‘Looks like that’s your green light, Diane,’ said Harry. ‘Pull together everything you’ve got on the hostages and hijackers, write two articles and I’ll look them over.’
Diane’s eyes shone in anticipation of the praise to come from Harry when he realised how good her writing was and how effective her investigations. She’d managed to get a fair bit on the hijackers, but not the hostages, so her plan was to phone any contacts she had in the various locations pertaining to the hostages and get them to dig up whatever they could. In the meantime she would write the first piece on the hijackers. She turned away from Harry, leaving him to catch the remainder of the news conference, eager to get on with the job in hand. She had a lot of favours to ask and just had to hope that in the future everyone wouldn’t call them in all at once. Or sell her out again.
As she walked she read over the details they’d been given on the hijackers, wondering how well educated, normal young men, of good standing in their community, could turn out to have been radicalised. One of the men on this list had to be the leader. The one who had turned the others. More than likely that Kourash bloke. The one who’s relatives had done the interview. That was the angle for her article, she decided. Pure speculation, of course, but then again that was fast becoming her trade mark.
Her attention was drawn away from the piece of paper in her hand by a noise overhead. The whoomp whoomp of rotary blades from a fast approaching helicopter mesmerised the ladies and gentlemen of the press, as it swooped low overhead. Then, with a collective roar, everyone raced back to their stations, craning their necks to watch the spectacle in the sky as they ran. Diane realised that they were all hoping to God their cameramen and photographers had reacted quickly enough and were already filming. Harry’s paper had a photographer on site and she raced towards him, the planning of her articles cast aside in favour of a new, more exciting development.
‘What the fuck?’ was Crane’s reaction to the noise overhead as he chased Booth and Hardwick outside, just in time to see a small black helicopter pass overhead. There were no marking on it depicting the police, air ambulance or rescue, so Crane had to deduce that it was some idiot from the press, determined to be the one to get close up pictures of the train and the hostages.
‘Keane!’ Crane shouted as he ran back inside the station, ‘Tell Kourash...’ but the remainder of his words were cut off by the ringing of the telephone. Crane slid to a halt beside Dudley-Jones and listened as Keane tried to placate the hijacker.
‘Kourash, this has nothing to do with us. It’s not a military helicopter.’
‘You fucking bastards,’ was Kourash’s reply. ‘I warned you. I told you to stay away. I told you what would happen if you didn’t.’
‘Please listen. I don’t know who they are. I repeat, this is not a police or military helicopter.’
But Kourash wasn’t about to be placated and continued screaming at Keane. ‘Get them away from the train now Keane!’
‘I can’t. I don’t know who they are,’ Keane was still speaking in his calm measured voice and Crane once again had to admire the man’s restraint.
Crane looked at the overhead monitor, showing the live pictures from Sky News of the helicopter passing over the train. ‘What are you doing about this,’ he hissed to Dudley-Jones. ‘For God’s sake get that bloody helicopter away from the train.’
‘The local RAF station is scrambling, but it’s going to take them about five minutes to reach us, sir.’
‘Christ alive, that’s too long, anything could happen in five minutes.’
Over the speakers, Keane was still trying his best to placate Kourash who, Crane could see on the television, was leaning out of the window of the driver’s cab. In his fear and anger it seemed Kourash had forgotten about staying obscured from the authorities and the press. Remaining secure behind the darkened barriers he had created. But from the distance of the media field, even with their latest technology, Kourash was still as small as a stick figure in a Lowry painting.
‘Do we know who the helicopter belongs to?’ Crane demanded.
‘Not at the moment, sir. The team have contacted the major news stations, who have all denied that it’s one of their reporters,’ replied Dudley-Jones.
Crane had to assume the television stations were telling the truth, otherwise one of them would be beaming live close up shots of Kourash hanging out of the driver’s cab. Crane peered more closely and Kourash seemed to be waving his fist at the machine. Was it a fist? With a chill Crane realised it wasn’t just an arm Kourash was brandishing, but clasped in his hand was a machine gun.
