Martin’s grin revealed a mouthful of peg-like teeth. “Awesome.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“I knew you’d like him,” said Diana coquettishly. “Martin, you’re the key to this piece of derring-do.”
Martin stared helplessly into Diana’s eyes, “I’ll do my best.”
We drove to a car park on the other side of the common, a shady corner screened by bushes. Martin nodded sagely at my tradecraft. He rummaged in his pack, producing a thermos flask and supermarket sandwiches. I noticed he had a 6-cell Maglite, night-vision goggles, crampons, glass-cutter, nylon rope and extendable hooligan-bar in there too: proper breaking-and-entering kit. “Mission parameters?” he said through a mouthful of food.
Diana produced a map. “We require subsurface infiltration of commercial premises in The City of London. We’ve identified no safe options above ground level. The onsite security package is very professional: assume the guards have firearms.”
Martin ran his tongue over his teeth. He pulled an iPad from his pack and tapped away. “Yeah, The City’s a bastard, proper Big Brother stuff. But you’ve got the old Post Office Railway running near Liverpool Street. I’ve got a load of glitches for that.”
“Post Office railway?” I asked.
Martin pulled a face that suggested only morons had never heard of the Post Office railway. “Before the Great War, they built an underground railway for fast-mail transit. Paddington to Whitechapel. They built it small gauge, you can walk along it. It was closed in the early 2000s. I use it as a tributary for other central London glitches.”
“A glitch is a hidden access point,” Diana explained.
“Exactly so.” Martin pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Your target’s less than two hundred metres from the Liverpool Street glitch. There’s a deep-cable tunnel from the underground railway that glitches into the Q-ECHO site. Q-ECHO abuts a sub-basement below the target.” He showed me his iPad. He’d created a three dimensional diagram of London below street level, rotating it with a finger.
“Q-ECHO is real?” I said.
“Oh yes, it’s the smallest ‘Q’ site.”
The Q-sites were run by the Post Office during World War 2 as underground telephone exchanges. During the Cold War they were converted into fallout shelters for key personnel. They were mothballed and sealed in the early 1990s, when the government declared The End of History after the Wall came down.
“So you’re saying it’s feasible to access De Soto from below street level?” I said.
“Entirely feasible. The only problem is glitching from Q-ECHO into their sub-basement. That’s about a metre of aggregate. You’d need a big drill.”
“Or explosives,” said Diana.
Martin wiped crumbs from his iPad. “Yes, that would be good.”
“Have we got the kit for dynamic entry?” Oz shifted in his seat. “It’s noisy.”
“I’ll run damage control,” said Diana, “you worry about getting inside.”
“We’ll need a recce,” said Martin, looking at his watch. Like everything else he wore, it was black.
I took the iPad. The map was ultra-detailed, showing tube lines, storm drains, disused tunnels and air raid shelters. A parallel London, something out of Jules Verne or HG Wells. For a moment I remembered the human slurry I poured into the Marylebone Ditch… “Martin, how did you get into this scene?”
“An old girlfriend was an archaeologist. We spent the summer on a dig in Whitechapel, excavating a Roman burial site. Anyhow, someone told me about the old Post Office railway so I took a look.” Martin’s eyes shone with excitement, “I was already into potholing and cave-diving, but I got bitten by the urban explorer bug.”
“Let’s get on with it then,” I said. “Our kit’s in the boot.”
“Brilliant,” said Martin eagerly.
We drove to Southwark, Diana ushering us inside a cavernous lock-up. I changed into cycle shorts and a wicking tee-shirt under black Nomex coveralls. I laced up Danner boots and tugged on kneepads. My assault pack contained a balaclava, body armour, touch-gloves and a head-torch. There was also a tablet provided by Hugh Jansen, designed for high-speed data upload. I wore my .45 on an old-school Galco Miami Classic shoulder rig. Martin’s eyes widened when he saw the guns.
“Don’t worry, darling,” said Diana smoothly.
“No problem,” Martin replied, thrusting out his chest. “You said this might happen one day.”
“It’s alright,” Oz chuckled, zipping up his coverall, “we’re the good guys.” He loaded his Browning Hi-Power and tucked it in a pancake holster.
