RED HAZE: A Werewolf Story for the 21st Century (18 page)

Opening the bedroom door, Piper walked briskly into the main corridor leading to the CEATA Communications Room, ready to face the challenges of a new day.

“Hey Ash, how’s it going?” Nick Lucas had his usual boyish grin on his face.

“Not so bad Nick, how are you?” Piper was beginning to enjoy Nick’s company.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“How come you’re up at this time Nick? We all had a long day yesterday and we all need sleep.”

“Not me! I only sleep about five hours a day, that’s all I need.” Nick swivelled his chair around to face his new friend, “Ash, are you okay?” The Canadian paused, a look of concern sweeping across his furrowed brow, “it’s just that, well, I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You know something Nick, perhaps I have.” Nick looked puzzled. “I’m going to have breakfast, fancy joining me?”

“Yeah, sure, I could do with a coffee.” Nick turned to his left, his French colleague Jean-Paul already nodding his head in anticipation of the forthcoming question.

“Can you cover Jean-Paul?”

“Sure Nick, no problem.”

“Just remember, we’re waiting for feedback on those identity scans, the guy with the birthmark on the lower right side of his neck. MI6, MI5, Europol, Interpol, the Russians and the Israelis have all been notified, any news, give me a call.”

Jean-Paul nodded his head slowly as Piper and Nick left the Communications Room and walked down to the CEATA canteen. As they did so, Nick smiled broadly. “Before you ask Ash,” he said, “yes we’re onto it! If there’s a criminal out there fitting that description, we’ll find him.” 

“I’m sure you will, but anyway,” Piper replied, “just what is a nice chap like you doing working in a European Anti Terrorism Agency?”

Nick faltered just for a second or so, “it’s a long story Ash, a long story.”

“Well, at the moment we seem to have plenty of time my friend, so let’s talk.”

“Thank you so much for your custom.” Pierre Mulann was grateful to everyone who purchased from his small shop in downtown Ghent. The pleasant Belgian town, known for its quaint atmosphere and friendly locals, had been his home for nearly thirty years, his greengrocery store being in an idyllic position in the main high street, across from two large cafés, a newsagent and several other shops. Though the business was only small and shelving space had always been at a premium, Pierre and his wife Michelle had earned a decent living from it. Now, retirement was just around the corner and having already confirmed a buyer for the business, he was just waiting for the last three months to pass by, then he and his beloved wife were setting off on a well-earned world cruise. 

Seemingly with a spring to his step, the happy Belgian shopkeeper walked down the main aisle of his store, the shelves being stuffed with fresh vegetables and groceries of all kinds. He stopped, smiled and lazily gazed out of the large bay window into the high street. The two gentlemen who had just bought the apples were very pleasant, he thought, yes, very pleasant indeed. It was a fine start to the day. “Pierre, your coffee is ready.” It was Michelle’s voice, from the kitchen.

“Coming, my dear.” Pierre hastily walked past the various boxes of goods strewn along the shelving and into the rear of the shop, the aroma of strong coffee smelling particularly enticing. If his thoughts had not been so thoroughly absorbed by the couple’s forthcoming retirement and their long-awaited holiday, Pierre might also have noticed the small brown bag lying underneath his stock of apples.

“Those two gentlemen were very pleasant,” said Michelle.

“Yes they were. Their accent was familiar, yes, definitely German I would say.” Pierre sipped his coffee, relishing the taste and the start of another pleasant day’s business.

He and his wife had thirteen minutes left to live.

“This is the garage, pull in.” The Audi 80 steered to the left and pulled in at the BP petrol station in the middle of the city of Leeds, England.

“I ran recon yesterday; the waste bin is in the lavatory. It’s large enough for the device. I will get the fuel.” The tall man’s colleague nodded, the Audi stopping by the nearest petrol pump. They both got out.

“Are you okay mate?” Colin Shepard had worked as an attendant at the BP station for just over two months. The job brought in extra pay whilst he was at college.

