Surviving The Evacuation (Book 15): Where There's Hope

by Tayell, Frank

  “Why?”

  “Trust me, this way.”

  She jogged away from the quay, towards the terminal building, and a red door. There she stopped, looking at her hands and the door.

  “What is it?” Bill said.

  “We can’t touch the door,” she said.

  Locke and Chester, seeing them run from the destroyer, had followed, and caught up a second later.

  “What’s going on?” Chester asked.

  “Don’t touch us. Open that door,” Flora said. “Call it paranoia. Call it caution. Does it open?”

  “Sure,” Chester said, pushing it aside. “Smells like a petrol station.”

  “This is where they had us bring the diesel,” Flora said. She dropped her rifle, then began pulling off her clothes. “Bill, do the same. Strip.”

  “Why?” Bill asked.

  “Bodies,” Flora said as she tore off her clothes. “One of the bodies, it was Liam. A few weeks ago, they took us to this garage. There was a corpse inside they wanted us to retrieve. A Russian captain. There were zombies in the building, and I thought that was why they wanted us to go in. I thought it was a game. They didn’t want to touch the body, but told us to carry it out. Then they told us to search it. Still Rhoskovski wouldn’t touch it himself. There was nothing on the body, but after that, they took Liam away. Said they had a job for a sailor. I thought they wanted him to sail a boat through the harbour. His body is on that gangway.”

  “They shot him?” Chester asked.

  “No,” Flora said. “He wasn’t shot. Bill, wash yourself with the snow. Chester, are there coveralls inside?”

  “Looks like it. A few jackets and boots, too.”

  “Good thing,” Bill muttered, shivering as he threw snow on his naked flesh. “I could do with more of an explanation.”

  “It was a story Admiral Popolov told me,” Flora said. “I didn’t believe him. I thought it was just one of those tall tales sailors tell each other during the long, dark nights. He said that Russian sea captains were given a nerve agent. If they had to abandon their ship, but couldn’t scuttle it, they were instructed to coat the deck to prevent it being seized by us, by NATO. I thought it was just a story. But Liam wasn’t shot. Beyond him, there was another body, and next to that was a dead bird. The captain of that ship must have done it. The same captain who mined the harbour. The same captain whose body we had to retrieve for Rhoskovski. It’s why he didn’t want to touch the corpse. I don’t think the captain was trying to stop the English from seizing the ship. I think he was trying to stop Rhoskovski. That’s why Rhoskovski has stayed here in Calais. He’s been hoping the compound would become less dangerous over time. When touching the body didn’t kill me or Liam, he thought it might be safe to board the ship. He still sent Liam first. Clearly it wasn’t safe. Or it wasn’t three weeks ago.”

  “Right,” Bill muttered, rubbing snow on his hands more ferociously than before.

  “Diesel. Is there diesel inside?” Flora asked.

  “A few canisters, yes,” Chester said.

  “Bring it out. Hands and face, Bill,” Flora said.

  “This will help, will it?” Bill asked as Chester splashed the fuel on his hands.

  “Of course,” Flora said. “Trust me.”

  So Bill did. Only when he was inside the small vestibule, pulling on a pair of the fume-ridden coveralls did his brain catch up. “If diesel neutralised it, then wouldn’t they have tried that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Flora sighed. “And no, it probably doesn’t help. Nor would the snow, but it’s all we had available, so it was worth a try. Did you touch the gangway? Any of the corpses?”

  “No,” Bill said. “I had my hands on my rifle at all times.”

  “We’re probably fine,” Flora said. “Sorry for the humiliation.”

  “It’s hardly that,” Bill said. “And better safe than sorry. And I think that means we’ve lost both guns and the hatchet.”

  “Here.” Chester held out the nine-millimetre he’d taken from Paulo.

  Bill waved it toward Flora. “Someone used chemical weapons in Ireland. There’s some circumstantial evidence that it was a Russian pilot. That wasn’t far from where we found The New World,” he added. “And that wasn’t far from one of your Claverton warehouses. I think you might have been the target, Sorcha. Or your people.”

