Guthrie was lying down on his stomach in the tall damp grass watching the scene play out. He was glad that he had decided to take a look at the airbase after dropping Katie off at Tehidy.
Along with the infra-red goggles, he had also packed his SIG SSG550 sniper rifle. Shoot first ask questions later was his motto, it was the only reason he was still alive.
‘He’s fucking been here, left tracks,’ a man spoke softly into his mobile phone. ‘Yes, we’ve got the tools... What? Export of course... Shall we finish him off? — Okay, whatever you say.’
‘What did he say?’ someone asked.
‘The boss said we have to wait until after the last shipment of Sweet Bee has gone, and then we fucking kill him,’ the man gobbed onto the earth. ‘But, I’m not listening to the boss over this one, if I see him, or even smell him, he’s dead, and that’s a fucking promise.’
Guthrie was relieved that the trail he had left had been spotted, the more he riled them the better. Although, he doubted the majority of men there were RAF personnel.
The men made their way towards the single storey block that he had seen before. But, this time, there were no lights on or BMW parked outside. Following them across the terrain he noticed small, chimney-like objects erupting from the grass which he had not seen on his previous visit. They were the ventilation stacks for air raid shelters, each shelter had 12 external ventilation stacks which ran in two parallel lines across each side of the roof. From his research he knew there were also underground control rooms and other shelters scattered about.
As he hid out of sight behind some concrete pillars, he realised that it was all residual from the last World War. There was also an ‘ops room’ on the other side of the bay, once used by the military, and subsequently became The Ops Room Inn that held weekly discos. But, that had closed down in 1996.
Arriving at a thick copse of trees, instead of stopping, they headed into the woodland. Guthrie followed stealthily, feeling as if he were participating in a children’s fiction, about to enter some sort of secret garden or wardrobe. Suddenly, he noticed an iron gate. Attached to the gate was a huge board:
MINISTRY OF DEFENCE CDE NANCEKUKE – RESTRICTED ENTRY – PERMITS MUST BE SHOWN – CAMERAS NOT PERMITTED
Remaining hidden in the shadows he watched them head through the gate crocodile fashion. But, he had no way of getting through the security gate. Instead, he relaxed on the grass and had a smoke.
He had only just got through half the Marlboro when the gate opened. Two men were carrying a trunk out, but failed to close the gate behind them.
Taking full advantage of the situation, Guthrie headed through the gate and followed the path.
It led to a pod shaped enclosure.
Lights were blazing everywhere; it was a large factory complex. Several fork lift trucks and a small crawler crane stood in the grounds. A glass greenhouse stood near the factory entrance, behind it was a small portacabin.
Interestingly, the literature he had read about the base failed to show the pod or factory. Now he knew the reason for the density of the trees, so that any passing aircraft would not spot the factory, safely hidden beneath the foliage. Although he was fascinated by his surroundings, he was not overwhelmed; he had seen this type of plant before in several countries, mostly involved in the manufacture of arms or drugs.
Creeping up towards the portacabin he noticed a group of men coming out of the factory. They were carrying large crates. Wearing his goggles, he could see that the crates were crammed full of jars of honey and live beehives.
Suddenly, he was bombarded by a haze of crane flies.
‘Git,’ he swatted the flies, only now aware of all the other insects flying about the pod, attracted to the light.
Switching on his pen-camera he decided to film the men. They reminded him of a Lowry painting, matchstalk men with no faces.
From the corner of his eye he noticed a figure running into the pod. Guthrie watched closely, bemused why he was dressed in black and not wearing combat gear like the rest of the men. The figure ran over to a man who was busy digging up some earth. After a few minutes the man dropped his spade, and followed the figure towards a jeep parked near the factory.
Guthrie wondered how the vehicle had managed to get in through the gate. He was also curious to know what they were digging for. But, he did not have to wait too long, as a large, transparent, plastic sack was hauled up out of the ground.
