Soft Target 05 - Blister

by Conrad Jones

  “I had acetylene torches and you said it was too deep to use them. You specified hydrogen torches and that is what I supplied. They are state of the art,” Christopher crossed his arms sulkily.

  “No Christopher, you have supplied oxy-hydrogen torches which are far hotter. It is madness to cut the ship open with them when we don’t know what is behind each panel that we cut.”

  “There is only eight hundred degrees centigrade difference you idiot. Hydrogen torches cut at two thousand degrees centigrade, which is hardly a huge leap at those extremes. Your men would have to be ultra careful using those cutters anyway. If you are trying to push the price of the job up again then forget it. I’m taking the first sledge back now as we initially agreed. We will unload it and you can be back to your team within the allotted time,” Christopher was adamant.

  “Why are you remaining on shore?” the dive master snapped. He was resigned to the fact that he didn’t have a great deal of say in proceedings.

  “The shells are in varying stages of decay. I need to assess the load and then plan their shipment accordingly. I need them landed and moved tonight.”

  The dive master looked away from his employer without speaking and opened the door of the bridge. The weather had closed in and snowflakes were tumbling down onto the old red ship. The snow was starting to stick, coating the metal decks and the handrails with crisp white powder. The engine roared and the water at the rear of the lightship turned into white foam as the propellers began to churn up the waves. The boat moved forward slowly at first but soon it was cutting a swathe through the dark waters back toward the twinkling lights of the port and the city beyond.

  Beneath the waves, Ivan Rostock was trying to copy his colleague. Ivan had spent most of his life lying and cheating for a living. His only true attempt at being an honest working man had been a two year spell working as a guide for a scuba diving company in Kenya. He attained his open water diving certificate whilst on holiday in Egypt and from there applied for the position of scuba guide in Africa using forged documents, which identified him as an advanced diving instructor. Ivan was given the job and by diving with groups of tourists twice a day he soon became a competent diver. The warm clear waters of the Indian Ocean were a pleasure to work in. He earned a modest salary, which was trebled every month with tips from grateful tourists. Being a guide around the reefs meant that knowing where all the best sea life hangs out would pay a dividend. Each section of the coral masses is a unique ecosystem consisting of different marine life, some common but others far rarer. Knowing where the rare creatures lived could double your tips for the day as the divers captured unusual photographs and a highly prized entry for their dive logs. Seeing rare species would give them the bragging rights at their local dive centre when they returned to their respective countries.

  The job finished when Kenya tore itself apart in a bloody civil war following shambolic rigged elections in 2007. The elections disintegrated into terrible ethnic cleansing as neighbouring tribes turned on each other. Tourists were told not to risk visiting the African country and foreign workers were advised to leave the country until the violence subsided. Ivan decided to try to ride out the political storm but the foreign visitors heeded the advice and stopped coming. Within weeks, he was out of work and broke. Ivan headed for the United Kingdom and drifted from one bad job to the next. Soon he had fallen into cahoots with the Eastern European crime families, and when the word went out one day that experienced undersea salvage workers were required for a one off operation he lied his way into the dive team. The diving bit wasn’t too difficult for him, although it was much deeper than he was used to, and the visibility was appalling. Once he had become used to a technical diving rig instead of a standard aqualung, then the basics were the same.

  All they had to do was cut through the hull of a wrecked navy vessel with gas burning torches to allow the submersibles access with their grabs. The subs would then move onto the wreck to remove salvage. In theory, it should have been a simple operation. The problem was that he had never used a cutting torch above the waves never mind below them. There was very little light from the cutting torches as they burned which was deceiving as they were cutting at two thousand eight hundred degrees Celsius. Ivan watched his colleague as he carved a ragged line down the hull of the ship. His torch seemed to be making light work of slicing the thick metal open where as Ivan was struggling to make any headway. He held the torch closer to the hull and squeezed the oxygen trigger tighter. The effect was to boost the cutting temperature to its highest possible limit. Ivan didn’t realise that the hull was thicker where he was cutting, hence his progress was slower.