  “Why’s that?” Flora asked.

  “She’s been trying to stop this since before it all began,” Bill said. “Like I said, the evidence is circumstantial.”

  “Liam’s body isn’t,” Flora said.

  “We’ve a decision to make,” Chester said. “The destroyer’s no use to us, and we’ve left a trail in the snow leading here. We’re down a couple of guns, and a few hours. On the plus side, there’s been no sign of Rhoskovski or Cavalie, and there’s about eighty litres of diesel here. So what now?”

  “One size doesn’t fit all,” Locke said, handing Bill a pair of the heavy-duty boots that had been standing beneath the equally heavy-duty fireproof jackets, on the rack next to the overalls. “I’m afraid you won’t run far in these.”

  “My running days are long behind me,” Bill said, pulling the boots on. “There were some small boats out there that looked intact.”

  “If we hit a mine in one of those, we’re dead,” Flora said. “The destroyer might have made it. I… I don’t know. But there aren’t any other boats within walking distance. Rhoskovski made sure of that, and made sure to tell us.”

  “I say we take the diesel, look for a truck, drive up to Belgium,” Bill said. “Do you have any small craft there, something we can sail across to England?”

  “A reinforced-hull inflatable, and more lifeboats than we needed.”

  “Too late,” Locke said, ducking down. “Away from the windows. People. Two of them, heading towards us.”

  Bill leaned against the wall next to the window, moving millimetre by millimetre until he spied the two figures. They’d emerged from between two warehouses, though he couldn’t tell if that was where they’d come from. “Don’t appear to be heading towards us. No. They’re heading towards the harbour entrance. What’s out there?”

  “The pump-room,” Flora replied, her voice equally low.

  “If that’s where they’ve gone, if they’ve come to collect fuel, they’ll come here next,” Locke said. She stood, and just as cautiously peered through the window. “I can’t see anyone else approaching. I think it’s just the two of them.”

  “Any other way out of there?” Chester asked.

  “None,” Flora said.

  “In those boots, you can’t move quickly and you can’t move quietly,” Chester said. “Flora, Bill, keep watch for any more of them. If they come, we’ll hear the gunfire. Sorcha, I think we’re up.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Locke said.

  Chapter 29 - The Futility of a Frontal Assault

  Calais

  “Do you have a plan?” Locke asked as she and Chester jogged across the snow.

  “Hope they think we’re one of them long enough we can get up close,” Chester said.

  “Me, neither,” she said.

  The snow was already melting where it had settled on salt-water puddles, creating a patchwork blanket of treacherous ice. Beyond the wide expanse of frozen concrete, the wind-churned waves frothed and capped as they broke against the seawall. Beyond that, so close yet so far, lay Dover. Far, far closer, lay two ragged lines of footprints, leading directly to the lonely building, where they disappeared inside the closed door.

  Locke, rifle raised, motioned at the door. Whoever had first forced their way in had only discovered afterward that removing the electronic number pad wouldn’t open the door. To gain access, they’d hacked a hole at the top and bottom, removing the lock mechanism itself. There was no easy way of securing the doors, and no way of sealing their enemy inside.

  Chester raised his rifle, and pushed the door open. A set of steps led down to a landing twenty feet below, appro
ximately at the waterline. He took a step forward, and paused, sniffing. The fumes were unmistakable. It was unlikely a spark would ignite them. Unlikely, but not impossible. He looked over at Locke, and gave a theatrical sniff. Then he pointed at her knife, motioned for her to stay back, and slung his rifle. Tyre-iron in his hand, wishing not for the first time he had his mace, he cleared his mind, and stepped through the door.

  He walked quietly but quickly, and not surreptitiously. Whatever they were doing, the two captors could finish at any time. As they climbed the stairs, they’d see his legs first. He’d have a few seconds when they’d assume he was one of their comrades. That was his window. Except, when he reached the landing, he realised Locke was two steps behind him. She had her knife in hand, and flicked the blade forward, motioning he should continue.

