Zero Option (20 page)

Through a cufting in the grass bank on our left, a farm or forestry track ran down a shallow ramp to join the road. Clearly it had been built as a concession to the landowner when the new road went through, to give him access to the highway. Changing down into second, I swung left off the tarmac and eased the Cavalier up the track, gravel scrunching under the tyres.
'Hear that?' I said. 'They went so far as to put down hardcore for our benefit. Even if it's raining, the van'll get up here no bother.'
At the back of the bank, out of sight of the road, we found a small turning-area, with a wooden-rail fence and gate bordering a plantation of young oaks: an ideal LUP for the rammer van.
'All we need do now is measure the distance to the centre of the highway,' I said. 'What is it? Sixty metres?'
'Seventy,' Tony suggested.
'I'll step it out.'
'OK.
Stand on the edge of the tarmac, and when there's nobody coming, wave me down for a trial run.'
As he strode off down the ramp, taking deliberately long paces, I turned the car and lined it up five metres back from the lip of the bank. Then, at his signal, I started forward, gently at first, to simulate a laden van, then accelerating, before I braked hard and slewed to a halt on the shoulder of the road.
'Seven seconds,' I reported. 'They'll need to practise with the van itself, but that'll be it, near enough.'
'Sixty-eight metres,' Tony announcdd as he climbed back aboard. 'What do we call this place?'
'Impact lamp. It's a nice site for a shoot-out, too. A few bursts into the banks won't hurt anybody.' I pulled off on to the grass again for a moment.
On the other side of the main road the ground fell away into a shallow drainage ditch. 'If we can hit the prison wagon into that it'll be perfect,' I said. 'The van'll probably roll over and we can go in through the roof.'
Driving on again, we took three and a half minutes to reach the third roundabout - Point Charlie - south of Ludlow, where the old main road headed back into the town. Between Bravo and Charlie lay a three-mile stretch of road with no side turnings. That gave us bags of space: even if something went wrong on Impact Ramp, we'd have several minutes clear in which to sort ourselves out.
'We're OK,' I told Tony. 'We've hacked it. Let's head for home.'

The O-Group took place in the main lecture hall, a big room with rows of seats set out in semicircular tiers.
There was a full turn-out from the Regimental head- shed, and the outsiders included Gilbert the Filbert from the Firm, a senior representative from Special Branch in London, a leading light from Winson Green prison, and police chiefs from Warwickshire, Shropshire and Herefordshire.
The CO set the pace by announcing that, although Plan Zulu was certainly unorthodox, it had been ordered in the national interest by the highest authority.
The immediate aim was to recover the hostages, but the wider strategy was to flush out as many players as possible in the West London ASU, and to break the power of an organisation which was posing a serious threat to the government. He therefore hoped everyone would give of their best in making the plan work.
In fact, most people seemed only too willing to co operate. The only big-wig who caused any trouble was the guy from the gaol, a frowning superscrew with a pock-marked face, who started in whingeing about his responsibility for the prisoner's health and safety. 'You don't seem to realise that the man is still recovering from gunshot wounds,' he said, when asked for his comments. 'If he gets thrown about in a crash it may lead to serious complications.'
'He'll have to take his chance,' said the CO firmly.
'Your responsibility for him will cease when he leaves Winson Green, so his continuing health won't be your concern.'
That ended the complaints, and by cracking on in such positive fashion the CO got everything Squared away within the hour, so that the meeting broke up soon after six.
The arrangement was that the intercept would go down the following night: Friday 28 May. The police would close all three roundabouts on the Ludlow bypass at 2215 and divert traffic, on the grounds that the road had been blocked by an accident. The convoy, consisting of a van with unmarked police cars fore and aft, would reach Point Alpha as close to 2225 as the drivers could manage.
By then our intercept cars would be parked nose-to- nose at an angle across the road half a mile south of Point Bravo, their panic lights flashing as if they'd had a crash. Our rammer van would be waiting in the turning space above the road. When the convoy approached, the lead driver would slow down as he saw the stranded cars ahead and report a blockage over his radio. At that moment our van would start its run down the ramp, aiming to hit the front of the meat wagon…

By 1830 I was feeling pretty knacketed. It was five nights since I'd had a proper sleep and I was keen to get nay head down for more than two or three hours at a stretch. All the same, Whinger and I were determined to call on Pat in hospital, because we knew he'd be fretting about his chances of regaining full fitness, and we reckoned he could do with a bit of moral support.
Besides, once Plan Zulu went down, it might be days before we got another chance to see him.

