Go Out With A Bang! (23 page)

'You
crazy, wonderful woman,' he heard himself say.

Chapter 71

They
flew towards the sea, over small commuter towns and villages. The
heavy missile on one side of the chopper was causing an imbalance,
making controlling the bird difficult.

'We have
a problem,' said Steve.

'I know.
I'm hanging on to it,' said Sandra, the rope biting into her
hand.

'Not
just that. We're losing fuel. A bullet must have hit the
tank.'

Sandra
leaned over and looked at the missile. Red ethereal numbers told
her they had seven minutes remaining on the timer. the heavy
missile had also slipped in the loops of rope. She could see people
going about their business, looking up as they skimmed over the
roofs and tree tops. She twisted over and got both hands on the
rope and pulled harder.

'This
thing's not staying put for much longer,' said Sandra.

Looking
through the windscreen she could see the docks, several boats
moored up, beyond that, the open sea.

'We're
not staying up for much longer, either.'

'Steve.
We're still over land. Keep going.'

The
chopper did a wobble and it shook and dropped.

'Steve.'

The
chopper lurched and Steve had to use will power to straighten up.
Black smoke was billowing out behind them. Sandra could feel the
missile slipping in the rope and she leaned out further. The
missile had slipped off the boom and the rope wrapped around the
fins was all that was holding it to the side of the chopper. She
twisted completely around, and stretched out on the seat, her legs
over Steve's lap, her head and shoulders hanging outside. Wrapping
the rope around her right arm, she used her left hand to keep
herself from falling out. The missile slipped further and she was
taking the full weight on her arm. The pain would have defeated a
lesser human.

'We're
going down,' yelled Steve.

'What?'

'I love
you, Sandra. I love you.'

'What?'

Sandra
couldn't hear Steve's declaration. Below her the land ended and the
sea began. There was a knocking noise and a small explosion from
the chopper motor. The rope slipped down her arm and she used both
hands to grab the rope, feeling the weight of the missile pulling
her out of the chopper. She could see the timer tick away the last
seventeen seconds and she let go of the rope. Steve hooked his hand
into her belt and with the last of his strength, heaved her back
inside. The rotor stopped spinning, the blades froze in
space.

'I said
I love you.'

'Steve,
I...'

From the
top of Monument Hill, Bernie had watched the chopper as it flew
away, disappearing to become a speck on the horizon, taking his
sister away from him. He saw the explosion. The mushroom cloud,
miles away, told him all he had to know. His heart had sank the way
he was sure the chopper, what was left of it, had sunk into the
sea. He wiped a tear away and sighed.

Chapter 72

Bedlam
didn't come close. Prime Minister Sinclair Carlisle felt two things
almost simultaneously. The crashing of the first missile as it
struck somewhere high above him in the International Conference
Centre and the solid weight of Paul ”Rosy” Rose as the Chief of
Internal Security reacted without thinking, flattening the Prime
Minister to the floor, using his body as a shield.

'Are you
okay?' Rosy asked.

'If you
let me breathe, I might just make it.'

Rosy
said, 'You can breathe later. I'm just making sure there are no
more...' He was interrupted by another explosion and parts of the
plasterwork of the ceiling falling on his back.'And there it
is.'

'We have
to get everyone out of here,' gasped Carlisle.

'Your
job is annoying the citizens, my job is keeping you alive long
enough to do it. You stay where you are.'

All
around them, world leaders were being covered by human shields,
relieved they had all been together on the ground floor in the
lobby, giving the final press conference and not in the top floors
where the missiles had blasted a huge hole in the fabric of Western
society.

Carlisle
said, 'That's it. You're fired.'

Which
was when the third missile struck. The building shook, but not like
before. Already loose plaster fell in a variety of sizes and
shapes. A large chunk groaned free and landed on the Prime
Minister's shin, the resultant yell of pain hurting Rosy's
eardrums.

'You may
wish to reconsider. I should get you out of here,' said
Rosy.

'No
shit.

'Sinclair. You know something? You're full
of...gas.'

'Me?'

'All of
us. Look. Green stuff. We gotta get out of here.'

'I sort
of mentioned that already.'

Rosy got
to his feet and took Carlisle's hand and tried to haul him to his
feet, but Carlisle just crumbled, screaming in agony.

'You've
a broken leg.'

'I
noticed.'

Rosy
pulled the man to his foot, hurled him over his shoulder and
lumbered towards the open doors and freedom. The President of the
United States was also limping along, his arms draped around two
burly dust coated giants in shades.

'So.
Sinclair. How's your day been so far?'

'Pretty
bloody average, to be honest with you, Randy. Wanna swap
agents?'

'I am
here you know,' said Rosy, staggering under the weight of the man
on his back.

'Then
could you run a bit faster?'

'Remind
me not to vote for you next time.' The media had fled the foyer,
praying outside was a little less dangerous. Apart from two brave
souls, one armed and dangerous with a camera, the other a middle
aged, hat wearing man with questionable breath who could nail a
story with his microphone from a hundred paces.

'Nigel
Porter, The Daily Oblivion. Prime Minister. Mister President. Would
you say this conference has been all you'd have hoped
for?'

In
chronic pain, Sinclair, never one to miss a photo opportunity,
found himself grinning, and although he had noticed a cloud of
thick green gas building up uncomfortably close behind them,
said,'Nigel. It was very productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mister
President?'

'Absolutely,' agreed The President. 'But Nigel, if you don't
piss off, I'll personally shove that microphone right up
your...'