All eyes were focussed on the sack. Nobody noticed Guthrie crawl up behind them and peer into the sack. Inside was a body, it was fixed by rigor mortis.
‘Shall we give him a funeral?’ a voice asked.
‘Don’t be daft, we haven’t got the time.’
‘Very sad, he was one of us after all. It seems a pretty rotten ending getting contaminated, and not even given a funeral.’
Before they had time to continue the debate, the jeep had reversed towards them, and the corpse was lifted in.
For the next half an hour the men busily stacked up the wooden crates onto barrows. Once all the crates were in position, the men grabbed the handles of the barrows and made their way to the far side of the pod. It was only then, when Guthrie noticed the other exit, much larger than the gate he had come through.
Guthrie wondered how he would get out of the pod without being seen. The only way possible was to go back the way he had come in.
As he made his way around the perimeter of the trees outside the pod, he recognised some of the landmarks from his previous visit, although he had never been this close before.
On reaching the other side of the copse, he caught sight of the men loading the crates onto large haulage trucks. He decided that it was time for a smoke.
Once the crates were loaded, they started to move in the direction of the airfield. Closely followed by the other vehicles, including the BMW and a Land Rover.
Also on their tail was Guthrie. He was kept company on the journey across the rough terrain by a couple of bats. They flew close to his head, as if considering him either their friend or their prey. It seemed odd that they were the only mammals that could fly, he thought. Maybe that was the reason they were used in so many horror films.
Just across the field was an object that resembled a giant TV screen cum electric circuit on wheels. It was Type 93 mobile radar.
As they moved close to the edge of the cliff, he could hear the waves crashing against the ragged rock face, and smell the salty air rising up from the sea.
Ahead of him, the trucks were rocking from side to side, it was a wind trap between Portreath and Porthtowen.
If this operation lasted all night, he would pick some mushrooms in the morning for breakfast, and perhaps catch a crab or a handful of shrimps from the rock pools below.
The area was suddenly flooded with bright lights. The haulage trucks had stopped moving. Guthrie recognised the lights from his previous visit, and knew they had arrived at the airfield. He was standing on the legendary Nancekuke Common.
There were four runways on the airfield, although only one appeared to be in use.
A giant balloon-shaped object stood within the perimeter of the runway. Looking through his goggles he saw that it was covered in plum and green pentagonal shaped cells, reminding him of the biomes he had seen in the plans for the Eden Project. It was a Kevlar radome. No doubt it housed a Type 101 radar.
Guthrie knew that its raison d’etre was to give long range observation of the coast. He began to wonder why an unmanned RAF base, under guise of being a mere Reporting Post, would require two remote radar heads.
A Hercules C-130 stood beside the runway. The men pushed the barrows towards it. The figure he had seen earlier, dressed in black, emerged from the jeep and climbed up into the cockpit of the plane.
Grabbing his Walther PPK pistol Guthrie left them to it, and ran across the uneven, spongy ground towards the nearest hangar. There was only one aircraft inside, a Canberra PR9. He knew that a Canberra PR9 detachment had been sent to Zaire
that previous November, in order to establish the location of refugees in Central Africa, where Kalashnikovs were ten a penny.
There were two other hangars nearby. The second hangar contained a Harrier jet. Climbing up into the cockpit he focussed his attention on the centre stick and left hand throttle, longing to mess around with them. Although, he did not give in to temptation, he was unable to resist touching the standard flight controls. Fascinated with the lever that controlled the direction of the four vectorable nozzles.
After playing with the buttons for a few minutes he turned round to investigate the fuselage. It was empty, except for a large object covered in a black sheet.
Climbing out of the pilot’s seat he struggled into the back of the aircraft and removed the sheet. Before him stood a black chest, it was padlocked.
Shooting off the lock with his handgun, he hurriedly opened the lid. It was exactly what he had anticipated, the chest was packed with RAF issue weapons. They were tied up in various bundles, each bundle was labelled: 20 x Rifles 5.56 mm L85A1; 20x Pistols Automatic 9 mm L9A1; 15x Pistols Automatic L47A1 7.65 mm; 10x Machine Guns 7.62 mm L7A1; 10x Machine Guns 5.56 mm L86A1; 20x Shotgun Automatic 12 bore L32A1.