After a quick bite to eat I phoned Pat's wife, Jenny, to see if there was anything she'd like us to take along, but it turned out she wasn't feeling very sympathetic.
'Take him a bottle of arsenic pills,' she said.
'That'll sort him.'
'OK, I get the message.'
I turned to Whinger and said, 'Cow,' then I called
the hospital to make sure they'd let us in. There was the usual palaver about 'no visitors', but I bluffed our way with the sister in charge by telling her that we were special mates of Pat's, and got her to agree that we could spend a few minutes with him.
On the M4, Whinger gave me details of the safe house, which sounded pretty good. Laurel Cottage, he said, was made of brick and solidly built. It was small, with three rooms (including the bathroom) downstairs and three above, but it had been modernised recently and had a new kitchen and a Calor-gas hot water and heating system. The windows were adequate if not great - lockable, but not double-glazed. Whinger had been through all the drawers in the kitchen and removed a couple of receipted bills which gave the names of local tradesmen. He'd also checked the immediate area for estate agents' signs with giveaway phone numbers on them. The house was in a secure position, isolated as it was up a lane on the side of a hill, and there was a tumbledown wooden garage about thirty metres from the door. The place wasn't overlooked, and there were no other buildings in sight.
The only slight worry was one other house, which stood beside the lane where it joined the main road; anyone there would be in a good position to monitor comings and goings. But enquiries had revealed that this second building was also let intermittently, and at present unoccupied.
Comms wise, the cottage was well placed - not in a hole where radios and mobile phones wouldn't function. Whinger had taken along with him a technician from Box, who'd installed a special phone containing an encrypting device and a chip that prevented anyone tracing a call back. Tests had shown that all forms of communication functioned welt.
As we drove, I tried to imagine myself in Pat's position. When I got my arm smashed in the Gulf War I'd been in a fairly bad state myself, but I never thought that the wound was serious enough to threaten my career and basic fitness. A shattered femur was something else, and I knew how daunting it must be. At least he was in good hands. I knew that Army and ILAF surgeons train to deal with bullet wounds by operating on pigs anaesthetised and shot at the secret defence establishment at Porton Down.
I'd maple several visits to Wroughton before, to have my arm checked while the bones were re-knitting, and as we drove up the long approach road to the old airfield on top of the downs I thought once again how strange it was that a service hospital should have so little security. There was no fence, no barrier, no guardroom; anybody could proceed straight to the front entrance.
Mind you, you needed to be fit to find the person you were looking for, because the building was about halfa mile long, with wards leading offcentral corridors on its two floors, and it was a fearsome hike from one end to the other.
Hospitals bug me. The gleaming surfaces, the smell of disinfectant, the bright lights, the impersonal passages and doors . . . the whole environment seems alien, exactly the sort of world you spend your life trying to avoid.
After a marathon tab, we eventually came on Pat in one of the high-dependency units - a small side-ward with
an
tLAF police corporal sitting guard outside the door. I'd had the sense to conceal my flask-shaped half- bottle of Johnny Walker against my stomach inside my loose shirt, so we got past the guard and the sister without hassle.
It was a shock to see such a physical guy as Pat laid low, flat on his back, amid a tangle of drips and drains.
His left leg was in plaster, with a cage of stainless steel pins coming out through the case above the knee, and drain-tubes leading out of it. The sight of all the gear took me straight back to the hospital in Baghdad, and the Iraqi surgeon who'd threatened to blind me with an anaesthetic syringe before he operated. Of course, I also thought of Bully-boy Khadduri coming to the gaol and hammering on my plaster cast with his swagger stick. At least he wouldn't torment any more patients.
As we went in, Pat turned his head and gave a big grin. But although his brain was working fine, his responses were slow, and I could see that he was quite heavily sedated.
'They haven't killed you yet,' I said.
'They keep trying.'
'Lot of pain?'
'Nothing
. It's fantastic.' He pointed at a little domed rubber pump, taped to his left arm just above the wrist.
'Whenever I get the gyp I give myself a shot with this thing.'
'What
is it?'
'Morphine, I reckon.
Got a bag of it up there some where.
Want to try it?'
'Thanks a lot,' said Whinger. 'Time for a shot.'
'Look.' I brought out the Scotch. 'This is for when you're on the mend.' I laid the bottle at the back of the cupboard in the cabinet beside his bed and put a box of Kleenex in front of it.
'Brilliant!' Pat said. 'Thanks, Geordie.'
We began to chat about his journey home and things at Hereford, then uddenly he remembered my own problem and said, 'Aye - what about the family?'
'Bit of a breakthrough. The PIRA sent a taped message from Tracy advancing the deadline for us to hand their man over, and we're preparing a response.
We may get some action quite soon.' I'd already decided not to pass on details about Plan Zulu, .just in case Pat started muttering in his sleep.
As I was talking I saw him get a twinge of pain, and he primed his morphine pump a couple of times. By the time I'd told him a bit about the wash-up after Ostrich I could see him losing concentration; so I was surprised when he suddenly said, quite loud, 'I hope you told them about the priest clearing his throat up his fucking tower.'
'The mullah! I did, Pat. Don't worry. I told them about your.
diversionary
explosion by the gate too, and the IPG blowing shit Out of the building - the lot.'
He gave a faint smile, but his eyes were closed, and he drifted offinto a doze. I adjusted the position of the Kleenex box slightly, and we slipped out of the room.
In the corridor I saw a doctor whom I recognised from my own visits. It turned out that he had helped with Pat's operation, and he welcomed the pair of us with a friendly mock-salute. I knew word had been put about that Pat's wound had been caused by an accident on the ranges, so I didn't refer to its origin; but the doctor raised one eyebrow and said, 'You fellows are getting a bit trigger-happy, aren't you?'
'Well…' I spread my hands. 'These things happen.'
I could see he knew more than he was letting on, so
I changed the subject. 'What's the long-term
prognosis?'
'Pretty good, we reckon. He's a strong lad. The leg should knit up OK, provided we can keep infection out.'

