The Tunnel Rats Read online

  The scorpion's jet-black endoskeleton glistened as it scuttled away from the anvil-shaped rock. It moved quickly, its stinger arched over its back, leaving a trail in the sandy dirt the only record of its passing. The jungle at dusk was usually a noisy place, with birds and insects marking their territory before the final rays of the reddish sun disappeared below the horizon, but for several minutes there had been a heavy silence as if the whole world was holding its breath.

  A small indentation appeared in the dirt in front of the rock, as if a ghostly finger had scratched the surface. The indentation formed a straight line and grains of dirt dribbled down into the crease. A second line appeared, eighteen inches away from the first and running parallel to it, then a third line appeared, and a fourth, and the lines slowly grew together until they formed a rectangle in the dirt. There was a gentle scraping sound from somewhere under the ground, then the rectangle of dirt lifted up. Grains of soil spilled around the sides as the rectangle tilted, revealing a bamboo hatchway into which dry leaves had been intertwined. The hatch was thrown to the side, uncovering a square hole.

  A soft peaked cap made of camouflage material appeared, and then a face. The face was striped with light and dark green paint and there was no way of knowing where the flesh ended and the cap began. Narrowed eyes scrutinised the surrounding area for several minutes. Only when the man was satisfied that it was safe did he leave the hole, crawling on his belly like a snake, a silenced automatic in his right hand, an unlit flashlight in his left. As he crawled away from the hatch, a second figure appeared, another man wearing identical gear, but with a scarf of camouflage material tied around his head instead of a cap.

  The first man knelt in the shade of a thick-trunked tree around which vines wound like the veins in an old woman's arm. He made an 'okay' gesture with the thumb and first finger of his left hand and beckoned for the second man to come out in the open, all the time his eyes scanning the jungle, alert for any sign of danger.

  The second man joined him, a sawn-off shotgun cradled in his hands like a valuable antique. The second man nodded at the first, then moved off to the right.

  A third head emerged from the hole. The third man wasn't wearing a cap, and his short, dark, curly hair was the only sign that he was of a different race to the first two, because every inch of his exposed skin was covered in camouflage paint. He crawled out, an M2 carbine with a paratrooper stock in his right hand, closely followed by a fourth man.

  They fanned out until the four men were equally spaced around the hatch, far enough apart so that they couldn't all be taken out with a single hand grenade or a spray of automatic fire. The men were used to working together as a team and communicated only with small hand movements and nods. They remained immobile for a full minute until they were satisfied that they were alone in the jungle, then the man with the flashlight crept back to the hatchway.

  A fifth man appeared at the entrance, his face contorted with pain, and the man with the flashlight helped him out. The fifth man could barely walk, and even with the other man's help he stumbled and fell face down into the sandy dirt. The back of his shirt was ripped and torn in more than a dozen places and streaked with still-wet blood. The man with the flashlight knelt down by the side of the injured man and checked his wounds with a professional eye. He patted the man's neck and whispered something in his ear, then went back to the hatchway where a sixth man was already crawling out into the open.

  The eyes of the sixth man were wide and staring, the whites exaggerated by the camouflage paint smeared over his flesh. He stumbled to his feet and looked around anxiously as if wondering which way to run.

  The man with the flashlight holstered his gun and gripped the shoulder of the sixth man, pulling him close so that their faces were only inches apart. 'It's okay,' he hissed. 'We're out.' The sixth man opened his mouth but no words came. The man with the flashlight glared at him with a fierce intensity. 'It's okay,' he said. 'Tell me it's okay, Rabbit.' He tightened his grip on the man's shoulder.

  The sixth man visibly relaxed. 'It's okay,' he whispered.

  'Again.’

  'It's okay,' said the sixth man, slightly more confident this time. 'I'm sorry, Doc. I lost it.’

  The two men stared at each other for several seconds, then the man with the flashlight nodded. 'We all lost it,' he said. He took his hand away from Rabbit's shoulder and stared at his palm. It was red with blood. 'Are you hurt?' Doc asked.

  Rabbit shook his head. 'No. It's . . .' He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a bad memory.