Diana began tugging the tarpaulin off a vehicle parked in a gloomy corner. It was a black Ford van, livered with the words PRIVATE AMBULANCE. An undertaker’s vehicle.
“Very appropriate,” I said.
Diana opened the sliding side door. Inside was a mahogany coffin with steel fittings. “Admin wins wars,” she said, sliding off the lid.
The coffin contained weapons, shrink-wrapped in tough plastic. There were two Beretta PM12-S2s, stubby submachine guns with fat suppressors, fore-grips and forty-round magazines. An armourer had baked them in grey Cerakote, giving them a tough matte finish. Despite their ‘50s vintage, many gun-nuts consider the PM12 the gold standard in submachine guns. There was also rope, NVGs, karabiners, a sledgehammer and a high-power drill.
I took the kit and stashed it in my pack, along with a couple of litres of water and a handful of energy bars. “Where’s the entrance to this place, Martin?”
Martin booted-up his iPad. “There are a few, but once a glitch is discovered, it’s quickly patched by the authorities. Other explorers put up glitches all over the internet. I keep mine secret.”
“Show me.”
We gathered around the three-dimensional map. He tapped on Shoreditch High Street. “There’s an old maintenance shaft in a vacant building here. We drop ten metres, then a fifteen minute descent to the railway. From there it’s half an hour to Q-ECHO, along the deep cable tunnel.”
“And we’re going to break into this place in broad daylight?” said Oz.
“The glitch is inside an old post office. The back door is easily forced, I’ve used it twice myself.”
“When you’re done, I’ll pick you up from the same spot in the ambulance,” said Diana. “Remember, this is just a recce.”
I nodded. “OK, but if everything’s good, we’ll wait and go in tonight.”
“Roger that,” Diana replied. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
The drive to The City took an hour. We sat quietly in the back of the ambulance, coffin handles rattling every time we hit a pothole.
Diana parked flush to a rust-coloured building. When the ambulance’s sliding door opened we were facing a padlocked gate with a KEEP OUT sign. “Happy hunting,” said Diana.
Martin smiled and pulled a hefty bunch of keys from his pocket and slid one into the padlock. “We’re in,” he said. Seconds later we were inside a gloomy, damp-smelling room. Dirty light filtered in through windows covered with yellow plastic. Oz and I took our SMGs from our packs and readied them. Martin slid a piece of corrugated iron away from the floor. Underneath was a flat metal panel. He slid the edge of his hooligan bar underneath it and prised it open. “Let’s go.”
A rope ladder disappeared into the darkness. Martin weaselled into the hole and began climbing. The shaft was narrow, my pack rubbing against the wall as I inched down behind him. Oz was above me, pulling the metal panel shut. Martin dropped, catlike, and rolled to the floor below. I followed, hitting the deck with a thud. Oz was last, SMG ready.
“Follow me,” Martin whispered. “This is only the maintenance tunnel.”
I nodded, turning my head to illuminate the dusty passageway. Something scurried over my boot. It was a rat, long as my foot. Evil little eyes glittered as it darted into the shadows.
“You get bigger ones than that,” Martin chuckled.
“Switch to N
VGs,” said Oz. “We’re lit up like bonfire night. I’ll take point, Martin. Just show us which direction we’re going.”
We pulled on bug-eyed NVGs. The tunnel was wide enough for two people to walk easily side by side. Apart from the dust, it was surprisingly clean. The air smelt of damp cement. The next glitch was a metal door, rusted half-shut. It was scarred, presumably where people had forced it open. Pushing my pack through, I wriggled to the other side.
Martin pushed his NVGs up and checked his iPad. “This is the railway,” he whispered. “We turn left and keep going.”
The underground railway was barrel-vaulted, ceiling steel-ribbed. My feet brushed narrow gauge tracks, a breeze dragging a smell of oil and decay. We moved slowly, scanning ahead through green-tinted night vision. Every twenty metres we paused to observe before moving on. Drexler’s people were experts. If we’d thought about subterranean access, I had to assume they had too.
We reached the deep cable tunnel. Martin’s voice trembled. “Not far. The Q-Echo glitch is a hundred yards from here.”