  The reinforced section of hull was harder to cut which forced Ivan to leave the cutting torch focused on one section for longer. Although he managed to penetrate the metal it was causing the surrounding hull to reach a much higher temperature, and so were the shells behind it. His colleague waved a gloved hand toward him. At depth in the murky waters of the bay, it was barely noticeable. He was trying to warn Ivan not to burn the torch so close to the metal. Ivan caught the movement in the corner of his eye and pulled the torch away from the hull. His colleague opened his finger and thumb apart to indicate a six inch gap was needed between the cutter and the hull. Ivan nodded and made an okay sign before beginning to cut again. He noticed a dull red glow coming from inside the ragged hole that he had cut. It looked like the tip of long cigarette was burning inside the ship. In actual fact Ivan had burned clean through the hull and ignited the tip of a Bangalore torpedo, which is sometimes called a Bangalore Blade. They are an explosive charge attached to the end of a hollow metal tube and are used by soldiers to clear barbed wire, mines and other booby traps. The charge fuse had been ignited by the heat from Ivan’s cutting torch. The burning fuse would reach the main explosive in less than two minutes.

  Chapter Twenty

  John Tankersley

  Tank followed the Bentley Continental out of the city. It was heading north toward the seaside resort of Southport. The Bentley was half a dozen vehicles in front of him as they approached a section of dual carriageway, and as the road widened, the prestige vehicle accelerated like a rocket. The massive engine took the car from sixty to over a hundred in seconds. Tank was trapped in by other cars and could only watch as the vehicle’s tail lights faded into the distance. He had been following the vehicle for most of the day now, waiting for the right moment to get the occupant Victor Brastz alone. In hindsight, it would have been easier to snatch him off the street and put him in custody for interrogation, but that would have alerted the serious crime units as soon as he had been released. There was nothing for it now but to wait and see where he was going.

  Tank floored the accelerator pedal and the pickup roared after the speeding Bentley. A small two door hatchback in front of him pulled out into the overtaking lane and blocked Tank’s progress. He had to slam on the brakes to avoid running into the back of it. Tank slammed a huge fist onto the horn and flashed the main beam headlights. A hand appeared from the driver’s window and the middle finger was raised prominently in a gesture of defiance. The gesture angered Tank further and he pushed the pickup to within inches of the obstinate driver’s rear bumper. He flicked the main beam again but this time he left it on. The light was blinding the driver in front and the dazzling reflection from his rear view mirrors became too much to tolerate. The driver indicated to move over and swerved into the slower lane, he offered Tank his middle finger again as the pickup truck roared level with him.

  Tank floored the accelerator once more and the truck lurched forward again gathering pace. The tail lights of the Bentley disappeared in the distance as the vehicle took a wide bend in the road ahead. Tank guessed that it was at least half a mile in front already. He had to catch it before they reached the maze of one-way streets that dissected the town ahead. Tank knew the resort well but the Bentley could easily lose him if he didn’t close the gap. The pickup was flat out and the speedometer was passing one
hundred and ten. He approached the bend where he’d lost sight of the vehicle at full pelt, and as he turned through it, he could see a line of traffic up ahead which was stopped at a red light. The Bentley was five hundred yards ahead of him stuck behind an articulated lorry and a convoy of a dozen other cars. Tank eased off the gas and brought the pickup to a reasonable speed as he joined the queue behind the lorry. He was three vehicles away from Victor’s Bentley and two miles away from the Victorian resort’s centre.

