Harrison perched beside the corporal and studied the fuzzy TV picture from the boom-mounted camera. ‘Give the door a miss, Corporal. Let’s see if there’s a way in through the window.’
Marsh nodded, slowing the ‘barrow and executing a neat turn to bring it at right angles to the kerbstone. From that position they had a midget’s eye view of the window. It had been barricaded with a sheet of corrugated iron held in place by crossspars of timber nailed to the rotten frame.
The corporal began extending the telescopic boom to which a small metal attachment was fixed. Known as a ‘door opener’, its usual function was to open the doors or boots of suspect cars. But now, with the front tracks of the ‘barrow jammed against the kerb for leverage. Marsh was hooking the attachment under the crossspars. There was little resistance as the boom retracted, yanking the nails free. Two minutes later the iron sheet flapped and crashed noisily to the pavement, revealing a gaping black hole.
With an energetic wheeze, the tracked robot struggled over the kerbstone and edged closer to the window. Nothing but darkness showed on the screen from the boom camera. Marsh switched on the mini-floodlight and Harrison involuntarily winced. Lightsensitive switches had been used recently to trigger hidden bombs in derelict buildings, just waiting for an unwary ATO to switch on his torch.
But this time nothing happened and the monitor showed only the dusty shell of a building as the circle of light traversed the one-time parlour. Plaster had crumbled from the walls and lay on dried-up yellowing newspapers; a door hung from a single hinge where vandals or vagrants had tried to remove it; festoons of lighting cable protruded from a hole in the ceiling like a hernia.
Harrison made his decision. Til take a look now.’
Marsh avoided his eyes, perhaps not wanting to show that he feared for the officer’s life. ‘What you want to take with you, boss?’
‘Just a Pigstick,’ Harrison replied, smiling with a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘And a Jack-in-a-Box, so you can see what’s going on.’
He didn’t need to add ‘in case things go pear-shaped’. Marsh knew.
While the corporal located the steel carrying case and plugged in the extension cable, Harrison took one last look at the dilapidated and empty street before snapping down his visor.
At once he was alone in another world. Outside sounds became instantly muted and he was aware only of the rasp of his own breathing. Through the thick scratched lens of the visor he could see the Wheelbarrow waiting patiently by the window fifty metres away; Light Infantry soldiers crouched at each end of the wasteland that flanked the left-hand side of the street, ready to retaliate should the sniper still be lying in wait.
Marsh handed over the carrying case and the long walk began.
A mere fifty metres but, as always, it seemed to take for ever.
Each footstep was laboured, his breath harsh in his own ears as he shuffled under the weight of the bombsuit and the portable camera.
He tried not to hold his breath, but that was never easy. However much rational thought reassured him that he was not in danger, the truth was that you could never be sure. Because the only man who knew the truth was the bomber, and he would be the very last person on earth to tell you.
The first few footsteps were the easiest because if a device went off where you expected it to be, then your face and body were well enough protected. But as you began to halve the distance you began to remember previous bomb blasts you had seen and the damage they had inflicted on their victims. The destructive power of explosives on soft body tissue was awesome, especially when nails and shipyard bolts had been added for good measure. At twenty-five metres it was impossible not to feel increasingly vulnerable, aware that the protective suit would probably keep you alive, but that the Shockwave would invariably tear the limbs from your torso. However calm you might appear, you were aware of the increasing tempo of your heartbeat and the hot flush of fear that caused the sweat to gather in the small of your back.
He thought of his wife Pippa then, and her breathless voice on the telephone the previous night. Her hardly suppressed excitement and his impatience as she deliberately taunted him with her news, keeping it to herself for as long as she could before she finally admitted, Yes, she was pregnant. The doctor had confirmed it. About two months gone, so Harrison could expect to be a father before Christmas.
And then the image had flashed unbidden through his mind. Pippa pushing the cripple in the wheelchair. The child staring at the man who could neither see nor hear, who had no hands with which to hold his own child. Harrison paused. The trailing cable from the carrying case had snagged and as he turned in slow motion like an astronaut, Marsh was already jinking it free. Thumbs-up signs were exchanged.
The walk began again.
There are only three types of bomb, Harrison reminded himself, once more going back over his earlier threat assessment in order to quell his unreasoned feeling of panic. To shake off the black dog. There was the time bomb which logic dictated was no longer likely in this situation. Then there was the command-controlled device, perhaps detonated by wire or radio signal. That required an observer and no terrorist who valued his freedom was likely to be hanging around after a snipe; besides which the few occupied buildings that now overlooked him had already been searched by the infantry.
That left the third type of bomb: victim-operated. Cold military parlance for the booby trap.
To an outsider that might seem like a poor comfort. But for Harrison the rerun of his earlier mental process of elimination and his reaffirmation of the nature of the threat steadied his nerves. Whatever might lie in wait for him was not under someone else’s control. Whether he lived of died would be up to him alone. His skill, his decisions, his mind against that of the unknown bomber.
He stopped beside the deactivated Wheelbarrow, feeling calmer now.
Ever aware of the possibility of light-sensitive devices, he extracted an Allen cold lamp from the equipment pouch in the tail of his bombsuit and shone the diffused beam into the dark interior. It gave poor definition but was at least preferable to a surprise explosion.
Inside he could see nothing to arouse his suspicions and, after checking the perimeter of the windowframe for wires, he climbed awkwardly over the sill. With his feet planted firmly on the bare floorboards, he flipped up his visor to improve his vision. If the cool flow of air on his face was welcome, the smell of mildew and dog faeces was not.
It took several minutes of playing the beam around the room before he was satisfied that there were no telltale electrical leads or tripwires.
So far so good. But then he was painfully aware that he couldn’t double-guess everything. Every day more and more electronic sensors of one type or another were coming onto the domestic market. From infrared anti-burglar alarms to acoustic keyrings.
It was only a matter of time before such things were adapted by the bombers. And a derelict like this would be the perfect place to try them out. But at least not, it would seem, today.
Feeling more comfortable, he lowered his visor and edged towards the front door. Nothing appeared to be fixed to it. No wires, nothing.
He crossed the hallway to the foot of the stairs. Before attempting to climb, he tugged through more slack on the portable television cable. Each step creaked unnervingly underfoot. He tested his weight gingerly every time he moved until at last he could view the upper landing.