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Authors: Sam Christer
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men’s body heat to the tiny screen embedded in the visor of his full-face protective mask and helmet.
The commander runs a final check with two surveillance operatives hidden close to the target building and then gives the ‘go’ signal.
The unit slips silently from the blacked-out van and shifts stealthily across the corner of the park towards John F. Kennedy Boulevard. The body shop is in sight.
The metal roller door is down all the way and anchored from the inside. The three front windows and the back two are closed and have sturdy wire mesh over what is certain to be reinforced glass. The walls are white pebbledash over thick breezeblock. The roof is bitumen, plasterboard and cheap wooden joists – all too thin and noisy to risk anyone walking on.
It means Bendon has had to plan another way in.
The team with him is the best there is: MacNeish, King, Kupka, Parry, Cavell and Elliott have been in more than a dozen raids at least as dangerous as this. When it comes to badasses, they’re off the scale.
Bendon waves MacNeish forward.
The thickset operative slips into position, raises an Arwen launcher to his shoulder and chugs a series of brick-penetrating rounds through the mortar.
As the payloads empty CS into the body shop, a small explosive charge blows out an architectural weak spot between the roller door and the window. King rolls in two flashbangs.
Kupka and Parry are through the hole and into the smoke before the dust has had a chance to rise, let alone settle. Bullets spray from CTU carbines – not the normal deadly lead but unique tranquillizers that penetrate and discharge on impact.
There’s a volley of enemy fire from low in the far corner. A round smacks Elliott in the shoulder and spins him. Cavell returns fire.
It seems like all hell is breaking loose. A wall collapses and part of the roof falls in. Parry shouts, ‘Out! Out!’
More of the roof comes in. There’s another wild burst of gunfire. A crouching terrorist breaks cover and runs through the mist.
Bendon sees him. He’s heading into the other part of the body shop. The place where the pits and the explosives are.
A burst from the commander’s Heckler and Koch hits the terrorist in the back and drops him in the dirt. Bendon kicks the man’s weapon away and snags him with fast-tie plastic cuffs.
Another bomber breaks from the mist.
Kupka is close enough to smash a forearm into his face and knock him flat. He tilts his gun and shoots tranquillizer into the man’s chest.
There’s silence now.
Everyone strains and concentrates. Thermal recon showed four people – they’ve only hit two.
The team sweeps the fog with their weapons. One by one, calm voices speak into Bendon’s earpiece.
‘Clear south.’
‘Clear east.’
‘Clear west.’
‘Clear north.’
He picks through the rubble. Chunks of brick and breezeblock shift beneath the soles of his boots. Down in the pit he sees the store of bombs and bomb-making materials. There are stacks of PBX, plastic bonded explosives. Some small devices are already completed, others still need to be assembled. Alongside them are dozens of detonators, bags of binding materials, packs of plasticizers and several canisters of cyclotrimethylene.
Bendon waves the bomb-squad boys forward and steps outside. Two of the cell got away when the roof fell in but his men are after them. He picks up the radio in the van and links through to CTU control. ‘Two captured. Two escaped but the information was a hundred per cent accurate. The place was a bomb factory. A big one. Tell Director Briars his informant delivered, again.’
27
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
The black Jaguar arrives in the dead of night.
Armed guards leave the warmth of their security lodge, peer briefly through the bulletproof glass then respectfully wave the limousine past.
It travels a short way down an unlit track to an old gatekeeper’s cottage. The driver, a large man with military haircut gets out and opens the
The commander runs a final check with two surveillance operatives hidden close to the target building and then gives the ‘go’ signal.
The unit slips silently from the blacked-out van and shifts stealthily across the corner of the park towards John F. Kennedy Boulevard. The body shop is in sight.
The metal roller door is down all the way and anchored from the inside. The three front windows and the back two are closed and have sturdy wire mesh over what is certain to be reinforced glass. The walls are white pebbledash over thick breezeblock. The roof is bitumen, plasterboard and cheap wooden joists – all too thin and noisy to risk anyone walking on.
It means Bendon has had to plan another way in.
The team with him is the best there is: MacNeish, King, Kupka, Parry, Cavell and Elliott have been in more than a dozen raids at least as dangerous as this. When it comes to badasses, they’re off the scale.
Bendon waves MacNeish forward.
The thickset operative slips into position, raises an Arwen launcher to his shoulder and chugs a series of brick-penetrating rounds through the mortar.
As the payloads empty CS into the body shop, a small explosive charge blows out an architectural weak spot between the roller door and the window. King rolls in two flashbangs.
Kupka and Parry are through the hole and into the smoke before the dust has had a chance to rise, let alone settle. Bullets spray from CTU carbines – not the normal deadly lead but unique tranquillizers that penetrate and discharge on impact.
There’s a volley of enemy fire from low in the far corner. A round smacks Elliott in the shoulder and spins him. Cavell returns fire.
It seems like all hell is breaking loose. A wall collapses and part of the roof falls in. Parry shouts, ‘Out! Out!’
More of the roof comes in. There’s another wild burst of gunfire. A crouching terrorist breaks cover and runs through the mist.
Bendon sees him. He’s heading into the other part of the body shop. The place where the pits and the explosives are.
A burst from the commander’s Heckler and Koch hits the terrorist in the back and drops him in the dirt. Bendon kicks the man’s weapon away and snags him with fast-tie plastic cuffs.
Another bomber breaks from the mist.
Kupka is close enough to smash a forearm into his face and knock him flat. He tilts his gun and shoots tranquillizer into the man’s chest.
There’s silence now.
Everyone strains and concentrates. Thermal recon showed four people – they’ve only hit two.
The team sweeps the fog with their weapons. One by one, calm voices speak into Bendon’s earpiece.
‘Clear south.’
‘Clear east.’
‘Clear west.’
‘Clear north.’
He picks through the rubble. Chunks of brick and breezeblock shift beneath the soles of his boots. Down in the pit he sees the store of bombs and bomb-making materials. There are stacks of PBX, plastic bonded explosives. Some small devices are already completed, others still need to be assembled. Alongside them are dozens of detonators, bags of binding materials, packs of plasticizers and several canisters of cyclotrimethylene.
Bendon waves the bomb-squad boys forward and steps outside. Two of the cell got away when the roof fell in but his men are after them. He picks up the radio in the van and links through to CTU control. ‘Two captured. Two escaped but the information was a hundred per cent accurate. The place was a bomb factory. A big one. Tell Director Briars his informant delivered, again.’
27
GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND
The black Jaguar arrives in the dead of night.
Armed guards leave the warmth of their security lodge, peer briefly through the bulletproof glass then respectfully wave the limousine past.
It travels a short way down an unlit track to an old gatekeeper’s cottage. The driver, a large man with military haircut gets out and opens the
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