Echo of the Reich

54

27 July 2012

Bronson tensed, knowing that now he had to reach for his pistol, because he had nothing left to lose.

But before he could move a muscle, two shots rang out and the German seemed to crumple to the floor of the truck.

Bronson swung round to see Weeks framed in the side door, the Heckler amp; Koch MP5 held steady in his hands.

“I thought you were dead,” Bronson said.

“I deal in illegal weapons, Chris. Wearing a Kevlar jacket under my clothes is second nature to me. The bullet just knocked the wind out of me, and my chest’ll be bruised for weeks. Is he the last of them, do you think?”

“I bloody hope so.”

Bronson turned back to the control panel as Weeks hauled himself up inside the truck.

The timer now stood at fifty-seven seconds.

“We need bolt-croppers or something like that, to cut the cables that power the device,” Bronson said.

His voice radiated the tension and resignation he was feeling. Because at that moment he believed Marcus was right, that there really was nothing they could do to stop the Bell.

“There are police cars and a fire engine heading this way,” Weeks said, peering out of the open rear door.

“Yes,” Bronson said, because now he could hear the sound of the sirens getting closer. “But will they get here in time?”

“Can you shut it down from here?” Weeks asked, stepping over to the control panel.

“Not without the key that unlocks the controls, and probably not even then. The key,” he repeated.

He ran over to Marcus’s body and swiftly searched it. He pulled out a bunch of keys, but as soon as he looked at them he knew they were house keys or similar, and he slipped them into his own pocket. But around the German’s neck he found a chain with a single key attached.

Bronson ripped off the chain, ran back to the control panel, stuck the key in the lock and turned it. Immediately, the various controls lit up, but Bronson could see nothing that looked like an abort switch.

The timer reached seventeen seconds.

He pressed a couple of buttons experimentally, just to do something, but to no avail.

At fourteen seconds to go, a figure in army uniform climbed into the truck through the rear door.

Weeks covered him with his MP5, but the man ignored him and strode forward.

“Russell. Bomb disposal,” he announced. “What have you got?”

“Do you speak German?” Bronson demanded.

“A little, yes.”

“Good. There’s twelve seconds to go and the control panel’s unlocked.”

The army officer stepped over to the control panel and looked down at it, his lips moving silently as he rapidly scanned the illuminated labels.

“Right,” he said, and pressed two buttons simultaneously. “That should be the abort,” he said.

Then he frowned, because the counter was still unwinding and a message had popped up in an alphanumeric display.

“It’s asking for the abort code,” Russell said. “Do you have it?”

Bronson and Weeks just stared at him.

“I said: do you have the code?” Russell repeated.

“No,” Bronson replied.

Russell’s face seemed to age five years in an instant.

“Then we’re buggered,” he said.