Honour Bound (30 page)

-52-

Peter
Greaves acknowledged the radio message sent by Colin Lyle, codenamed ‘Scout’,
and placed the receiver on the dashboard. He looked across at the two men
seated beside him. To Kevin Webb, the driver, he said, "Start her
up."

He
turned his attention to Danny Green, sitting in the centre seat next to Webb.
"I've got to make a phone call," he said. "Nip out and check
everybody's back at their trucks. Now is not the time to go for a piss. Five
more minutes and we're gone."

Green
followed Greaves out of the van, both going their separate ways. Green went to
each of the three
lorries
parked in line behind the
van, speaking to each driver in turn. Greaves crossed the car park to a
telephone kiosk in a quiet corner of the service station and placed his call.
After breaking the connection he walked briskly back to the van. He could feel
the excitement, generated by the fast approaching assault phase building within
his body. His heart seemed to be pumping faster, the small of his back was
tingling with little bursts of pleasure and his senses felt razor sharp, he had
never felt so alive. He wondered what thoughts were engaging the rest of the
team. Whatever they were, they all knew it was too late to back out now.
Another two hours, he estimated, and it would be over, for better or worse.

He
reached the van and climbed in. Green had returned and both he and Webb were
busy smoking, a veil of smoke and the smell of sweat shrouded the cab. The
atmosphere had changed in the few short minutes he had taken to use the
telephone. It had not been relaxed when they left
Holflight
several hours earlier, now it was so tense, he felt able to touch it. Both men
looked at him with trepidation as he slammed the door. The joviality and high
spirits shown in the range at Seymour Wharf the night before were just a memory
for this pair, now the time for action was upon
them.                    

Green
broke the silence. "All the others are back with their trucks," he
said, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke that curled around his words like
ectoplasm from the mouth of a medium.

"Good."
Greaves replied. "
Kev
, let's get
going." 

Greaves
saw the look that settled on Webb's face as the vehicle began to move. I would
rather be anywhere else than here, was the wordless expression.

"Cheer
up," Greaves said, unable to think of anything else to say. "Think of
the money."

Getting
little response other than a sickly smile, he shook his head and looked out of
the small window at the rear of the cab. Through the piles of cones stacked in
the vans open load space he saw the rest of the assault team vehicles
indicating properly as they pulled out of the waiting area. The van, followed
by three articulated
lorries
, each with a low slung
flat bed trailer carrying a variety of stolen road repair equipment, headed
towards the exit slip road. The small convoy rolled out of the service station
and headed east along the motorway at a steady fifty miles an hour. The lead
lorry, lumbering along behind the van had a twenty-five ton road roller secured
to its trailer with thick steel chains. A surface scraper, a JCB earthmover, an
auxiliary generator and a Land Rover were shared evenly between the other two
trailers.

Only
a few minutes after leaving the service station, they pulled to a halt on the
hard shoulder opposite the rooftop observation post manned by Nash and Lyle.
Greaves, Webb and Green, dressed now in green fluorescent jackets, got out of
the van and manhandled a portable hazard sign from the rear of the Land Rover,
setting it up behind the last of the stationary
lorries
.

A
three foot by six foot section of a battery operated dot matrix sign raised
itself to a height of fifteen feet. The sign displayed 'EMERGENCY ROADWORKS'
with an arrow indicating to the approaching traffic that it should use the
outside lane. After several minutes, they had managed to manoeuvre the sign
from the hard shoulder, forcing the traffic to filter into the remaining lane.
Webb and Green began placing cones from the back of the van along the lane
markers whilst Greaves guided the
lorries
off the hard
shoulder and into their final positions on the blocked inner lane. As the crews
started to unload the trailers, Greaves stood back, hands on his hips, watching
both their progress and the hands on his watch.