“Er, yes, can I use your washroom please.”

“Washroom? Oh, you mean the toilet! Yeah, of course you can mate, just over there, to the left and through the door, then first right. You can’t miss it!”

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

The tall man in the plush, black greatcoat walked briskly to the area he required. This is so easy he thought, we are unstoppable! Quickly, from underneath his coat he produced the device. It was only small…but deadly! Carefully, he opened the aluminium waste paper bin, after having primed the bomb. The bin was half full. The tall man sniggered to himself as he placed the heavy paper bag down to the bottom of the bin’s liner. Grinning, he flushed the lavatory and walked out into the main foyer.

“Okay then mate?” Colin smiled at his customer.

“Oh, excellent thank you. Good bye…mate!” The tall man walked over to his colleague, patiently waiting in the Audi. “Twenty minutes.”

“Good! We make the phone call as soon as we are out of the blast radius. This will be fun to watch.” Slowly, the Audi left the forecourt.

As always the café was bustling with activity as Helen Valle continued to serve her customers, her special breakfasts being as popular as ever with the workers in Antwerp. Her business was doing well and as usual money flowed steadily into the till. The two men, whom Helen had enjoyed talking to had just vacated the café as she started to clear the dishes from their table, not noticing the small bag they had tucked neatly to the side of it, just under the window.

The last few minutes of Helen Valle’s life were quickly ticking away.

 “Merci monsieur,” the two German businessmen paid their fare and opened the doors of the taxi. The taxi driver opened his door too, preparing to help the men with their luggage. “Don’t bother, we can manage! If you will just kindly open the boot?” A low clunking sound emitted from the rear of the taxi and the boot opened. Quickly, the two men pulled out their suitcases, having carefully omitted to remove a package they had left inside. The taller of the two slammed the boot lid down. “Okay, thank you.”

The taxi driver waited. Sniggering, one of the men turned to his colleague and whispered, “he’s waiting for a tip.”

“He can piss off! I’m not wasting my money!” The two picked up their luggage and walked over to their hotel, the taxi driver silently cursing as he drove off into the hectic Parisian traffic.

“Five minutes and counting!” The two men walked agilely up a set of steps towards the hotel’s reception, laughing aloud as if they had just shared a joke.

In a way, relishing their sick sense of humour, they just had!

The younger of the two men smiled, “yes, we are going back home today, but we have enjoyed our stay in Manchester.”

“Oh, that is very nice. We really like living and working here.” The two girl’s English was broken, but understandable. “We are from Latvia! Life there was very difficult so we came to Britain.” The two cheerful, chatty girls both smiled at the two men sitting opposite them, the same two men whose actual thoughts were anything but polite.

Stinking, fucking Untermenschen, thought one, glancing at his colleague. It was time to leave. The polite girl’s smiles never left their faces as the men rose from their seats. Glancing back, the stockier man spoke, somewhat sarcastically, “it was good meeting you both. Have a nice day!” The two stepped down from the bus onto the pavement and watched the passenger laden, public transport vehicle continue its journey into Manchester city centre. “Detonation in twelve minutes! Let’s make the phone call.”

Schools were perfect targets, especially with a large contingent of white, local pupils. That’s what the grenadiers had been taught in training!

Situated in and around the town of Cherbourg, the three targets had been selected because most of the students were white…and local!  Perfect targets for retribution and reprisals! The cars had been rented by three men, all having false identities, the vehicles being left in perfect positions, primed for detonation. The devices would cause maximum carnage during the morning break, when the pupils would be outside.

The yellow Highways Maintenance van sat parked just off the main southbound carriageway of the intersection between the M6 motorway, and the inner city limits of Birmingham. The powerful device inside the van was primed to explode beneath one of the main pillars supporting the overhead highway, causing terrible devastation.

