|
BRITSLAM Sneak Preview |
|
The molten plastic came from a waste dump, burning out of control. Behind it loomed the factory. Gouts of lurid flame pulsed from large holes in the brick walls, alternating with thick black smoke from burning polystyrene. The smoke poured upwards in the updraft caused by the intense heat, spreading out as it cooled until it formed the shape of a giant anvil fit for a devil's hammer. A young constable from Allenby police stood nearby, talking into his personal radio. After a moment, he put the radio into his pocket and hurried towards Strang's group. "Sir, I've just had the Chief Constable on the line. He says that the RIMNET station reports continuing high levels of radioactivity carried in that cloud overhead. Right now it's being carried out to sea. A shipping warning has been issued, but the wind is beginning to change direction. They say it's imperative that we neutralise the snipers. If the fire can't be put out, there'll be a major disaster." "Right. How many d'you think are in there?" "Inspector Russell believes two, sir, and at least one of them is armed. There's no cover. We tried making a rush for it over an hour ago, and had a man down straight away. Shotgun, and it wasn't small stuff; more like buckshot." The constable bent low and said to Strang, "Keep your head low, sir. There's a dry ditch just here. If you crouch down, you'll be in safe cover." "OK, let's take a look," Strang replied. The young Allenby copper led off, with Strang and James following. They reached the end of the ditch. "Now what, constable?" Strang asked. "It's a bit difficult, sir. We'll have to be quick. You see the pipeline over there?" He pointed towards a black tarred pipe perhaps three feet in diameter that came from the other side of the river. "The one crossing the river?" "That's it, sir. We'll be safe behind that. It's a bit of a scramble across this broken ground, though. Hands and knees, sir. Do you think you can make it?" "Yes, constable, I think we'll manage. I must remember to bring my zimmer next time, though," Strang said. Sergeant James coughed, then looked away. Past the pipeline, a concrete path led onwards, overshadowed by a substantial brick wall to their left. They made their way counter-clockwise round the perimeter, towards the undamaged end of the factory. Almost due south of the building, they found a group of fifteen police officers who'd taken cover behind an earth mound. Eleven of them were uniformed PCs, who looked very young and inexperienced to Strang's eyes. There were three Sergeants and an Inspector. "That's my boss, sir. Inspector Russell," the young bobby told Strang. A clutter of equipment was stacked on the ground: three heavy plastic riot shields and a box of CS gas cartridges, with a short-barreled projector. Nearby lay several smoke flares, a loudhailer, a coil of nylon rope, and a bobbie's torn and bloodstained jacket. "It was Jones," explained Russell. "Had to be a bloody hero. Stupid bastard made a run for the factory gate. He's got three buckshot pellets in him, but they reckon he'll be OK." "Is this it? Just this team?" Strang asked. "Oh, no. The place is well covered. There's no way the bastards are getting out of there. I've got marksmen on all sides of the factory, including two across the river. We've got an armoured riot van with four chaps inside, full breathing equipment and H&K machine pistols, ready to go. That should be plenty against a shotgun and maybe a pistol or two. There's a couple of heavy crews coming over from Chorley HQ. They should be here in half an hour." "I doubt we've got time to wait. The wind's shifting. If we don't get this fire out, and fast, half the county will be contaminated. Of course, Inspector, you're in charge. I'm only an observer." Strang imagined what Inspector Russell, a tall, rangy man, was thinking: should he put his crew up against the unknowns in the factory, or risk the wind shifting and not getting the fire out in time? He knew these provincial officers went to 'Gentlemens' Evenings' with their colleagues. Russell was probably on first name turns with their families. After what seemed to Strang like minutes rather than seconds, the inspector pulled out his mini-radio. "Foxtrot Four, Foxtrot Four, Echo control, over." A voice, quite clear at close range on the UHF, replied from the tiny loudspeaker: "Foxtrot Four here, Echo." "Foxtrot, we're going in now, we can't afford to wait. As soon as you're through the gates, give us the OK, and we'll go from this side as well." "Roger, Echo. Moving off now." Russell offered Strang a pair of lightweight folding binoculars. Strang took them and focussed on the burning factory. Streams of molten bitumen came off the roof. It fell through the air in graceful parabolas of yellow flame that made strange whooping sounds. In the background the burning plastic made a noise like frying potatoes. * * * The armoured van must have been doing forty miles an hour as it rounded the curve on the entrance road. It crossed a small river of the molten plastic coming from the waste dump, sending blazing streamers of the stuff to left and right. The van braked hard to a shuddering halt at the chained factory gates. An officer jumped out of the rear doors, carrying a thick plastic riot shield two metres tall. A pair of heavy duty bolt cutters swung from his left wrist on a leather strap. Quick, thought Strang, get those gates open. Run, don't walk. "That's Greenham," Inspector Russell said. Strang