Crane grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled something on it and rushed into the small room Keane was in. Even though Keane’s voice had been calm, almost serene, over the speakers, Crane saw the extent of his anguish portrayed in his body movements. Keane was pacing and turning in the small room. He paced and turned several times before he noticed Crane.
As Keane looked up, Crane thrust the paper into the man’s hand. Keane looked down and read the message: Kourash is threatening the chopper with a machine gun, just as a volley of bullets could be heard simultaneously out of the telephone handset and through the open window.
It had been bad enough when they’d heard the helicopter, but when the shooting started, that’s when everyone really did fall apart. For Emma the world became a series of disjointed images. Charlie, howling, holding out his arms to his father. Billy, angry, looking up at the ceiling of the train, tracking the movements of the helicopter with his head. Hazel’s arms wound protectively around her bump. Colin’s grey face, his eyes closed, lips moving. Praying, no doubt. She felt Peggy’s arms snake around her shoulders, trying to comfort her. But all she felt was stifled.
Shaking off the woman’s embrace, Emma looked towards the closed door of the driver’s cab and screamed, ‘Kourash! No!’
Pushing her way through the men guarding the door, who seemed as stunned as everyone else in the carriage, she grasped the door handle and turned it. She pulled the door open as another hail of bullets wrenched through the air. Deafened and disoriented, Emma lurched through the opening. She fell against Kourash and grabbed hold of him, her knees buckling, her falling body dragging him back through the window.
He was mouthing something that she lip read as, ‘Bastards!’ A sentiment she agreed with whole heartedly.
She once again called, ‘Kourash! No! Please!’
The fight seemed to go out of him at her words and he looked down at her, the anger clearing from his eyes. He put his weapon down on the floor, as the noise of the helicopter receded into the distance and then replaced the telephone handset, cutting off Keane’s voice that was still babbling on, unheeded.
‘What’s the matter, Emma?’ he grinned at her. ‘Surely you don’t think I was trying to hit the helicopter?’
His mercurial change of mood confused her. Of course she thought he’d been trying to shoot down the helicopter. Everyone must have thought the same thing. She heard jabbering behind her and turned to see the other hijackers crowded around the door, pushing and shoving for a better view, but unwilling to enter the cab. It seemed the hijackers were as afraid of their leader as the hostages were.
‘I was only scaring them off. Keane told me it was nothing to do with the authorities, so I guessed it was someone from the press wanting to get close up pictures. So I thought I’d give them something to write about, that’s all. Shake them up a bit. Give them interesting pictures that they can flash around the world. I don’t want the news story going stale, do I?’
But Emma wasn’t at all sure that was what he was trying to do. She needed reassurance. As if reading her thoughts, he reached out, helped her off the floor and kissed her forehead.
13:00 hours
The minutes had crawled their way into hours in the waiting room and the hands of the clock on the railway station wall had finally reached the latest deadline for releasing prisoners. The dapper civil servant wasn’t looking quite so dapper an
ymore, as Hardwick disconnected the call he had been on. The Prime Minister had just closed the COBRA meeting. The edict was clear and concise. There was to be no giving in to Kourash’s demands. It had been a unanimous decision.
Even though he knew it was coming, the verdict still felt like a hammer blow to Crane. He wondered what the decision would have been if any of the Cabinet had a relative on the train? The Prime Minister even? Would it have made any difference? Could that have swayed the decision? Personally Crane would have fought for some leeway if he’d had the opportunity of addressing the meeting. Pie in the sky, he knew. But God damn it, Billy was on that bloody train and as far as Crane was concerned, he was family. Just as much as Crane’s wife Tina and his son were family.
