SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6

by Casey Christie

  “Yes, it’s just you - going down there. But that’s why it’s so important that you do.”

  TWELVE

  Charlie Whisky One and Charlie Whisky Four had made their way down to the lowest level of the station, platform level and the sight they witnessed surprised even them. There were thousands of people crammed onto the immense platform that is Canary Wharf serving both the East and West Lines of the Jubilee Line. And unlike the vast majority of underground lines the platforms at Canary Wharf did not allow direct access to the railway tracks – a safety device installed to stop people from throwing themselves in front of an incoming train, among other things.

  And before even a single shot had been fired by the two criminal killers dozens of people lay dead on the floor, having been trampled to death by the fleeing fear-fuelled stampeding horde of human flesh running from the hot lead.

  Charlie Whisky One stopped to admire the site and film the scene. His HD video camera was not getting any WIFI signal at this level of underground so mercifully the images his camera recorded were not being streamed live to the hundreds of thousands of viewers who were now tuned in to Charlie Whisky One’s own internet video “channel”.

  While he looked at the devastation he marvelled at how well his plan had worked. The second attack element, codenamed Sierra Charlie, had entered the Canary Wharf Tube Station from the opposite entrance situated on Upper Bank Street. And as they had descended they had kettled the civilians to this point from the opposite direction leaving one terrorist to block the escape route. Unbeknown to Sierra Charlie One that sentry had already been killed by one of the few armed police units in London – The Met Police’s CO19. One of their BMW Armed Response Vehicles or ARVs had responded rather quickly and had eliminated the terrorist from above ground. Unfortunately Gold Command had ordered the highly trained armed officers not to descend underground and challenge the remaining terrorists. This infuriated the officers but they had no choice but to follow orders. Instead they were commanded to maintain a safe perimeter.

  One’s bloodlust returned and he switched off his camera and replaced it with his AK. One and Four moved forward, stepping over and on top of, unconscious, half dead, dying or dead-dead human beings. They were nearing the half-way point of the platform level – in the middle were two sets of elevators – forcing foot traffic to either walk left or right of either one to proceed forward.

  What One saw on either side of these filtration points scared him. The Metropolitan Underground and Canary Wharf Station staff along with a handful of unarmed London Transport police officers had created a human barrier and as the last of the fleeing civilians passed the temporary entrance point in their human line they closed it and, as one, each brave man and women in that line took two steps forward.

  Four thought he felt the earth shake in that moment and he couldn’t help but take a step back. Once more the line of unarmed defenders took another step forward. And Four took another step backwards.

  One felt fear. A fear he had never experienced in any other moment in his life. And One was a hard and ruthless bastard who had been in combat and who had killed in more conflicts than most people have had holidays. Now it was the turn of One to have time stop for him.

  And as time slowed he surveyed the scene: Non-Combatants were protecting the lives of people whose names they probably didn’t even know –and with their own lives. They offered no real threat, no weaponry or chance of success yet once more each man and woman in the line took another step forward. And against all the hate and prejudices that was in One’s heart and preconception about the Great British Public, another aspect of what he was witnessing rattled him to the bone. The defenders were not all black, or all white or of any one particular colour, creed, denomination , sex or inclination. In fact they were as diverse as could possibly be possible.

  And again they all, as one beating heart, took another two steps forward. They were now a mere thirty paces from the armed terrorists and the look on their faces was not one of fear or doom – rather it was resolute, determined and formidable.

  It was all too much for Charlie Whisky Four and he turned on his heel to run. But One shouted an order.

  “Stop! Turn and face them you fool! And open fire! They are just making it easier for us.”

  Though even as he said this he too was moving backwards. And he soon realised this was because the line of defenders were no longer a line --- The entire platform of kettled unarmed civilians had joined in on the march. Two steps forward. This time the ground really did shake.

  One felt a bead of sweat roll under his balaclava and down his neck, down his spine and into the small of his back. He wasn’t just frightened now, he was utterly terrified.

