Soft Target 02 - Tank

by Conrad Jones

  From the gloom at the far end of the hangar a set of headlights illuminated and a long black limousine crawled into view and parked next to the van. The doors of the van opened and three men exited from the front; four more climbed out of the back, making seven. The men took up positions along the deep inspection pit. No weapons were drawn yet but the anticipation of violence was tangible. Alexis’ men stopped short of the pit leaving seventy yards between them and Roman’s men.

  The driver of the black limousine stepped from the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door to allow its occupants to alight. Roman Kordinski exited the limo followed by three more leather clad bodyguards who were all carrying Brugger & Thomet tactical TP 9mm machinegun pistols. That made twelve, including the driver. The machine pistols were favoured by Special Forces worldwide and are capable of firing 900, 9mm armour piercing bullets in a minute. Astonishingly they can be bought on the internet by anyone with a credit card for just $1200 via mail order. They stood menacingly along the inspection pit. Roman was wearing an expensive wool suit tailored at London’s Saville Row. He didn’t look like he was here for a scrap; he looked more like he was attending a board meeting. Roman stepped forward a few steps and indicated that Alexis should do the same.

  “Why are you carrying all the hardware Alexis?” Roman asked smiling like a snake, “We are old friends. Don’t you trust me anymore?”

  Alexis looked along the inspection pit and counted twelve men including Roman and his driver. The fact that three of them were carrying Brugger and Thomet machineguns tipped the balance completely in Roman’s favour.

  “I would say that a man of your intelligence can work out who is carrying the hardware Roman,” Alexis answered stepping forward slowly.

  “Tell your men to place their weapons on the floor and we can talk,” Roman said, “I need to get you out of the country quickly Alexis.”

  “What are you talking about? Where would I go?” Alexis asked.

  “The police will be looking into my affairs very closely,” Roman said, “Yuri’s disappearance is no coincidence. Someone is trying to implicate me in the Saudi’s kidnap. They will come for you first because of your previous record, and our history of working together. Tell your men to place their guns on the floor while we talk Alexis. I can smell the sweat of fear from our men. There is no need for bloodshed. We are on the same side, remember?”

  Alexis thought about it, but he knew Roman too well. If he thought Alexis was a liability because of his intimate knowledge and involvement in Roman’s business, then he was already dead. He would not be dying easily, not today or any other day.

  “My men will lay down their weapons when your men lay down theirs,” Alexis challenged Roman.

  “I am afraid that’s not possible,” Roman said laughing, as arrogance oozed from his every pore.

  Alexis signalled his right hand toward an elevated metal walkway, which was situated above the hangar doors behind him, and a suppressed shot hissed across the cavernous airplane hangar. The limousine driver was knocked of his feet as .75mm bullet smashed into his chest. A hidden sniper that Alexis had deployed as insurance in case Roman turned up mob handed had fired the massive bullet. His instincts had proved correct. The bullet was fired from an A10 Marine Corps sniper rifle, and it made an exit wound the size of a football as it ripped his back out. His ribcage and lungs were liquidised by the power of the impact, and sprayed the bonnet of the long black limo with a crimson mush. A second shot impacted the concrete between Romans’ feet as a warning, and shards of shattered stone covered Roman’s pristine suit with cement dust.

  Romans’ men pulled their weapons from their holsters, and Alexi’s men responded in kind. Both sets of men pointed weapons at each other across the dark inspection pit in a Mexican standoff. No one fired for fear of starting a fire fight that couldn’t be won. Roman’s men had the added fear of becoming the unseen sniper’s next target.

  Roman raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, “Tell your sniper not to shoot Alexis, you have made your point that we are covered by your sniper. Alexis you are a very clever man. That’s why I hired you. It seems that you are holding all the aces, but our problem hasn’t changed. You must understand that someone is trying to implicate us in the bombings, which puts me in a precarious position my old friend.”

  “You made your position very clear ‘old friend’, by turning up with all this firepower. I don’t believe for one minute that you wanted to discuss smuggling me out of the country.” Alexis said walking backwards slowly and indicating that his men do the same. Sniper or no sniper Roman and his machineguns could decimate Alexis’ men in a matter of minutes. It was time to make a sharp exit.

  “It would be far easier for you to throw me into the pit and dispose of me with the acid, like we have a dozen times before boss,” Alexis emphasised the ‘s’ in boss as edged closer to the door.

  “Do you really think you can just walk away Alexis?” Roman Kordinski hissed aggressively. He was starting to lose his temper because he was outwitted, and was no longer in control. He looked from left to right trying to gauge how many men would die before they killed Alexis, and his blasted sniper.

  Alexis watched Roman intently, and he could see that he was about to do something rash. He lifted his right hand again in a different direction, and another silenced rifle shot spat. This time the shot came from the rafters behind Roman and his men, as a second sniper took aim and fired. A bodyguard next to Roman staggered like a zombie toward the dark inspection pit, holding his machinegun in front of his body. His head had exploded beneath the colossal force of a .75 bullet, which had hit him from behind, arterial blood splatter sprayed Roman and his men. All that remained of the Russian’s head was his front lower jaw, but his body continued to walk reflexively until it toppled over the edge of the oily service pit.