  The next two miles were uneventful as they passed through a series of traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. The articulated lorry hogged the road and there was no room to pass it. They approached the junction of Lord St and the promenade as they entered the town centre. Lord St was the main shopping area and lined with high class fashion outlets and grand hotels. It was the only remaining section of the town to be kept in decent order as the resort around it fell into varying states of dereliction. The Bentley took the left hand filter which headed onto the beach road. Tank indicated left and followed it. The beach road forked about two hundred yards further on; one road led to the promenade area, which encircled the old boating lake and a decaying marina, while the other headed for the beach road and the old funfair. The Bentley reached the fork in the road and stopped. There was no other traffic around and Tank was only fifty yards behind the vehicle. Tank gritted his teeth and swore under his breath. If the Bentley didn’t move quickly then Victor would see him in his rear view mirror. The game would be up before it had started. Suddenly the Bentley’s engine roared and the vehicle screeched away toward the beach road leaving a cloud of burning rubber smoking behind it. Although the beach road was miles long it was essentially a dead end. The beach itself was miles wide and literally ten miles long. There were long sections of the beach that ran up to acres and acres of undulating sand dunes. If Tank followed him then he would have to confront him there and then. There could be no more cat and mouse. Tank cursed again and steered the dark pickup onto the beach road.

  The diesel engine in Tank’s truck sounded louder than usual as he crawled toward the dark shadows of the derelict fairground. The remaining wooden skeleton of the rollercoaster was looming in the darkness. Tank noted that a few flakes of snow had started to fall. He looked at the sky. It was heavy with thick grey snow clouds waiting to dump their loads. He stared into the darkness looking for any sign of the Bentley but there was nothing to be seen. Tank turned off the headlights and pulled the truck over to the side of the road. He needed to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. The car phone bleeped and the screen displayed a withheld number. The text on the display was specific to only one number, and he knew from experience that it was someone on the taskforce network calling.

  “Hello,” he answered.

  “What’s happening?” Grace kept the conversation sharp and brief in case there were other people listening.

  “I’m secure Grace,” he said indicating that he was alone and could talk freely.

  “We’re checking in with you, have you had any joy tracking your informant?”

  “Not yet but I’m about to confront him, he’s driven down a dead end and I’m following. Once I’ve located him I’ll break cover and take measures to retrieve any information that he may have.”

  “Does he know your tailing him?”

  “I don’t think so, but we’ll soon find out.”

  “Be careful,” Grace lowered her voice. Grace Farrington the agent had gone for a second and was replaced by Grace his lover.

  “What’s the matter Grace?”

  “Nothing, I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, that’s all.”

  “Woman’s intuition working in overdrive then is it?” Tank tried to lighten the tone but it didn’t work. His eyes were becoming used to the pitch darkness and he could distinguish the shapes of several vehicles parked randomly on the wide sands of the beach about half a mile away, although none of them was a Bentley.

  “We have lost the use of the satellite to monitor the bay,” Grace changed the subject.

  “Why?” Tank asked, and he watched snowflakes sticking to his windscreen. He instantly knew the answer.

  “There’s a huge snowstorm on the way,” she answered.

  “That’s all we need. Can we get the navy out there any faster?”

  “There’s a minesweeper en route.”

  The contoured silhouette of the Bentley moved out of the shadows a few hundred yards up ahead. The vehicle had been obscured from his view by the funfair. It had no headlights on as it drove down an access ramp onto the dark sands of the beach.

  “My target is on the move Grace I need to go,” Tank didn’t wait for a reply. He disconnected the call and pushed the gearshift into first. The black pickup purred loudly as it moved slowly toward the fairground and the beach beyond it. The Bentley’s headlights came on and pierced the darkness with two wide beams of light. The vehicle accelerated quickly leaving deep tyre tracks in the hard sand. Within seconds, it was out of sight behind the sand dunes, which separated the road from the beach. Tank drove the truck past the fairground and then down the access ramp onto the beach. The rear end of the truck fishtailed as the tyres tried to find purchase in the sand. Tank flicked the pickup into four wheel drive and the vehicle instantly began to grip the surface. Once he was on the sand he could see the rear lights of the Bentley in the distance. The car was travelling at speed and would soon be out of sight again if he didn’t act now. He kept his own lights switched off and accelerated across the wide open sand in pursuit of Victor Brastz.

