FireWall ns-3

by Andy McNab

  Diving back down into the snow, I heard the unmistakable, low level dick-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud of an SD, the suppressed version of the Heckler & Koch MP5. The click was the sound of the working parts as they ejected an empty case and moved forward to pick another from the magazine. The thud was the gas escaping as the subsonic round left the barrel.

  I heard another click-thud, click-thud as two more rounds were fired. I wasn 't his target, but I lay there not wanting to move and risk getting hit. I wasn't even too sure if he knew I was there.

  The firing stopped and I heard short sharp breaths as the hooked body took the pain.

  Then more arrived and I heard a shout.

  "Okay, buddy, it's okay."

  My pain suddenly disappeared, to be replaced by an enormous feeling of dread. Shit. They well Americans. What the fuck was I in here?

  The hooked man answered haltingly between anguished gasps. "Help me to the driveway, man. Ah, sweet Jesus "

  They were swarming all around me, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they took me out. I turned my head and, as I opened my eyes and looked up, two white-covered figures with black ski masks under their hoods were nearly on top of me, their breath clouds hanging in the cold night air. Hovering over me, one pointed his weapon soundlessly at my head.

  It's okay, mate, I'm not going anywhere.

  The other came forward, snow crunching beneath his boots, keeping out of his friend's line of fire. Vapor was the only thing coming from his mouth. There still wasn't any communication between them.

  I heard gasps and labored breathing as Tom's victim was helped back to the driveway. He was in a bad way, but he'd live. Other bodies passed, pushing hard through the waist-high snow, heading in the same direction as Tom.

  Any thought of escape or trying to give them a hard time was laughable.

  I curled up and waited for the inevitable subduing, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth to protect my tongue and jaw.

  The breathing was now directly overhead and I could feel their boots disturbing the snow around me as I waited for the first kick to open me up for a search.

  It didn't happen.

  Instead, a cold snow-covered glove pulled my hands from my face and I caught a glimpse of a canister. I didn't know if it was CS, CR liquid, or pepper, and it didn't really matter. Whichever it was, and even if I closed my eyes, it was going to fuck me over big time.

  The moment I felt the ice-cold liquid make contact, my eyes were on fire. My nose filled instantly with even more snot, and I felt as if I was choking.

  The flames spread all over my face. I was conscious of what was going on, but was totally incapacitated. There was nothing I could do but let it take its course.

  As I choked and gagged, a hand forced my face back into the snow. There were no commands to me, or any communication between the bodies.

  Snorting and gasping like a suffocating pig, I struggled for oxygen, trying to move my head against the hand that was still holding it down, desperate to clear the snow pressing on my face so I could breathe, but he wasn't letting that happen.

  A kick aimed at the side of my stomach got between my arms which were wrapped protectively around it, and I half coughed, half vomited the mucus that had built up in my mouth and nose. As I rolled with the pain, Sprayman pulled me onto my back, arched because of the backpack.

  My neck stretched as my head fell backward. I was still choking and snot was running into my eyes.

  A gloved fist hit me across the head and my jacket was unzipped. Hands ran over my body and squeezed my coat pockets. They found the spare hook, the vegetable knife, the makeshift Yale gun. Everything was taken from me, even the Polaroid film. One of them pressed his knee into my stomach with all his weight and vomit flew from my mouth. The taste and smell of strong tea from the journey filled the air around me as it spilt onto the snow. I tried lifting my head to cough up the last remaining bits in my throat, only to be slapped down. There was nothing I could do but try to keep breathing.

  The character kneeling on my stomach was joined by the weapon-pointer on my right-hand side, and his freezing, fat muzzle raked against my face, pushing into the skin. The two of them just knelt there, waiting. The only sounds were their heavy breathing and me snorting like a pig.

  They knew I was fucked and were just maintaining me in that position.

  From what I could make out through watery, painful eyes, they looked far more concerned with what was going on by the gate.

  I knew I had to recover from the impact of the fall and the spray before doing anything about getting out of this shit. I accepted I had no control over myself physically, but I still had control of my mind.

  I had to watch for opportunities to escape, and the quicker I tried to do it, the better chance I would have of succeeding. There is always confusion in the heat of things; organization only comes later.

  I analyzed what I had seen. They were all in winter-warfare whites; they even all had the same weapons and were highly organized, and at least two of them spoke English with American accents. This wasn't the Maliskia, and this wasn't about commercial intelligence. I started to feel even worse about my future prospects and was pissed big-time with Liv and Val, who obviously hadn't told me everything. I just hoped I'd be able to get my own back.

  I thought about Tom and hoped that if he was alive he'd make it back to the real world as quickly as he could. He had tried to save me. The bull's-eye with the hook was probably more to do with luck than skill, but at least he'd had the balls to do it. Winning a fight isn't important, it's being ballsy enough to get stuck in that is. I'd been wrong about him.

  As I lay passively facing the sky, I felt something wet and cold dissolve on my lips: the first heavy flakes of a snowfall.