My mind flashed to Farrell and his septicaemia - but all I said was, 'Back to full mobility?'
'We can't be sure, but there's every chance.'
'He'll be all right,' said Whinger loftily.
'Hot cross bun.
This one will run and run.'
NINE
It
turned out to be a filthy night of rain and wind - but that made no difference to our plans. By 2145 we were rolling along the bypass towards Impact Pamp, and five minutes later all three vehicles were parked in the turning area. Our main getaway car was a souped-up Audi Quattro that had seen service in Northern Ireland.
It had been brought back to the mainland because it had been co.mpromised: after a couple of successful operations the IRA knew it too well, so it had come home for a respray and the issue of new plates.
From the outside it looked the same as any other silver Audi; but lurking beneath its skin it carried potent extra assets. One was the engine, which had been given racing specification during a visit to the workshops at the
Donington
Park
circuit in Leicestershire. The tweaked unit fired the car with fearsome acceleration and a top speed
of 150 m.p.h
. There were also slices of Kevlar armour in the doors and down the backs of the front seats - and to cope with the extra power and weight, both brakes and suspension had been uprated.
The result of all this was that the driver
Could
throw it about the road like a racing-car - which was lust what Whinger fancied.
Our other vehicle was an old black Granada - less brutal, but solid, dependable and fast enough for most contingencies. I'd nominated Stew as driver, with Doughnut Dyson as his co-pilot. The rammer van was being driven by two other guys from the Regiment.
Someone had pointed out that, as the police were not going to give chase after the intercept, there was no need for us to use such a high-performance beast as the Audi. I countered with the possibility that other people might get caught up in the operation - accidentally or on purpose - and we might in the end be glad of a genuine getaway car. In any case, it was important that, once we had Farrell on board, we should cover a few miles at seriously high speed, as though the law were truly on our tail.
In our jeans and trainers we looked like any old layabouts, but covert radios and pistols in shoulder holsters under our sweatshirts gave us the teeth we needed. In the boot of the Granada were three MP5s, a box of loaded magazines, and a case of flash-bang stun grenades.
On our vantage point at the top of the Impact lamp we sat in the dark and waited, the raindrops pearling on the windscreens. The Audi was first in line, with the Granada behind it, and the rammer van last.
The traffic on the bypass below us was spasmodic.
For several seconds at a stretch the road would be empty,
then
a car or truck would come past, its lights glistening on the wet tarmac. The first sign of activity or rather, lack of it - should come soon after 2215, when the police were due to seal off all approaches to the ring road.
'Does he know what's happening?' asked Tony quietly.
'Who?'
'Farrell.'
'Can't tell.
It's
possible word's got back to him, but I doubt it. He hasn't seen any outsiders since the ban on visitors was imposed.'
'Where
does he think he's going, then?'