  Tank had edged the pickup up to sixty miles an hour when the back end started to fishtail again. He eased of the gas and regained control. The Bentley wasn’t any closer but it wasn’t any further away. A car loomed out of the darkness to his left. The windows were steamed up by the heat generated from the courting couple within. The roof and bonnet were already covered in a fine coating of white powder. The snow was starting to stick. Tank turned his attention back to Victor Brastz but the red taillights had disappeared completely, and so had the headlights.

  “Shit!” Tank shouted, and he punched the steering wheel. He leaned closer to the windscreen and peered hard into the darkness but he couldn’t see further than about fifty yards across the sand. It was total blackness. The dull glow of artificial lights from the nearby resort was screened out by the tall undulating sand hills. He had no choice but to switch on his headlights. The powerful beams revealed nothing but miles of sand as far as the eye could see. Tank steered the truck to the right to aim the beam that way. There was nothing. He steered the truck to the left and repeated the process, and still there was nothing.

  “Shit! Where are you Victor?” Tank hissed. He steered the pickup hard left and headed toward the sand dunes. The hills were tall and steep like a miniature mountain range. The more established dunes were bound together by thick sharp grasses. Wide paths had been trampled through the grasses by the armies of tourists that crawled over them every weekend.

  “You can’t just disappear,” Tank said slapping the steering wheel again.

  There was a glint of light five hundred yards away from the bottom a large sand hill. The grasses were thick there. Tank aimed the truck in that direction and he could clearly see the rear wheel arch of the Bentley. He steered the truck toward it.

  “What are you doing out here Victor?” Tank whispered in the darkness of the truck cab. The glow from the dashboard instruments accentuated the muscles in his jaw. They twitched with tension as he approached the sand dunes.

  Tank flicked the headlights onto full beam as he neared the vehicle. He steered the pickup to come directly behind the Bentley, effectively blocking it in against the base of the dunes. As he straightened the truck, he could clearly see through the rear window and had a good view of both sides of the Bentley. There was no one in the driver’s seat, but the driver’s door was open. Victor Brastz was lying on his back. His arms were splayed above his head and his legs were still in the
foot well of the car. His head was turned sideways away from Tank. The engine was still running and exhaust fumes were blowing from the tailpipe.

  Tank smelled a rat straight away. This had the word trap written all over it. He took out his nine millimetre Glock and opened the driver’s window. Tank steered the pickup toward the Bentley and the prone man. When the front of the truck was level with the rear of the Bentley Tank reached out of the window, pointed the Glock and fired twice. The first bullet crashed into the driver’s door and shattered the panel into three jagged pieces. The second smashed the driver’s window into smithereens of glass. Shards of the material sprayed Victor Brastz but he didn’t move. Tank gritted his teeth and drove the truck forward. He aimed and fired two more rounds into the sand near Victor’s head. The bullets crashed into the compact sand spraying huge fans into the air and covering Victor’s head and face, but still he didn’t move.

  “Either you’re very brave or you’re very dead,” Tank whispered to himself.

  He aimed the off side tyre onto Victor’s extended hand. The body twitched slightly as the heavy pickup crushed the exposed digits to pulp, but even then didn’t move. Tank opened the door of the truck and climbed out onto the sand. There was a fine coating of snow on the ground and it crunched in the silence as he scoured the floor for give away footprints but there was nothing unusual. He took a few steps toward Victor and leaned over him. Victor’s body was illuminated by the headlights from the pickup and Tank could see a dark trickle of blood which ran from the centre of his forehead into his right eye. There was no telltale black ragged bullet hole there though. Maybe Victor Brastz wouldn’t be parting with any information after all. He looked like he had been hit very hard or shot with a small calibre handgun. Tank lowered the Glock and checked Victor’s pockets for his wallet and any other information that he might have on him.