  He raised his weapon and replaced the old magazine with a fresh one. Thirty new rounds. He brought it up to his eyes and took careful aim. He opened fire on the biggest and strongest of the defenders. The round pierced the man’s face and exited his skull. He dropped to the ground without sound. Immediately the gap in the line was filled. One fired again. Once more the gap was filled and the throng moved forward. Two steps. Earth shakes. Again and once more a person was executed with a shot to the head and the line was filled. The last time the line was filled it was filled by a girl of no more than nine years old with dark hair in pig tails, yet her eyes were no different to that of the large policeman who held her hand next to her. Resolute and strong.

  One turned on his heel and broke into a brisk backwards walk, he didn’t dare run or take his eye off his prey who had suddenly become the beast. He moved to where Four had planted himself in shock and awe of the sight before him and spoke.

  “It’s time brother. Shoot and shoot well, we only need a few more moments.” And without another word Four began to fire once more and One moved behind Four and opened the large bag Four carried on his shoulders. He removed from it a large 10KG IED filled with a mixture of high explosive, Sarin gas and rusty nails and carefully placed it on the floor.

  The marching line finally stopped.

  One was relieved. And he began to laugh.

  Then he saw the little pig-tailed girl smile at him. And slowly the entire line of people began to smile and grin and one by one they looked over One’s shoulder.

  Slowly One and Four realised that someone or something was behind them. They both turned around in unison and saw standing there Mark Andrews, the out of shape, double chinned, alcoholic, divorced bank manager.

  On instruction from John, Mark fell to one knee and raised his weapon, took a deep breath and held it, squeezed the trigger and fired four rounds. Two shots to the head of each Charlie Whisky Terrorist.

  Both men fell face first to the floor and died.

  For a moment the large crowd could only stare at Mark and he could only gaze back. Then John spoke in Mark’s ear.

  “You must get to Amelia Mark. Now, turn and run, sprint! Go!”

  The large police officer holding the hand of the young girl caught the eye of Mark and almost imperceptibly nodded his thanks.

  Mark turned and ran to save his Amelia.

  THIRTEEN

  Amelia had just drained her second glass of wine and had ordered a glass of water and was about to send Mark a text message when she heard the first crack of a gunshot. Then another and another. At first nobody seemed to hear the shots but Amelia – she gazed around the cinema complex and could see no sign of warning or danger. The cinema staff continued about their business as usual and Amelia relaxed once more.

  CRACK!

  And then the most horrifying high pitched scream reverberated around the 3rd floor of the West India Quay Cineworld

  CRACK!

  Another gunshot and Amelia and the other patrons at the bar ran towards the escalators but were stopped at the top of them by the security guard Amelia had spoken to earlier.

  “We’re under attack! You can’t go down there, I’m shutting this floor down” he said.

  “What are you talking about man? What’s going
on?” asked Amelia.

  The guard shut the escalator down, put a barrier in front of it and then took Amelia by the wrist and pulled her along while telling the others to follow.

  “I’ll show you.”

  He took them to a low overhanging window space that looked out onto the entrance to the cinema below on street level. What Amelia saw stole all the breath from her. A man behind her gasped aloud.

  Three small men in black balaclavas and combat gear holding AK47s were gunning down people in the street. Amelia noticed a smartly dressed business lady in a grey dress and black suit jacket run away from one of the gunman. She had high heels on and as she ran one of the heels caught in a drain pipe, she slipped and fell into the road. A minicab hadn’t the time or inclination to stop and ran the lady over. Her hair caught in the undercarriage of the vehicle and she was dragged along the road, smearing blood on the asphalt. Her screams made Amelia’s hair stand on end.

  “They are going into the gym. They are going to slaughter them like pigs. Like the pigs that they are” said the security guard.

  “Like the what? What did you just say?” asked Amelia.

  Nobody else seemed to hear the guard’s remark.