Jumping down from the aircraft, he raced towards the third hangar. A Jaguar GRIA stood inside. It was equipped to carry 1,000 lb free fall bombs, cluster bombs and other missiles. Yet, he did not bother to board, he had already found what he had been looking for.
Desperate for a cigarette he lit up, trying to conceal the flame. It was then that he saw them, columns of round steel cylinders. They lined the walls of the hangar, their destination printed on the sides, ‘GB for Somalia’.
With a heavy heart Guthrie stared at them, all too aware that they were packed with chemical waste. It was the same waste that Nancekuke was supposed to have disposed of a decade earlier. After all, GB did not mean Great Britain in this instance, GB was just another name for sarin.
Sitting down on a rock outside the hangar, he watched the first light of dawn burst through the black sky. Now he could tick off the next task on the agenda, chemical weapons.
Only a couple of months earlier, John Miller of ABC television had interviewed Osama Bin Laden. One of the topics discussed was the Mogadishu slaughter of 1993, known as Black Hawke Down, where the US forces had attacked the Somalis. Bin Laden had said that he blamed the US for the attack, and also blamed them for their crusade against the Islamic countries.
Yet, after supporting the slaughter of the Somalis, the UK had then offered aid, in exchange for a finger in the lucrative oil pie.
Flicking his cigarette ash onto the earth he watched it smoulder, a tiny red flicker of fire. Once this job was finished he would be away as fast as he could, to Kos maybe, and the MOD could go and fuck itself.
‘You’re dead!’
A sudden thud to his back and he went down. The pain sliced through his spine as they beat down on him, kicking at his back and head. The blood trickled down his forehead blinding him, as he fell to the ground.
‘Think you’ve killed the fucker.’
‘Yeah, he’s dead. Shall we leave him here?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid. What if a helicopter or some random fucking hang glider sees him in the morning?’
One of his assailants bent down to pull off his goggles. With a sudden shriek he stumbled back, as Guthrie’s teeth sank into his arm.
The other assailant kicked him again in the head, aggravating the wound. Within seconds Guthrie had him in an arm-lock, and then handcuffed both of them together back to back; all three of them covered in a sea of his blood.
After wiping the blood from his eyes, he was surprised to find that they were only teenagers. He wondered why the enemy was using kids to fight their battle.
‘The question is do I hide you, liberate you or kill you?’ he demanded, with the little breath he had left. The pain made him nauseas. This scenario should never have happened; he had been careless for a second time.
‘And you’re going to tell me that this base is being used for... let me guess - Smuggling out arms and chemical weapons of mass destruction, is that right?’ The blood trickled down into his mouth.
The ginger haired kid nodded.
‘You see, if this had been a couple of years ago, I’d have blown your fucking heads off and asked questions later. What should I do now? If I let you live, well, then I die. If I shoot now, then you die.’
They did not answer.
‘Okay, I’ll make a deal.’ He twirled his gun around his fingers. ‘If you give me some details – I mean details that I don’t already have, I might, now I’m not promising anything, but I might let you live.’
‘What’s the point if you might kill us anyhow?’ the ginger kid asked.
‘The point is, if I choose to kill you, and I haven’t said that’s a cert, have I?’ he said breathlessly. ‘I could kill you quickly and get it over with if you tell me what I need to know, or I could kill you slowly.’ He was laughing, yet not inside, he was just trying his hardest to remain conscious. ‘You know, like cutting out your tongue as a starter. Then chopping off your dick, then your fingers one by one and then removing an eye. You know the sort of thing. There again, I could be merciful and let you go.’
He would have killed them either way if he was still under contract. But, it was difficult now, and his head was bleeding. Even so, he was under no illusion, he knew that his chopping days were well and truly over.