  Roman’s men froze, raising their hands in the air aware now that they were surrounded by at least two expert snipers. Roman stood as still as a statue as his face turned crimson with anger. Warm blood trickled down his neck into his crisp white collar. Alexis turned and ran toward the hangar door signalling to his snipers as he went. The A10 rifles spat their deadly load from both directions and Roman’s men started to fall. Panic set in and both sides opened fire with fully automatic weapons, and the old hangar became a deafening killing zone.

  Chapter 32

  Yuri’s Body/ Graham Libby

  Graham Libby was the Terrorist Task Force coroner. He pulled on his white coat and rubber gloves, and switched on a computer web cam. The camera was pointed at the tortured body of the Russian Yuri, who was discovered at a bus stop in Paddington London, following an anonymous phone call. The discovery of certain evidence with the body quickly linked it to terrorist events in Chester and Manchester. Yuri’s body was flown north to Liverpool where the final affront of an autopsy would be carried out.

  “The subject appears to be in his late thirties or early forties. He is circumcised and has several Hebrew tattoos indicating he is of Jewish stock. The tattoos are the insignia of belonging to the Russian Mafia, and we can look at Wikipedia later to translate their exact significance.” The coroner looked closer at the genital area using a pencil to lift the discoloured penis away from the charred testicles. He would have to remember not to chew the pencil later, or stir his coffee with it in an absent minded moment. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

  “There are electric current burn-in marks on the head of the penis, and deep abrasions which appear to have been caused by some type of clamp.” He lifted the scrotum with the rubber end of the pencil and studied the injuries.

  “Similar abrasions are on the testis however the burn marks are more severe so I am concluding that they are burn-out marks, caused by the same electric current leaving the body.” Graham Libby took a scalpel. He switched on a spotlight to improve the view of the groin area. He now had a pencil in one hand and the cutting tool in the other, which gave him the appearance of a mad drummer,
or a barking professor. He moved the penis with the pencil and cut through the burn marks on the scrotum.

  “The scar tissue on the interior of the scrotum is substantially thicker than it is on the surface, indicating burn-out marks from a low voltage electric current. There is heavy blood staining around the groin and inner thigh area. The amount of blood is not contusive to electric shock injury, even if sharp clamps were applied.”

  Graham Libby pulled down a steel spray head, which hung from the ceiling above the mortuary slab. He squeezed the handle and a gentle spray of warm water was directed on the congealed blood that clung to the corpse. He asked his assistant to help him turn the body.

  “The blood has cleared revealing no lacerations to the thighs or groin area.” He parted the fleshy buttocks with the pencil and winced as he saw the damage to the anal area. There were two deep tears to the rectal sphincter, which travelled several inches in each direction and appeared to continue upward into the lower intestine.

  “The subject has been subjected to sustained electric shock torture. A low voltage has been used to ensure the victim doesn’t die of a heart attack, but he would have endured incredible pain. The rectal area shows extensive lacerations contusive with violent anal rape probably by several perpetrators.”

  Graham Libby had seen every kind of victim a coroner could see. Victims of violent torture always made him feel incredibly vulnerable. The thought of being restrained and subjected to excruciating pain made him nauseous. The Jewish man on the slab bore all the marks of a gang member, and gang members lived by a violent code of ethics. It made little difference in the end though how tough they were. Everyone was made of flesh and blood that is frighteningly fragile. Devastating trauma can be caused to the human form by anything hard or sharp, fire, chemicals or electricity. The man on the slab was subjected to a hideous ordeal before the bullet, which had killed him, finally ended his pain. It appeared to have been self inflicted although he couldn’t confirm it until the tests for gunshot residue were completed and returned. The fact that the dead man had finally ended his own torment gave Graham Libby little comfort. He took several swabs from the dead man’s hands to send to ballistics. The science of ballistics identifies which gun was used to commit a specific crime. It is the oldest forensic science. It’s especially used to link a firearm to the bullets they have fired. All gun barrels leave distinctive marks on their bullets, and once a firearm is found it can be identified with absolute certainty whether it is the particular gun being sought for that particular crime. Firing a bullet leaves distinctive marks on the bullets, which are caused by the rifling grooves found inside the gun barrel. Graham Libby had to apply forensic pathology to the firearm wound to distinguish whether it was definitely suicide, an accident or murder.

  By studying the inlet and exit holes, he deduced the direction of the bullet. He also knew from which distance and angle the shot was fired. A bullet striking the skin at right angles makes a clean hole in the skin, which is slightly bigger than its own diameter. The skins elasticity makes it stretch in front of the bullet and then shrink as it passes, leaving a rim where the surface of the skin has been destroyed. If the bullet strikes from an angle then the entrance hole is oval shaped. Exit wounds on the other hand, show substantial tearing and puckering outward. The exit holes are usually much bigger than the entrance wound as the hot metal bullet flattens when it impacts with muscle and bone tissue. In the case of firearm suicides when a muzzle is held against the skin, a rush of compressed gas and their subsequent expansion tears the flesh into a cross shape and the wound is much wider than the bullet.

