by Peter Plenge
There were plenty of secret societies around that looked after their own- the Masons, the Church, the Law, but none came near the bond of the SAS. Leaving Jock was not an option. Mike had run out of thinking time; Don Gooch and the Governor were making their way towards him.
Don held out his hand. “Gerry” he said, “You’ve come yourself,” looking at Mike.
Mike cottoned on quickly and composed himself.
“Well, Don, from what you said on the phone I figured it was the best move. If this thing is as bad as you say, at least I’ve had most of the vaccines which should protect me,” Mike said convincingly.
“I can’t allow you to take these three prisoners out of here without an escort,” said the Governor. Don Gooch had anticipated this.
“Governor, look at them,” he nodded his head towards the sick bay, “They are incapable of almost any movement, we can’t expose any of your people to this possible virus, it’s too late to inoculate your staff neither can we bring any attention to the ambulance. This is too sensitive.”
He played his part well, and Mike realised the switch of venues was nothing more sinister than Don making the right decision that it was more effective picking up the three men from the prison confines.
“Point taken,” the Governor said, somewhat relieved. “Let’s get them into the ambulance then, there’s no time to lose.”
Jock, Mouse and Danny were wheeled out, all on separate gurneys, by three orderlies who were wearing breathing apparatus. Better late than never. They were quickly loaded into the ambulance. Don spoke to Mike:
“Right, Gerry, you make your way back to the ferry. I’ll pick up my things from across the road and meet you down there.”
The Governor interjected: “Would you mind just coming up to my office, Mr Gooch please? There are some forms to sign; this is irregular enough as it is.”
“Of course,” Don replied. “Gerry, get on your way” he said to Mike.
Mike pulled out of the prison and hit the road to the ferry. He had no more than fifteen minutes to think before he got back to the Mondeo; once there he had to transfer the sick men from the ambulance, then administer the vaccine which he held in a small aluminium case under the seat. He now had a choice. He could go through with the original plan to deliver Mouse and Danny to the house, collect his second payment, and split with Jock. He was well aware, however, that these bandits were highly unscrupulous and if they had decided to double-cross him at the last hurdle there would be little he could do, especially with Jock in tow. The second choice was that this could be payback time for all the pain they had caused Mike and Jane over the last few weeks. He made his decision.
The lay by where the Mondeo was parked came into view; thankfully no one was using it, and it was lower than the road, making it invisible to passing traffic. It was perfect to do the switch.
Mike pulled in and drew up next to the motor. He removed the aluminium case from under the seat, took out one the three syringes, and opened the rear doors. The three escapees looked worse than ever, and Mike thought it must be touch and go whether he was in time. Jock smiled weakly and managed to cock his thumb; well at least he recognised Mike.
Mike had no time to lose. Remembering his instructions from Don, he thrust the hypodermic needle through Jock’s ribcage and directly into his heart. There was a small quantity of adrenalin mixed with the antidote- this would perk up the recipient and also get the heart beating faster, and thus the vaccine would start working quickly.
Mike helped Jock into the front seat of the car and quickly returned to the rear of the ambulance. Mouse and Danny wondered which one of them was next for the vaccine, but Mike did nothing. He looked at them both with a look of hatred burning in his eyes.
“I guess you two can hear me so listen up, you fuckers, you thought you could turn over the SAS. You’re petty criminals that I’ve shit every day, you threatened my family and my life, and you thought you’d get away with it. Well I’ve got your lives right here in my hands, and all I’ve got to do is throw these two syringes on the floor and you’re history, so any last wishes?” he spat out, as he lifted the syringes above his head.
Mouse and Danny were aware what Mike had said and were scared witless. They were going to die here, in the middle of nowhere, after all that planning and on the cusp of freedom. What kind of death would they have to face?
Mike loomed over Mouse, showed him the antidote for the last time and then, right out of the blue, thrust the needle directly into his heart. He followed suit with Danny.
“The reason I’m letting you live is simple- I’m going back to my life, and I don’t want a murder charge hanging over me. I’ve got half your money and you live, but, understand this, if I ever, ever hear that you or any of your henchmen are so much as thinking of coming looking for me, you and your respective families will wish you died of Ebola this day,” and with that Mike walked out of the ambulance, locked the doors, threw the keys into the hedgerow, and got back into the Mondeo.
“Just you and me now, Jock” he said, this time Jock managed to cock both thumbs.
Speed was now of the essence. Mike had a plan- it was by no means foolproof, but he hadn’t thought much of his final escape as he had been focusing on what would happen back at the house, fully expecting some foul play on his return. He had spent his time figuring out if there was trouble, how he would extract himself and Jock. However, that had been superseded by the events of the last two hours, so he gunned the motor to the ferry, calculating how much time he had before the balloon went up- providing he could get to his destination before this was all over the news channels, he might stand a chance.
