Echo of the Reich

55

27 July 2012

The three of them stared at the timer in horrified fascination as it counted down to zero.

Then a new message appeared in the display.

“That says that the actuating sequence has begun,” Russell said, in a small voice.

Bronson strode across to the viewing pane in the steel partition and looked into the other compartment.

The Bell was in motion, the outer shell beginning to rotate slowly, a faint whine just audible through the steel wall.

“It’s started,” Bronson said.

“Did Marcus tell you what it did?” Weeks asked.

Bronson nodded, but then, as a pale violet light suddenly became visible in the viewing port, the color deepening with each passing moment, a sudden thought struck him.

“Lateral thinking,” he exclaimed. “After two minutes, that thing becomes self-sustaining. We’ve got to cut the power to it right now.”

“But we haven’t got any bolt-croppers,” Weeks pointed out, “and the cables are under the floor.”

“I know,” Bronson said, seizing his MP5, “so we have to hit the generators. Blow their fuel tanks. Stop them operating.”

“That’s bloody brilliant.”

Russell ran for the door as Bronson and Weeks aimed their Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns at the fuel tanks of two of the petrol-driven generators.

The interior of the truck echoed to the sound of machine-gun fire as the two men, standing side by side, opened up with their weapons, firing short bursts. The bullets ripped through the two fuel tanks, sending petrol flying through the air, the fuel splashing down onto the hot engines below. In moments, the petrol ignited with a heavy “whump” and that end of the truck turned into hell on earth, blazing fuel igniting everything flammable.

The heat was intense, and the oxygen was being sucked out of the air Bronson and Weeks were breathing. They needed to get out. But the third generator was still running, still supplying power to the nightmare device inside the locked compartment, and both men turned their weapons on it.

As they did so, both the other generators died, the fuel in their carburettors exhausted. Again, fuel spewed everywhere as the third fuel tank ruptured, but the blaze ensured that it was ignited immediately. Maybe that tank held more than the others, or there were other supplies of fuel there they hadn’t spotted, but for whatever reason the third petrol explosion was both louder and more powerful than the other two, blowing Bronson and Weeks off their feet.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bronson said, helping Weeks stand up again.

They staggered to the rear doors of the truck and jumped down to the ground, both blackened and barely recognizable as human beings. And at that moment something else-perhaps another can of petrol-blew up in the truck behind them with a deep booming sound.

All around the vehicle, police officers and firemen were assembling, the latter preparing their firefighting equipment, though it was already clear that little inside the truck would survive the blaze.

Then there was a scream from inside the truck, and Marcus, his clothes sodden with blood, flames licking around his limbs, stood framed in the rear doorway, silhouetted against the blaze like some devilish creature from the pit, his pistol in his hand as he looked for a target.

Bronson and Weeks acted as one, swinging round and aiming their MP5s at him. The four shots sounded like two as they simultaneously each fired two rounds.

Marcus tumbled backward into the flames, the pistol falling from his hand to land on the ground outside the truck. And he didn’t move at all as the raging fire began to consume his body.

“Christ, I thought he was dead,” Weeks said.

“Well, he is now,” Bronson replied.

“Do you think we stopped it in time?”

“I have no idea, but I suppose we’ll soon find out.”

Bronson glanced around him at the circle of faces that surrounded them.

“I think it’s time we made ourselves scarce,” he said. “At least I’ve got an excuse for wandering about carrying a submachine gun, but you should definitely get the hell away from here.”

Weeks nodded, then walked over to Bronson and pulled a couple of clear plastic evidence bags from one of the pockets on the other man’s utility belt. He strode over to the blazing truck, picked up the pistol Marcus had dropped and slipped it into one of the bags. Then he made his way back to Bronson, a somewhat bemused smile on his face.

“Give me the other pistol,” Weeks said. “Might as well try to pick up some stock while I’m here. And carrying these two weapons will give me an excuse to get out of here.”

Bronson grinned at him, pulled the Walther he’d taken off the German out of his belt and handed it over. Then he felt inside his trouser pocket, took out the keys for the hire car and gave them to Weeks as well.

“You’ve got a bloody cheek, Dickie, but actually that might work. Whatever happens, give me a call and I’ll do what I can.”

Weeks walked briskly away from the truck, a police officer on a mission, and the circle of people parted silently to let him through.

Bronson smiled at his retreating figure, then turned back to stare again at the burning truck. Then he was conscious of a couple of people approaching him, and swung round to meet them. Neither Bob Curtis nor Detective Inspector Davidson looked particularly pleased to see him.