive into four. We build three primary devices, and a handful of smaller IEDs with the remainder. I’ll need nails, petrol, tape, frangible containers and fobs. Any chemistry materials from your ‘cotics labs would be helpful for making tilt switches, timers and command wires. A mortar bomb or two wouldn’t go amiss, if you’ve any spare.”
“You heard the man!” Ignacio bawled, underlings saluting as they scurried away. “We’ve had too much peace. It makes us lazy.”
“There will be no peace here,” Paolo replied, studying the map. “Push hard enough, General, and this will be the first domino to fall.”
“With London next?” Ignacio replied, jutting his chin like a pocket Guevara. “And your plan?”
Paolo nodded. “Next, we hide smaller devices near abandoned vehicles and street furniture, just inside our perimeter. This will slow the enemy, channelling them into prepared kill-zones. Put snipers on likely escape routes, casualty exfil points and RVs. Then, we position larger devices along the enemy’s line of advance.” Paolo pointed at the earthwork palisade protecting the Commune. “The first bomb will kill the initial wave of attackers. The second IED will be behind them, killing reinforcements and medical teams. Without ordnance disposal assets, they’ll be paralysed. We put the largest device on the palisade itself, to break their final assault.”
General Ignacio accepted a fresh beer from a flunky. “The wall? Won’t it be destroyed?”
“Probably. But by then we’ll be looking at many hundreds of casualties, enough to break the enemy. This isn’t an army we’re dealing with, it’s a bunch of second-rate militiamen.” Alternatively, they might destroy this place, covering my escape…
The General stroked his beard. “I still think the fascists could destroy the Commune by sheer force of numbers.”
Paolo shrugged. “This place has had its day, comrade, and Class Struggle has an endless appetite for martyrs. I presume you have your own exit strategy?”
Ignacio smiled. “We have friends who can get us to the coast. The Black Rifles will be in Free Cordoba by the end of next week.” The Spaniard turned to a second omni. A newsfeed showed crowds gathering on the western perimeter, parleying with police lining the cordon.
The Street Leagues are demanding permission to carry out what they call a ‘People’s Eviction…’
A skinny girl arrived, a pair of binoculars around her neck. “General, we’ve spotted tacticals hiding in the marshes near the northern palisade. Street leagues are marching from the east and south.”
“And to the west?” Ignacio asked.
“The pigs are withdrawing. There are fires from other class struggles, as far as the Green Zone. It’s spreading.”
“The leaguers will replace the cops in the west,” said Paolo. “We’re hemmed in by the river to the north.”
“I agree,” the General replied. He tapped a finger on the schematic, showing the expanse of swamp separating the Thames from the Commune. “How many cops were hiding here?”
“Perhaps three, maybe four rigid inflatables. They were weari
ng green, not the usual black uniforms.”
“Tell the scouts they are doing excellent work,” the General replied, kissing the girl on the cheek. “Gather a squad of Black Rifles. If the cops advance, fire warning shots and keep them away. If they continue, shoot to kill.”
A Spaniard brought bomb-making supplies in hessian sacks. Paolo snapped on surgical gloves and divided the creamy loaves of explosive into rectangular chunks. He worked fast, assembling detonators and circuit boards, carefully placing each IED in a sack when he was finished. Paolo Falcone had been taught by CIA paramilitaries, Russian combat engineers and elderly Jihadis. He’d blown up tanks and school-buses, airliners and cruise ships, barracks and hotels. Newsfeeds hummed in the background as he worked –
Up to seven thousand leaguers have assembled a mile from the Commune International. General Zachary Fry, of The Loyal Croydonia Brethren, has announced ten thousand more will march. His spokesman tells us Fry has called a Grand Council of the Leagues, who have issued an ultimatum to the Wessex Parliament. Either allow the Leagues to march on Free Medway, or they will withdraw their support for the authorities…
“Are you finished, Paolo?” asked Ignacio, examining a bomb.
“Who’s your best man with explosives?”