  The few seconds of silence were broken by the crunch of snow coming from the direction of Tom's escape route. It must be the bodies returning from pursuing Tom or collecting his corpse. I tried to look, but my vision was too blurred for me to see anything. I was down in my hole and they didn't walk near enough for me to see if they had him. If so, he must be dead; I couldn't hear him, and I assumed he'd be in pain if shot, or crying if captured, thinking about returning to jail.

  There was the crash of the chain as the gate was forced open, but still no sound from the two with me. Their silence made the situation feel even scarier than it was already.

  Tom and I were probably a sideshow they hadn't been expecting. They must have had their hands covering their mouths, trying not to scream with laughter, watching our attempt to climb the fence, just biding their time for when we were at our most vulnerable. Whatever we were trying to get hold of, so were they. That scared me very much. It seemed the race wasn't only against the Maliskia.

  Things were happening at the house. The front door was being battered.

  Then I heard screaming cutting through the wind, men's voices that couldn't be from one of the teams. These were the voices that went with high-pitched, big-time commotion.

  My two new friends were still looking around, and whatever they were waiting for, they got it. Muzzleman tapped Sprayman on the shoulder and they both stood up. It was obviously time to go. As soon as the pressure on my stomach was released I was thrown over onto my front, face down in the snow while the left-hand strap on my backpack was cut, accompanied by their labored breathing. My right arm was dragged behind me as it was pulled away from my body.

  Gritting my teeth, I took the pain it generated in my chest. Then I was kicked over onto my back again, and I brought my knees up instinctively to protect myself.

  I didn't want eye contact, not that much of it could be done in this darkness, but I wouldn't want them to construe any look I might give them as defiance and get them sparked up, or as a sign that I wasn't as injured as I was trying to pretend.

  Through semi closed angled eyes I could only see one of them, swinging his weapon on its chest sling until it was across his back. Nightmare sounds were still coming from the house as he knel
t down, gripping my throat with one wet, cold, gloved hand, putting another round the back of my neck, and started to pull me to my feet. I wasn't going to resist at this stage and jeopardize any chance of escape.

  As my body emerged from the snow hole, the wind started hitting the tears and mucus on my face. My snot started to feel like freezing jello.

  I was marched, with hands still in place around my throat, following tracks that had already been made in the snow. Not leaving signs didn't seem to be a high priority for these boys.

  We went through the now open gate. I could feel the wind forcing the falling snow against my face and hear the crunching footsteps of my escorts. Looking toward the house, I felt like I'd dived into a swimming pool and was moving up toward the surface, the shimmering shapes and sounds slowly becoming more distinct.

  I made out more white shapes through the snow falling in front of me, in the lights that were now blazing on both floors. There were ransacking noises, furniture being thrown about and glass breaking, but the screaming had stopped. Still not a murmur from the team. The only reason the injured guy and his helper had spoken was probably because they hadn't realized where I'd landed.

  I was dragged past the 4x4 and bounced onto the wooden deck, my shins banging painfully against the steps, no doubt adding to the bruises I'd got last night. They carried on along the deck with me, the sound of their footsteps echoing along the boards.

  A battering ram had been abandoned on the threshold, a long steel pole with two rectangular handles on either side. The top hinge of the door had been pushed in and the bottom one was holding the door at a 45-degree angle inward, the glass from its windows in shards on the floor. These guys hadn't bothered with electric toothbrushes.

  We crunched over the broken glass and entered the house. The warmth enveloped me, but there wasn't time to enjoy it. A few paces inside I was forced face down onto the wooden floor of the hallway. To my right were three other people, tied up and face to the floor, two of them in just boxer shorts and T-shirts. Maybe this was the reason there was no voice contact. They didn't want these three to know who they were. The three captives looked about Tom's age, with long blond hair. One of them had his done up in a ponytail, another was crying and his hair was sticking to his wet cheeks. Shit, and I'd been worrying how many bayonets would be on target. They looked at me with the same question in their eyes as I had in my head: Who the fuck are you?

  I looked away. They weren't important to me. Working out how to separate myself from these Americans was.

  As I turned my head a boot tapped me on the side of the face and motioned for me to look down. I rested my chin on the floor and my hands were forced in front of me, where they could be seen. They'd taken prisoners before.

  I counted a few seconds, then lifted my eyes and tried to look around, trying to gather as much information as possible to help me escape. I saw no scenes of frenzy; everybody seemed to know what they were doing.

  There was a lot of efficient movement by bodies in white, some with their hoods down, exposing their black ski masks. There are many different reasons for wearing uniform, but mainly, in situations like this, it's for identification purposes.

  The atmosphere seemed to be that of an efficient open-plan office. They were all armed, everybody had the same type of weapon, all suppressed.

  The pistol that each of them carried was very unusual. It had been a long time since I'd seen a P7, but if I remembered correctly, it fired 7.62mm rounds. There were seven barrels, each about six inches long, and contained within a disposable, Bakelite-type plastic unit. The unit was sealed and watertight and clipped into a pistol grip. The rounds were fired conventionally by pulling the trigger, but instead of a firing pin, an electrical current was sent to one of the barrels each time the trigger was pulled, via terminals, which married up when the barrels and grip were clipped together. The power source was a battery in the pistol grip.

  Once all seven rounds had been fired, you simply removed the barrel unit, threw it away and put on another one.

