From Strood to Cobham is a straight shot through the centre of town and up the A2. It was also known as Watling Street and followed the line of the original road built by the Romans to connect Dover (Dubris) to London (Londinium). It took ten minutes to get to the exit, leaving the busy road and the traffic heading to the capital as we swept down the off ramp and into the dark countryside.
At this time of year, mere days after the winter solstice, the sun literally fell from the sky when it decided the day was over. An hour ago, it had been light. Now it was full dark.
Would that play into our hands or not?
Big Ben killed the lights with a mile to go to the park, and dumped Jagjit’s car at the side of the road when he found a lay by it would fit in. We were still four hundred yards shy of the park entrance, but the gate would be shut by now to stop people going in there at night and we needed to be invisible as we approached.
Using boot polish bought at the hardware store, we buddied up to black out each other’s faces, removing any shine that might catch the moonlight to give our position away. After a quick check to make sure we could move silently without things in our pockets jangling, we hefted the tools from the load bed, loading as many as we could into pockets and belts and carrying more besides.
We overdid it at the store, buying more than we could comfortably carry, but that was okay – we had enough.
And we had a plan.
Remember the keys?
The Sandman. Preparation is Everything. Saturday, December 24th 1618hrs
Ramsey Mitchell finished shaving and dabbed his face and neck dry with a towel before applying some moisturiser and a touch of aftershave. He needed to feel the part and for that he knew he also needed to look the part. As if he were going out on an important date, he was taking the time to make sure he looked and smelled good.
Karen was a special one for several reasons. Partly it was because she had slipped through his fingers and he’d thought her lost. Regaining her brought him such joy. The other reason was because of how closely she resembled his precious Valerie.
If it were true that a person had a type, then Valerie was his. That was how, as a young man, he came to hurt her. It had never been his intention to do so, but she had been making him pay for his error ever since. Her constant instructions gave him purpose and only by obeying them could he please her.
Returning to his control room, with the screens and the radio, he checked the position for Tempest Michaels. He had considered phoning him to draw him out but doing so left him exposed to being questioned by the man and he knew the police were looking for him already.
He doubted they would be able to find him, but prudence demanded he wrap things up here and move on. Besides, sending the note was more elegant in many ways and had proven to be just as effective.
The little blip on his screen didn’t tell him if anyone else were with Tempest, but he felt secure in his belief that the giant would be with him, and the dumb one who looked like a caveman. Probably the pretty blonde one too. He’d read of their exploits and had a mental picture for how they operated. They were a frontal assault, blunt force instrument.
They would sense the trap they were walking into and choose to rely on luck and courage to see them through. They would not last long.
The wall to his front contained six monitors, each of which could display the feed from one of many cameras. Only one had a picture currently because the others were all in darkness. He flicked switches on the console, bathing both the police officer, Constable Van Doorn, and Karen in bright white light.
Both were awake and had to shield their eyes.
Clearing his throat, and licking his lips, the Sandman leaned toward his microphone and switched it to address all areas so not only would his acolytes hear it, so would the three forms in their slumber rooms.
‘Good evening one and all. Most especially you, Karen, my precious. Tonight is to be a celebration. You have been chosen. Chosen to be saved. Before we get to the ceremony, I wish to allow you to listen to the foolhardy attempt to rescue you from the sanctuary I offer. Tempest Michaels and his friends are about to storm my bunker. I would like you all to listen as they die.’
Big Ben. Full Assault Mode. Saturday, December 24th 1623hrs
As Tempest predicted, the bunker door at the front was unlocked. This was the scariest part of what we were going to do, but Tempest’s plan was either genius or suicide; we would find out which soon enough.
With Basic at my side, I edged into the darkness. Some night vision goggles would have gone down well, right about now, but the moment I thought that the lights came on.
Blinking against the sudden light, and sticking to the walls to minimise the target we might offer them, I gritted my teeth and took in my surroundings.
We were in a tunnel made from concrete. It went about eight feet before it met another staircase that went down again. I peered cautiously over the edge. The stairs went down maybe fifty yards into the earth. It would have been well protected from the bombs the Germans dropped all over the county during the
