by James Adams
They came in over the Navy ship in a wide looping turn and then hovered above the rear deck. He moved to the belly of the Sea King and allowed the winchman to put the collar around his body. The last time he had done this had been in Hong Kong when he had been taken ashore after the Mas’ escape all those years ago. How strange that it should begin and end in the same way.
This time he felt no terror but could not help an involuntary spasm as he was pushed out of the door and left hanging in mid-air for a moment before the winch-man began to lower him to the ship. As his feet touched the deck, he was grabbed around the waist and drawn to one side. A seaman unlocked the collar and it was pulled back up.
He looked around curiously, surprised to see what looked like a huge ski ramp taking up much of the stern of the helicopter deck.
Three minutes later, they were escorted into the gloom room. A figure approached out of the darkness, hand outstretched. “I’m Jeremy Greaves. Welcome aboard,” he said. “We have a few minutes before you need to go below. Let me show you what we are doing to track down the signal to the hijackers.” Greaves drew Jonny towards the general operations plot, the large table located next to the sonar screens.
“This is Lieutenant Jeff Randall. He’s plotted the bearing Colonel Douglas passed along,” he said, his finger following a line on the map that headed out to sea east both of Cheriton and of where they were holding station above the Tunnel. “When do you expect the next signal?”
“Well, if the information is right, then their system calls for a watch every odd hour on the hour,” Jonny replied.
Greaves glanced at the digital clock above the chart table. “That gives us a little over an hour and a half.” He looked pensive for a moment, thinking of Hodder and his men down below. It was going to be close.
CHAPTER XXVII
Hodder had led his men inside the central sphere of the Avalon where they were now sitting, waiting. Half my bloody life is spent sitting and waiting for some other bugger to do his job, Hodder reflected sourly.
He looked around, mentally checking his men. When he had first seen the Avalon, he thought there would be room to spare inside the central sphere, but now, with all his men surrounded by their personal equipment, there was barely enough room for the ten of them and, despite the vessel’s air-conditioning system, it was already unpleasantly hot.
Each man wore the black neoprene body suit that fitted like a second skin. It was indeed a second skin, something they had lived in, swum in, slept in and killed in over the hundreds of hours of training and action that had led the team to this place on this day.
It was fortunate that this time they had none of the flippers, goggles and oxygen rebreathing systems that they usually carried as a matter of routine. This would be a dry operation or it wouldn’t work at all. The suits would protect them from the cold they expected inside the Tunnel. All of them had learned the hard way that the diver’s first and worst enemy is cold.
Each man carried a pistol and had a black diver’s knife strapped to his calf. Beyond that, there was a bewildering array of personal equipment. Two men carried the Heckler and Koch Close Assault Weapon System (CAWS) with a large box cartridge containing thirty shotgun rounds. These could be fired at great speed and with devastating effect at close range. Three other men carried the silenced version of the Heckler MP5 9 mm automatic rifle. They would be first in, their job to take out the sentries as quickly and quietly as possible. After that, Hodder knew, it would quickly develop into a free-for-all where darkness made everyone equal and only the superior training and discipline of his men would make the difference between survival and death.
Other men carried the normal H. and K. with the folding stock. Attached to the underside of the barrel was a powerful Maglite torch which could be turned on with the left hand. Its beam could blind as well as illuminate a target. Each man carried grenades that would release brilliant white light, a concussive bang or hundreds of flechettes that would kill anything within a thirty-yard radius.
“It’s going to be very fast once we get down there,” Hodder said to Jake Ellis, his second-in-command.
“Isn’t it always?” Ellis grunted.
Hodder smiled a short, grim smile. Ellis never talked much and before an operation hardly at all. But once the shooting started he was quick and reliable, a careful operator who would cover your back and expect you to do the same for him. The right man for this operation.
Hodder turned to his other side. Jenny stood out not just because he moved awkwardly and was clearly uncomfortable in his black body suit but because he was much taller than everyone else. SBS men tend to be squat, a useful characteristic when you spend hours crawling and swimming in confined spaces. They also tend to be very broad-shouldered from all the swimming. Even with most of his face covered by the black hood of the suit, Jonny seemed out of place, a stick insect fallen among killer bees.
“OK?” Hodder asked. He resented the presence of this stranger in their midst. Amateurs not only got themselves killed but they put the professionals at risk. He had protested to London but apparently promises had been made. He had given Turnbull none of the exotica that festooned his men. At least he knew how to fire a pistol and a sub-machine-gun, and he couldn’t do much damage to Hodder’s men or himself with the knife strapped to his calf.
Jonny had been on plenty of undercover operations before. Usually, surveillance was followed by the raid. There was plenty of information and plenty of people so the unknown and the uncertainty were kept to a sensible minimum. This time was very different. It had been clear from the briefing just how little they knew about the terrorists. The Tentacle had given a general location but no numbers; there was no intelligence about their arms, apart from what had already been gleaned in the abortive police raid; and the condition and location of the hostages could only be guessed. Without information, the men around him would have to rely on instinct and training to keep them alive. That was fine if you had honed your night-fighting skills and made a virtue of living on your wits. As it was, Jonny was more frightened than he could have thought possible. He had played over the first few minutes in the darkness of the Tunnel below and each scene was more terrifying than the last. Each one had his body writhing on the end of Dai Choi’s knives and guns. Added to the fear was the heat and claustrophobia inside the mini submarine. The incredibly constricting neoprene suit was not only hot but seemed to pinch his skin every time he moved. Worst of all, his bowels really had turned to water and there was nothing he could do about it except pray for the journey to end.
