Red Notice

109

Gavin’s eyes never left his monitor. The emergency vehicles had been pulled back from the killing area. So had all personnel. The only movement near the tunnel mouth came from the ramp of the Chinook and one of the team’s Transits parked beside it.

Gavin watched as Ashton and the heli’s two pilots and load-master trans-shipped the last of the crates. He knew the same pictures were being beamed to COBRA’s screens, too. They also had access to the Sentinel display. They’d soon be listening in to the Sierra call-signs as they took up their fire positions.

The Chinook’s engines had been cut, and they were going to stay that way. Keenan didn’t want the rotor-wash deflecting his snipers’ rounds. And there was something about the roar of a helicopter’s engines and the sight of whirling blades that got people sparked up. They rushed towards the aircraft like they expected it to lift off any second. Those in command of the killing area didn’t want that happening today. They wanted the X-rays to hang around in the marksmen’s sights for as long as possible.

The three air crew looked as if they were struggling with the weight of their body armour as much as the weight of the gold. Up to their chins in Kevlar, their orders were to position themselves in the cockpit and make sure the X-rays spotted them at the controls. As soon as things kicked off, they were to make a run for it to a carriage inspection ditch sixty metres away — and not come out again until they were told to.

Gavin’s eyes flicked to Sentinel. All the lights were green. Keenan would still be making sure he covered all angles and heights. The higher the sniper, the better the sight picture, and the better the arc of fire. The ideal was looking down at about forty-five degrees. Wherever they were, they’d be using unsuppressed weapons. Once this option kicked off, it didn’t matter who heard what.

He peered at the aerial view, fed in from a camera on the hangar roof. Some of the snipers were in buildings, set back from the windows, in shadow. Others were out in the open, using whatever cover was available. They didn’t just have to conceal themselves from the X-rays and Yankees. Operation Stack was still in force. Trucks were parked up only 600 metres away. They couldn’t risk a driver inadvertently raising the alarm.

Gavin had eight snipers ticked off on the marker board so far, but it wasn’t good enough. He got on the net. ‘Sierra call-signs, this is Alpha. You need to get a move on. We haven’t got long. Out.’

The two remaining marksmen must still be trying to find a good fire position that supported their weapons. The train might stop in the tunnel. It was no good contorting yourself into some weird and wonderful position for hours: your body had to be naturally aligned into the point you were aiming at.

And you had to have muzzle clearance. The optic sight could be as much as four to six inches above the barrel, depending on where you set it for your individual eye relief. It didn’t make much sense having a really good sight picture of the killing area 300–500 metres away if your barrel was pointing directly at the mound of earth in front of it.

Gavin had had better days. ID-ing the X-rays was going to be next to impossible unless they openly carried weapons. He wasn’t even sure how many of the bastards there were.

The executive decisions had been made much higher up the food-chain. COBRA had told Gavin the way they wanted this to play out. The home secretary’s instruction had been clear and concise. The decoy with the Eurostar uniform must be treated precisely as if he were X-ray One. The grab bag was the last known location of the initiation device. It was all about the grab bag, not who was carrying it. It was a tough call but, hey, it was a tough world. The only certainty was that there were going to be more dead Yankees today. It was inevitable.

Gavin watched Ashton sling his ready-bag over one shoulder. He picked up one of the half-metre-square aluminium crates by its handles and lugged it to the ramp, then disappeared into the bowels of the Chinook.

Gavin accepted that the powers-that-be couldn’t take Tom’s information and assessment as gospel. It was a big decision, and the home secretary was the one being paid the big bucks to make it. Regret, fear, worry: they were all equally unproductive, before, during and after any job. The best they could do was work with the information they had — or thought they had — and what it might mean. There was no such thing as a perfect solution.

Ashton emerged from the heli and made his way back to the Transit. He no longer had his ready-bag. Gavin knew nothing about a bag going on board. Was this connected with Ashton going to the MOE wagon? Why had he insisted on supervising the loading when he should have been joining the Red and Blue teams in the service tunnel, ready to lead the assault? Was there another agenda Gavin hadn’t been told about? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Decisions were made. Depending on your pay grade, you were either let in on them or you weren’t. Maybe COBRA or the DSF had another little option tucked away in case the job went tits up. But if that was the case, he should definitely be in the loop. Gavin felt the first stirrings of anger. They could be putting the whole team at risk here. Ashton should be protecting them. He was supposed to be one of them — he was their gatekeeper, not some Whitehall lackey.

He took a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time. The train was going to emerge any minute and he had a job to do. If he did it right, there would be no need for any secret option. And he’d find out soon enough if Ashton had tried to call Tom and risked compromising him. Gavin would make fucking sure of that, but only after the job was completed. Then, if there was shit on, he’d be leading the charge.

A speaker burst into life: ‘Sierra Four, ready.’

‘Alpha, roger that. Test.’

Sierra Four took first pressure on his trigger and red replaced green on the tablet screen.

‘Alpha, that’s a red.’

They’d tested the comms before they left the hangar, but they had to test them again. The best fire position in the world is no bloody good if you can’t tell the commander you have your target.

Gavin felt a hand on his arm. He looked up as Woolf placed a paper cup of tea on the trestle table.

The speaker barked again: ‘Sierra Eight, in position.’

‘Roger that. Sierra Eight, test.’

His red lit up.

‘Alpha, roger that. All call-signs, the Sierras are in position. We now wait out.’

Gavin picked up his brew and nodded his thanks. His eyes flicked back to the monitor. The one-metre lengths of mine tape were fluttering on top of the Chinook. The wind must be getting up.

Woolf patted his shoulder. ‘Everything that can be done has been done. Good luck.’

Each took a sip of his brew.

The Slime came on the net for all to hear. ‘The ETA of the train is one minute. Repeat, ETA, one minute. One minute from the tunnel mouth.’

Gavin lobbed his empty cup onto the floor to clear the decks. Woolf took a step back. They both stared at the monitors. Headphones clamped to their ears, the signallers and the Slime monitored their transmitters and receivers, continuously reaching forward to make endless microscopic adjustments.

Gavin got to work. ‘All stations, Alpha radio check. Blue One.’

Click-click.

‘Red One.’

Click-click.

‘Sierra One.’

Gavin watched Keenan’s red light spark up. And then he radio-checked every single sniper one final time.