The next tunnel was narrower. Stamped metal racks on the wall secured bundles of cables, snaking into the distance. Our footsteps were muffled by a thick layer of dust on the concrete floor, clouds of the stuff swirling about our ankles.
I held up a hand. The others froze.
It was a buzzing noise. So faint, I wondered if I imagined it. Squinting into my NVGs, a bead of sweat tracked down my temple. Movement. Sudden and jerky, twenty metres distant. Whatever it was, it was low. Ground level. For a second I caught the outline of curvature, possibly a wheel. The noise was louder now, the whirring of electronic gears and the plasticky clack of something hard on concrete.
“Dragon Runner,” Oz whispered.
“Huh?” said Martin.
“Recce ‘bot,” I hissed. “Get down.”
I’d first seen Dragon Runners in Iraq. The Yanks call them ‘throw-bots,’ because you can toss it out of your pack and it works whichever way up it lands. The drone was a toughened plastic shell with chunky rubberised wheels, the size of a baby skateboard. An optics hub housed sensors and cameras. Gears whirring, it skittered along the tunnel like a wheeled trilobite. I saw the camera, round and black, glisten.
I lined the circular lens in my night sights and fired. Oz joined in. With a squeal, the ‘runner yawed into a wall, caroming off concrete. A wheel spun hopelessly.
Oz’s breath was warm against my ear. “We should be okay. The sensors have only got a thirty-foot range in sentry mode.” Motioning for Martin to follow, he moved forward.
We advanced, weapons trained at the end of the tunnel. Oz ran a red-light pencil torch in front of him, looking for tripwires.
My hackles rose. I can’t explain it, ‘cuz I didn’t see or hear anything. It’s like a bad taste at the back of your mouth, or the feeling you’re being watched at an ambush site. It’s the feeling you get after you’ve been mortared every night for six months, or the moment before Yanks mistakenly drop a J-DAM on your position.
Danger close.
Chapter fifteen
Bullets screeched off concrete. I threw myself to the ground, dragging Martin with me. My NVGs showed nothing but sludgy blocks of grey, black and green. Tugging the bastard things off, I flipped the Beretta to auto and hosed fire along the tunnel. Oz did the same, spent brass spilling across the floor. Our usual drill: Oz fired mid-and-high. I fired mid-and-low. That way, rounds would hit a target on the ground or on an elevated position. The actions on the suppressed Berettas sounded like well-oiled typewriters.
“Re-loading,” I said, taking a knee. A bullet ricocheted past my face, chips of concrete spattering my cheek.
Oz fired another burst. “Got him, saw the fucker fall.”
Martin, splayed on the floor, took his hands off his head. “I heard something too.”
“Cover me,” I ordered, heading slowly towards the threat.
Twenty yards on I came to the next glitch, a camouflaged door on a cleverly-concealed hinge. Dim green light shone from beyond. The smell of urine assaulted my nose, a body splayed in front of me. The sentry was taking a leak when we’d arrived. He’d zipped his fly, come to investigate and walked straight into us. The dead man was well-built, bulbous NVGs strapped to his face. Gunshots dotted his belly, chest and arms. The dim light was strong enough for me to see he wore civilian cargo pants and a technical jacket. His weapon, a suppressed MP5K, lay nearby.
We’d all done sentry duty. It’s 99.9% bullshit and 0.1% some bastard sneaking up and nutting you. He’d taken his eye off the ball, and there but for the grace of God go I.
“This is Q-ECHO,” said Martin breathily. “Who is this bloke?” he asked, studying the body.
“We’ve never met,” said Oz, “but he was trying to kill us.”
“Whoever he was, his people must have buried down from their location,” Martin replied. “Which means there’s no need for us to drill up.”
Oz kicked the dead man’s MP5 to one side. “So much for a recce.”
The lowest level of Q-ECHO was rectangular, ten metres square. It smelt of dead mice and mould, walls streaked with water stains. Old water tanks sat in a corner, furred with dark orange rust. Pipes ran in all directions, leaking rusty water. A metal ladder, riveted to a bulkhead, gave access to the next floor. It felt like being in an old submarine.
