Operation Syria

by William Meikle

  OPERATION SYRIA

  William Meikle

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2019 by William Meikle

  - 1 -

  Corporal Wiggins laid down the law.

  “This is your first time out with us. So don’t fuck up. Do what I say, when I say it, and we’ll get along fine. I don’t expect any backchat from you new lads, is that clear?” he said and the three younger men opposite across the belly of the plane nodded.

  Sergeant Hynd watched with amusement, dropped Captain Banks a wink, and went private in his headset.

  “Irony is lost on that lad,” the sarge said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have got him that promotion, Cap.”

  Banks grinned.

  “It hurts to say it but he deserves it, if only for his cheek,” he replied. “Besides, it’s not every day he’ll get to enjoy being a new corporal. Let him strut for now. We’ll be too busy later for any nonsense from any of them.”

  The plane juddered as it hit some turbulence. Banks turned to look out the window. There was only darkness beyond but he knew they must be over the mountains by now, nearing their target. Soon the red light would be switched on to signal their drop into the dark.

  *

  He’d been looking to ask for a period of leave for him and the squad when he was called to the colonel’s office early that same morning but his superior had other ideas and Banks hardly got a chance to speak, never mind ask for a holiday.

  “We need a rapid response team for a rescue mission,” the colonel said with no preamble as soon as the door was closed at Banks’ back. “And your squad is first up on rotation, so get kitted up. You leave inside the hour.”

  “We’re not ready to go, sir. We’re understaffed,” Banks said. “What with losing Corporal McCally and not replacing those lads we lost in Antarctica yet…”

  The colonel waved his objections away as if frustrated by them and interrupted.

  “That’s not a problem. I’ve already handled it. We’ve got five new lads in from Leuchars today. Take three of them; that’ll be your choice. Find out what they’re made of and if they’ve got the gumption to stick with it for the long haul. You know the drill.”

  “…and I need a new corporal,” Banks finished.

  “What’s wrong with Wiggins?”

  Banks had laughed.

  Nothing much, apart from a mouth as wide and as busy as the Clyde tunnel?

  He didn’t say that though and the longer he thought about it, the more he knew that Private ‘Wiggo’ Wiggins deserved at least a chance at the post.

  Having gone in expecting to get a holiday confirmed, he left the colonel’s office with a new corporal, three new squaddies under his wing, and orders for a parachute drop that same night in the Syrian Desert.

  *

  He’d told Wiggins about the jump first.

  “In the dark, onto an escarpment, in a desert? That’s not much of a fucking holiday, is it, Cap? Do we at least get a camel ride out of it?”

  “Aye, you’re right, it’s not a cushy number. But at least you’ll be getting paid more for the privilege, Corporal Wiggins.”

  It took a couple of seconds to sink in, then Wiggins’ mouth had flapped but nothing came out and Hynd laughed.

  “Speechless, for once,” he said.

  “Nah, Sarge,” Wiggins came back, his composure restored. “Just practicing my lip moves for when I next see your missus.”

  Wiggins’ mood had improved further on being introduced to the three new lads, all privates, all on the young side and all keen as mustard.

  “It won’t take long for me to knock that out of them.”

  As for the job itself, as the colonel had said, apart from the drop in the dark it involved a rescue mission. A team of British archaeologists had got themselves caught between two rival rebel factions in the eastern Syrian Desert. An S.O.S. had come in but nothing more had been heard for the past twenty-four hours. The squad’s job was to go in and see if there was anybody alive to rescue.

  “At least it’s not babysitting duty again,” Wiggins said. “Do you think we’ll see some action this time out, Cap?”

  “It’s Syria, what do you think?” Hynd had replied.

  Knowing what he did of the area and its recent history as a hotbed of fanaticism, Banks could only agree with his sergeant. He wasn’t holding out too much hope for the archaeologists.

