SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  The pilot’s mate jumped up into the cargo hold of the helicopter out of the path of the stampede. He stared in amazement at the bloodied carcass of his pilot being trampled in the sand, and then he looked at the blood splatter up the side of the helicopter, which made absolutely no sense at all to him. The Eygptian guards were none the wiser either. The stampeding animals were causing havoc all around the helicopter, and their hut. The noise was deafening. The pilots mate turned to Yasser and watched him intently, trying to understand what was happening and why.

  Suddenly, without warning the pilot’s mate was simply knocked of his feet backwards into the helicopter. Yasser smiled as he watched the man’s boots twitching, knowing that the mate was injured but not dead yet. The guards were too busy watching the animal madness in front of the guardhouse to realise what had happened to the helicopter’s pilot and its mate. They were clutching their ancient Enfield rifles, more for comfort than anything else.

  When the Bedouin tribesmen mounted their camels and headed toward them they didn’t realise that they were hostile until it was too late, not that it would have made any difference.

  The three Egyptians placed their weapons down against the guardhouse and raised their hands in surrender. One of them was babbling his apologies for whatever offense had been caused to the Bedouin chief, who was sat on his camel watching the scene and cleaning the sights of his sniper rifle, oblivious to the man’s pleading. Melad pointed his Kalashnikov toward Yasser’s cage, and the guard that had given him water everyday ran over to it and opened the door with his keys. Melad and Megdah approached the one armed terrorist leader and offered him fresh water, Yasser drank slowly from the flask, stared at the frightened guard, and then he drank again. The guard had always sensed the evil that pervaded from Yasser but now that there were no metal bars between them the feeling was tenfold. Yasser turned to Melad.

  “Shukraan,” Yasser thanked the men and bowed his head in respect.

  “Ahlan wa Sahlan,” the two Arabs said that he was welcome, and they kneeled before him.

  “We are here to take you to a place where you will be safe and free caliph,” Megdah said.

  “We will never be truly free until we have driven the crusaders from our lands, and the Jews are wiped from the face of the earth. I’m not sure who is worst, them or our Muslim brothers that collude with them,” Yasser cocked his head to the side as he looked at the terrified guard. The man stared at the floor trying to avoid eye contact with Yasser or the others. He was holding his hands together loosely in front of him, and his feet were crossed one in front of the other, visibly trembling.

  “You brought me water every day didn’t you?” Yasser asked the guard. He didn’t answer he just nodded his head rapidly in the affirmative.

  “I asked you a question,” Yasser said quietly.

  “Yes, yes I brought you water every day sir, please don’t kill me,” the guard whispered.

  “Every day that you brought me water, what did I say to you?”

  “You said thank you.”

  “And every time I said thank you, what did you say?”

  The guard started to shake, his lips quivered and he screwed his eyes closed tightly together, trying to make the scary world disappear. He didn’t answer, because he couldn’t.

  “Answer me!” Yasser screamed in his face. The sudden shouting made Melad and Megdah jump, startled.

  “Every time that I thanked you for bringing me water, what did you say to me?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t say anything to you, I was ordered not to,” the guard shrunk further into himself, his shoulders hunched up and his chest sank.

  “Exactly, you said nothing to one of your Muslim brothers, because the Kufur ‘ordered’ you not to,” Yasser hissed the words in the guard’s ear.

  “You will wish that you used your tongue when you had the opportunity to. Cut his tongue out and feed it to the goats,” Yasser said to Melad.

  “What?”

  “I said cut his fucking tongue out!” Yasser shouted at Melad, and the look in his eyes defied contradiction.

  Megdah moved first, not as squeamish as Melad. He kicked the guard at the back of the knee joint and the guard fell to his knees. Megdah positioned himself directly behind the guard, and pulled the man’s arms up his back and secured them with his elbows. The arm lock was unbreakable. Melad took a wicked looking Bedouin dagger from his robes. The handle was ornately decorated, the blade was curved and razor sharp. He forced the man’s head backward placing his forearm under the guard’s chin. The terrified Egyptian clamped his teeth together, trying to avoid the terrible punishment that awaited him.

  Melad couldn’t force the guard’s mouth open no matter how hard he tried. Yasser watched the men struggling with distain. He eventually lost his patience. Yasser took the narrow blade from Melad and pushed it slowly into the guards left eyeball. The orb burst spilling aqueous humour and blood down the Egyptian’s cheek. The guard wailed in agony, screaming for his life in an incoherent gurgle. Yasser handed the dagger back to Melad and grabbed the screaming man’s tongue between his finger and thumb. Melad took exactly forty six seconds to saw the guard’s tongue off at the root.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Grace Farrington

  Tank climbed into the Jeep that had transported him to the meeting. The uniformed driver loosely saluted again, and then handed him his pager.

  “You dropped this on the passenger seat earlier,” the soldier said.