“I am,” one of the Spaniards replied. “My name is Julio, I learnt from a Crimson Brigade bomb-maker in Tunisia.”
“Good – you’ll lead one of the teams, Julio. Take these smaller IEDs, seed them around the western perimeter. Put them near anything flammable or made of glass. If you have spare gasoline, leave it in plastic containers nearby.”
“I understand.”
“Remember, anything that maximises casualties will slow them down. Make a note of where you place each device and issue them to the sniper teams.”
Julio placed his bombs in a sack, gently as eggs. He pointed at three men. They shouldered their rifles and followed him away.
“NatSec will deploy their MQ-15X UAVs,” Paolo continued, smoothing nails and bolts into the last slab of explosives.
The General pulled a face. “Eviscerator drones?”
“Yes. They have two on station at any given time, equipped with nano-munition pods. Provide them with easy targets as a distraction, fodder on the scaffolds and balconies. It will make your escape easier.”
“Ruthless bastard,” the General laughed. He turned to an aide. “Send those fucking Frenchmen up there, the ones who keep complaining about the noise.”
“My pleasure, General!” the aide replied, grinning.
Paolo nodded his approval. “They may also use Special Forces, probably their SAS and SFSG. They excel at this type of operation. One option is for half their number to land on the roof and fight downwards. The other half will assault a lower floor and fight their way up.”
Ignacio scratched his balls. “Making us the meat in the sandwich. You seem very sure of their doctrine.”
“I was with the defenders of the Cite El Habib, when the British SAS and Paratroopers assaulted the stronghold. It was a bloodbath, comrade. They are ruthless.”
General Ignacio nodded, “Tunis? We fought the 2nd Panzer Division near Ras Jebel. They had a tame Archangel, I lost half my men. How did you escape?”
“I booby-trapped the approaches and posted martyrs on the roof to distract them. Sound familiar?”
“I knew you were a good prospect.”
Stripping off his gloves, Paolo joined the Spaniards at a window. Sodium lights silvered the night sky, surging ranks of street leaguers overwhelming the remaining munis. Banners rippled in the wind, flares arcing into the sky. General Ignacio of the Black Rifles drew himself to his full height. “This is going to be magnificent!”
The police lines broke, leaguers dragging riot shields aside and attacking munis with spears and clubs. A few cops tried to drag their wounded away, only to be swallowed by the mob. Pieces of police uniform and equipment were tossed in the air, leaguers rampaging towards the perimeter.
Paolo gestured at the Commune’s earthwork berms and palisades, protected by rows of razor wire and water-filled moats. “Our defences are strong. They won’t be able to breach them without heavy equipment. Perhaps they’ll lay siege? Toss dead cows into the commune with a trebuchet?”
The General pointed at a column of retreating police vehicles, blue lights winking. “The cops are running.”
Paolo opened his Zippo and lit the Marlboro glued to his bottom lip. “That, I think, is a deliberate command decision – the police are letting the mob do their work.”
The General raised an eyebrow. “They sacrificed their munis?”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking they aren’t as ruthless as we are,” Paolo shrugged.
Flags and standards billowed above the horde. Paolo recognised them from his mission briefing – the largest was orange, emblazoned with a black Kalashnikov and the words NO SURRENDER in gothic script. The standard of the Loyal Croydonia Brethren, self-appointed defenders of the South London borderlands. Croydonia was followed by the red and mauve fist of the Deptford Avengers, then the blue hawk of the Southwark Souljas. The black skull of the Bermondsey Totenkopf flew amidst the smaller banners of the Woolwich Urbanskis, Streatham Kommando Posse, Tulse Hill Razormen, Sutton Trollz, Kampfgruppe-Millwall and the Battersea Shanksters.
“Sometimes,” said Ignacio, “I wish we had our own Archangels.”
Paolo smiled. “That’s heresy, my friend.”
The General grabbed a Kalashnikov, kissed it and laughed. “If we can’t have angels, we’ll fight like devils. Move my headquarters to the bunker. Give the order for the Black Rifles to stand-to!”
fifteen
The BMW raced west. A news feed flickered across the car’s HUD, streaming footage of the rioting in Lagoon City. “They love a ruck in the Goons, don’t they?” said Bailey.