Crane had spoken to Padre Symmonds earlier in the day. Trying to get some perspective on the whole thing, he supposed. Certain that he could talk to the Padre in complete confidence, he’d outlined what was happening and shared with him the secret of Billy’s involvement. Captain Symmonds had worked with Crane and Billy often enough to understand the two of them. He understood and respected Crane’s frustration as he railed against the hijackers, the people in command and even God himself.
The Padre had finished the conversation by saying that he would pray for everyone involved and particularly for a speedy end to the disaster that was unfolding on everyone’s television set, car radio, newspaper and internet news pages.
All Crane could do was to caution the Padre when it came to praying for them all. ‘Be careful what you pray for,’ he’d said. ‘For you have to live with the consequences of those prayers. Whatever happens, people are going to die.’
It was now time to see what the outcome would be, when Kourash realised there was to be no release of prisoners and that Bagram Detention Centre was staying open.
‘What do the latest drone pictures show?’ Colonel Booth asked Dudley-Jones.
‘No change, sir. One driver’s cab and one carriage empty. The other two occupied. Everyone seems to be crowded into those.’
‘So the strategy seems to be get everyone together and blow them all to kingdom come,’ Crane said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘How can the Prime Minister effectively sign the death warrant of a group of innocent hostages?’
‘It’s for the greater good,’ the civil servant Hardwick snapped, not so civil anymore. ‘There’s no point debating it. We can’t change the decision.’
‘That’s all very well, but it’s not your friend who’s on the train,’ Crane slammed his fist into the table in his frustration.
‘We don’t know for certain that Kourash does have explosives on board, sir,’ Dudley-Jones said as he pulled his headset off and massaged his ears.
‘I suspect that’s a vain hope, but thanks anyway.’ Crane acknowledged the young man’s attempt to pacify him.
Turning to Keane he asked, ‘Do you know what you’re going to say to Kourash? It seems to me that this time you’re not going to be able to dissuade him from carrying out his threat.’
As Keane opened his mouth to reply, the phone rang. Jumping off the desk he’d been sitting on, Keane took the few paces to the telephone in the shop. Crane watched Keane hesitate before grasping the handset and raising it to his ear.
‘Hello, Kourash,’ Keane said, in that calm and untroubled tone that Crane was in awe of.
‘So, I take it you are ready to watch your people die?’ Kourash’s whisper was more deadly than a shout and the venom behind those few words conjured up an image of a King Cobra, coiled and ready to strike. Its flared hood and piercing intelligent eyes a perfect piece of imagery to describe Kourash, Crane decided. He looked at the picture they had of the hijacker. His haughty, puffed up visage sneering down at Crane from his elevated position on the incident board.
‘Please, Kourash, there’s no need to kill anyone. I’m still working with the authorities to try and meet your demands. I’m sure I can get some concessions for you.’
‘Well, I’m not sure, Keane. In fact I think your efforts could be described as pathetic. As far as I’m concerned you’re a failed negotiator. Remember what I told you before. Any deaths are a stain on your hands. Every time you look at them, you’ll see their innocent blood, spilled because you couldn’t save them.’
‘Kourash...’
‘Goodbye, Keane.’
As the line went dead, Keane replaced the telephone receiver and held his hands up in front of his face. Staring at them in horror, as though they were already covered in the blood of the innocents. As the sound of the explosion reached Ribblehead Station, Keane buried his head in his tainted hands. And Crane fell into the nearest chair.
13:05 hours
To be fair, Kourash had had the decency to warn them of the explosion. Warned them that he was going to blow up the empty carriage at the end of the train. But it hadn’t helped. It was yet another body blow to the already damaged armour the hostages were desperately trying to protect themselves with. Colin fainted as the shock waves pulsed through the train carriage. Flying shrapnel tattooed the darkened windows, making everyone jump and Charlie screamed and screamed in terror. Billy and Mick rushed to Colin’s side and poured water over his face to revive him. Colin wasn’t best pleased and as he surfaced, spluttering and swearing, he pushed away Mick’s hand, as he attempted to get up off the floor.