  “Thanks.” Tank glanced at the screen and it indicated that there were several messages stored.

  “It hasn’t stopped beeping since you went in, sir, but I didn’t want to disturb the meeting.”

  Tank read the first message. He reached the end of the digital text and then he read it again. He looked up through the windscreen down the long sandstone tunnel, which stretched off into the distance, and then he looked down at the screen again. The driver wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, but he knew it would be down the tunnel toward the city centre somewhere, so he engaged first gear and drove on without asking. Tank reached for the coms unit, which was attached to the green metal dashboard, above the heater unit.

  “Control, this is pilgrim one,” he spoke into the microphone. He sat back in the seat; still a little shocked by the message, and put his size twelve feet up against the dash.

  “Come in, pilgrim one.”

  “How long do uniformed division estimate they’re going to need to evacuate the designated areas?” he asked.

  “The last communication confirmed that the city centre is clear, and that the housing estates in close proximity will be cleared by five o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Have they met any resistance?”

  “Negative that; they’re broadcasting on local television and radio that there are a number of suspected gas leaks, caused by the earlier explosion at the St. John’s Tower, so it’s going smoothly at the moment.”

  “Are the Task Force ready?” Tank asked, trying to work out a time line for the operation.

  “Roger that, they’re all ready and waiting.”

  “I need one unit of six men, use Chen’s team, in full NBC gear. Everyone else is to work on finding the missing insurgents,” Tank ordered. It was pointless sending the entire squad into the subterranean delivery basement, looking for the suspect radioactive device. It was also against Task Force protocol to endanger the entire platoon simultaneously.

  “Roger that, what about you, Tank, how long will you be?”

  “I’ll be there in one hour, over and out,” Tank cut the dialogue before he needed to elaborate any further. He needed to get to the hospital quickly.

  “Take me straight to the Royal,” Tank ordered the driver. The driver glanced sideways at the big man, unsure whether he should question the order or not. The military vehicles that operated below the city never left the tunnels. They were taken into the tunnels in boxes and crates, and then assembled below ground away from the suspicious eyes of the
general population. If military vehicles were seen regularly coming and going from beneath the Canning Place headquarters, speculation would soon abound about the existence of the subterranean bunker. The driver glanced at Tank again for confirmation of the order.

  “What’s the matter?” Tank asked the soldier aggressively. The message on his pager had rattled him.

  “Nothing, sir, but this vehicle is restricted to this specific facility, sir.”

  “Did you understand the order that I gave you, corporal?”

  “Yes sir, I’m just not sure that I can follow it, sir,” the soldier worked for the British army not the Terrorist Task Force. He was concerned that he could be court marshalled. He had been posted at the bunker as a reward for completing two tours of Iraq. The corporal had unfortunately started showing signs of posttraumatic stress disorder, when it was rumoured that his unit was being sent to Afghanistan. His commanding officer didn’t think that he would cope with another tour of duty so soon; hence, he ended up driving senior officers up down the giant sandstone tunnels.

  “Do you need me to draw you a fucking diagram?” Tank asked in a deceptively calm voice. It was a voice many people had heard just before they died.

  “No, sir, I don’t require a diagram, sir. I do require permission to take the vehicle off the facility though, sir,” the soldier stuck to his guns. He was a big solid man, not easily intimidated. He fancied his chances against anyone in a fair fistfight and he wasn’t about to be intimidated by Tank.

  “I’m giving you permission to take this vehicle out of the tunnel network, soldier.”

  “This is a British army vehicle, sir. Not a Task Force vehicle, with respect, sir. I’d need permission from one of my senior army officers, to take this vehicle of the base.”

  “Who does the British Army take orders from, corporal?”

  “The British government, sir.”

  “Who do I work directly for, corporal?”

  “I don’t know, sir, it’s a secret.”

  “Hazard a guess, corporal,” Tank’s voice was still calm, almost patronising and detached from the rising anger in his guts.

  “The government, sir.”

  “Well done, soldier, you’re correct.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, corporal, now are you going to take me to the Royal?” Tank asked, moving his hands like the conductor of a famous orchestra, his voice still balanced and calm.

  “No, sir.”

  Tank pulled the hand brake up sending the Jeep into a screeching skid. The vehicle stopped sharply throwing the jobs worth corporal forward, hitting his head on the steering wheel. Tank grabbed the soldier by the scruff of his neck and slammed his head into the driver’s door window. There was a dull thud as his skull connected with the toughened glass. The soldier moaned and struggled, but his protests became weaker when Tank threw a straight right jab, which landed cleanly on the side of his jaw. Tank’s clenched fist was the size of a lump hammer, and the soldiers head rattled off the window again, rendering him unconscious. Tank grabbed him with one hand beneath the knees, and the other behind the head, and he heaved. He hoisted him into the back seat in one smooth motion, as if he was a sleeping toddler.

