by Andy McNab
Laszlo and two of his men then set to work on the junction boxes that were set into the bulkhead at the end of the carriage.
Delphine stared up at him. She knew it was pointless resisting, but she could still show the defiance that Tom had mustered in her. The hatred in her eyes was all her own. ‘I will not be bait for your trap,’ she hissed.
Laszlo gave her a look of contempt. ‘You almost make it sound as if you have a choice in the matter.’ He reached for his weapon and pressed the muzzle against her head. ‘Would you prefer me to pull the trigger and end it now for you and your child?’
‘Yes.’ She pushed against the cold, hard steel. ‘And don’t forget to say goodbye to Tom for me when he cuts off your balls and stuffs them into your mouth.’
Laszlo merely smiled. ‘I can see why he was attracted to you. You have more than a child in your belly. There is fire, too. Spirit.’
An expression appeared on his face that she hadn’t seen before. She wondered for a moment if he was a little jealous. She suspected that Laszlo had been fighting and hating for so long that he had never had the time to find a woman, let alone worked out how to keep one.
He nodded slowly. ‘You are extremely lucky to have each other.’
She worked her jaws for a second and spat at him.
He paused to wipe his cheek. ‘Hmm . . . Perhaps too much spirit.’
Pinpricks of light danced on her retina as he punched her just above the temple.
‘I think it may be time for some silence.’
He tore another length from the duct tape and wrapped it around her mouth and the back of her head.
‘You seem very confident that Prince Charming is going to ride to your rescue. It may surprise you to hear that I hope he does, too. And I hope he brings his black-suited friends with him.’ He forced her head back against the shelving to duct tape her neck even closer to the unit. She wasn’t going anywhere: she was the prize perched high on the counter for all to see.
She soon heard the splash of water behind her in the galley. Sambor appeared in the customer area, pushing a drinks trolley in front of him, laden with beer, wine and mineral water. Delphine stared at them, baffled, as the two brothers smashed the neck of one bottle after another against the edge of a table and poured their contents onto the floor.
She saw Laszlo select a Châteauneuf du Pape and pause for a second. He invited her to admire the label. ‘A good wine like this should be savoured, don’t you think?’ Then he smashed that one too and thrust its jagged spout closer and closer to her cheek.
Time came to a standstill as she watched a globule of crimson liquid glisten on the razor-sharp edge of the glass.
His face once more devoid of emotion, Laszlo inched it towards her eye, but at the last moment he tipped it, too, onto the floor.
When they had finished, a pool of froth-slicked liquid covered the middle of the buffet car. Laszlo was pleased with their work. He beamed at Delphine. ‘I imagine that you share my excitement about what will happen next,’ he said. ‘You won’t be disappointed. It promises to be quite a spectacular performance, a veritable son et lumière.’ He turned and ushered Sambor down the carriage, towards the front of the train. A moment later the glass door slid shut behind them.
Delphine summoned up as much of her dwindling reserve of energy and defiance as she could muster, and began straining and heaving herself against the duct tape that bound her. It held her fast. She breathed in as deeply as the constraint would allow, trying to ease the tension from her shoulder muscles and the feeling of dread that rose inside her.
89
VATU HAD MADE entry through the first blown-in door he came to, four coaches from the rear of the train. His assault group pulled on their respirators and eased themselves into the carriage. Sig 9mm semi-automatic pistol up, both eyes open, both hands on the weapon, he kept as far to the left of the passageway as he could. His number two, immediately behind him, stayed as far to the right. That way, their two weapons could fire at once, and cover the whole arc of the space in front of them.
They moved quickly and deliberately, jerking their heads left and right to check no one was hiding behind the seats. Their forward and peripheral vision from inside the respirators was good. All they could hear was the gentle rasp of the diaphragms as they breathed.
Jockey and the rest of Blue team stood poised to follow.
Vatu hunched his shoulders forward to create a firm support for his weapon as he entered every new carriage. His number two was so close behind him that his barrel almost brushed Vatu’s right shoulder. Numbers three and four of the call-sign carried Heckler & Koch 9mm sub-machine-guns, and stayed static immediately after moving left and right into each seated area.