Dressed in hi-visibility jackets, the two men had already murdered the driver and his colleague who now lay in the back of the van, their hearts punctured by suppressed bullets. Having finished priming the device, the two ‘workmen’ now carefully waited on the motorway’s hard shoulder as the speeding traffic flowed by.

Within minutes a black Mercedes pulled up close to them and reversed slightly. The two men nimbly stepped in, the Mercedes then edging its way back into the speeding traffic. There were twenty minutes left until detonation. 

As usual, Brussels’ main train station welcomed its daily, ongoing plethora of passengers. Within the same station, six men, paired in twos, had left their own trains at different times, but all within ten minutes of each other. They were dressed in smart business suits, carrying briefcases and newspapers, the devices being left on the trains in previously well reconnoitred locations. The six men then met outside the station and shook hands. But this was no casual business greeting, for they were congratulating themselves on jobs well done. Now the phone calls could be made, the detonations would take place and Phase Three would commence. As always the Fuhrer’s grenadiers’ training had been excellent, their knowledge of covert warfare now, exceptional. The New Totenkopf’s harbingers of death, over two hundred of them located throughout their target areas, were about to unleash a series of fifty terrorist attacks. The Fuhrer’s soldiers of destruction had performed their duties well.

Very well indeed!

“So there you have it!” Nick Lucas sipped at his coffee while Ash Piper shook his head in disbelief. They were both sat at a small table in the CEATA canteen.

“That is amazing Nick, absolutely amazing.”

“So you see Ash, I had no choice in the matter. Not that I’m complaining, I love it here. The job is great, the pay is pretty good and of course,” Nick smiled, a mischievous smile, “there is Doctor Descard as well. Wow, she’s one foxy chick, hey Ash?”

Piper laughed, “you are a very lucky man, Mister Lucas.”

“Yeah, I suppose so!” Nick sipped at his coffee again. “You know Ash, if Commander Hertschell hadn’t been at my trial, I would have been serving a very long prison sentence.”

“Well Nick, hacking into a NATO Mainframe Defence Computer System just for laughs was a really stupid thing to do. You would have got what you deserved!” Piper paused, drank another mouthful of his English tea and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms, waiting for further ‘enlightening’ comments from his Canadian companion.

“Err…yeah, thanks for the sympathy, still, I believe it was fate! After all, the Commander saw my obvious ‘potential’, and the rest is history.” Another sip of coffee and Nick jauntily looked at Piper, “I am the best there is Ash! No one can better my hacking skills, honestly.”

“Well Nick, I believe you,” Piper smiled, “but now I know one of your weaknesses.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Modesty!” The two CEATA colleagues both began to laugh, then abruptly stopped as a message echoed over the Tannoy system.

“PRIORITY CODE ONE ALERT! CODE ONE ALERT! SERGEANT PIPER AND NICK LUCAS REPORT TO THE COMMUNICATIONS ROOM IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT, SERGEANT PIPER AND NICK LUCAS REPORT TO THE COMMUNICATIONS ROOM IMMEDIATELY. PRIORITY CODE ONE ALERT!”

“Shit!”

“Let’s go!”

“THIS IS A DAMNED WAR!” Charles Mann looked up from one of many computer monitors as Piper and Nick rushed into the Communications room. Instantly they noticed CEATA staff hurriedly moving from desk to desk, fingers tapping at keyboards and messages being taken.

“What the hell is going on?” Piper looked around, his face radiating unease, “Colonel, what is it? What’s happening?”

“Reports are coming in from various news stations of new detonations across Europe, and guess who’s behind them?” The Colonel turned to Commander Hertschell, who had just walked in with Jeanette Descard.

“We’ve both heard the news, how many detonations so far?” asked the Commander.

“Nineteen sir,” it was Jean-Paul, Nick’s colleague who had raised the alarm.

“NINETEEN!” shouted Nick, “SHIT!”

“Make that twenty two,” a female CEATA member of staff turned around and faced the team, “reports are coming in from England. Manchester, Leeds and Birmingham have been hit!”