Chapter 73

If
inside the International Conference Centre was bedlam on a stick,
outside took the meaning of the word surreal to new heights. Rosy's
knees finally buckled, and as he folded, he remembered who was
across his shoulders and carefully laid the man down. Two
paramedics raced towards them.

'You,'
said Rosy. 'This is...'

'The
bloody Prime Minister,' said the woman. 'Got that. Sir. How are you
doing?'

'Broken
leg, bruised ego, and if I don't get to a toilet right now, I'll
probably pee my pants. Whoops. And there she blows.'

'Probably the effects of the gas,' said Rosy,
diplomatically.

'He has
gas, too?' the paramedic asked.

'Him and
us, no. In there, gas, people, bodies, lots of really important
types, so I hope you ain't all we got.'

'They're
trying to get through. The roads are blocked with the rubble. It
could take a while.'

Randolph
Milliner was sitting on the pavement, his back to the wall, picking
plaster out of his hair, his two security men yelling into their
phones, demanding this, insisting on that. Milliner reached out and
grasped Carlisle's arm.

'Hey.
We're alive. I'm guessing some in there ain't that
lucky.'

Around
them, sirens screamed, soldiers, police and paramedics were
battling their way through and over rubble, with chunks of masonry
still falling about their ears, determined to do what ever they
could. The president and prime minister sat and talked as brave men
and women in gas masks ran in and out with stretchers, carrying
bodies in various states of life and death, mangled and broken,
disfigured and maimed.

And
perhaps in a far off land, candles would be lit, prayers would be
said, for the brave fighters for the truth, or their version of it,
who had caused the Western world to fall to its knees. And the two
world leaders, sitting together on the pavement, propped up against
the damaged wall, watched a pair of paramedics wearing gas masks,
carry out a nineteen year old girl. One who had smiled so
delightfully as she poured drinks for them, saving to pay her way
through medical college, her brass name badge declaring her name to
be Rebecca.

Her once
pretty face was ruined for the rest of her life, assuming she would
survive the injuries that would mean she would never walk again.
Those saying their prayers in a far off land, lighting those
candles and boasting of the bravery of their sons, must be so
proud, thought Carlisle.

One
after another, ruined lives were carried out of the damaged
building. Many families would be in mourning and be grieving that
day; numb parents, brothers, sisters, husbands and wives would be
in states of shock for lives so needlessly taken from them. Others,
relatives of the survivors, would be coming to terms with how they
could put together the scarred, the damaged, and the
traumatised.

Even the
physically unscathed would be forever affected, never to sleep a
whole night for the rest of their lives. They would be waking up in
cold sweats, the deep dark images locked in their minds, the second
before they opened their eyes to face a new day, to give thanks
that they had been spared. And even those so fortunate to be
physically unblemished, would feel guilty for being chosen to
survive, trying to live each day knowing so many had died and been
maimed.

Yes,
thought Randolph Milliner. Families so far away who would be
lighting candles, saying prayers, boasting of their brave children.
Oh, yes. They must be so proud. He wasn't so sure God, anyones God,
would be smiling this day.

Chapter 74

Bernie
stood by the rocks, with a heavy heart, staring in the direction of
the sea. Thanks to his sister and a stranger, many lives had been
spared. But it had been at the cost of their own lives. That Sandra
had appeared in a helicopter, ready to put everything on the line
once again, hadn't surprised him. His pride for her did little to
bury his sadness. For some reason, he remembered the time in
Bloomesberry Park, when Sandra was eight, and she'd fallen off her
brand new bike, gashing her knee. She had hardly cried at all. Even
then she was tough.

Bernie
was brought back to reality by the cacophony all around The Hill.
Below him bodies were being bagged up. Three officers had been
injured but none had been killed. Forty two terrorist's were dead,
the others were close to death.

Paramedics were working masterfully to cope with the carnage,
a steady stream of ambulances making round trips to the hospital.
Across the city, he could see smoke billowing from the
International Conference Centre, more teams of the emergency
services were evacuating people and ferrying them to the hospital.
The armed forces were there on the scene, clearing rubble, shifting
the damaged cars from the streets so the emergency vehicles could
get through. These people were the best of the best, consummate
professionals, going into places few others would dare to
go.

'Are you
okay, Chief?'

Ferret,
Nick and the others had been held back by the police action. They
had seen the Chief standing alone on the top of The Hill. His
shoulders were slumped and his eyes spoke of sadness and
grief.

'Fred.
Come here my boy.' He crushed Fred in a bear hug.

Not
understanding the relationship between the two men, Frank, Nick and
the others stood back.

'Fred.
I've bad news for you.'

'What is
it?'

'Sandra's gone. She and that man, Steve.'

Frank
stepped forward. 'Steve? What's happened to him?'

Fred
explained. 'This is Steve's brother, Bernie.'

'I see.
Then I am so, so, sorry.'

Hank
said, 'Where's my uncle?'

'They...Sandra and Steve, took the missile. In the chopper.
There was timer running on it, just minutes to go.'

Far off
in the distance, the remains of the cloud was being blown out to
sea.

'That's
them?' Frank asked.

Bernie
sighed. 'I don't see how they could have survived. I've organised a
police launch to go and look for them. I'm not expecting to see my
sister again.'

'I don't
understand,' said Frank, his mind in a whirl. 'Your sister? I
thought you said it was Sandra in the chopper with
Steve.'

Bernie
nodded. 'It was. Sandra's my sister.' He wrapped an arm around
Fred. 'She gave you the news about Poppy, I assume?'