saw him bring the cutters up, trap the chain in them, and press on the handles. The chain parted and fell to the road. He turned to beckon the driver forward. At that moment, a shotgun blast came from the semi-circular factory window nearest them. Pieces flew from Greenham's shield. Inspector Russell stood up. Strang dragged him back down again, watching in horror as Greenham crashed backwards against the van. Greenham's hands flew up. The bolt cutters arced through the air, then crashed into the steel wire mesh in front of the windscreen. One of the handles hooked the wire mesh, and the leather strap tightened, keeping the dying man from falling to the ground. The van moved forward into the gates and stalled. Greenham's body was crushed against the vertical metal bars, like a piece of meat squashed by the tines of a fork. Blood poured onto the ground and pooled around the offside front tyre. Greenham twitched and flapped grotesquely for several seconds, then was still. "Damn the driver," Russell spat. "He's probably in shock," Strang snapped. The echoes of the shot had hardly died away when whomever was at the window fired again, five spaced rounds of three-quarter-inch solid slugs. Steam and boiling water exploded from the van's radiator. The second shot struck the hexagonal steel bar at the bottom of the protective windscreen grille, chewed a piece out of it, and ricocheted away with a dull moan. Another ripped through the anti-missile mesh as if it were gossamer and blew a large hole in the polycarbonate screen, narrowly missing the driver but mangling the arm of one of the officers crouched in the rear. Strang saw the vehicle jump with the impacts. He turned towards Inspector Russell, who seemed frozen in disbelief, and said, "Inspector! Covering fire!" "My God, what the hell are they using, an anti-tank rifle?" "Don't think so, Inspector. Sounded like a twelve bore. Firing solid shot, maybe. Favourite weapon of the SAS." He remembered the course as if it had been yesterday, the dry voice of the instructor as he held up a South African SPAS automatic shotgun: "The SPAS, gentlemen, and pray you never face one of these, or you can kiss your arse goodbye. It's fully auto, but since it kicks like a mule, anything more than a six round burst isn't very practical. But what a burst! Takes all the standard ordnance: Magnum shot up to double 'ought, solid shot and flechette rounds. Armour piercing, incendiary, tracer, and high explosive." Flat cracks of high-velocity rifle fire brought him back again. Russell brought in covering fire from his sharpshooters, but at best they only had an angle onto the window, not a direct line, and the smoke made things very difficult. Two small factory windows overlooked seventy yards of bare ground littered with debris: old metal stampings with razor sharp edges, heaps of compressed-cardboard washers, tangles of yellowing plastic tube. Too far to throw a round through the window with the CS gas gun. Strang pulled his cellphone from an inside pocket. "Inspector. D'you mind if I try to get some fire support? We've an army base at the back of us, but it'll take some clout in London to get things moving." Russell turned, ashen-faced. "Anything you like, but make it quick." Strang punched in the number of Forsyth's direct line, and waited with the phone mashed against his ear. * * * In the stalled van a riot squad officer named Morse heaved at the door handle. The back doors opened suddenly. His colleague fell out and put his arms forward to protect himself, but his smashed right arm wouldn't obey. He hit the tarmac full force, bashing his shoulder and trapping the shattered elbow underneath. He gave a short high pitched scream like a cat that had been run over, then passed out. Morse dived out after him, then the third man, an officer named Roberts. Morse pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and knotted it round the unconscious man's upper arm. He turned to Roberts. "Quick! Get the jack handle from inside. Tourniquet. We've got to stop the bleeding or he's had it." "What about the driver?" the other gritted. "He'll be safe enough if he stays down. The engine will give him cover." "But if it starts to burn?" Evidently the driver had the same idea. They heard him open the front door, then came another shotgun blast and the van rocked again. A half-moon pattern of buckshot strikes rippled the tarmac at the side of the men crouched at the back. The door slammed shut again. Morse stopped working on the injured man and turned to Roberts. "The bleeding's under control, but they'd better get us out of here in a hurry, or he'll lose the arm," he mouthed. Shit, where was the backup? Roberts wondered. He crawled forwards, reached into the van and grabbed his Heckler & Koch machine pistol. Rolling to one side, he pulled back the firing lever to cock the weapon. A mechanical grinding sound echoed through the van as the driver tried the starter, but the engine wouldn't catch. The bastard in the factory must have heard him: the shotgun blasted again, with another buckshot round. Roberts flinched as the big lead balls spanged off the ground next to him. Roberts poked his hand round the side of the rear door, pointed the H&K in the general direction of the shotgunner and pressed the trigger, using half the magazine. There was silence for a moment and he was just about to stick his head out for a quick look, when the shotgun blasted twice more. The van jumped as it was hit, and the air above his head was ripped apart by something passing at near-supersonic speed. He tried to flatten himself against the tarmac. "Oh, fuck!" he shouted. * * * A hundred yards away, crouched behind the earth mound, Strang spoke urgently into the cellphone. "No, I don't care if he is with the Minister. This is a life or death . . . can't you hear the shots, dammit? Yes, at Allenby. Right away. Yes, I'll hold." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Russell's young bobby stick his head round the side of the mound. Immediately, three shots, pistol shots by the sound of them, came from the building. The bobby pulled his head in like a turtle that had been stepped on. One of Russell's sharpshooters replied from his vantage point, a workman's hut by the railway track, three hundred yards away. High-velocity point two-two-three rounds sliced through the air above the crouched men. Strang risked a quick glimpse and saw powdered brick exploding around the factory windows. "Nine milli or thirty-eight revolver or pistol, those last shots," he remarked. Russell nodded, and said "Looks like two of them, all right. Bastard with the shotgun is the real problem, though." Forsyth came on the line. "Strang?" "Sir. We're pinned down. Two men in the building, we think. One of them is firing armour piercing rounds. Solid shot." "I thought, what's his name -- yes, Russell, he has an assault team and several rifles. It's not enough?" Forsyth's voice held disbelief. "The building has walls of furnace brick, sir, good enough to stop the two-twenty-threes, and the assault team's out of action. The van's had it. One man down, another looks serious. And," he glanced skyward. "The wind is veering, sir. The smoke cloud is coming around." "Christ, it sounds like a right mess. What do you suggest? You're the one on the spot." "Army base, sir. Less than a mile away. I know it's highly irregular, but under the circumstances -- maybe you could call the Colonel personally?" There was silence for a moment, then Forsyth came back on. "I'll see what I can do. It'll cost me a favour." The line went dead. "Right now, we're losing," Strang said to Russell. "But let's wait and see." Twenty minutes later, Strang recognised the distinctive sound of a Land Rover as it negotiated the muddy slope behind the rail track. The sound faded as the wind changed direction again. Yeah. That was an idea, but they could hardly risk trying to get the vehicle across the steep-sided rail track with its live rails. A sergeant with a salt 'n' pepper moustache came into view, running in a half crouch, a webbing bag slung over one shoulder. Three other men followed him, a young corporal and two privates. All regular army. Strang smiled when he saw the two privates carried a tripod and a 7.62mm machine gun. The corporal struggled with the weight of the olive-drab ammo box he carried. "Two men, probably, in the front part of the factory over there," Strang explained. "We've got two down, a riot van stalled against the front gate. It was taken out with high velocity solid shot. Probably a twelve gauge by the sound of it. We're taking handgun fire." The sergeant listened to what Strang had to say, then took a look for himself. "OK. Your chaps at the front are in a bad way. We'll have to take those snipers out." "We'd like them alive. This isn't the first incident." Strang watched the soldiers mating the automatic weapon to its tripod. The sarge looked at Strang. "Sorry, sir, but there's no ready access with the fire as it is. Unless you want to sit it out, but I think you might lose one or two more men." "We can't risk that." Strang’s voice took on a harder edge. "The quicker the better, in that case." One of the privates went with the sarge, lugging the GPMG and ammo box between them. The corporal and another private stayed with Strang. Strang watched through the binoculars as the sergeant and corporal climbed up the back wall of a railworker's maintenance hut. At three hundred yards, they were comfortably out of range of anything the shotgun or handgun could throw. The flat concrete roof provided a firm base for the tripod. The corporal located the first round in a chain of disintegrating-link 7.62 mm ammunition in the breech and closed the flat metal top on the gun. The sergeant pulled back the cocking lever and took aim. Strang flinched when the machine gun started up. The rounds tore rents in the air overhead, sounding inches away, though he knew they must be several feet above and to one side. The corporal and private peered over the top, so Strang risked sticking his head up as well. The MG tracked back and forth between the two small side windows. A loud hammering and cracking sound came from the building as the cupro-nickel jacketed bullets slammed into and through the bricks. The ricochets made a noise like giant hornets. When the hail of fire stopped the two soldiers bounded up and over the ridgeline. In seconds they were at the wall. One of them covered the windows with a machine pistol. The other ripped the safety pin from a dull olive grenade, pulled his arm back as if throwing a javelin, and hurled it neatly through a window. Both men immediately dropped to the ground. A second later the building shook as the frag detonated. The windows lit up with an orange glare and after a few moments, multiple echoes of the explosion came back from the distance. The two soldiers ran around the corner of the factory. A few moments went by and then the building shook again.
|