  At the base of the stairs was another landing, with another set of heavy-duty doors. These were fire doors rather than blast doors, and they swung open easily at Chester’s gentle push. The smell of diesel grew stronger, and was joined by a dim glow coming from ahead. Not firelight, thankfully. Something electric. Something moving. Something coming from beyond the base of another set of shallow steps. Walking side by side, weapons raised, they descended. The light grew brighter. The stairs ended, this time in a corridor. Again, it was divided by heavy-duty doors, but these had been wedged open. Another two steps lay beyond, and beyond that, beyond a final set of propped open doors, was a small chamber. He could see the beams of two lights moving, but not the people. He could hear them, though. Two voices, talking in angry frustration. He had no idea what they were saying, beyond that they were speaking in French. But Locke understood.

  She stepped past him, walking quickly and confidently towards the light, the hand holding her knife now behind her back. Chester fell into step behind her. Copying her pose, he kept his hand behind his back. Ahead, utterly heedless, the voices continued their argument. It was a man and a woman. The woman laughed. Locke picked up her pace.

  Chester waited for her to say something, to call out in French, to begin some kind of ruse. Not that he knew how to play along other than by playing dumb, but Locke didn’t shout. She didn’t speak. Without warning, she sprinted into the room. It took Chester half a second to realise, another half-second to sprint after her.

  There were two figures in a small room that was almost a lab. Scores of pipes ran across the far wall, while the middle was dominated by a desk with a pair of screens. The woman stood by the pipework, while the man sat on the edge of the desk, his lantern next to him. Both were dressed in thigh-length oilskin coats, heavy boots, thick scarves, all looking too clean to be anything but newly looted. They both heard Locke at the same time. Both turned around. Both saw her. For the man, it was too late. Locke punched her left palm into the man’s neck, and then plunged her knife into his side. As she tried to withdraw the blade, he grabbed her wrist.

  “Stop her, Chester!” Locke hissed, as she twisted the blade, let go, ducked under the dying man’s clumsy punch, and slammed her fingers into his throat.

  Chester was already beyond her, stepping towards the woman. She’d drawn a knife. A thick blade with a serrated edge, a type that was almost familiar. He stepped back as the knife sliced through the air. She swung her other hand, holding the torch. He ducked, but the moving glare was disorientating. He swung the tyre-iron up, a wild blow that knocked against metal as it hit the down-swinging knife. He punched the tool out, aiming for the torch. The blunt tool hit something soft. The woman gave a choking, gargling cough, dropping the torch and knife as her hands went to her throat. Chester stepped back as the woman collapsed, blood pouring from her neck. She was dying, soon to be dead. He kicked the knife away.

  “I’ve seen that type of blade before,” he said.

  “She’s dead,” Locke said, then bent to peer under the desk. “Don’t just stand there. Look for it.”

  “Look for what?”

  “Didn’t you hear them? The explosive! They’ve set a bomb.”

  “A bomb. What kind?”

  “Something with a timer,” Locke said. “Something…” She skipped over to where the woman had been standing, picked up the torch, then peered at the pipework. From behind a bracket where it had been lodged, she pulled out a grey square covered in grey tape. “This. Plastic explosive,” she said. “And, yes. A timer. Professional. Military. We’ve twenty minutes.” She placed the explosive on the desk, and took a step back from it. “Shoes and ammunition, please.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Mr Wright and Captain Fielding won’t run far in those firefighter’s boots. The shoes the corpses are wearing are far more suitable. We need those. The rifles are on the desk, but see if they have any spare ammunition. Those scarves as well. Anything else they have would be welcome.”

  “And the explosive?”

  “We’ve twenty minutes,” she said. “Nineteen and a half.”

  Chester quickly searched the corpses, pausing when he picked up the knife. “Seen this type before,” he said. “Back at the airfield in Creil.” He pulled off the woman’s coat, then checked her arms. “No tattoo, though.”

  “Perhaps she is a very recent recruit, or perhaps she is of sufficiently high rank that she doesn’t need such a badge,” Locke said.