  “There’s no time to explain. Everyone must follow me now. We have shut the front entrance and are shutting down all the escalators and lifts. We’ll get everyone into the top floor cinema and set up a barricade there while we wait for the police” said the guard.

  Minutes later and the majority of the people within the cinema had been ushered into the largest of the screening houses within the cinema complex. By Amelia’s estimate there were about 750 people crammed into the space. It was hot and stuffy, kids were scared and crying, parents were frustrated and felt powerless.

  Amelia peeled off from the group and could think of no one else but her Mark, she sent him a message:

  “Mark, where r u? Am in cinema – something’s happening. Gun shots, explosions... Security have led us all into the upstairs cinema and have locked the doors. Don’t come here, not safe. PLs call police. I cannot get call reception in here… I hope u get this text.. love u.”

  She was sure to hit the send button multiple time but the phone never registered any kind of send confirmation.

  Amelia looked up to see the guard walking towards her.

  “What are you doing?” he snapped.

  “That’s none of your business but if you must know I am send my boyfriend a message letting him know what’s happening.”

  The guard smiled and kind looking smile.

  “Of course you are, I am sorry I should have known.”

  He walked over holding out his hand and then he slapped Amelia with a powerful backhand and grabbed her phone from her and threw it against the wall shattering it. He struck her once more.

  “Now listen to me you stupid bitch! I want you to know something. I want you to know that I am going to kill you today. But not yet.”

  And with that he hit her as hard as he possibly could with a right hook. It shattered her jaw and knocked her unconscious.

  FOURTEEN

  Amelia felt a cold wetness on her head. The water ran down her blouse and soaked her trousers. Then she felt a slap, and another. She came to and for a moment only was completely baffled as to where she was or what had happened. Then she saw and recognised the guard and it all came flooding back to her. But who was he? Was he one of them? He was – Amelia now saw the machine gun in his hand. She tried to speak but she couldn’t – her jaw was broken.

  The guard picked Amelia up by the hair and dragged her down the escalators and out of the front entrance. There waiting outside were two Metropolitan Police Armed Response Vehicles – one blocking either side of the street. Two officers stood by each vehicle their MP5 Sub Machine Guns now trained on the guard, the terrorist. Three dead extremists lay dead nearby. A police helicopter and a media chopper hovered above.

  Amelia couldn’t breathe properly and she didn’t know why. Had she been struck in the ribs or chest? She looked down and then she realised why.

  She had a bomb strapped to her chest. Rusty nails protruded from the IED homemade vest and she could smell a strange gas emanating from it. She was going to die now and she knew it.

  “AMELIA.”

  “AMELIA.”

  “MY AMELIA.”

  Amelia looked up and could see her Mark running towards her. She felt faint and was beginning to experience some sort of outer body experience..

  “AMELIA.”

  “I love you Mark, I only wish I had met you earlier..” Amelia said incomprehensibly and she slumped to the ground.

  Rage consumed Mark as he cocked his weapon once more, he didn’t need to, as there was already a round in the chamber. But he didn’t know that. How could he.

  The Armed Officers didn’t like this action and two of them turned and trained their weapons on the unknown AK47 wielding madman. They ordered him to stop. He didn’t. He couldn’t – nothing mattered now. Only being with Amelia mattered now. Dead so be it.

  The officers opened fire and cut Mark to pieces. It didn’t matter though as the Security Guard terrorist detonated the IED strapped to Amelia’s chest. And another bomb similar to the one Charlie Whisky One attempted to detonate on the platform. This bomb was successfully detonated though and all the people corralled and then locked into the cinema were blown away. Amelia was blown away. As was the security guard terrorist. The rusty nail shrapnel did their job too and cut down three of the police officers. One of the media helicopters took some shrapnel to its engine and it veered into the tall building that housed the gymnasium and then fell to the ground and burst into flames.

  Many Dead Bankers.