  A seventh man climbed through the hatchway, a green headband holding his dirt-encrusted hair flat against his scalp. He had a rope tied around his waist and it tightened as he crawled away from the hole. 'Help me,' he said, through tightly gritted teeth.

  Doc and Rabbit grabbed the rope and pulled, grunting with exertion. 'Are you sure he's . . . ?' began Rabbit, but Doc silenced him with a threatening look.

  Together they hauled in the rope. Attached to the other end was the body of another soldier. The rope had. been looped under his arms and they heaved the body out of the hole. The neck was a mass of torn flesh as if it had been hacked with a dull blade and the shirt was caked with dried blood.

  The seventh man took an eighteen-inch-long knife from a scabbard on his leg and used it to cut the rope from around his own waist. As he replaced the knife in its scabbard he saw that the back of his hand was covered with blood. He knelt down and wiped his hand in the dirt. His skin was a dark olive colour and even under the camouflage make-up his high razor-sharp cheekbones hinted at his Latino ancestry. 'Now what?' he said, looking up at Doc. His voice was flat and cold and his eyes were equally emotionless.

  'Put the hatch back,' said Doc.

  The man in the headband nodded and did as he was told.

  Doc went over to the injured man and knelt down beside him again. 'On your feet,' he whispered. 'We can't stay here.’

  The injured man murmured something incomprehensible and struggled to stand. Rabbit came over to help and together with Doc he pulled the man upright. In the distance there was a low rumbling growl as if a thunderstorm was approaching. 'I'm all right,' said the injured man.

  'Can you walk?' asked Doc.

  'Don't worry about me,' he said.

  The Latino slotted the hatch into its original position and smoothed dirt over it.

  Doc looked over his shoulder. 'Sergio, put the rock over it. Rabbit, give him a hand.’

  The two men pushed the rock over the hatchway. Doc looked towards the horizon, smeared blood red by the dying rays of the sun.

  'That was bad, Doc,' said the injured man.

  'I know.’

  'Reafbad.’

  'Forget it,' said Doc, cOtfting his head and listening to the approaching thunder.

  Rabbit and Sergio joined Doc and the injured man. Doc motioned for the three other men to join the group and they stood in a circle, avoiding each other's gaze as if fearful of what they might see in their eyes. The sun began to slip below the horizon and the shadows of the seven men faded on the sandy ground.

  'That goes for all of us,' said Doc. 'We forget it. We forget it ever happened.’

  'There'll be questions,' said Sergio.

  'And I'll answer them. No one gets blamed/No recriminations.' He looked across at the mutilated corpse. 'What happened down there stays dead and buried.' He looked back a; the men. 'Any arguments? If there are, I want to hear them now.' All six men shook their heads. Doc reached towards Rabbit and seized his hand. He wiped his forefinger across Rabbit's bloody palm, then smeared the blood across Sergio's right hand. He did the same to all the men, then held out his own hand, palm down. Sergio put his hand on top of Doc's, and one by one the men followed suit un
til there were seven hands piled one on top of the other. Below their feet the earth began to vibrate.

  'Not worth a rat's ass,' said Doc. 'Let me hear you say it.’

  One by one the men repeated the phrase.

  Doc took his hand away from the bottom of the stack. 'Let's go,' he said. 'We've got a long walk home.’

  The men unlinked their hands.

  'Shit,' said the injured man, his hand reaching up to his neck.

  'What?' asked Doc.

  'My dogtags. They've gone.' His head swivelled around and he stared at the rock and the covered hatch. He took a step towards the rock.

  Doc gripped the man's arm. 'Leave it.’

  A sudden explosion far off to their right knocked them to the ground. It was followed swiftly by a second and a third.

  'B-52s!' shouted Sergio. 'They're dumping their shit!’

  Doc got to his feet and helped the injured man up. 'Let's get out of here,' he shouted.

  There were more explosions off to their left. The last of the sun disappeared below the horizon as the seven men regrouped. Rabbit helped Doc with the injured man and together they headed south, away from the falling bombs.

  The scorpion emerged from underneath a twig torn from a tree by the force of the explosions. Doc raised a booted foot and stamped on it, squashing it flat without breaking stride.