Colin
Lyle watched as the ambush site took shape over a period of twenty minutes. Now
at last, all the vehicles were in their correctly assigned positions. The Land
Rover was on the hard shoulder, the generator standing behind it. The three
lorries
had been placed nose to tail on the inside lane with
the road roller positioned broadside across the front of the lorry at the head
of the queue. The JCB, now unchained, was still on the trailer of the centre
lorry and the surface scraper was busy removing the top layer of a perfectly
good hard shoulder. In amongst the vehicles twelve figures in bright green
jackets milled around while pretending to be busy. As Lyle watched, the
JCB's
engine started, belching out a cloud of black smoke
from the exhaust above the drivers cab, as if in direct competition with the
smoky stack of the road roller and the dust being generated by the surface
scraper.

He
moved his observations slowly to the right, westwards along the motorway. The
tail back of traffic had built up quickly, stretching back for more than two
miles already. He kept the binoculars trained at the furthest visible point,
waiting for the tell tale of flashing lights to appear in the shimmering heat
haze.

Gavin
Nash put his book into a jacket pocket and stretched out beneath the canvas
sheet, an attempt to relieve some of the aches that were plaguing him. He
rolled onto his stomach and broke wind. "I don't know about you," he
said, "but this is going to be the easiest hundred grand I've ever
earned."

Lyle
let the binoculars hang on the strap around his neck and twisted around to face
his friend, a serious look on his face. "Tell me again in an hour,"
he said.

He
took the radio from his pocket and spoke into it. "Crewman from Scout,
cargo approaching, cargo approaching."

-53-

As
one of a fifteen-man team, police constable Garry Brown was well into his
second hour of a twelve-hour shift manning the emergency telephone lines in the
command and control complex of New Scotland Yard. He was enjoying a brief lull
in the influx of calls demanding police attention, and was leaning back in his
seat watching the clock on his workstation as the time approached for his
compulsory break. He was craving for a cigarette, but because smoking was not
allowed in the building, he was looking forward to his fifteen-minute stand
down.

A
light began to flash on the computer screen and he sat forward, readjusting his
headset. He tapped a key to accept the incoming call, his twentieth so far, and
paused briefly for it to be connected.

"Metropolitan Police.
How can I
help?"

"This
is Caruso," a calm male voice said, loud and clear in his earpiece.

Brown's
craving for a cigarette dissolved instantly, pushed to the back of his mind by
the caller's use of this codeword. His immediate action was to flag the call as
an emergency, both to alert the officer in charge and to start the computer
trace on the mobile phone the call was being made on.

"Listen
carefully," the voice continued, "there are three bombs.
One, a major road junction where the M4 leaves the A4.
Two, a roundabout where the A406 meets the A315.
Three, near
a station in South Acton. You have fifteen minutes."

Brown
typed quickly, the words appearing on the computer screen almost as they were
spoken. The accuracy of the text would be checked later, as every call coming
into the complex was recorded and stored on compact discs. This particular
track would be extracted, enhanced, and played over and over again by a team of
audio analysts. Every sound on the track, ranging from the inflections in the
voice, to the weakest background noise would be carefully scrutinized in the
search for evidence to be used against the bombers.

Before
Brown could start asking questions to stall the caller and keep him on the line
to assist with the trace, the connection was broken.

"Damn
it," he muttered, and hit a key to store the information in the memory
banks.

"What
have we got this time?" Chief Inspector David Grant asked, as he leaned
over Brown's computer terminal.

Brown
relayed the text of the message.

"How many major junctions in the area, A4,
M4?"
Grant asked.

Brown
tapped out a command string on the keyboard. Moments later he said,
"Four."

"Okay,
send a copy of the message to the relevant stations. Alert the bomb squad and
traffic patrol. I want the junctions closed now and we'd better include the
tube and rail stations. Use Acton underground station on the
Picadilly
line as the hub, and close all the stations in a
two mile radius. No, make it two and a half, best to be on the safe side."

Brown
entered another command string into the computer and pressed the dispatch key.
A burst of electronic information immediately appeared on the screens in the
police stations surrounding the target areas, as well as on the in-car screens
of the traffic patrol vehicles.

Grant
watched Brown's actions, nodding in satisfaction.

