Red Notice

82

Keenan could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing as he led his four snipers in single file down the right-hand side of the tunnel. If his NVGs made him look like an overgrown wasp, his Arctic Warfare Super Magnum was the sting. Keeping the weapon tight into the shoulder, he leaned into it so it became an extension of his body.

He could see the target eight hundred metres ahead. His NVG magnified the train’s low lighting hundreds of times until it appeared floodlit. The glow of the enemy gun team’s own NVGs gave away their position almost as quickly. They appeared unaware: their heads moved easily; their jaws weren’t jutting forward or jerking around. Keenan knew that he could get closer. He’d get a better shot, and the assaulters would have less distance to travel to their part of the task.

Keenan exaggerated every step, as if he was walking through long grass. He was losing some perspective through the NVGs so he took his time, hugging the wall. It wasn’t long before the concrete floor of the tunnel became wet underfoot. He carried on, placing his boots even more carefully. Silence was everything right now.

The signallers were behind him, putting the last of the re-broadcasters into position, antennae raised, on the other side of the open security gate, so that the team’s comms could be sent and received from both tunnels.

The Blue team assault group were close by, safety catches on, ready to go. Some knelt; others sat or leaned. Their foam-tipped, seven-rung black aluminium ladders lay securely on the floor. Nothing was left to chance: anything propped against a wall could fall and clatter.

Each had his NVGs on, respirator hanging off his free, non-weapon-firing arm by the head-straps. No one talked. There was no need.

Keenan kept advancing towards the target, Gavin’s voice — a cool, measured monotone — in his earpiece.

‘Sierra One, Alpha check.’

Keenan stopped and gently pushed his chest pressel twice.

‘Alpha, roger that.’

The net went dead once more.

Click-click, click-click.

Gavin’s response was immediate. ‘Is that Sierra One in position?’

Click-click.

‘Alpha, roger that. How close?’

Click-click, click-click-click.

‘Roger that, five hundred. The gun team still in position?’

Click-click.

‘Roger that. Any changes?’

Gavin waited for five seconds.

‘Alpha, roger that, no changes. Blue One, acknowledge.’

Jockey was number one on the door. Like the rest of the Blue team, he got slowly to his feet, picked up the ladders so they didn’t bang into each other, kept control of the weapons so they didn’t either. Slow and deliberate was the key to tactical speed.

Jockey checked that each line had formed up, either side of the security gate.

‘Blue team, moving now. Out.’

He led his ghost force into the Paris-bound tunnel.