  “There’s a bag here. Must have carried the explosive in it. And there’s a vacuum flask. It’s… oh, not water. Coffee. Cold, but still coffee. Another pack of those biscuits. They truly must be low on food. Time’s running out for them. Speaking of which, can you disarm that bomb?”

  Locke held the torch close to the device. “Probably. It’s a military grade explosive, and a military timer. I can probably disarm it simply by extracting the detonator and switching off the timer. What concerns me is this tape. It might conceal a secondary trigger, a redundancy to prevent tampering.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “From what they were saying, no. I think she was their explosives expert. She was taunting him. Asking him to guess how long she’d set the timer for. If she is the person who planted the bomb, and with such a short period of time on the clock, why bother with a redundancy?”

  “So, are you going to disarm it?”

  “In a moment. We have time.”

  “You’re making me nervous, Sorcha.”

  “Why would they want to blow up this room?”

  “To destroy the diesel,” Chester said.

  “It won’t do that. Look at the pipes. The valves will prevent blowback. There is no way a flame will reach the actual storage facility. Despite the smell, the fumes are not so dense. It would take more than a spark to ignite them.” She pointed at the lantern.

  “Did they say anything else?”

  “Not exactly, but she implied they were ready to leave. She asked whether he was sure he wanted to go with them. Like I said, she was taunting him. But if they’re ready to leave, destroying this room can only be to stop us from getting the diesel. Damn.” She reached down, and extracted the detonator. “Well, what do you know? There were no redundancies.”

  “It’s safe?”

  “And the timer is switched off. Yes. Unfortunately, I think we have just made our situation far worse. Gather that gear. We need to get back to Bill and Flora.”

  “Here you go, shoes. Might be a better fit,” Chester said, handing one pair to Bill, one to Flora.

  “They wanted to blow up the pump-room,” Locke said. “I believe to stop us from drawing any more fuel. They are ready to leave, and wanted to trap us here. Possibly hoping we’d try for the destroyer, or perhaps take a boat through the harbour. Possibly, they just hoped we would starve, since I think it’s clear they are on the verge of it.”

  “Then set the explosive to go off,” Bill said. He shivered, fumbling with the laces.

  “Let me,” Locke said, bending down to tie his boot. “When their two comrades don’t return, they will know something is wrong. The explosion is due in about ten minutes. I would guess we have another five after tha
t before someone is sent to investigate. Perhaps longer, depending on how far away they are. They will dither when reaching the steps. No one will want to venture down in case the bomb is still live. They will see the footprints, leading back to this room. And they will see the footprints leading from here to wherever we go next. The snow has almost completely stopped falling now.”

  “We can sweep the snow behind us,” Flora said. “It might fool them.”

  “And the bodies we left in the pump-room?” Chester said.

  “Dump them in the sea,” Flora said.

  “And the blood?” Chester said. “I don’t know how we’d hide that. Then there’s your clothes and weapons we left outside. I don’t know if we’d want to move them.”

  “We don’t have time,” Locke said. “Sweep our footprints, and we’d simply leave a trail of a different kind. Start moving the corpses, and we’ll be here when they arrive.”

  “Can you… can you restart that timer?” Bill asked through chattering teeth.

  “I can.”

  “Then we’ve two choices,” Bill said. “Lure them into a trap, blow some up. Hope they give up the search. Or… or… you said they were talking about being ready to leave? They must have a snowplough.”

  “You mean we should steal it?” Chester said.

  Bill shrugged, thrusting his numb hands deep into the coat’s pockets. “Why not?”

  “He’s right,” Flora said. “An attack is the last thing they’ll expect. When some come looking for their comrades, there’ll be fewer of them by their vehicles. I don’t think Rhoskovski cared about the people guarding us. He didn’t even let them have a fire. And I don’t know if he’ll care that Paulo is dead, but if this Cavalie woman is here, and if Paulo was her man, surely she will. Add in two more dead, and they will come looking. Those two have left a trail through the snow to wherever their lair is. We’ll have the advantage of surprise, while they will have divided their forces.”

  “It’s a desperate gamble,” Bill said, shivering. “Odds of success are slim, but better than the certainty of freezing to death.”