Combat

Prologue Promotion had put her back in uniform. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a marked police vehicle, slowly cruising the London streets. All afternoon she’d been jargon juggling. Finally, she’d escaped and taken advantage of a spare emergency response car to drive to the adjoining area for a conference on community initiatives. She clicked on the radio. This was how her earlier career had been, among the run-down fast food shops, the loitering drivers smoking w**d outside the mini cab offices, the boom of music from cars and buildings, the glitzy bill-boards in the heart of dilapidation. Suddenly an urgent voice called out from Met’ Police control at Scotland Yard. “Lima Three... Lima Three to MP... we have a fail to stop... high speed North towards the city.” She caught the familiar sound of a chase. A vehicle was fleeing a patrol car about two miles behind her and coming her way. She pulled over and listened. She need not be involved in this. This was not her job. So, she’d been top student at the Hendon driving school of the Metropolitan Police. She was an Inspector now and this was not about ego or drama. She knew that. She knew that! She checked out the siren and blue light controls. The big V8 engine rumbled playfully. She blipped the throttle and felt the tight knot of its unexpressed power. It had started to rain. And this was not her job! “Eighty, that’s eight zero miles per hour. Driver looks about 15 years old... running red light into Brixton now... wait... wait... straight through... still at eighty.” Her heart rate increased. These would be crowded streets in the late afternoon. Now only a mile behind her the chase was closing in. She absorbed the details. The target car was a stolen boy racer Ford. At least four joy riding kids from a delinquent home were desperately trying to escape. Again, a more urgent voice... “We have a tire blowout. We can’t continue. Lima Three over...” She checked the mirror. The target vehicle was approaching still at high speed - reckless speed. It screamed past, taking a traffic island on the wrong side of the road. She caught the eye of a shaven headed boy in the back seat as she hit the lights and sirens and slammed down the throttle. “Lima Delta One... in pursuit,” she announced. Soon she was right on the tail. She had more power and more skill. They barreled into the Camberwell New Road junction at seventy miles per hour. The target car side-swiped a red London bus but straightened up. She concentrated hard. The rain was turning the tarmac into a skid pan. She saw more police blue lights ahead near the Oval tube station. The target feinted right then tried to corner left. The tail started to slide out on the wet road. She watched in slow motion as the vehicle slammed into a street lamp. A spray of glass and the scream of tortured metal suddenly gave way to an utter, utter, silence. An awful stillness enveloped the wreck and nothing moved. Nobody moved. The radio carried the voice of Scotland Yard control... “Discontinue pursuit. Repeat: discontinue. Speed too high for safety. Lima Delta One - acknowledge... discontinue pursuit...