They kept as close to the sides of the train as they could. Their job was to cover Vatu’s advance down what was in effect a well-upholstered gallery range and put down suppressive fire if any X-rays bounced into view. Vatu and his sidekick could keep pumping forward without ever crossing the arcs of fire of the weapons behind them.
The further Vatu and his number two moved down each carriage, the narrower the arcs became for the static three and four, but that was where trust kicked in. It was why the team always trained with live ammo. You needed total conviction to sit in a close-combat room feeling the blast from 9mm rounds against your cheek. Vatu was so confident in the others that he’d stand between two wooden targets in the dark while they burst in with pistols and torches and fired either side of him.
Each team member literally put his life in the hands of the others. One mistake and you could kill your best mate. There had been casualties over the years, but given the high number of rounds that were fired – more than by the rest of the British Army put together – they were very low.
90
TOM WORKED HIS way towards the rear of the train as rapidly as his wound allowed. The team option would kick off any minute. It had to. COBRA wouldn’t let this go on any longer. He had to intercept them. It was the only way he had left to save Delphine. And – if Laszlo’s plan was to detonate the pipeline – the life of everyone else aboard.
The power had come back on. Lights blazed through every pane of glass, splashing across the sides of the tunnel. He’d had to move deeper under the train, right into the middle of the track, and it slowed him down.
He was now on his hands and knees. His thigh burned with every movement, but he kept driving himself on. He had to link up with the assault team. He had to tell them about the device on the gas pipe. Was he going to kick it off as soon as the team turned up? All Tom knew was what he’d seen and what he’d heard. He didn’t even know if Laszlo was still sticking with the negotiation pantomime, issuing a string of demands and deadlines. All he knew was that if an option went in it could result in disaster. And Laszlo could be right: the explosion might be enough to fracture the tunnel.
But how to intercept the team? He had two options. He could go to the end of the final coach and wait; Keenan and his mates would take out the PKM position before moving on. Or he could try and get beyond the gun, and intercept the team on their way in.
With four carriages to go, he heard movement above his head, four sets of boots thumping across the linking steel-plate walkway. The sound receded and he carried on.
Tom finally reached the rear of the train. The lighting was good: too good for him to try and get past the PKM. He could see the silhouettes of the two-man team about a hundred metres ahead. But they weren’t sitting or standing, one ready to fire, the other feeding in the link: they were lying prone on the tracks. Unless they were asleep, they were dead. And from what he’d seen of these guys – and their commander – he knew they wouldn’t be sleeping.
Alarm bells started ringing in his head. The four sets of boots . . . The team was already aboard.
91
VATU NEARED COACH Four and peered through the glass door into the buffet car.
Delphine was gagged and duct-taped on the counter. As soon as she saw him, she made frantic
attempts to free herself, moaning and twisting, bucking and shaking her head, but the tape was so tight she barely moved.
Vatu had a job to do – to keep moving and take down whoever and whatever was in his way. Once he’d sorted that, once the attack was going in, he’d come back and sort Tom’s girl. She looked like shit, but she was breathing. She wasn’t bleeding. She was alive.
If it was a trap, he’d soon find out. And then the South Ossetians really would have the mother of all battles on their hands.
Delphine watched in desperation as Vatu piled through the door and the liquid on the floor splashed across the tops of his boots. There was a blinding flash. Sparks flew from the barrel of his Sig and the weapon fell from his hand as if a lightning bolt had erupted from inside his body. He crashed to the ground, collapsing into Laszlo’s supercharged cocktail. His huge, friendly body convulsed and twitched. Smoke streamed from the wiry hair beneath his hood.
Insulated by the counter, Delphine was numb with shock. Stock still, she stared in horror. This was the first time she’d seen a human die. And he’d died horrifically, in excruciating pain. This wonderful, generous, invincible giant of a man had been transformed in the space of a few seconds into a smouldering corpse.
The rest of Blue team were close behind. Jockey got straight on the net. ‘All call-signs, go! Go! Go! All call-signs, go! Go! Go!’