Rationally, he knew the team had rehearsed the general operation of a Tunnel rescue often enough. They had even rehearsed getting into the Tunnel through the access hatches, so there would be nothing strange about the environment. But there were always unknowns that lay in wait.
They were up against men who were willing to die, which would make them reckless. That in turn required Hodder’s men to be equally prepared to kill — and kill quickly. There would be no opportunity for such old-fashioned ideas as quarter or surrender. Once this started the only ending would be the deaths of the terrorists. No doubt some of the men around him would die along with some of the hostages. But this was no zero sum game. For now, thoughts of killing Dai Choi had vanished. He would be happy to get out of the Tunnel alive.
Thirty seconds to lift off, gentlemen.” The voice of Frank Rostenkowski emerged from the small speaker over Hodder’s head. He sounded very American, very professional, and also very tinny.
Hodder felt the deck begin to cant as the missile launcher elevated. There was a moment when everything seemed suspended in movement and time and then suddenly the vessel was sliding with an agonized groan down the launcher. There was a jarring crash as the Avalon hit the sea and then silence. It lasted a few seconds before the electric engines cut in. The deck remained at around fifteen degrees as the ship moved beneath the surface and headed for the safety hatch below.
Hodder would have preferred th
e journey to last long enough for him to review the operation just one more time. But within four minutes, the deck levelled. Looking up, Hodder watched the TV monitor which was slaved to a camera in the Avalon’s nose. The dark screen flashed white as Rostenkowski turned on the floodlight. The sensors self-adjusted and then he could see the Channel bottom and just ahead the grey metal of the escape hatch.
This was the moment when all Rostenkowski’s confident skill would be needed. He had to drop the rubber skirt of the pressure chamber below Hodder’s sphere right on to the escape chamber. A knock against the metal would reverberate inside the Tunnel and warn the terrorists that an assault was under way.
Hodder could almost feel the delicate touch of the skipper’s fingers as the tiny thrusters moved the Avalon to left and right until the two chambers were positioned exactly one on top of the other. There was an almost imperceptible settling.
“As promised, delivery right to the door,” came the voice over the speaker.
Air hissed as the pressure equalized around the collar of the escape hatch. In the centre of the floor, recessed into what looked like a manhole cover, a red light turned green. Hodder spun the small wheel that opened the hatch and pulled it towards him. He looked down the hole and saw the concave weed-and-mollusc-encrusted shape of the hatch that led directly into the Tunnel.
He beckoned his men forward.
Sean Thomas had watched Robert Sanford enter his club from the security of Three Kings Yard on the other side of Davies Street. He was seventy yards away, far enough not to be spotted and close enough for quick access. The plan was simple enough. He would walk to the other end of Brook’s Mews and wait until Sanford appeared. Sanford would turn left, away from Sean and towards Davies Street. Sean would follow. At the same time Sally would start the Suzuki up and head towards them both. Once the job was done, he would hop on to the pillion, continue down the Mews, turn right into Avery Row and away.
He had hesitated about bringing Sally. Back at Waterloo Road there had been no time to negotiate as she forced herself into the car. There had been no convenient way to dump her without drawing attention to himself and now he had reconciled himself to her presence, her company and even her love. After all, he had justified to himself, women were no strangers to the Movement. On the contrary, they had played a valuable role in this campaign and had often proved more dedicated and ruthless than their male counterparts. When this was all over and they were back in Ireland, he would make sure that she got a proper grounding in the tactics and techniques of the Movement. A Brit used to living in England could be a useful asset for the future.
The journey up to town had been simple enough. He had stolen the bike in Southampton and they had simply driven up the A31, keeping off the high-profile and well-patrolled M3. He knew another, more focused manhunt would be following his wake after their escape from the safe house. But he was no stranger to that and knew the steps he would have to take to keep ahead of the hounds. It was another reason why Sally should stay with him. Alone, she would quickly be found. Together they had a chance.
In South London the IRA has a strong network of supporters founded originally among the workers who travelled the London building sites as brickies, plumbers and plasterers. Today, many of them have settled down but still remember old loyalties. Sean normally stayed clear of such people as they had been widely penetrated by Special Branch, but he reckoned a couple of nights would be safe enough. It would take that long for an informer to do his dirty business and the police to respond.
He had walked past the building three times on both sides of the street, strolling nonchalantly, a casual window shopper looking for something to buy. With each journey he could feel the tension mounting. He had to control the impulse to reach under his jacket for the reassurance of the cold metal of the gun. He wanted to take it out, check it over just one more time, make sure the magazine was full, the first bullet in the breech. He knew he had done all this already not once but three times. He knew that he was the most professional gunman he knew. But even so, the waiting brought the doubts and with the doubts came the tension.