The ferry was in, and Mike boarded with no trouble, so far so good. He picked up the M271 and then swung West onto the A36, heading up to Salisbury. In the town he stopped at the bank and withdrew as much cash as he could. Whatever happened, he was going to need a lot of money to execute his escape.
Heading north, he skirted Bath, onto the M4 westbound and then north onto the M5. Just over an hour later, and still nothing on the news stations (which struck him as rather odd), he pulled up at his destination. The Guard on duty at the Credenhill Barracks of the British Special Air Service did a double take.
“Mike Tobin?” he enquired looking startled “I heard you were Killed in Action.”
“Well, I’m a ghost then,” said Mike “Who’s the boss these days?”
“The old man’s still Major Morley,” came the reply.
Thank Christ for that, Mike thought.
“Can you buzz him, tell him I’m here with Jock Wallace and we need to see him urgently?” Mike asked.
The trooper walked round to the passenger door, took one look at Jock, and whistled through his teeth, but said nothing; the SAS were trained to expect the unexpected. The soldier disappeared into the Guard room and came back a few moments later.
“OK Mike, he’s in his office, go straight through the barracks, he’s waiting for you.” Another stroke of luck.
Mike pulled up outside the office of the Commander In Chief and told Jock to stay where he was. He grinned, as Jock was already perking up.
“Where the Hell do you think I’m going?” Jock managed to say, and Mike walked in to the boss’s office.
“What the hell’s going on Mike?” was the Major’s greeting.
Mike tried to make light of it. “Good to see you too, Major.”
“Sorry Mike, but I thought you were long gone, it’s good to see you but something tells me you’re not here to re enlist, in fact I can smell trouble,” the Major commented perceptively.
“I’m not going to bullshit you, boss,” Mike said, knowing that would be futile and probably ruin any chance of the Major’s help. “Jock and me are in a spot of trouble, best you don’t know the facts, but the bottom line is we need to get out of the country just as fast as we can.”
Mike hoped this would suffice and the Major was shrewd enough not to ask.
“Stone me, Mike,”
he said, “I daren’t think what a spot of trouble is where you’re concerned, but if you weren’t in deep shit I know you wouldn’t be here. Let me make a call.”
The Major dialled the number for RAF Brize Norton and asked to be put through to the Station Commander.
“Hi Doug, Morley here,” he said as the line connected.
“What can I do you Major?” came the reply.
“Doug, you’ve got a Hercules leaving today for Kabul, I understand you’re picking up a couple of Scots Guards for burial over here. I’ve got a couple of passengers I need to get into Helmand pretty quick, has it left yet and if not can you squeeze them onboard?”
The Group Captain replied, “Must be your lucky day Major, we should have gone two hours ago but there’s a sand storm over there, so we’ve delayed our flight for a couple of hours. The Met boys say we can go at three pm this afternoon.”
RAF Brize Norton is used by the British Military and certain politicians of various countries to come and go into the British Isles by circumnavigating the immigration laws. There is, and always will be, a need for certain personnel to travel incognito and out of sight of the general public. and all the immigration checks designed to monitor their movements. And Brize Norton was that place.
“Thanks Doug, I’ll have them there before it flies. I owe you one,” came the reply. Major Morley looked at Mike.
“You’re in luck, there’s a C130 leaving Brize Norton in a couple of hours. I suppose you need your falsies,” he said.
The term ‘falsies’ was used by the SAS in reference to counterfeit passports. Every SAS trooper had a number of false passports stored under lock and key at the Hereford camp. Never knowing what part of the world these men were expected to go at a moment’s notice, they couldn’t be held up waiting for the correct documentation to support their clandestine and highly dangerous occupation.
“Major,” said Mike, “I don’t know what to say, you’ve saved our arses.”
“That may well be,” the Major replied, “But I suspect the shit’s going to hit the fan sooner rather than later, and I want you as far from Hereford as possible, by the way you weren’t here today. Now let’s get your falsies sorted and get you out of here.”
The Major took the keys to the bunker where the passports were held and walked with Mike past the Mondeo. He looked in at Jock and then looked at Mike and just shook his head.
Ninety minutes later, the Mondeo with the two renegades pulled into Brize Norton and the C130 was on the runway and obviously waiting for them. A signalman waved the motor straight onto the runway and up to the rear doors.
“We’ve been expecting you guys,” he said. “Climb aboard, we’re ready to roll, give me the car keys and I’ll park it up safely for your return, and good luck.”