  Chen and the fat controller pulled alongside the Jeep in a similar vehicle, and wound down the window.

  “What happened to him?” Chen asked, gesturing to the unconscious corporal.

  “Oh it’s just a headache I think, he’ll be fine. I need you to set up your team in full radiation kit,” Tank said.

  “Roger that, what about you?”

  “I need to get to the hospital, I’ll be an hour tops,” Tank said looking at his watch, “cover for me till then.”

  Tank jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the Jeep in to gear. The wheels spun and sprayed grit into the air, as he sped off down the sandstone tunnel. The bunker facility was built during the construction of three massive traffic tunnels, which run beneath the River Mersey, joining the city to the peninsula of the Wirral. When you drive through the road tunnels there are numerous smaller service tunnels branching off in random directions, all with restricted access signs to stop normal traffic from entering. If you look close, enough you will realise that you can’t actually see the end of any of them. They all disappear around sharp bends or into the darkness beyond eye view. In truth they were built as a part of the bunker system, some acted as supply routes for building equipment and the huge tunnelling machines, which actually dug out the underground facility; others were to become emergency exits and entrances for selected politicians and key military personnel to use in the event of an emergency. Tank weaved the jeep through the labyrinth of tunnels, using his detailed memory of their layout. Many of the tunnels looked like dead ends from a distance, only revealing sharp exits at obtuse angles when you had driven right up to them. The optical illusions had prevented inquisitive members of the public stumbling across the bunker system for decades.

  Fifteen minutes later Tank was parking the vehicle outside the main doors of the hospital. The building looked like a modern office block, turned on its side, longer than it was high. The exterior was a dark brick facia, and smoked glass windows snaked round the entire circumference of the structure. To the left of the building was a public car park, beneath, which was the subbasement where Tank had shot Abu earlier. The incinerator chimneystack reached from the car park one hundred foot into the air above the hospital building. The main doors were guarded by armed police, and Tank approached them flashing his identification.

  “Where are the Task Force people?” Tank asked brusquely.

  “Fifth floor, sir,” the uniformed policeman answered.

  “Do me a favour, get someone to take a look at the squaddie in the back seat of that Jeep would you, he’s not been very well.” The policeman nodded and called over a hospital orderly.

  Tank headed for the lift. There were people milling about all over the reception. The hospital shops and the reception desk were busy. An armed policeman was monitoring whoever entered the elevators; several other armed men policed the stairwells. Tank stepped into the elevator car and took a deep breath, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. He couldn’t afford to be carried away. The last few day’s events rolled through his mind like an old movie, he paused some clips, rewound others, until he was remembering the call he’d received in the loft of the church at his grandmother’s funeral. The doctor had said that Grace had demonstrated motor function in her hands. A twitch maybe, he hadn’t dared to hope for anything more than that, until he read the message on his pager. It said that Grace had woken up.

  Tank reached the floor where Grace was being guarded. He was greeted by one of his men. The Task Force man led Tank down the corridor to the small anteroom where she was being cared for.

  “Is there any news on the Major?” Tank asked.

  “They’re not telling us anything, Tank; he’s still in theatre though.”

  Tank nodded, looking through the glass into Grace’s room. Grace was lying very still in her bed, just as she had been for more than a year. There was no sign of any change. Her mother was sat sniffling into a handkerchief at the left hand side of the hospital cot. Next to her mother was a tall, stainless steel, fluid delivery stand. Three drips were hanging from it feeding Grace with vital nutrients and essential medicines through clear tubes, which led to valves in her hands. To the right of the bed was her father, he’d seen Tank arriving and now glared at him through the glass. Tank couldn’t be bothered what the man thought about him right now, or at any other time if the truth be known.

  Grace was the first female soldier to cut it in the elite Terrorist Task Force. She had been critically injured in the line of duty doing a job that she loved. If he could swap places with her then he would, but he couldn’t, and Grace wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Tank wanted to hold Grace in his arms, but he couldn’t even walk into the room while her parents were there without causing
a scene. He stared awkwardly through the glass. He felt that he might as well be a million miles away. Her father was wearing faded denim jeans and a matching denim shirt, his hair was shaved at number one grade all over. The soldier in him had never really retired, despite hanging up his uniform decades ago. Grace’s father stood up and walked around the bed to his wife. He helped her to stand up, holding her hand and talking to her reassuringly. Tank couldn’t hear what he was saying but Grace’s mother turned to look at him through the glass. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her eyes still full of tears. She nodded her head almost imperceptibly to Tank, and the slightest glimmer of a smile creased the corners of her mouth. She waved a weak hand to him and gestured him into the room. Tank smiled back at her and walked to the doorway. He stood face to face with Grace’s father, just three feet separating them.

  “She asked for you,” Grace’s mother said with a broken voice.