  “The skin around the bullet wound to the lower jaw, beneath the chin is severely blackened. The skin inside the wound is torn into a cross shape and is also blackened, indicating suicide,” Graham Libby said for the camera. He removed the latex gloves from his hands and dropped them into a medical waste bin, and then he walked to a hand sink and washed his hands for much longer than he needed to. Graham Libby glanced into a square mirror, which was fixed to the wall above the sink, and he noticed that the deep lines at the corner of his eyes were spreading. He sighed trying to expel the sick feeling in his guts but he knew that it would stay with him for a while yet.

  Chapter 33

  Chen/ Mersey Tunnel

  Chen was thrown backwards by the blast from the sting grenade. He felt like a sledge hammer had hit him. His battle vest had taken the brunt of the blast, and protected his vital organs from the rubber shrapnel projectiles. The night vision visor saved his face and eyes from any critical injuries, but the apparatus was hanging shattered from his face. He glanced around the service tunnel at his men. Two of them were sat on the floor nearby in a similar state of shock to him, but they didn’t appear to be seriously injured. The men at the rear of the column rushed forward to the aid of their Task Force colleagues, and as they reached Chen the gas from the sting grenade hit them. One of his men removed his respirator from his utility belt and placed it over his face. It covered his eyes, nose and mouth and fed him oxygen through a valve. Chen’s eyes were streaming as he was helped up to his feet. The Task Force team checked each other over for any serious injuries and made sure that everyone was protected from the tear gas.

  “We need to move out,” Chen said, “fire a volley down that tunnel at boot level. Let’s see if they have left us any more nasty surprises.” Two Task Force men opened fire and the muzzle flashes illuminated the tunnel. They emptied full magazines and the bullets ricocheted down the narrow tunnel knocking huge chunks of concrete from the walls. The tunnel remained silent.

  “Did you see something then?” Chen asked the group. He shone his torch down the tunnel and dark tendrils of smoke drifted across the beam. Chen raised a finger to his lips hushing his men into silence. The dull sound of metal and glass crashing reached them.

  “They’re in the main traffic tunnel and there’s a fire down there,” Chen spoke into the coms channel, “Major we’re going to follow the Brigade men into the main tunnel. There seems to be a fire there and we can hear what sounds like a car crash.” The channel crackled then went silent. They were too deep beneath the river and thousands of tons of concrete to communicate with the support departments above. Chen checked his watch. The small oxygen valves in their respirators would last twenty minutes.

  “We follow them for ten minutes then we will reassess our oxygen,” Chen ordered and the Task Force team headed down the tunnel into the choking fumes in formation.

  One hundred yards further on there was a culvert, which joined the service shaft to their right hand side. Chen held up his hand to halt the team. He held three fingers up and pointed down the culvert. A Task Force member fired three shots down the tunnel through the thickening smoke. There was no response.

  “Let’s move,” Chen ordered. The Task Force men entered the culvert, which was pitch-dark. Twenty yards on they entered the main body of the two lane traffic tunnel. Flames danced from somewhere in the tunnel that they couldn’t see. The tunnel had a bend about five hundred yards to their left, and the fire was beyond that out of their sight. The tunnel was two lanes wide and was shaped like the inside of a giant pipe. Either side of the road there was a raised walkway, which was for service crew to access the tunnel without affecting the traffic flow. Every hundred yards there was an emergency fire point, which contained a fire hose and portable extinguishers. In the event of a serious road traffic accident fire crews had no chance of bringing fire engines into the tunnel until all the traffic was moved. Metal railings separated the raised walkway from the road.

  The Task Force men looked at the bedlam in front of them and waited for Chen. Chen looked in both directions along the walkways and there was no sign of the brigade men. Cars were stopped bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see. Some had crashed into the cars in front when the lights were turned off. The drivers whose headlights were intact once they had come to a standstill had switched them on, and dark shadows flickered across the arched ceiling. Man
y of the people were out of their cars helping those that were injured, but many had already abandoned their vehicles when the smoke had started to appear, and headed back up the tunnel on foot. It was a scene of sheer chaos. The approaching sound of gunfire as the Task Force cleared their path down the tunnel had caused even more panic. There were hundreds of people wandering up the tunnel away from the fire, some of them injured, and most of them with dirty faces. Breathing normally was becoming almost impossible as the thick acrid smoke drifted up to the ceiling and then down the walls. They had no chance of identifying the Brigade men in this mayhem.

  “We need to get to that fire,” Chen said, “if they came this way then that’s the way they would have gone.” Chen was correct in his assumption. Undercover MI6 agent Neil Clarke was leading his men past the burning bus as the Task Force men had entered the culvert behind them. The bus passengers had long since run away from the crash and the ensuing fire. The unfortunate driver of the car that had collided with the bus was trapped in his seat by the steering wheel. The fire had licked around the underside of his car for ages while concerned witnesses tried to free him from the wreck. Eventually the fire had become too intense for even the bravest Samaritans, and they had to leave the screaming driver to burn. Clarky and his men had watched fascinated as they ran past the bizarre scene.