He saluted, knowing these were the guys who really put their lives at risk in hostile environments. Mike helped Jock out and they made their way up the ramp. He turned round to the airman and threw him the Mondeo keys.
“Keep it,” he said as both men disappeared into the carcass of the huge plane, homeward bound.
Chapter 38
New Scotland Yard, A Few Weeks Later
The Detective Chief Inspector was new to his role. His rise to the position he now held had been almost meteoric, especially as he had come up through the ranks the hard way. Partly he had been lucky, but also his tenacious approach to the job had held him in good stead. He was not one to give up and neither would he suck up to the brass; fortunately, when he had ignored orders from the top it had always paid off and here he was, Head of Serious Crimes, and reviewing a very strange case. The documents before him had been lent as a favour he was owed by a high flyer in Special Branch; the front cover was marked Top Secret Eyes Only and then The Parkhurst Break Out. It was this that had him intrigued.
He had been alerted to the breakout and the subsequent finding of two prisoners locked in an ambulance, within a few hours of the incident. He had subsequently travelled down to the Isle of Wight to start an investigation, and his first point of call was the prison Governor. The Governor had immediately agreed to see him, but had clammed up when the DCI had entered his office. He would not discuss the case and only referred the DCI to his superiors; no explanation was forthcoming and nothing could get the man in charge to open up. So the DCI had returned to London a very angry man. He had immediately demanded an audience with his boss, the Commissioner of Police. The Commissioner had made it abjectly clear that the case was closed, finished, and that the DCI was under threat of dismissal should he disobey these orders; and furthermore these instructions were directly from the Home Secretary, and there would be no chance of covering the DCI’s tracks this time if he pulled his usual trick of ignoring a direct order.
The DCI had made some inquiries, having ignored his previous instructions, and eventually tracked down the documents that now sat on his desk before him. He opened the folder and read. The contents told of the plot to break out of the three prisons, and it went on to speak of the duping of the Bacteriologist Don Gooch by a rogue SAS man and named him. Furthermore, the plot was so heinous with the introduction of Ebola into one of Her Majesty’s Prisons that the Home Secretary had personally ordered the case closed and had issued a D notice to all press agencies effectively banning any release of the facts to the general public. The Home Secretary could not afford the world at large to know Britain had an antidote for Ebola. Both Africa and the World Health Organisation would be up in arms, the Africans literally. Two of the three prisoners had been returned to prison, one was probably going to die of a different illness soon and the other would spend the rest of his days in Broadmoor, the penal institution for the criminally insane. As for the third prisoner, Jock Wallace, and the man behind the break out, Mike Tobin, they had fled the country; probably back to Australia where Tobin was last known to reside. By nature of what they had done their lips would be sealed. The Professor, who had been conned, had taken early retirement, having been forced to sign the Official Secrets Act; should he ever breathe a word he would be charged with Treason.
There was more, but the DCI had read enough. He wasn’t going to let this one go whatever the Commissioner threatened. The DCI was an extremely resourceful man, so twenty four hours later he had gained enough information to take an early lunch break. He walked the couple of hundred meters to the nearest Thomas Cook and booked himself the earliest flight to Cairns, Australia.
Chapter 39
A Bar, Port Douglas, Australia
Mike and Jock had had a relative easy journey back. After landing in Kabul they hitched a lift across the border into Pakistan, where they caught a scheduled flight from Islamabad to Hong Kong. From Hong Kong they flew 1st class, Mike having accessed some of his bounty, to Cairns where Charlie and Jane were waiting. The reunion was tearful and joyous. Jane screamed as Mike appeared through the immigration gate. He dropped his bags and ran to Jane’s outstretched arms. Since that emotional return Mike had not let Jane out of his sight, but that was fine by both of them. Mike was troubled that no news of his adventures had reached the press, having no idea of the British Home Secretary’s intervention.
Charlie had taken Dennis in and was starting to regret it. Dennis was beginning to make a nuisance of himself around town, but word had got round the small community of Dennis’s involvement in Jane’s return and he was tolerated, just.
It was a fine warm day, and the five of them had gone into town for a drink. Charlie, Jane, Jock and Dennis sat on the same table on the boardwalk where Dennis and Charlie had met those few traumatic weeks previously. Mike was inside at the bar ordering the drinks when a man ambled up alongside him.
“First beers on you Mike, if I remember right.”
Mike turned to face the stranger, and the first thing he noticed was the little finger on the man’s left hand was missing. He was looking into the eyes of Detective
Chief Inspector Toby Wakefield, formerly of The Parachute Regiment.
THE END
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