  *

  When it came to choosing his three new privates, Banks went on gut instinct and chose the three who’d made eye contact with him when he called them in for a briefing. All five of the men had solid resumes—you needed to have to get seconded to the elite squads in the first place. But the three who’d shown the most interest were the three he wanted on the mission. Only time would tell whether his choice was a wise one.

  He had enough time for a quick briefing before leading everyone to the stores to get kitted out. As always, it was a quandary as to what to bring and what to leave but as it was a rescue mission, he went for light and fast as the default and packed only those things that wouldn’t slow them down unduly. He was pleased to see that the three new men managed their own gear quickly and efficiently, then there was no more time for chat as they went out to the runway in Lossiemouth and straight onto the first of several planes.

  At least they got fed and watered on the way, which wasn’t always the case on these rush jobs and he’d even managed to get some sleep but now they were nearing their destination, the anticipation had his nerves thrumming as the time for the drop got close.

  *

  The light above him changed to blinking red, interrupting his musings. The noise in the hold went up several notches and a cold wind blew through as the rear door opened, inviting them to throw themselves out into the sky.

  “Right, lads, this is it,” Banks said in his headset. “Keep a tight cluster going down and maintain radio silence unless you get into trouble. If you come down and see you’re alone, don’t panic and don’t go off on your own. We’ll find you. You all know the drill.”

  They heaved the kit out and the team followed it out into the dark as its chute billowed open. Wiggins went first, yelling an earsplitting ‘Geronimo!’ Banks went last, trying to keep an eye on the others during the short freefall. Cold wind pulled roughly at his cheeks and tugged at his clothes. Ice showed for a few seconds at his goggles but quickly melted away as he descended into warmer air. He counted as he fell, pulled his cord on twenty, looked down between his feet, and was relieved to see six other chutes in a group not far below him.

  There was little wind now and they descended as soft and silently as early season snowflakes. The lights of a town showed some miles to the east but he knew if he drifted that way, he was going too far off course. He took his direction from the river to his left, found the darker mound that was surely their target and followed the others down to their planned landing site half a mile farther to the west.

  It had looked flat on the satellite images they’d perused at the briefing but Banks knew from painful experience that photos couldn’t be trusted when it came to choosing terrain for landings, especially on a rocky desert hillside. He prepared himself for a rough landing, ready to land and drop if the need arose.

  The ground came up fast out of the dark and it was more by luck than judgement that he found sound footing. He quickly got out of the harness and rolled up his chute, getting it into a tight ball before looking around for others. There was no moon but the carpet of stars overhead were enough to show him that they’d hit their proposed landing spot within a matter of yards and that all of them had got down safely. He walked quickly over to where Wiggins had got the big kit bag open.

  “Rifles, handguns, helmets, radios, flashlights, small pack with
field rations, spare ammo, and filled canteens,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We’ll stash the rest out here in case we need it later but I’m not carting full gear around if I can help it. Somebody get the wee stove and coffee though, we might get a chance of a brew.”

  Hynd took charge of hiding the chutes and the rest of the gear and moved off some twenty yards to the north to try to bury them. He’d only been gone a matter of seconds when he whistled, twice, from the shadows and Banks went quickly over to the sarge’s position.

  “I found the perfect hiding place, Cap,” he said, “but somebody—something—beat us to it.”

  There was enough light to see that Hynd stood over a low walled well, one typical of desert areas. There was no wooden cradle holding a bucket and rope, only the circular hole in the ground. Banks leaned over but could only see blackness below, although there was an acrid odor that stung at his nose and tonsils.

  “Water’s off,” he said.

  “Aye,” Hynd said. “Smells like it. But that’s not what I called you over to see.”

  The sarge leaned forward, switched on the light on his rifle and, taking care it wouldn’t be seen from a distance, shone the beam down into the depths of the well. The whole space, up to some three feet below the rim, was filled with a gray mass of fibrous string-like material that it took Banks a few seconds to identify.

  “Spider web?” he said.