  FIFTEEN

  Mark Andrews sits at the All Bar One restaurant situated opposite the entrance to the Canary Wharf tube station.

  “Hey mister, are you okay? Hello? Anybody there. Hey mister?”

  Mark’s body jerks violently, his eyes focus in on the present once more and his surroundings become clear. He takes a long deep gulp of fresh, crisp London air and almost throws up as the oxygen fills his lungs once more.

  “You okay mister?” Inquires the red-headed waitress while placing Mark’s pint of Grolsch beer on the table.

  “What’s just happened?” Replied a confused Mark.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well how long have I been here, what happened to the attack, the attack on the Wharf? The killers. The..”

  “I don’t know about any attack mister but you’ve just got here – you sat down and ordered this here beer. And now when I came back here with it you were in some kind of trance – strange like, you were just staring straight ahead at the station entrance like and not breathing. You were here, well your body was here but you were somewhere else mister.”

  An impatient customer demands the attention of the waitress and she moves off to serve her.

  “Amelia.” Mark mutters to himself and picks up his Blackberry and dials her number.

  She picks up on the second ring.

  “Hey baby.”

  “Amelia, where are you?

  “I’m on my way to Canary Wharf, to you, I’m on the DLR. Why what’s wrong, we are still on for lunch today aren’t we?”

  “So you didn’t miss your stop?”

  “No, I’m just passing Heron Quays now, I will be there in a couple of minutes – why would I have missed my stop?”

  “Okay, good. Lunch is cancelled though. Well at Canary Wharf it is. Don’t get off and continue till the end of the line babe and I’ll meet you at Stratford International, at the new Westfield Shopping centre there.” Said Mark.

  “Why babe, what’s up? You sound nervous?”

  “I explain later. Just keep on going and I’ll call you in a little while – don’t get off for anybody or anything. But I have to go now, I have to speak to someone else..”

  “Alright Mark I’ll go to Westfield instead - I need to do some Christmas shopping anyway but I hop
e the explanation is a good one.”

  “It will be. You’ll see. Oh and babe…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  “Ah thanks babe – I love you too.”

  Mark ended the call and pressed the phone button for The Tailor.

  “John here.”

  “John, it’s Mark. I have no time to explain mate but just tell me one thing and honestly – are you in the SAS?”

  “Whoa, hold on a minute - that’s a bit random isn’t it Mark?”

  “No it’s not mate – I have just had one of my “episodes”, you know those vision type things I had as a kid, remember I told you about them. Well I have just had one and you were in it.”

  “You mean like those predictions you used to have, those prophecies?”

  “Something like that. Now we’ll know if I am crazy or not if you just tell me if you are still in the army and part of the SAS?

  The phone went silent. And Mark could hear John thinking that his friend had lost his mind – but then why hadn’t he answered his crazy question straight away.

  “I don’t know how you know Mark and you’re definitely not supposed to know – But yes I’m SAS.”

  Mark felt a cold shiver run through his body. He looked at his arms – gooseflesh.

  “I think London, I think Canary Wharf, is about to be attacked by terrorists. Terrorists with machine guns, I mean assault rifles and grenades and bombs.”

  “When? When Mark? When?”

  “Today. Now, well in about 15 minutes if the timing stays the same but these visions I have are as symbolic as they are accurate – like I think the Londoners will eventually fight back on the platform underground, they’ll make a stand or something and I think I’m supposed to help you, I am supposed to be your man on the ground – does, does any of this make any sense to you John?”

  Once again John, the SAS man, Captain John Taylor, The Tailor, went quiet. He was caught in quandary of top secrecy and the possibility of his friend either being crazy or a terrorist, an undercover journalist? Or a terrorist accomplice or a real bone fide psychic of sorts. But Mark was the closest thing John ever had to a brother, a real friend – he owed it Mark to believe in him, To trust him. And to trust another human being is hard enough for an ordinary man and ordinary citizen but for a Special Forces Soldier involved in international clandestine operations it’s almost impossible.