The Shaking

Chapter Thirty Seven

Above London. 07.16.

Anthony Rampling's world had suddenly become confused. One moment he'd been preparing to step out of the helicopter, then the ground had begun trembling and something had streaked past his face to hit the fuselage with a loud TUNK! at the same time as the stinging pains began in his scalp. Strong arms had lifted him off his feet and all but thrown him back into the the cabin as frantic orders were bellowed. The note of the turbines rose to a high-pitched keening shriek he'd never heard before and the aircraft rose with the same stomach churning lurch as a high-speed elevator.

"Check that blood!" he heard someone order and inquisitive fingers probed the back of his head while another pair of hands tore at his shirt, exposing his chest. He felt sticky pads being attached in various places to it. "Got a pulse, but elevated rate and erratic!" said another person. "That's hardly surprising!" replied a further voice.

"What about his head?!" The authoritative voice demanded.

"It looks like superficial fragment wounds to the scalp."

"Thank fuck for that!" the senior man sighed with relief.

Having established Rampling was still alive his carers began to take notice of him as a person again, and treat him once more with deference.

"What happened?" he asked.

"A sniper attack, sir." replied John Manning, his Head of Security. "The bullet missed you but struck near the door frame and disintegrated on impact; some of the fragments hit the back of your head but fortunately appear to have caused no serious injuries. We've put pressure dressings over your wounds for the time being; you may need to get them well cleaned out and have a few stitches, but you should be OK. However your cardiac rhythm is still a cause for concern. We're en-route to RAF Northolt where the flight surgeon can give you a thorough examination: How do you feel now?

"A bit tight chested and short of breath." said Rampling, who looked pale and sweaty. "I'm not sure, but I think I might have picked up that bloody Mexican 'flu from Ian Campbell!"

Manning motioned for one of the bodyguard paramedics to place a disposable thermometer on the Prime Minister's forehead while he glanced down at the display of the portable ECG machine which was nestled next to an opened battlefield trauma pack containing everything from IV bags of plasma and saline solution to an emergency surgery kit. "Don't worry, it's probably just the stress of it all. We'll be landing shortly." As Manning spoke the pilot throttled back the engines from full military power and the chopper began to lose altitude. "Just relax sir, and we'll take care of everything"

"Did they get the sniper?" Rampling had to raise his voice to be heard over the turbine noise.

"Not that I'm aware of as yet." Manning replied. "But we will."

Near Swanley Rest Centre. 07.20.

Sergeant Kyle Langdon watched the man from behind. Though he was facing away from him and neither of his hands were visible, the soldier wasn't unduly fearful, he being well armed and escaping jihadist snipers rarely pausing to prop their bike up against a tree while they had an unhurried slash.

In the aftermath of the attack on the Prime Minister, Langdon's platoon had been ordered in hot pursuit after the gunman, dashing in short bursts from cover to cover wondering if the shooter had already scarpered or if they were about to go down as the final casualties in the terrorist's last stand of suicidal glory.

Kyle, staying close to a hedge running alongside a footpath, had reached the edge of this spinney and come to a crouching pause while he observed the wood for signs of possible danger. The only thing he spotted was this person relieving themselves, and from the sound of the weakening trickle of urine they had almost finished. The figure shrugged as he zipped up his fly. Aiming his SA80/2 automatic rifle just below the small rucksack the male wore, Langdon shouted out "YOU! STAY DEAD STILL!" The man froze. "NOW SLOWLY PUT YOUR HANDS UP! He did as ordered. "TURN AROUND SLOWLY!" The man turned, and Kyle sized the suspect up; white; mid to late forties, wearing a mid-tan windbreaker jacket, dark green polo shirt and grey mix casual trousers. He wore brown walking shoes and in addition to his neutrally coloured pack the portly figure carried more weight than was healthy for him.