Necropolis Rising (5 page)

She caught something in O’Connell’s face; it was fleeting but she spotted it with ease.

“
What?” she said sternly.

“
You’re not known to The Consortium,” he admitted sheepishly. He could take out a guy twice his size, without hesitation or regret, but right then he couldn’t look into her eyes.

“
Why?”

It was such a small and simple word, but the answer was big and so complex he paused to get things straight in his mind.

“
I wanted to -” He stopped and changed direction, “I needed to make sure that you were ...”

“
This isn’t about me at all is it?” she interjected with uncanny accuracy. “It’s about you.”

His shoulders sagged with resignation. He couldn’t deny that his decision not to inform The Consortium of Suzie’s involvement was to make sure she would be safe. Safe from the job, safe from those who would stop at nothing to get the job done. And safe from the retribution that would most certainly follow should they fail. O’Connell wanted to protect the one thing in his life that he held above all; the purity of one person’s commitment to another. From the second Suzie had climbed from the parapet at his insistence, O’Connell couldn’t help but protect her. Maybe it was because of her old man, maybe it was because it was in his nature to protect what he considered vulnerable, or what he cared for dearly.

O’Connell knew that he would give his life for Suzie Hanks, but she would never let him do it. Her nature was that of strength and resolve and pride. It was this latter element that had taken a pounding. O’Connell had tried to keep her safe, and had only succeeded in making her different. And for Susan Hanks this was a painful act, an act of betrayal. Seven years of ritualistic abuse at the hands of her daddy
had
made her different. She didn’t want reminders; she wanted inclusion.

“
I did it for the right reasons, Suzie,” he whispered reaching up to touch her arm. She allowed the action but didn’t respond to it. Her eyes were cold with hurt.

“
It was wrong,” her words were without malice yet this somehow made their sting far more potent.

“
Yes,” he conceded. “I’m sorry.”

“
You can say it again when we’ve done the job,” she said turning away.

His arm stayed in the air for a few seconds before he allowed it to drop to his side, redundant for a while.

“
Hey, boss?”

O’Connell blinked away the memory and saw Clarke’s spot blasted face wavering into view.

“
What is it, Clarkey?”

“
How come I only get a pistol?” the younger guy grumbled.

“
The weapons are a last resort,” O’Connell said, his tone cautious. “It’s unlikely we’ll be needing them. So don’t fret, okay?”

“
Well, if these things are just for show, why can’t I have one of those rifles?” Clarke said in a petulant tone.

“
Because you’ll probably shoot yourself,” Amir grinned next to him. “Then you’ll be no good to anyone. If you ever were.”

“
My mother loves me,” Clarke said pulling a disgruntled face.

“
She clearly doesn’t love you enough,” Amir replied.

***

The A38 splits Birmingham City in half. As the primary access route, the road is often congested and sluggish and doesn’t stop being as such until the early hours of the morning; where it becomes home to taxis ferrying clubbers and late night revelers back to the surrounding suburbs.

Because it was the main road into the city, it was likely to be fortified to the hilt. As such O’Connell instructed Stu to avoid it. The Mastiff approached from the market town of Bromsgrove, using a sequence of rat runs that made the passengers feel as though they were constantly turning either left or right every few hundred metres.

The view inside the cramped space was limited, the level of patience amongst the passengers, equally so. Suzie continued to keep herself closed off and Amir and Clarke sniped at each other. In this atmosphere O’Connell felt the first stages of doubt begin to churn in his belly. He stamped it out immediately, the way a vindictive child pounds upon a redundant toy. This wasn’t the time or the place for hesitation.

That was the sort of thinking got you caught. Or worse.

***

“
Talk to me, people!”

Colonel Mark Carpenter walked through the Operations Room. Until an hour ago the room had been part of Birmingham City Council’s Social Care Offices. Now it was home to the MoD rapid response team who had stripped it out and filled it with their own monitors and computers. Ahead, the six personnel operations team took to standing to attention at his approach.

“
At ease!”

Carpenter was fifty-five years old and for well over thirty eight of these years had served his country with tours in the Desert Storm Campaign, Bosnia and Afghanistan. Experience and high rank meant that the respect of others came easily to him. He had nothing to prove and no reservations about making sure that the mission was completed with nothing less than total success.

But this current situation was different. It was different because he was reliant on external intelligence networks. Something significant had occurred and information was shady at best. And when Intel was unreliable missions tended to fail. Lives were often lost.

And that would not do.

“
I’m listening but hearing nothing, people!” Carpenter said briskly. “I want to know what’s going on and who is responsible! And I want that information
now
.”

His steel blue eyes pierced the room before locking onto a young Corporal.

“
What’s happening, lad?”

“
An explosion, Sir,” the corporal replied, shrugging off his nerves. “We believe the source was the Penthouse suite of Dr. Richard Whittington; most likely the result of an extremist cell of the AAL.”

“
I could have gotten that from any news channel on the way in,” Carpenter snapped; but he addressed it to the room. “What do we know of Whittington? What’s his current security status?”

“
He’s no longer live on the grid, Colonel.” This came from a young woman, her pretty face made severe by the way her dark hair was pulled back and clamped into a bun.

God
, thought Carpenter,
was I ever that young
?

“
What was he working on when he was live?”

“
Bio-weapons division,” the woman said. “Several projects, all top secret. But one of them is off the grid.”