  The old lady muttered to herself as she walked along the street pushing a supermarket trolley, and passers-by gave her a wide berth. She had a red woollen scarf tied around her head and a thick tweed coat that reached down almost to her ankles. She was wearing scuffed leather boots with bright yellow shoelaces and from around her ankles protruded pieces of newspaper. One of the wheels on her trolley kept sticking and she had to concentrate hard to keep it moving in a straight line. The trolley contained everything she owned, packed into plastic carrier bags which were stacked on several sheets of cardboard.

  She stopped next to a rubbish bin and began searching through it. Her first major find was a copy of the Daily Telegraph, rolled up tightly. She unrolled it carefully and flicked through it. She beamed with pleasure as she saw that the crossword hadn't been done, and refolded it, slipping it into one of the carrier bags. Deeper inside the bin she came across a Burger King carton containing a barely touched cheeseburger and a pack of French fries, along with an unopened sachet of tomato ketchup. She giggled and did a little jig around the bin, then packed her treasure into another carrier bag and resumed her journey. There were more than a dozen rubbish bins along the one-mile stretch of road and she checked them twice each day.

  Small drops of rain began to patter around her and she glared up at the leaden sky. A raindrop splattered on her spectacles and she took them off and wiped the lenses with a pale blue handkerchief. After she'd put her glasses back on she untied a large golfing umbrella from the side of her trolley, unfurled it, and jammed the handle down among the carrier bags so that she had some shelter as she walked.

  The train lurched to a halt, throwing a Japanese tourist off balance. Her husband steadied her by the elbow as the doors opened and half a dozen passengers spilled out on to the platform. The doors closed and the Tube train swiftly accelerated towards the next station. Tommy Reid rested the back of his head against the window and exhaled through clenched teeth. He'd been riding the Circle Line train for more than two hours and he was dog tired. He had a bottle in a brown paper bag, which he raised to his lips, taking a couple of swallows. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the map on the wall of the carriage opposite him. Bayswater was the next station. He sighed mournfully. The muscles in his backside ached and his ears hurt from theNaear-constant noise. He scratched the two-dav growth of beard with the palm of his hand and grinned across at the blind man sitting opposite him, a thirty-something man in blue wrinkled linen jacket and black jeans, holding a white cane between his legs.

  The train began to slow as it approached Bayswater. Reid's earpiece crackled. 'We have a possible contact,' said a voice. 'Three white males. Black motorcycle jacket, red baseball jacket with white sleeves, green anorak.' The three muggers had struck four times in the last week.

  Reid sniffed and took another swig at the bottle as the train slowed then stopped.

  'Fourth carriage,' said the voice in his ear. Reid was in the fifth carriage from the front. He swivelled his head. Through the window in the connecting door he saw the three teenagers board the carriage and huddle together, laughing at something Anorak had said.

  The doors closed and the train lurched forward again. Motorcycle Jacket took a stopwatch from the back pocket of his jeans and nodded at Anorak and Baseball Jacket. All three of the teenagers pulled out black objects from inside their jackets, the size of flashlights with small metal prongs on the end, and spread out along the length of the carriage. Baseball Jacket clicked the trigger on his and blue sparks arced across the prongs.

  Reid got to his feet and went over to the connecting door. Two schoolgirls moved away uneasily. He slowly buttoned up his thick overcoat, figuring it would offer at least some protection against the stun guns. Reinforcements would be waiting at Paddington, and all Reid had to do was to make sure that no one got hurt.

  A businessman handed over his wallet. Anorak took it and put it into a green Harrods carrier bag. A housewife fumbled in her shopping bag while Baseball Jacket stood over her menacingly. An elderly black man was waving his hands and shaking his head, clearly unwilling to give up his money. Anorak walked quickly over to him, thrust the prongs of his stun gun against the man's thigh and pressed the trigger. The man screamed and then stiffened, his whole body shuddering involuntarily.