Blue Seven made a lunge for the nylon-webbing grab-handle on the back of Vatu’s body armour and tried to pull him back. The call-signs in the middle of the carriage dived to the right and slammed their axes into the windows, pushed their way through the large frosted panes and spilled down onto the track. The rest of the call-signs joined them, covered with glass sequins, pistols pointing forwards as they ran towards their entry points.
Keenan sprinted along the tunnel, ignoring the carriages on his left, not caring if there was fire or movement coming from the human shields within. His job now was to get forward and take out the PKM position.
He heard a couple of double taps from one of the team’s Sigs. They must be taking incoming. He’d heard no shots. Laszlo’s crew must have suppressed weapons. He heard more glass smashing as the assault groups started to swarm into their target carriages. He stopped short of the engine as a long burst of heavy-calibre fire streamed towards him.
The first rounds ricocheted off the front of the train. Green tracer tumbled and bounced from about a hundred and fifty metres further down the tunnel. The whole area filled with the sound of gunfire and the screech of brass on steel.
Keenan hit the floor, trying to use the PKM’s muzzle-flash to get a sight picture onto the gunner.
92
TOM LIMPED FAST along the side of the train, loaded with the PKM and as much link as he’d been able to hang around his neck. His leg was agony. ‘Bin it!’ he screamed. ‘Jockey, fucking bin it!’
A couple of hundred metres away, Jockey couldn’t hear a thing. He was up his ladder, with numbers two and three so close behind that their respirators impacted on the body armour of the man in front.
Number four, the axe man, punched a flash-bang through the freshly crazed glass. Jockey threw his weight against it and tried to push through. A blinding flash lit each end of the carriage, followed immediately by two deafening bangs.
The detonation of the metal-oxidant mix of magnesium and aluminium created the equivalent of 300,000 candlepower, momentarily activating all light-sensitive cells in the eye, making vision impossible for five seconds. The 160-decibel blast seriously fucked up the fluid in the eardrum. It shocked and stunned, and disrupted the balance function of anyone within range who wasn’t wearing protective gear.
To Jockey’s amazement, the Yankees didn’t budge. Almost immediately he saw why. They couldn’t. He tried punching and elbowing his way through from the top of his ladder, but there were too many of them, and they were being forced up against the windows by their guards.
A flash-bang bounced off the impenetrable human wall and back down into the tunnel. The detonation kicked off and the Yankees screamed, unable to move and take cover. Two teenagers screamed to each other in French. Their arms reached out to Jockey, thrust from behind like lemmings at a cliff edge.
He checked left. The other team was having the same problem. Some had taken hits below him. Yankees tumbled out of the windows and onto the track. It was like a siege on a medieval castle, men swarming up ladders to scale the parapets. But instead of battlements and boiling oil, there were so many bodies it was never going to happen.
Jockey jumped down onto the concrete and hit his pressel. ‘All call-signs – bin it! Bin it! I say again, move back, move back, move back!’
Keenan heard him loud and clear, but he was going to stay until the team was on the move. Unable to see the gunner, he aimed just above the muzzle-flash and took a shot. The PKM stopped for about five seconds, then kicked off again. He sucked in big lungfuls of air to stop his body moving and affecting his aim. The noise and chaos around him was just moving wallpaper in his head as he took aim once more.
Jockey brought him back into the real world with a boot in the thigh. ‘Get moving, you mad Cornish hippie!’
Tom saw the team start to withdraw to the rear of the train. He swung the gun down and behind one of the wheels and stood with his hands up, not wanting to become a casualty. He waited for the first of the team to approach.
The man in black grabbed him before he recognized Tom’s face.
‘Mate,’ Bryce yelled, ‘where the fuck have you been hiding?’
Tom spun him against the train, shouting over the din of the flash-bangs covering their withdrawal. It echoed and resonated tenfold when the pressure had nowhere to go but up and down the tunnel. ‘Jockey? Where’s Jockey?’