His
team had been on duty on the day of the Heathrow bombings. He recalled the
utter frustration he had felt sitting in the comfort of the air-conditioned control
room while his monitor lit up with more and more calls for assistance from his
colleagues at the airport.

Today,
he thought
,
if we can get the right people to these
bombs before they go up, we'll have a good chance of catching the bastards.

"Sir,"
Brown said, reading a message that flashed on the screen, "looks like the
call was made from the Acton area. No better location though. Not enough
time." 

"Whoever
the bastard is he'll be long gone by now. He can't be sure we haven't traced
him and he'd be a right idiot to hang around long enough for a response car to
nab him. No, it's down to the boys on the ground now. Let's hope they can get
there in time."

Grant's
instructions, perfectly correct given the circumstances, were received and
acted upon by well trained, well equipped police officers. Within minutes, most
of West London was at a complete standstill, with two of the major routes
through this part of the city totally blocked by emergency vehicles. One
traffic patrol officer whose car was now blocking the last access road from the
A4 on to the M4 remarked to his colleague, as he looked Westward along the
deserted motorway, "I wish it was this quiet every day, I'd be home in no
time."

Remy
Vousson
left his unregistered pay as you go mobile
phone on an unoccupied bench outside Acton station and returned to his car. The
phone would, he was sure, be picked up and sold on within a couple of hours. He
had made the call exactly forty-five minutes after receiving the telephone
message from Peter Greaves at the service station. He’d kept an eye on his
watch to ensure the length of the call was twenty seconds or less, a precaution
to guard against an accurate trace. He would have used a telephone kiosk as he
had for the calls made to Heathrow’s switchboard, but he knew the police
computer system, unlike the airports, knew all the kiosk telephone numbers and
their locations.

Before
making the call he had checked the three vans, all stolen the night before, had
been left in the proper locations. Each van had the rear windows blacked out
and the load space packed with fertilizer. Unlike the other vans, these did not
need to explode. Just being where they were would be sufficient for the plan to
work. A detonating system, realistic but useless, had been rigged in each of
the vans for the sole purpose of slowing down the bomb disposal teams. The
longer each van took to clear, the longer the traffic jams remained.

Vousson
smiled to
himself, thankful that his part in the operation was now complete. He started
the car and began his journey back to Langdon Manor, hoping to be at his
lover's side when the cargo finally arrived. He would have to take a rather
circuitous route to avoid all the snarl-ups, but once out in the country he
could make up for lost time. After months of following the script, he didn’t
want to miss the final act.

-54-

Driving
the lead car, Inspector Victor Spring was able to see the traffic on an uphill
section in the distance siphoning into a single lane. He cursed along with many
other drivers as a wash of brake lights rippled along the lines of cars. A road
repair gang at work on the hard shoulder was the source of the congestion,
their fluorescent jackets highly visible even beneath the billowing cloud of
dust generated by their endeavours.

Already
the convoy's speed was down to 30 miles an hour and reducing with every yard.

"Were
these works here on the way out?" Spring asked no one in particular.

“I
don't think they were," Fuller replied. "At least I can't remember
seeing them."

"Let
the others know what the problem is," he said, keeping his eye on the
traffic and the road works. "You never know."

Using
the call signs for the other three vehicles Fuller relayed the reason for the
delay and cautioned for extra vigilance. She extracted her Heckler and Koch sub
machine gun from the door holster and held it upright, the butt resting on her
upper thigh. Her right hand curled with a sense of familiarity around the
pistol grip, index finger stroking the trigger guard, thumb resting on the
safety catch. The two nose gunners, Brown and Simms, readied their own weapons.
Brown had a sub machine gun the same as Fuller, Simms a pump action shotgun.
The crews of the other two police vehicles would now be in a similar state of
readiness, and would remain so until Fuller stood them down with a second radio
message.

At
the same time that Peter Greaves was waiting for the convoy’s arrival, Gavin
Nash, on the roof of the observation post, watched the lead car through the
telescopic sight mounted on the Barrett rifle. The long barrel moved slowly
from right to left as he followed the convoy's progress along the traffic
snarled motorway towards the ambush site.