“
Explain,” Carpenter said.

“
Codename L.I, Sir,” she continued, un-phased. “Whittington was working on something that got him fired by the MOD and all his access privileges were subsequently rescinded. It appears that he was working outside his brief.”

“
He must’ve had a project team,” Carpenter surmised. “We got names?”

“
He was operating alone. There are reports - rumours - that all his research disappeared.”

“
Stolen?”

“
Destroyed,” the woman replied.

“
So what was Whittington doing now? Who was funding him?”

“
Recent Intel suggests that the doctor was a consultant for
Phoenix Industries
.”

“
Remit?”

“
Science technology. Whittington appears to have been on their books since leaving his MoD position in ‘84.”

Carpenter nodded and turned to a large soldier standing to his right.

“
Harte, we need a representative of Phoenix Industries here. Get someone. Bring them here naked if you have to.”

“
Yes, Sir,” Harte said with a snappy salute, and hurried off.

“
So what’s going on in the target zone?” Carpenter asked the room. “And tell me we’ve commandeered CCTV monitoring from civilian access?”

“
CCTV monitoring is ours, Sir,” the Corporal piped up. “The city centre is quiet, no sign of activity.”

“
That’s an issue in itself,” Carpenter observed. “Where are the people?”

“
Probably taking cover,” the Corporal suggested. “Maybe waiting for us to go in and get them.”

“
No one’s going anywhere until we know what we’re dealing with,” Carpenter retorted. “What’s giving us concern?”

“
This
, Sir.”

The female operative sat down at her work station and began typing on the keyboard in front of her. The VDU flickered and an image suddenly appeared. It was grey and grained, the flare of sodium street lights creating deep shadows, the cobbled pavements wet with spring rain.

“
This is Brindley Place,” she explained without turning round from the monitor panning left to reveal a canal flanked by a series of bars and eateries. Save for the street lighting all the buildings were dark.

“
What am I looking at?” Carpenter said leaning forward.

“
Take a look at the tow path, Sir.”

Carpenter was close enough to her shoulder to smell her perfume. Against regulations of course but he was prepared to let it go given what was unfolding on the grey screen in front of him.

On the path separating the restaurants and bars from the canal, bodies lay strewn and still. Many were dressed in suits; the garb of business. Some were men, some were women, but all were twisted, backs arched; arms and legs contorted into implausible shapes.

“
They died in agony,” the woman said flatly.

“
Indeed,” Carpenter agreed. “But what killed them?”

At this point in time, no-one could offer any answer. And even if someone had any notion, no matter how remote, they would never have had chance to voice it. Because: the next moment the door to the small operations room flew inwards to allow a short, stocky man to march towards the Colonel.

The newcomer was dressed in black fatigues and sported a blonde marine regulation hair cut; shaved to reveal a money box scar on his crown.

The marine stopped short of Carpenter and offered the Colonel a salute almost as smart as the soldier’s appearance.

“
At ease, Major,” Carpenter said. “What brings you here?”

“
Looks like somebody made a mess, Colonel,” the Major replied as he stood down. “And I’m here to clear it up.”

***

Major Edward Shipman was simply a soldier. As such he saw things in simple terms. It was a doctrine that had served him well in his fifteen year career. Sure he’d navigated Sandhurst with some trepidation. He was, after all, the son of a sheet metal worker, he was never going to have an easy time in such an auspicious institution. But his cunning, resolve and the simple brutality he exhibited to potential antagonists served him well during his forty-four weeks of officer training. Such aptitude for covert practices meant his career in special ops was pretty much sure fire, though he hadn’t sought it out.

It had sought him.

A nameless/faceless operative in the higher echelons had heard “good things” about his work in Bosnia - where he covertly trained Serbian rebels into an effective militia; right under the noses of their Croatian oppressors - and within ten years Shipman was now out of the UK more than he was in it; not that anyone would be able to find his name on any mission or op sheet.

“
I presume you have information for me, Major,” Carpenter said.

The two officers were sitting in an office just outside the main operation room. It was small and the air was heavy with the sickly smell of industrial air freshener.

“
I have an update from our Intel network, Sir.”

“
Drop the “Sir” bullshit, Shipman,” Carpenter said without animosity. “What you got that you can’t show our ops team?”

Shipman fished inside the pocket of his fatigues and removed a data flash-stick. It was bulky, black and hexagonal, and encrypted to the hilt.

He pushed the stick into the USB port on his smart phone. After typing in his password the tiny screen yielded its secrets and he handed the device to the Colonel.

Carpenter scrolled down the digital page, his face grim. Opposite, Shipman watched his superior, his expression impassive. Patient.

“
Dr. Whittington has been busy since he left our arms,” the Major said.

“
So it seems,” Carpenter conceded.

The screen flickered again and the Colonel read out the heading on the page.

“
The Lazarus Initiative
,” he said. “Was this one of our projects?”

“
It was never on record. It was mooted by Whittington in the eighties,” Shipman confirmed. “But it was deemed too expensive. And morally compromising for the MoD.”

“
So save my eyesight, Shipman,” Carpenter said placing the smart phone on the desk.

“
Whittington suggested that what he could create was a soldier that couldn’t die.”

“
That’s bollocks, isn’t it?” Carpenter said. Shipman’s neutral expression suggested otherwise.

“
Whittington hypothesized that if a soldier was killed, how could we make the body continue fighting? Continue killing?”