David Holman
Countdown to Terror
For Kirstie,
You are always there for me
Part One
Prospero
Chapter 1
There was no sign of the black Ford Consul which had been chasing Karl Ruger through the early rising mists of the April morning. Had choosing to use the labyrinth of small alleyways that weaved around this South London estate, enabled him to evade it?
In the breaking dawn light, the 46 year old rocket engineer was exhausted. He spread out his hands onto a wall; a fly-poster of McKenna's Gold, the latest all-star cast western currently showing in the UK cinemas, had been recently pasted. As Ruger stared at it, and as if to share in his anxiety, Gregory Peck and Omar Sharif, along with the myriad of other famous names standing in a queue behind them, stared back at him, a look of anxious curiosity on their faces.
He turned his body to lean against it, reached into the pocket of his brown tweed jacket, and pulled out the piece of vellum his friend had given him.
Earlier, before the sudden appearance of the menacing-looking vehicle, Ruger had briefly read the piece of vellum given to him by his old friend; now, with more time, and through vapours of his breath, he read the handwritten address:
Alex Swan, Services Investigations Department, 7 Wellesley Mews, Whitehall.
Thinking about the series of recent events that had led him to this moment, he really hoped this man would be able to help.
Since the sinister discovery at the rocket test site on the Isle of Wight, Karl Ruger no longer knew who to trust. After all, who would believe him? There was only one person who he could go to, certain that his former wartime colleague from his days at Peenemunde would listen.
He began to recall how this had all started, the overheard telephone conversation in the storage hangar, and the fluent German being spoken by the unknown saboteur. Who was it, he wondered, Jürgen, Gundars? It could even have been old Heinz Gruber. Through the door, it had been difficult to tell; more so — was the mystery of who was on the other end of the phone. The word Merlin had been heard, but what did this mean? Then there were the other things mentioned; things that had distressed him enough to take this necessary action.
Ruger loved his work. After all, it was an exciting time for his team. Britain would soon have its very own satellite launcher, and he was delighted to be a part of it. It may have been nothing compared to the Apollo programme, of which his ex-Nazi colleagues were currently involved with, but although it was a very small venture in contrast to sending astronauts to the moon, he still felt proud his expertise with the high-test peroxide (HTP) fuel, had proven invaluable to the British. Their Prospero satellite would soon be placed into low Earth orbit, delivered there by Britain's home-grown space rocket, Black Arrow.
He placed the note back into his pocket, and with still no sign of the car, retrieved his cigarettes. Now feeling more relaxed, he held the packet clumsily in his hands, as he popped a cigarette into his mouth. He sighed, blowing out the smoke thinking of his next move. He would go to this man Alex Swan, tell him about all this. Was the Black Arrow a target for these people, and what was it they had meant by what he had heard? His thoughts suddenly died on a familiar sound, the whine of the 1.7 Litre engine, realising the car had found him again.
Like a vivacious predator, it caught him in the full beam of its headlights, accelerating towards him. The short reprieve was over.
Inside the car, the two silhouetted shapes, were focussed on their prey.
Ruger spat out his cigarette, dropped the packet and fled the scene. He was running again, running for his life. Sprinting alongside what seemed a never ending concrete wall, he spied a gap, and without turning his head to glance behind him, knew that the car was gaining ground; the roar of its horsepower, howling through the deserted street, penetrating his ears. If he continued along the path, it would soon catch up with him. He needed to get off it, and quickly. Approaching a gap, he went through, finding himself on a descending walkway leading down to the River Thames. He stopped, and looking out at the river for a few moments, picked out an old broken landing jetty. This had reminded him of where he worked; the way that the rotted rails slid into the river, similar to the decreasing hulks of chalk jutting out to the old manned lighthouse in Scratchell’s Bay. He had often looked out to it, when working inside the rocket gantries overlooking this famous Isle of Wight landmark, known as The Needles.
Beyond the jetty, two rusting, redundant grain barges wallowed like a pair of submerged hippos, huddled together in the lay-lowing tide. The white-haired German quickly looked around him, surveying the area. To his dismay, he then knew he had made a costly mistake; the hopes of escape diminished in a flash; there was no other way out. If his pursuers, whoever they were, came through the gap in the wall, he would be trapped.
His heart then froze on hearing the shrill screech of tyres, emanating from the other side. With the spear of panic piercing through him again, he ran down towards the river, footsteps echoing along the descending wooden planks. He had to get away from these men, even if it meant running along the water’s edge, or even having to swim for it. He had to get away and inform Swan of what was about to happen.
Rushing through the gap, the two men then paused. One of them, a small thin man with rodent-like facial features remained, while the other, a much larger man with cropped hair, continued the chase. The small man carefully studied the fleeing Ruger, and reaching inside his black leather jacket, pulled out a Mauser P-38 9mm automatic pistol. Carefully, he took aim at the moving target and squeezed the trigger and with a loud crack, fragments from a wooden post exploded close to Ruger’s head.
He screamed for help, but as the area was an industrious wilderness, this desperate action proved futile. The sun was just beginning its climb into the quiet purple sky, and the only sound that could be heard, was the feathered chorus coming from the nearby royal park.
Ruger had almost reached the river’s edge and could hear the pounding footsteps of the big man behind him.
At the top of the walkway, the gunman crouched, rested his outstretched arms on the steel rail and took aim again. Ruger heard the shot, then suddenly felt an immense pain erupt, as the silver slug entered his lower back, causing him to stumble forward. His legs collapsed from under him, and losing his momentum, he hit the soaked decking. With his head now hanging over the side, he stared at the menacing water inches away from his face.
The German struggled to push himself up to get away again and suddenly felt the heavy weight of the big man, and a warm breath on the nape of his neck as he was now held in an iron grip having his face pushed into the mud. There was a sudden numbness in his chest, as the damage the single bullet had caused began to reveal itself.
After his last shot, the gunman also ran down the walkway, and now stared down at the pathetic site on the ground, with a disappointing grimace. He shook his head to his colleague, addressing him in German. ‘Ach, I did not want to shoot him like this. Merlin only instructed us to question him. He will be furious that this has happened.’
The big man rose, shaking his head in agreement. Ruger was going nowhere. He replied to his accomplice, also in German. ‘I think he is dying.’
The gunman reached down and grasping a shoulder, wheeled Ruger onto his back, and with his free hand, slapped his face. ‘Tell us what you said to the man you went to see, Karl,’ he shouted. He repeated his request, placing the gun's muzzle against Ruger’s left eye, while the other man looked on. The agonising pain in the rocket engineer’s chest was increasing, causing him to wheeze for breath. The gunman continued with his interrogation, but then ceased, distracted by something. His head traversed to another direction, as the silence of the early morning was broken by the sound of an approaching marine diesel engine.