Chisholm grinned. “Savages, the lot of ‘em. Send in the Eviscerators and blow ‘em to fuck.”
“You white boys, always wantin’ to drop bombs on people,” Bailey guffawed. He turned to Hooker, “what d’you say, brother?”
“I ain’t your brother.”
“See, Bailey?” said Chisholm, “Hooker ain’t your brother. I certainly ain’t your brother. And I don’t think you even got a brother. That makes you one sad, lonely fucker.”
They wove through the Government Zone, a blast-proof warren of checkpoints, barriers and guard towers. The Palace of Westminster squatted by the Thames, screened by transparent armorglass walls. Barrage balloons bobbed in the night sky like deep-sea creatures, searchlights dappling their matte grey flanks. Millbank Tower, the Office of Counter Subversion HQ, was the colour of old bones. Anti-rocket mesh draped across the upper stories reminded Hooker of giant cobwebs. Chicanes, like concrete dominos, protected the entrance, guarded by tacticals with slobbering guard dogs. They drove into a subterranean carpark, Chisholm opening the door for his prisoners. “I’m going to remove your cuffs,” Bailey announced, pulling a spray canister from a pocket. It dissolved the gel-spheres on Leah and Hooker’s hands, resin dripping to the floor like grainy porridge.
A gaunt man in coveralls stepped from the shadows. He waved a detector wand over the prisoners and nodded his satisfaction. “They’re clean. No body-melded tech. No weapons. No cavity-borne explosives.”
Hyatt’s pouch of coins lay on the ground. “I want a receipt for that gold,” said Hooker.
“You’re delicious, you are,” Chisholm smirked, dropping the pouch in an evidence bag. “Receipt? Whatever next? Don’t worry, it’s in good hands.”
They trooped along a series of cold, damp corridors. Globular drone cameras followed them everywhere, tiny engines hissing. “Miss Martinez, you’ll come with me,” said Bailey.
“No. We stay together,” said Hooker.
Chisholm shook his head. “The Man wants to speak with you. Martinez waits with us. She can grab a cup of coffee. Maybe a sandwich from the canteen? Girl looks like she needs fattening up.”
Leah shrugged. “Have you fuckers got cake?”
“Yeah, we’ve got cake,” said Bailey.
“Chocolate cake?”
“Be surprised if we didn’t.”
“Then I’ll be alright,” she said, stepping out of the lift.
Hooker fixed Chisholm with a stare. “You’d better be.”
“Don’t sweat it, Hooker,” Leah replied. “I’ll see you soon, and if I don’t you’ll fuck these pigs up?”
Hooker nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ll fuck ‘em up. Badly.”
“Heard it all before,” Bailey shrugged.
They took an elevator to the top of the tower. Chisholm escorted Hooker to a door. He straightened his tie and knocked once. “You’re about to meet the Big Boss, Hooker. You’d best show some respect.”
“Come in,” said a voice.
Hooker stepped into a room overlooking the unlit BluSky. Beyond, cloudscrapers reflected distant fires. Music drifted from an omni, ancient jazz. “This is Mister Hooker,” said Chisholm.
“I’m grateful,” said the man behind a desk. “You may go.”
Chisholm bowed and hurried away, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Do you like jazz?” said the man. He wore a greyish suit and open-necked shirt, fiftyish and hawk-nosed. He tidied files on his desk with long, delicate fingers. “This track is from 1969, would you believe? Miles Davis. I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur, but...”
“Who are you?” said Hooker. He thought the man looked like a college professor, not a policeman.
“Chief Superintendent Bliss,” he said, as if the title amused him. “Would you care for tea?”
“Water.” Hooker replied, sitting down.
“May I call you Rufus?”
“No.”
“As you wish,” Bliss replied, producing a flask from his desk. He poured green tea into a china cup. “Let’s start with an easy question. Why did you meet Vassa Hyatt this morning?”
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 12