  The P7 was originally designed to be fired at divers at close range and underwater, to penetrate their diving sets and, of course, their bodies. I didn't know if they were any good at longer range; all I knew was that they were silent and extremely powerful. Because of their size, they were being carried by these guys in shoulder holsters over their whites, along with thick black nylon belt kit that held their HK mags. I couldn't remember who made P7s, or if it was the weapon's real name. Not that it really mattered to me at the moment.

  What did matter was that these people were uniformed and efficient, and they hadn't been sent here because the computers on site weren't Y2K compliant.

  They had to be from a security organization CIA, maybe, or NSA it didn't matter which. It was highly unusual for them to be carrying out such an operation within a friendly nation's territory. That sort of thing was normally left to dickheads like me, so that everything could be denied if it went wrong. The reason they were on the ground must be that they desperately wanted something that belonged to them, and whatever it was, it must be so sensitive that they didn't want, or trust, anyone else to go and get it. Had I been trying to steal American secrets? I hoped not. That was spying, and with no help from Her Majesty's Government I'd be lucky if I got out of prison in time to see Kelly's grandchildren.

  I realized what had been causing the dull glow from the left hand side of the house. Through an open door I could see it hadn't been room light escaping from the broken shutter but the glare from banks of TV screens. I made out CNN, CNBC, Bloomberg, and some Japanese program, all with anchormen and women talking business. Running captions displayed financial information across the bottom of the screen. So it wasn't Friends after all. I felt even more depressed. This was just like the weather, getting worse every minute.

  In among the TVs were banks of computer monitors, most of them turned off, but some with streams of numbers running vertically down the screen, just like I'd seen Tom messing about with. The computers and VDUs were being unplugged, while more white clad figures fiddled with other machines and keyboards in the room. I saw one hand sticking out from its whites and working some keys. It was immaculately manicured, feminine and wore a wedding band.

  The rest of the horizontal surfaces were in shit state, covered with candy wrappers, pizza boxes, cans, and large half-empty plastic bottles of Coke. It looked like a dorm room, but with a couple of truckloads of cutting-edge technology thrown in. I realized what they'd been carrying in last night from the 4x4: It must have been pizza time.

  My little recce was cut short when I saw pairs of black boots coming toward me, snow still in the stitching and laces. They were Danner boots, an American brand. I knew the make well, as I had a pair high leg, with leather outer and GoreTex inner. The U.S. military wore them, too.

  The Tom lookalikes on the floor behind me were moving about or being moved. The one who'd been crying suddenly sounded muffled, as if he was resisting something. I risked turning my head to see what was happening, but I was too late. A hood got pulled over my head, smearing the snot even more over my top lip, mouth, and chin. It was pointless resisting; I just let him do it as quickly as possible. I'd learned that the best thing to do was concentrate on breathing through these things and let your ears do the work.

  The drawstrings were pulled at the bottom and I was in a world of total darkness. Not even the faintest glimmer of light could penetrate. My face started to sweat up rapidly as the hood moved against my mouth and then out again as I breathed and tried to recover completely from the spray.

  I heard boots on both sides of my head, followed by heavy breathing as my hands were forced together in front of me and a plasticuff was applied. The short, sharp sound of ratcheting was accompanied by the pain of the plastic tightening around my wrists.

  There was more movement next to me and the rustling of clothes. The pizza boys were getting dressed. That was a good sign; they wanted them alive, and I hoped me, too. Between the
sounds of muffled sobs and zips being done up I could hear, "Danke hhtos spasseeba thank you." Obviously these boys didn't know the nationality of the men in white and were hedging their bets wildly, sounding off like Brussels translators.

  The floorboards flexed under the pressure of bodies walking past, heading toward the door. Trailing cables and plugs dragged and clattered across the floor just past my head. Some plugs hit the steel ram in the doorway and sent out a dull ring. I presumed the computers were being lugged out. By the sounds of it, everything was being piled up outside on the deck.

  The roar of engines filled my hood as vehicles drove into the compound.

  The temperature inside the house had started to drop as the wind whistled through the main door. To my left, I could just make out the low mumble of voices exchanging short sentences on the deck as the vehicles approached.

  They stopped and emergency brakes were pulled up on lock. Engines were left running, just like a heli on an operational sortie it never shuts down in case it doesn't start up again. Doors opened and closed and there was a flurry of boot steps around the deck. I could hear the creak and echo of what sounded like the door of an empty van; it was confirmed when I heard a sliding door lock into the open position. This area was beginning to sound like a super store's loading bay.

  I tried moving my arms, as if to get comfortable, but in fact to see if we were being guarded. My answer came very quickly when a boot made contact with my ribs, the same side as my fall. I stopped moving and concentrated on the inside of my snot-lined hood as I took the pain.

  I lay there waiting for the agony to subside. The sobbing and snuffling next to me got louder. The culprit was given the same sort of booted persuasion to shut him up, but it just made him worse. The boy was panicking big time, and he made me think of Tom. I was still hoping that he wasn't dead and had got away, or was he, like this boy, hyperventilating in a hood, stuck in one of those vehicles?