More members of the team streamed past as Bryce got on the net. Jockey was the last man back, making sure every casualty was picked up, and every flash-bang was used to keep the chaos going. When he appeared, Bryce threw out an arm and Tom gripped his sleeve, pulling him close. ‘There’s a device on the gas pipeline!’ He pointed upwards. ‘Up there, above the service tunnel. Laszlo has a grab bag – it has to be the initiation device, it’s the only thing he never lets go. I don’t know what the fuck he’s planning, but his brother keeps saying, “Kill the country.” So go, mate – go! Give Gav the message.’
Jockey ripped off his respirator. ‘You’ve got to come with us.’
Tom’s eyes locked on his. ‘No, I’m staying. Delphine’s still in there. End of.’
The rattle of machine-gun fire filled the air. Rounds drilled into the concrete further along the train.
Tom ducked and grabbed the PKM as Jockey and Bryce legged it towards the UK. Tom positioned the bipod to the right of the wheel. He needed every bit of protection on offer.
He lay down and cocked the weapon. The working parts were already to the rear, but old habits died hard. He had to ensure the gun was made ready. He started to fire: short, sharp, five-round bursts, making sure that every round hugged the side of the train en route to its twin.
93
BATTERED AND BLOODIED, the Blue team regrouped and reorganized at the mouth of the service tunnel. The trauma team had their work cut out trying to stabilize the military casualties, who were still being brought in. Electric carts then ferried them back to the Transits for a covert exit to hospital through the massed ranks of media and rubbernecking onlookers.
Jockey stopped his sit-rep to Gavin mid-flow when he saw Ashton storm over, his face red with fury. ‘Blue One, wait out . . .’
‘What the fuck did you do in there?’
Jockey wasn’t in the mood for Ashton – or any other fucker – getting on his back right now. He took a pace towards him. ‘I’ll tell you what the fuck I did down there. We walked straight into a fucking ambush, and I tried to get everyone out alive. That cunt knew exactly when and where we were coming. And if it hadn’t been for Tom we’d all be fucking toast. Not just poor bloody Vatu, the whole fucking lot of us.’
‘Buckingham? He’s still alive?’
‘He was ten minutes ago. The gun was still firing – but he could have run out of ammo by now. And he won’t be leaving that train unless he’s taking Delphine with him.’
Ashton shrugged. ‘Which means they’re both coming out of there in a box.’
Jockey’s fists clenched this time. He stared at Ashton with absolute contempt. ‘You’d better order some more, then, because they’re not the only ones.’ He pointed across the tunnel to where the big Fijian’s body was being carried onto the back of one of the carts. Another three wounded soldiers were straggling alongside. ‘So, if you’ve finished, Boss, I’ve got a sit-rep to send.’
Keenan, his face flushed with anger, broke up the stand-off. ‘Boss, when are we going back in to settle things with those fuckers?’
‘Right now,’ Ashton said. ‘Get rehydrated, get bombed-up. I’m going to move up the Red team. Fuck sorting the hostages – the police will have to take care of that.’ Ashton jabbed a finger into the front plate of Jockey’s body armour. ‘You have fifteen minutes to brief them before you go back in. I want everyone up-front-and-bags-of-smoke. Make Laszlo history – now!’
Jockey knew the infantry saying. It meant simply: get all your men up front, no reserves; get the smoke down to cover them during the attack. No finesse, no sophisticated tactical manoeuvres: just get into the battle space and win the fight.
He kept his eyes fixed on the OC.
Ashton glared back. ‘Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get on with it!’
Jockey was tempted to give him a smack there and then, but jerked his head at Keenan instead, motioning him out of earshot. His eyes drilled into Ashton’s, but he managed to keep his voice as low and reasonable as a Jock with size issues could. ‘Boss, like I was trying to tell Gav when you charged in, Tom has seen a device on a gas pipeline somewhere up above here.’ He pointed to where the sky would have been. ‘If we go back in immediately, that fuck Laszlo might just kick the thing off. Then we’d all be in the shit. So right now I need to get the int back to the hangar, get COBRA to fuck about with it, then we’ll see. I trust Tom more than you, COBRA, even my own fucking mother. We need to regroup and rethink how the fuck we’re going to stop that cunt.’