Billy looked around at his forlorn band of desperates and felt useless. There hadn’t been any chance to try and overpower one of the hijackers and grab his gun. They were always in two’s, never alone and very protective of their weapons. Billy had come to the reluctant conclusion that he wasn’t going to be able to mount a single handed rescue of the hostages. Not without getting any of them killed. And he couldn’t take that chance. It wasn’t fair on them. Now, if he’d been with a couple of mates, well that would have been different. But as it was he had to push away his military frustrations and concentrate on trying to keep everyone alive.
And that was looking more and more dodgy. Colin didn’t look as though he would last more than a couple of hours. Death was already circling around him. Billy could almost see the dark shadow of the angel of death flittering across Colin’s face. The latest shock had been a close one. It didn’t seem that Colin’s heart could take very many more shocks like that. And as for Hazel, all he needed was for her to go into labour. Peggy was alright, mostly taken up with caring for Charlie and his dad, David, who usually wore a bemused expression. His mind didn’t appear to be with them most of the time. He looked very much out of his depth at having to spend so much time with his son. It seemed to Billy that his wife must have done most of the parenting. David was being presented with a perfect opportunity to bond with Charlie and help him through this terrible ordeal. Instead it seemed he was failing miserably as a father and a man.
Dismissing David, Billy turned to look at Mick, who was returning to his seat after helping Colin. Mick was one of those men who would give anything a go, but without much thought behind his actions. But he was a good man, trying his best in the most horrendous of circumstances, but way out of his depth. He was still concerned about the rail network and kept going on at Billy about the disruption to the railway system.
Next to Mick, Emma was curled into a ball in her seat. She was a strange one, mused Billy. Obviously intelligent, but not experienced in life, cocooned in her studies at university and no doubt equally cocooned by mummy and daddy, who naively thought they could protect their daughter by not exposing her to the harsh realities of life. Well she was getting a big dollop of reality now. Billy had thought, even hoped, she might lean on him to help her get through this, but it seemed she had become fascinated by Kourash. Okay the man was certainly dynamic and attractive in a dark smouldering way. The complete antithesis of Billy. Oh well, he couldn’t win them all, he supposed, and anyway there was someone back in Aldershot who liked his open friendly face and fair-haired good looks. But he pushed away the creeping thoughts of Diane. He had to concentrate on the job
in hand. He’d think about her later. He needed to make sure he survived this first. Otherwise he’d definitely never see her again.
Turning his thoughts back to the job in hand, he had to get a message to Crane. The explosives were in the bicycles themselves. They’d obviously packed the frame full of sticks of something explosive and had set the bomb off using a mobile phone. That meant there may be explosives in all six bicycles. He had to hurry.
Crane had never felt so relieved to get a text. As the merry tune emanated from his phone, indicating a message, he shouted, ‘Yes!’ as he pressed the button, but no one heard him, the other members of the team being more interested in shouting at each other.
‘Where are the fucking pictures from the drone!’ yelled the Colonel.
‘Coming, sir, coming,’ gabbled Dudley-Jones as he frantically keyed in instructions to show the pictures on the large screen that everyone was watching.
‘Come on, come on,’ mumbled Keane, who had come out to join them.
‘How will we know if anyone is in the rubble?’ asked Hardwick, wringing his hands and looking like Scrooge on a bad day.
‘The thermal imaging camera on the drone will show up any bodies, as long as it gets there in time, while they’re still warm. Isn’t that right, Dudley-Jones?’ Booth snapped at the poor intelligence operative, who was still clicking away and clearly trying not to panic.
As the smoke cleared and the live feed showed pictures of a big flat mangled mess where the rear carriage had been, Dudley-Jones switched to a thermal view.
As everyone edged closer to the screen for a better look, Crane shouted, ‘Everyone’s okay! Kourash must have moved them out of danger!’
‘Where? How? Is that what all these colours mean?’ the civilian was pawing at the Colonel’s uniform in his desperation.
Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6) Page 10