James Barrington - Overkill

He broke off, lowered the limousine’s partition and spoke urgently to the escort in the front seat. ‘Send the two Mercedes ahead. Tell the crews to look out for anything unusual.’

‘They’ve already started moving,’ the escort reported.

Bykov turned to the driver. ‘Ease back. Stay well behind the lorry.’ Bykov twisted round in his seat. Nothing behind but a single articulated lorry, about five hundred metres back. In front, another French-registered artic was just passing the Russian lorry. On the opposite carriageway, nothing moved.

‘It’s probably just another accident,’ Modin said, stifling a yawn. ‘We’ve seen two today already.’

‘No. This is different,’ Bykov snapped. He reached for the car phone clipped below the partition. He looked at the status display, then showed it to Modin. The tiny grey-black letters proclaimed ‘No service’.

‘All French autoroutes have excellent cellular coverage,’ Bykov said. ‘Somebody has disabled the local cells.’

Modin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, sat up straighter in his seat and peered ahead up the autoroute. ‘You might be right, Viktor,’ he said softly. ‘I think we may have a problem.’

‘One minute.’ The Mercedes were coming, one in each lane, the two lorries about half a mile behind them. ‘Thirty seconds.’ Both Mercedes, running almost side-by-side, swept past the Renault and on towards the Transit. ‘Twenty seconds.’

The French lorry had eased in front of the Russian vehicle and was moving back into the nearside lane. The Renault shook, twice, as the two heavy goods vehicles roared past. Richter turned his attention to the autoroute in front, and looked through the front screen of the Trafic. ‘Ten seconds,’ he said. He was guessing, but that should be near enough. As Richter released the transmit button, the leading articulated lorry’s brake lights went on, and then everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The lorry lurched to the left, and Richter could see the smoke of burning rubber from its tyres. The trailer skidded and slipped, almost hopping, and turned broadside on to the carriageway. Speed dropping all the time, the cab just brushed the steel barriers on the central reservation.

The brake lights flared on the Russian truck. The driver had reacted late, but he had reacted. The leading lorry halted, completely blocking the carriageway and obscuring the view of everything beyond it. The cab door opened, and a diminutive figure wearing an orange jacket jumped out, vaulted the central barrier and disappeared from sight to the south of the auto-route. It had been one of the most impressive pieces of driving Richter had ever seen.

The Russian truck was slowing gradually, then lurched to the right. Richter saw the puff of dust and rubber as a tyre exploded under the impact of the 7.62mm round, and the cab start to weave. But its speed was already low enough for there to be no real danger.

Richter glanced quickly out of the rear windows. The other lorry was parking, the driver taking his time, broadside on to the carriageway about half a mile back, and between it and the Renault van Richter saw the black limousine for the first time.

Anton Kirov

The Spetsnaz trooper halted outside the door of the Second Mate’s cabin and knocked twice. After a few seconds Colonel Zavorin slid the door open. ‘Yes?’

‘He’s gone, sir. Captain Bondarev has gone ashore.’

‘Good. Tell the technician I’ll meet him outside the hold.’

‘Yes, sir.’ As the trooper hurried away, Zavorin closed the cabin door and followed. It was time for the final check on the weapon before it was unloaded, and Zavorin was keen to ensure that Bondarev knew nothing about it. Zavorin had been embellishing the cipher machine story in their recent conversations, and was certain that Bondarev believed it.

But if Bondarev found out that the Anton Kirov’s cargo included a nuclear weapon that was going to be unloaded the next day and left, primed and ready, when the ship departed from Gibraltar, Zavorin was not sure what he would do. Sometimes, ignorance was best for all concerned.

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt, France

‘There has been an accident,’ a calm voice reported from the front dashboard speaker in the limousine. ‘Two small trucks are involved, but the road ahead is not blocked.’

‘Look behind you,’ the escort shouted into the microphone.

‘We’ve burst a tyre,’ the lorry driver yelled, ‘and some idiot Frenchman has just slewed his truck right across the road in front of us.’

A babble of voices burst out of the speaker. ‘Quiet,’ Bykov shouted, grabbing the microphone. He looked behind, and saw the second lorry just completing its manoeuvre.

Modin smiled faintly. ‘I think, Viktor,’ he said quietly, ‘that someone has found out.’

‘Convoy,’ Bykov called, ignoring the older man. ‘This is Bykov. Assume an attack is imminent. Await my command to respond.’

Richter looked ahead. The Russian truck had stopped, and as he watched a figure rolled out from underneath the trailer and sprinted off over the hard shoulder and into the scrubland. Behind. The limousine was coasting to a stop, around fifty metres behind the Trafic. Ahead. For a long moment nothing moved. The Russian truck sat idling, exhaust fumes just visible above the twin silencer boxes behind the cab. No noise, no movement. Then the plastic explosive detonated with a crack that Richter heard even through the headphones. ‘Go!’ he shouted into the mike. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ The figure in camouflage gear stood up beside a bush just off the hard shoulder and pointed a stubby, bulky weapon at the cab of the artic. The figure recoiled as the gun spat flame and the right-hand-side door window disintegrated. A second round followed, and suddenly the cab was billowing with the distinctive white fumes of CS gas.

A long way ahead Richter heard the sudden crackle of small-arms fire.

Colin Dekker ducked down behind the steel barrier at the side of the autoroute as the rear window of the leading blue Mercedes saloon slid down six inches. All SAS personnel are required to be expert in weapon identification, and he knew instantly that he was looking down the barrel of a Kalashnikov assault rifle. He raised his Hockler, selected semi-automatic, flicked off the safety catch, sighted quickly and fired two rounds at the vehicle.

His first bullet slammed into the rear door of the Mercedes, scattering flecks of paint and leaving a dent which confirmed that the vehicle was armoured. The second round went higher and hit the partially-lowered window, but by then the Kalashnikov had added its deeper voice to the exchange, and Dekker tumbled flat on the ground as bullets ploughed through the steel barrier within inches of where he lay. Where the hell were Erulin’s men?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Dekker heard two sharp cracks, then a third, as two of the Gigènes fired through the partially open window of the Mercedes, the bullets bouncing around the inside of the armoured vehicle. Dekker heard a sudden scream, a cry of pain, and then silence as the Kalashnikov’s muzzle dropped out of sight.

Richter tore off the headset and looked behind. Fifty metres away the limousine was starting to make a U-turn, to head back to the east. Richter kicked opon the rear doors and pulled out the Smith, but at that range it was useless. One of Erulin’s GIGN snipers was crouching behind the Renault and Richter shouted to him. ‘Stop him,’ he yelled. ‘Shoot his bloody tyres!’ The GIGN trooper looked round blankly. Richter cursed. What the hell was French for ‘tyre’?

Lacomte jumped out of the van. ‘ Les pneus! ’ he shouted. ‘ Tirez sur les pneus! ’ The sniper nodded, took aim and fired. The echoes of the shot had hardly died away before he fired again, and when Richter looked the limousine was lurching drunkenly towards the hard shoulder, both left-hand tyres in shreds. Erulin was right about the shooting skills of his men. Richter shouted to Lacomte as he took off at a run down the autoroute. ‘Check with Colin.’