“MIND THE GAP! MIND THE GAP!”
The perfectly enunciated voice boomed through the station. Authoritative, masculine, and tinged with a fat dollop of ‘don’t fuck with me’ undertones, it had cowed an entire generation of commuters into compliance. You could practically hear it pronounce the exclamation marks. But it was almost drowned out by the teeth-clenching squealing of brakes and the pulse of stale air that always announced the arrival of a tube train at Highgate station. Waiting commuters got shotblasted by a cloud of dust and grit as the train burst out of a pitch-black tunnel and into the fluorescent glare of Platform Two. It sounded like a king-sized tin of thundery whoop-ass had been given a damn good shake and then opened in a confined space, accompanied by all the screaming, tormented souls of Hell.
The train squawked to a halt with all the grace of a car in a crusher, as metal wheels with metal brakes made contact on metal rails. It even threw up a few sparks for effect. Doors hissed open and a high-pitched bleep ticked down the seconds before exiting or entering the carriage would become much more of a challenge than it already was. A surge of humanity broke onto the shoreline of the carriage like well-dressed flotsam and flowed into the garishly bright interior, where the fittest and fastest plonked their arses into still-warm seats.
Alpha Unit moved with the flow of the mob, guiding a couple of stubborn civvies out of the way through the careful application of subtle but painful pressure to various points on the body, carefully disguised under the cover of a crowd crush. Each team member knew exactly where they needed to be. They’d planned this dekko just as meticulously as if it were a live-rounds assault. This particular theatre, though, was packed full of non-combatants. And that was always a problem.
Subtlety was the name of the game today. Black ops didn’t always have to be flash-bang-wallop, gun-toting mayhem. Sometimes, it could be a sneaky-peaky before things got up close and personal with the organophosphor rounds later on. It’s all very well kicking in metaphorical doors, but Alpha Team knew it helped to know which damn doors to kick before you started lacing up your boots.
They had basic kit with them, stowed in the large holdall Gary Parks carried. They hadn’t really come for a fight, but it paid to have at least a little bit of kit with you, just in case. They’d come to find out just how bad the Highgate infestation had become, and how much of a threat this particular nest of Taints were to the local food source. Or ‘Northern Line commuters’, as the poor, unfortunate bastards were known.
The four-man team positioned themselves strategically throughout the carriage. Gary Parks, in a very real sense of the word, ‘occupied’ the space next to the far exit. He entertained himself for a few seconds by staring intensely at a scrawny little skinhead sporting a piss-poor home-made ‘White Power’ tattoo. The skinhead, now nose-to-nose with a huge black man encroaching on his ‘personal space’, suddenly looked like he felt very alone in the world.
Yolanda Jaeger propped herself in a corner by the central doors. From here she could see both Gary Parks and the other end of the carriage, occupied by Colby Flynn and the interminable Micky Cox — master of electronics and generalised mayhem. The Unit’s former SAS and REME make-it-happen guy was currently staring at a smartphone like a good little commuter.
Three of the team blended in relatively seamlessly with the surrounding hoi polloi. Gary Parks, however, looked like a rhino gatecrashing a tea party.
“For chrissake, Gary, try to look a bit more commuter-y, will you?” Yolanda hissed into a Bluetooth device. The smartphone revolution meant appearing to talk to yourself was now part of digital life, making it almost impossible to tell the nutjobs from a crack team of SF soldiers on a dekko. Of course, there were those who claimed the two were not mutually exclusive.
Gary responded to Yolanda’s comment, avoiding any obvious eye contact as per oppo protocol. “As opposed to what, exactly, boss?”
“As opposed to a bag of footballs in a suit. Damn it man, I can see the outline of your Glock from here — and no, Micky, before you chip in your five-pennyworth, that is not a euphemism! Seriously, Gary, didn’t the QM have anything that actually fitted you?”
Colby Flynn's voice crackled over the comms. “Yol, c'mon, cut him some slack. His tailor sure as hell can’t.”
“Fuck off.” Gary frowned at the skinhead, who assumed the comment was meant for him and did everything he possibly could to comply.
Colby grinned and notched it up a turn. “Seriously. The poor guy’s a medical freak. He gets his underpants from Marquees-R-Us, you know.”
Gary’s frown turned into a full-power scowl. “Come down here and say that to my kneecaps, puny little man.” He forgot ops protocol for a second and glowered up the carriage towards the definitely-not-puny Colby Flynn.
Flynn simply grinned back and flipped Gary the finger. “Hulk smash!”
“Fuck… off!”
Yolanda stopped the banter in its tracks. “Gentlemen, cease and desist, please. Gary, quit intimidating the racist, would you? There’s a good chap. Flynn, eyes on, you reprobate, and stop tormenting the giant man in the bad suit. Micky, are we ready?”
“Ready, boss. I’m plugged into the train’s electronic control system. I’ve by-passed the safety protocols and remotely disengaged the Dead Man’s Handle. Should be pretty straightforward to interrupt the power.”
“I’m so very, very proud of you, you clever boy. A simple ‘yes boss’ would have sufficed. Just kill the damn power on my mark.” Yolanda pressed closer to the door to try and cancel out the reflection of the carriage interior. She peered out into the darkness as it blurred past the windows. “Three, two, one, mark!”
Micky stabbed at his smartphone and the tube train squealed, slowed, and finally juddered to a halt. A few seconds later a nasally voice mumbled over the tannoy. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your driver speaking. We seem to have suffered some kind of electrical malfunction. No need to worry, we should have you moving again in a few minutes. Thank you.” A rousing chorus of very British tutting clicked through the carriage in response.
Yolanda checked the carriage and then spoke into the Bluetooth again. “Now the lights if you would, please, Mick.”
Micky stabbed at the smartphone again, and frowned. The carriage lights stayed resolutely on. Yolanda turned and raised an eyebrow in Micky’s direction. “In your own time, Mister Cox.”
“Trying, boss. Let me rotate the frequency, see if I can hit the sweet spot.”
“Micky, I genuinely don’t care what you rotate, just get those bloody lights turned out.”
The lights flickered and then went out, and the only illumination in the carriage came from dozens of smartphone screens. London’s hardy commuters again clicked and tutted their annoyance like a pod of angry dolphins. In between signal dropouts they relentlessly carried on tweeting, texting and facetiming, unaware they were witnesses to a black op happening right in front of their noses.
“Anything?” Yolanda ignored the winter-wonderland twinkle of smartphone backlights and stared out into the gloom. The tunnel was much wider here, with columns, arches and walkways intersecting the various lines. This was a major junction, and they were also very close to the old abandoned Highgate tunnels.
Perfect Taint territory.
“We’ve got movement.” Gary’s deep voice came through the comms. “Yep, they’re out there all right. They’re taking the bait. Cheeky little fuckers, too. Didn’t expect ‘em to be this close.”