As
Spring's
vehicle nosed into the road works, he noticed
something odd, something very odd. Every member of the road gang had stopped
working, and all of them, to a man, seemed to be looking directly at him. The
escort teams had become immune to the staring of Joe public, the convoy
normally caused a stir as it passed, attracting cameras and pointing fingers.
But this was bloody weird.   

Realization
dawned like a hammer striking an anvil, the rumour about a robbery was more
than that, it was reality, and the reality of what was about to happen hit him
like a physical force. Twin spirals of fear and dread began to churn his
stomach. This was the unthinkable, yet the unthinkable was about happen.
“Shit!” He yelled at the top of his voice, “It’s a fucking hit.”

He
stamped the accelerator to the stops, the car jerking as the gears kicked down.
The engine howled as the heavy car picked up speed, closing the gap on a
Renault immediately in front. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, preparing
to ram the slower car out of the way. He breathed a sigh of relief as the
Renault exited the road works, now only a few yards ahead, the distance
reducing rapidly.

His
relief was short lived. He swore again as a road roller reversed into his path,
forcing him to brake hard to avoid a collision. Too late, the crew were jolted
and shaken as though controlled by a crazed puppeteer as the front of the car
collided with the huge steel wheel, and was crushed like paper. Spring and
Fuller screamed in unison, feet and ankles crushed into a morass of bone, blood
and flesh as the armoured bulkhead collapsed under the tremendous weight. 

The
armoured truck, guided by its lasers, stopped before impacting the rear of
Spring's
smashed car. Also guided by lasers, the tail car
stopped directly behind the truck. The JCB, still mounted on the lorry trailer
revved an oily black cloud and lunged forward like an attacking predator. The
machine’s steel shovel slammed into the side of the trail car pinning it like a
giant bug against the unyielding crash barrier.

A
sharp whistle blast from Peter Greaves and the green-jacketed men of the
assault team leapt onto the trailers and opened fire at point blank range on
the two cars with their MP5 sub machine guns.

The
driver of the road roller opened his cab door and emptied the magazine of his
MP5 into what was left of the lead car’s windscreen. The screen buckled as
round after round hit the soft glass and finally collapsed inwards onto the
crushed legs of
Spring
and Fuller. Two of the rounds
struck Fuller in the chest. Their velocity had been so reduced in punching
through the glass they failed to penetrate her body armour, but hit with
sufficient force to expel the air from her
lungs.               

Simms
pushed the rear door open and had the chance to fire one shot, punching a
fluorescent clad figure from the trailer, before taking several hits in the
head and upper body. He sprawled half in and half out of the car, his lifeblood
mixing with the dirt and dust on the motorway.

Nash,
on the warehouse roof, saw the man shot by Simms tumble from the trailer and
lined the Barrett’s sight on the lead car. Inside at the rear, on the side
furthest from him, one of the crew was trying to bring his gun up to fire. Nash
could see him tugging and pushing on the body blocking the door. He pulled the
butt of the rifle into his shoulder, controlled his breathing and centred the
crosshair of the sight. He gently squeezed the trigger and the big rifle
bucked. A moment later the back of Brown's head disappeared in crimson cloud as
the bullet smashed through his face, his lifeless body slumped over that of his
friend.

Spring
and Fuller, both trapped in the front seats by the smashed bulkhead died where
they sat. Armour piercing bullets from Greaves' MP5, fired from close range
through the open rear door, ripped into and through their bodies, releasing
them from the agonies of crushed and shattered limbs.

Nash
adjusted the sight, his first shot, although on target had hit much higher than
he had intended. He aimed again and fired five controlled rounds into the side
window of the armoured truck. The window disintegrated when the third round
struck, exposing the crew inside. The last two rounds found their targets, and
blood splashed the inside of the cab as both driver and operator succumbed to
the heavy calibre bullets.