The Dragon Runner’s camera was slaved to a rubberised laptop, next to a guttering storm lantern. There was a half-drunk cup of coffee next to it, along with an iPad. A superhero movie was paused, mid-action shot. The sentry’s surprisingly old-school field telephone lay on a table, cable snaking up the ladder.
“Can we use that?” said Martin, pointing at the phone.
I shook my head. “No too risky. Probably hooked into a local net.”
Oz nodded and slashed the power cable with his knife.
We climbed the ladder. The next level looked like an old telecommunications centre, a coffin-sized switchboard dominating one end of the room. The room was lit with green electric camping lamps. 1950s-era Bakelite telephones sat on dust-covered desks, a faded picture of the Queen hanging on the wall. A wall map, blistered under dusty glass, showed The Empire on which the sun never set.
“Look here,” said Oz, lifting a tarpaulin. Underneath were cardboard boxes of US military ration packs and plastic barrels of potable water. Lined up by the far wall were unused camp beds and sleeping bags.
“Looks like they’re using it for its original purpose,” said Martin, studying the supplies.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Q-ECHO was a Cold War fallout bunker,” he shrugged. “You’ve got armed men with survival equipment in an emergency facility: QED.”
Oz pulled a face. “He’s got a point, Cal.”
I took a gulp from my water bottle. “So, Martin, you reckon the other side dug their own glitch down from De Soto. Where would you put it?”
Martin studied the ceiling. “I’d say the northernmost section of the top level. Once upon a time, Q-ECHO would have vertical access to street level, but that would’ve been cemented years ago.”
“Let’s go then,” said Oz. “It looks like they only post one bloke down here at a time.”
“That makes sense. It’s a long shot you’d infiltrate from down here,” I replied.
Martin grinned. “Yet that’s exactly what we did.”
Oz slapped him on the back. “You’re a diamond.”
I climbed the rusty metal ladder, paint flaking under my fingers. The last room was much the same as the last. A pallet contained more rations and water. Black ballistic cases, secured with padlocks, were stacked neatly along the wall.
“Weapons and comms?” I said.
“Yeah,” Oz nodded. “I think Martin’s right about the doomsday planning.”
“OK, Martin, you’re done here,” I said.
Martin frowned. “I’d like to finish the mission.”
“You are. You’ve got an important job,�
� I replied gently. “Get back to the first glitch, find a mobile signal. Tell Diana what happened. We’re going in now, not later. It’s crucial.”
“OK, I’ll go straight away.”
“Good luck mate,” I said offering my hand.
Martin took it and nodded.
Oz gripped his upper arm and smiled. “Getting us this far was awesome, mate. You’re a star, but it’s time to let us do our thing.”
Martin grew a couple of inches taller. “I’d better call Diana.” He scurried down the ladder and was gone.
Tucking the SMG in the top flap of my pack, I pulled my .45 and climbed the ladder. The top floor of the old bunker was empty. There was no sign of an exit. A folding ladder lay in a corner.
Oz and I began searching. We scanned the ceiling with torches and prodded with gloved fingers.
“Here it is,” Oz said, pointing at a tile. You had to look closely to see it. The panel was only slightly different from the others, smoother-textured. Standing on tip-toes, Oz’s fingers snaked into a recess and pushed something. The panel fell.
“Fuck,” I hissed, darting forward and catching it. It was surprisingly light.
“Aluminium,” Oz whispered, looking up into a void.
It was an access shaft, roughly excavated, with a rope ladder. We climbed up, emerging into a dingy basement. The glass ceiling-studs I’d seen on our last visit filtered greyish daylight, making me squint. More supplies were stacked around the room, AID FROM THE USA printed on the side: sacks of flour, rice, salt and grain, emergency lighting rigs, generators and rolls of barbed wire. Another pallet held first aid kits, bandages and medicines. Piled under plastic sheeting were shovels, picks and butane gas canisters.
Oz studied the cache. “Somehow, I don’t think they’re planning a camping trip,” he whispered.
I readied my submachine gun. “No, I don’t think so either. Let’s go - anyone with a gun dies. Anyone who looks like a geek gets taken for questioning.”
“Harsh but fair,” said Oz, making his Beretta ready.
Checking my phone, I had a one-bar signal. Opening Juliet’s number, I tapped out a message:
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 11