Then suddenly there he was. Sanford walked down the steps to the street and turned away exactly as expected. The suddenness of his appearance after so long spent waiting had taken Sean by surprise and he hurried to catch up with his target, his long legs striding out.
He watched Sanford’s shoulders move, imagining the impact of the bullets, his killer instinct taking over, measuring angles, judging timings, assuring success. A few more feet and at last it was time. His hand swept behind his jacket to feel the confidence-building coolness of the pistol butt. A slight jerk and the spring clip gave up its gift and the gun moved down. His thumb flicked off the safety as the whole hand brought the weapon into the firing position.
He stopped, the retreating back just five feet away. His right arm extended in front of him, his left hand moved over to grip the right wrist.
His finger had just begun to take up the first pressure when his faithful watchdog, instinct, made him look across the street. A fleeting glance was enough; the recognition of the enemy instant. His professional’s subconscious weighed the odds and judged the risk. In a macrosecond he recognized that this was The One, the time that he’d always known would one day be his. But he had no time now to think of escape or shout for mercy. It was the mission that mattered, the final gesture for the Cause for which he was about to die.
He focused again on the back in front of him and squeezed the trigger.
Time telescoped. Thomas heard the beginnings of a shout even as he saw Sanford start to fall to the ground. His gun tracked him down, his finger squeezing the trigger for the first time. He saw the impact, the puffing of the charcoal suit in the right shoulder, the entrance hole, the fountain of blood as the bullet exited, even the white scar on the pavement as it ricocheted down the street.
He caught a glimpse of Sally on the bike coming towards him, her mouth opened in an enormous O of horror. But there was no time for distractions.
The slide of the automatic was forced back by the exploding gases from the spent cartridge and the shell case sparkled in the sunlight as it arced out into the street. As another round chambered, his finger flexed to take up the pressure once again. He fired again, saw the impact and the power of the bullet propel Sanford’s body along the pavement. But the image was wrong. Vest, the bastard’s got a vest. His gun moved towards the unprotected head, his finger once again pulling the trigger.
But now that shout — clearly a warning — was translated into action. He heard and felt the shot simultaneously, his body buffeted as if by a giant wind. His feet left the ground and he was momentarily weightless, as if he were actually flying. He crashed to the ground, gun hand on top of his body. Training and instinct still forced him to concentrate on the target.
On the pavement together, the killer and his victim. Sean could see the frightened face of the enemy lying opposite him. Their eyes met, a brief communion of unspoken fear.
His trigger finger jerked and he felt the recoil and saw the bullet go home. The body in front of him was pushed up the pavement like a leaf in a storm.
But then the pain began. Agony in his groin. He looked down and saw blood fountaining from his stomach. In almost clinical fashion he watched as his body disintegrated in front of him as shot after shot hit his flesh and tore it apart. He had always imagined that when it came he would go with fist raised and a defiant “Up the IRA.” But now there was just the final revolution of death.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Hodder and his men had slid down the ropes to the Tunnel floor, landing silently and secretly. His team formed a small rectangle of firepower around him, their weapons facing out, the barrels nosing through the darkness for targets.
Looking through his night-vision goggles, Hodder saw that their positioning had been almost perfect. They had emerged about halfway down the second carriage and the ropes dropped through the hatch had landed on the walkway
that ran alongside the tracks. There had been no crunch of gravel as they landed, just the silent flexing of the neoprene suits.
The stench from the carriage was unbelievable. Faeces and urine combined to grab at the throat. Jonny felt himself swallowing, trying to contain the retching. If he vomited now he would never live it down — if he lived at all after losing the element of surprise.
The green image of the hot spots around him showed clearly that there were two groups of terrorists at either end of the train, but there was nothing moving and it was impossible to pick out individuals. There was another large hot spot in the carriages themselves. The hostages, he thought to himself. At least that’s clear.
“A squad head down the Tunnel and secure that perimeter,” Hodder whispered into his throat microphone. He heard the double click in his headphones as the squad leader acknowledged. “B squad head up the Tunnel. Go under the train and up the far side. That way, you’ll stay clear of the open doors. C Squad stay with me and we’ll take the hostages. Move out.”
The rectangle splintered and the men moved off. Each squad was led by one of the men with the silenced rifles so that if a threat emerged there was still a chance of a silent kill before the alarm was raised.
Doubled over, Jonny followed Hodder as they advanced towards the carriage nearest the French end of the Tunnel. Now that they were actually moving, he felt better, the focus of his fear shifting from his body to his weapon. His hands, slippery with sweat, gripped the stock and barrel tightly, finger alongside the trigger guard. They passed the first open door and it was clear that this car had nobody inside. At the next carriage, Hodder paused just before the gaping hole of the open doorway. Peering over his shoulder, it was clear to Jonny that this was where the hostages were. The whole floor of the carriage appeared as one solid green glow of bodies. He raised his goggles and by the faint yellow illumination of the emergency lights could distinguish faces in the crowd. He looked carefully but the terrorists must be concealed by the carriage walls.