The
crew of the trail car were trapped inside their vehicle, crash barrier on one
side, JCB on the other. Johnston had died instantly when the earthmover's
shovel hit the car, his neck broken like a twig by the force of the collision.
Armour piercing bullets pecked like hungry birds at the car's reinforced
windows, small fragments of powdered glass rising from the surface like puffs
of smoke at each impact. The glass finally gave way. Hamilton, Smith and Weeks
died in a furious hail of bullets, pinned inside their metal tomb unable to get
out or to return fire.

Peter
Greaves watched the slaughter of the trail car crew before throwing his
submachine gun onto the trailer of a lorry and running to the body of Kevin
Webb, the only member of the team to be killed. He took a small parcel of
explosives from the dead man's pocket, set the timer for twenty seconds and
climbed up the side of the armoured truck.   

This
is better than knocking out a satellite tower, he thought, at least I know for
sure the trackers out of action. He reached in through the bullet-shattered
window, stretched over the bloodied corpse of the operator and dropped the
parcel onto the computer terminal between the two seats.

He
jumped down and shouted, "Take cover!"

Seconds
later an explosion reduced the computer console, emergency beacon activator and
the satellite tracking module into a mass of fragments.

Moments
after the shooting started, Lenny Lewis scrambled out of the backup car and
took cover behind the open door. He had a clear view of the assault taking
place several cars ahead. His eyes fixed on the body hanging out of the lead
car, lingering for several seconds before his training took over. He fired a
three round burst from his sub machine gun and saw one of the fluorescent clad
figures stumble and fall. He dropped to the ground instinctively as the sound
of an explosion rolled through the air.

"Shit,
shit, shit," he muttered before getting to his feet.

The
other members of his crew had taken up positions just in front of him. Paul
Brennon
, the man on loan from Diplomatic Protection had
taken cover to his left behind a stalled car and was firing aimed bursts at the
attackers. Alex Smith and Danny Warren were across to the right, now moving
between a line of cars and the crash barrier, towards the rear of the trail
car.

Lewis
blinked at the image in front of him, it was almost surreal, the green clad
figures shimmering like spectres in the heat haze, were all standing still, sub
machine guns in hand, barrels pointing toward the ground as if shocked by what
they had done. It was as if the men now firing at them did not exist. Smith and
Warren, still moving forward on the right seemed to be doing so in slow motion.
While the only sounds he could hear were the muted screams of people trapped in
their cars, and the blare of a rock band from a CD player in a nearby van.

He
moved forward, firing another three round burst at the green clad figures. He
did not hear or feel the .50 calibre bullet as it smashed into his chest,
ripping through his body armour like paper, before exiting through his back and
lodging in the engine block of the car behind.    

The
assault team began firing again as if the crack of the rifle bullet had
released them from a
spell,
they concentrated their
fire on the three remaining policemen.

Paul
Brennon
darted from the cover of a car and sprinted
towards the rear of the Land Rover parked on the hard shoulder, an attempt to
get behind the attackers and catch them in
a crossfire
.
He was two strides away from the safety of the Land Rover's bulk, when he was
hit by a long burst from an MP5. He went down with a scream that was cut short
by a spray of blood, as bullets tore into his upper chest and
throat.          

Danny
Warren fired five quick shots from his shotgun smashing two more attackers to
the ground. His grin lasted less than two seconds before a bullet hit him on
the point of his chin ripping his lower jaw from his face in a pink and white
cloud of blood and bone. His head, forced back by the impact, snapped his neck,
causing his tongue to protrude obscenely from his exposed throat. A hail of 9mm
bullets followed, slamming the standing corpse to the ground.

Alex
Smith stood up and with a scream and emptied his magazine in the direction of
the assault team. One figure was smashed to the ground, while another spun like
a leaf in a breeze before falling against the side of the trail car. He
reloaded with a new magazine, but before he had time to fire, a swarm of
bullets cut him down.

From
the roof of the warehouse, Lyle surveyed the scene through his binoculars.
Satisfied, he took the radio from his pocket and pressed the transmit switch.
"Airlift from Scout," he said, "drop in,
drop
in."

He
put it back in his pocket and looked at Nash. "Let's get the fuck out of
here."