  'Oh shit,' said Reid. The muggers had never actually used their stun guns before - the threat alone had always been enough to frighten their victims into submission. He gripped the metal handle and pulled open the door. The noise of the rolling gear rattling down the rails was deafening. He opened the door leading to the adjoining carriage and stepped across the gap.

  The three teenagers looked up. Reid held out the bottle and grinned blankly. 'Wanna drink?' he asked, pretending to lose his balance. Reid figured they were about thirty, seconds away from Paddington - all he had to do was to keep them distracted.

  Suddenly the door at the far end of the carriage opened and two men in leather jackets and jeans burst in. Reid cursed. They might as well have been wearing uniforms.

  'Cops!' yelled Motorcycle Jacket. 'Run for it!’

  All three teenagers hurtled down the carriage, towards Reid. Anorak reached him first. Reid stepped to the side and slammed his bottle against the teenager's head. Anorak slumped to the side, falling against two young men in suits who grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.

  Reid tried to bring up the bottle for a second time but Baseball Jacket ran into him, slamming him against the carriage door, then stabbed the stun gun against Reid's shoulder and pressed the trigger. Reid felt as if he'd been kicked by a horse. He tried to breathe but his lungs wouldn't work and the life seemed to drain out of his legs. Baseball Jacket yanked open the door and he and Motorcycle Jacket spilled into the next carriage. Reid heard the brakes begin to bite as the train approached Paddington.

  They rushed along the carriage, pushing the two schoolgirls out of the way, the two plainclothes policemen about ten paces behind. Ahead of them the blind man was getting to his feet, one hand gripping his white cane, the other outstretched. The train burst out of the tunnel and the platform flashed by.

  'Out of the way!' Baseball Jacket shouted, pushing the blind man to the side as the train came to a halt and the doors opened. Baseball Jacket stepped out, but as he did so, a hand grabbed his hair and yanked him back.

  'You're under arrest,' said the blind mai^, slamming Baseball Jacket against the side of the carriage. The white cane dropped to the floor.

  Motorcycle Jacket skidded to a halt and held out his stun gun. 'You're not blind!' he shouted.

  'It's a miracle,' grinned the blind man, jerking Baseball Jacket's arm
up behind his back until the teenager yelped in pain.

  Motorcycle Jacket glared at the blind man, then spat at his face and jumped out of the carriage. The blind man pushed Baseball Jacket towards the two plainclothes policemen, who grabbed his arms, then he tossed his sunglasses away and chased after Motorcycle Jacket.

  The uniformed inspector shook his head in frustration as he stared at the closed-circuit television monitor. The teenager in the motorcycle jacket was cannoning down the platform, pushing people out of his way and waving his stun gun in the air. Nick Wright was in pursuit, his arms pumping furiously as he ran. On another monitor Tommy Reid stumbled out on to the platform, still holding his bottle, and was almost bowled over by the fleeing mugger.

  'Keystone bloody Cops,' muttered the inspector.

  'Sorry, sir?' said the shirtsleeved officer sitting in front of him.

  'Where are the reinforcements?' said the inspector, putting his hands on the back of the officer's chair and leaning closer to the rank of monitors.

  'Main ticketing area, sir,' said the officer. He pressed a button on the panel in front of him and the image on the central monitor changed to show half a dozen uniformed British Transport Police officers sprinting towards the top of the escalators.

  The inspector straightened up and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He watched the mugger run into one of the exits, closely followed by Wright. At least Wright appeared to be gaining on him.

  Nick Wright exhaled through clenched teeth as he ran, his lungs burning with each breath. He swung around a corner just in time to see Motorcycle Jacket collide with a guitar-playing busker, scattering a tin can of coins across the tiled floor.

  'Stop him!' Wright shouted, but no one moved to help. His quarry sprinted to the escalators and ran up, pushing people out of the way.

  'Police!' yelled Wright. 'Move, people, please!' Again his pleas were ignored and he had physically to force his way up the escalator after the teenager.

  Motorcycle Jacket was halfway up the escalator when a group of six uniformed officers appeared at the top and fanned out. The boy snarled at the waiting officers, then leaped off the escalator and on to the concrete stairs. He sped down the steps, taking them five at a time, as the policemen rushed to the down escalator.