‘So your name is Kareem Kaleel,’ he read from the driving license belonging to the other teenager. ‘I’ve seen you in the London Inn, drug dealer extraordinaire. You wouldn’t be the son of Vivienne and Mustopher Kaleel would you?’
Turning to the ginger boy he then read from his driving license. ‘And your name is…’ he stopped short. The name he was reading was, William Jackson. Was this kid the son of the man whose body parts he had blown up?
Suddenly the noise from a Sea King grabbed his attention, they were looking for him. Its searchlight scanned the area, highlighting the airfield and the numerous mounds of earth that bordered it. On seeing the mounds, he suddenly remembered the document that he had read: ‘But they lied! Not all the buildings were destroyed. Nancekuke produced 20 tons of the nerve gas sarin during 1951 to 1976 and 35 tons more after’.
Guthrie knew instinctively that the mounds highlighted by the aircraft, were the dumping areas of the deadly nerve gas, sarin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Falmouth was a more upmarket town than Redruth or Camborne. Large Georgian houses that had been converted into guest houses, overlooked the beach. There was also the harbour and its tributaries full of yachts, ships and seals. It was the third deepest natural harbour in the world.
Wing Commander Paul Trembath owned a newsagent on the corner of Dracaena Avenue and Killigrew Street. He wanted to buy a string of them all across the South-West, and had already put in a bid for several more.
‘Good morning, Susan,’ he smiled at the grey haired manageress behind the counter. She only lived down the road from the shop, which was the main reason he had picked her from the numerous applicants.
‘Good morning, Mr Trembath, it’s a bit nippy out today.’
The newspapers were placed in neat piles on the shelves, alongside the magazines. The confectionery spread out on the opposite side of the shop, beside the fridge hosting ready-made sandwiches and cold drinks.
‘A lighter and Mars bar were lifted. He’s on camera but I didn’t see him do it. Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Susan, these things happen. Although, I have been thinking of moving the sweets nearer to the till.’
‘Yes, that would be a great help. I could keep an eye on what’s going on then, especially with the children after school.’
‘Have you sold any violet soaps or perfumes yet?’
‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ the woman said excitedly. ‘The customers who bought them said they were wonderful. We’ve sold at least a dozen soaps, and 5 perfumes.�
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‘That’s great news.’
‘I remember my own mother always put a few drops of Cornish violets behind her ears before she went to chapel.’
‘I’m actually thinking of bringing out a violet wine when I retire. Maybe even a lavender wine.’
‘Oh, what a good idea, I don’t think it’s ever been done before. Reminds me of that song, what was it now - violet wine?’
‘You’re thinking of lilac wine – Elkie Brooks.’
‘Yes, that’s right. My husband, Denzel, he’s clever like you.’
‘How is Denzel these days?’
‘Yes, getting better. They said the cancer’s in remission which is good,’ she smiled, blinking her eyes. ‘Reckon he got it from Geevor. You know, that radon gas in the mines gets into the lungs.’
‘Yes, I had heard.’
‘The papers say the government wouldn’t give South Crofty four point seven million pounds to help the mine stay open. My Denzel’s raging mad about it.’
‘Yes. But the rescue package was around twelve million. Never mind, there’s worse troubles at sea.’
Falmouth harbour was packed with tourists that day, although it was still only 10.30 in the morning. The sky looked fairly bright, just a few grey clouds. The weather forecast had said dull but not much else. A speed boat suddenly bolted across the waves catching his attention.
These days the harbour was chock-a-block with speed boats and water skiers coming over from Swanpool and St. Mawes. Even the sheltered inlets were packed with catamarans.
At times like this Trembath wished he had a son, just to do the normal father and son things like fishing or diving. Well, there was still time.
One of the boats anchored in the harbour was a trawler. Trembath climbed down the harbour steps onto the boat and entered the wheelhouse. Just as he started the engine, a swarthy, heavily built man, jumped onto the deck.
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 12