  “Looks like it, Cap,” Hynd replied. “But look at the thickness of it; yon’s got to be a bloody enormous spider. And there’s something else.”

  He moved the light over to where the web ran up the wall of the well and stopped over an area that was a lighter color, close to pure white. Banks had to lean over for a closer look before he realized he was looking at something large that had been cocooned in the web.

  “What the hell is that? Goat maybe?”

  “I hope so,” Hynd replied. “But look again, Cap. Tell me I’m not going mad. Tell me that doesn’t look like a human torso.”

  Banks looked again. The sarge was right and the more he looked at it, the more sure he became. There was a man wrapped up in the web down the well, wrapped up tight and stashed for later.

  What the hell are we into this time?

  *

  Whatever it was down in the well, it wasn’t an archaeologist in need of rescue, so Banks put it away, something to consider later if the need arose. His priority was on the rocky outcrop to the north, the ancient city that was the reason they were there.

  He recalled what little the colonel had told him: the town was known as Dura-Europos, an important trade crossroads in ancient times, an old town even before the Romans took it for their own. It had seen numerous battles for supremacy over the trade routes then had lain undisturbed for many centuries and was a treasure trove of artifacts from half a dozen civilizations. Recently, it had become a magnet for insurgents looking for something they could loot and sell or trade for arms on international black markets. The archaeologists were here to see if anything could be rescued for posterity. Now it was they themselves that required rescuing.

  Banks turned back to the squad. He didn’t have the three new lads straight in his head. The tall lanky black lad was Joshua, call me Joe, Davies from Glasgow, he remembered that much, for they’d got talking over a cigarette at Munich when they switched planes and discovered they knew some people in common in the city. Of the other two, they’d both been so quiet on the trip he hadn’t talked much to either. One was Brock, known to Wiggins forevermore as ‘Badger’ and the other was Wilkins but in their camo suits, flak jackets, and with their helmets and goggles on, in the dark, he couldn’t tell them apart yet, although he thought Wilkins was the smaller, slighter lad. Not that he had much to worry about, for Wiggins was in mother-hen mode with his new charges and already had them ready to move out by the time Banks and Hynd walked back over to their position.

  “All present and correct, Cap,” Wiggins said. “What was so important over there?”

  “Tell you later, Wiggo,” Hynd said. “First job is to find somewhere else to stash the chutes.”

  They searched the immediate area quickly but found only rock and sand and Banks wasn’t keen on using the well, knowing there was a dead man already in it. They eventually buried the chutes under a pile of rocks with the rest of their kit, leaving a new cairn on the hillside that they could only hope wouldn’t attract notice until they were long gone.

  Banks surveyed the terrain between them and the old walled town on the outcrop. There was a single rutted roadway leading in from the south but he ignored that; walking up and metaphorically knocking on the front door wasn’t what he had in mind. To the north, close to where the edge of the town sat high on the escarpment above a long drop to the Euphrates, the outer walls had long ago tumbled into ruin. That would be their access point. It might mean some scrambling around in the dark but the rubble would also give them cover should they need it.

  “Wiggo, take Davies, you’ve got point. I’ll watch our backs. Head for the gap between the towers to the north. No shooting unless we’re shot at and radio silence until we’re inside. All clear?”

  He got the OK sign from everybody, then allowed Wiggins to head the rest of the squad out before he followed. He had a last look backward as they walked off. He thought for a second that he saw a vaporous, oily sheen in the night hanging above the old well but when he looked again there was only the rocky hillside and the shimmering night sky above.

  - 2 -

  The scratching came again as Margaret “Maggie” Boyd bent over Jim White’s fevered torso. Heat came off the sick man in waves and he moaned. Margaret put a hand over his mouth, trying to keep him quiet. She held her breath as the scritch-scratch outside the stone door continued for five more seconds, then fell quiet.

  Silence descended once again in the chamber.

  The silence of the tomb.

  She had to catch the laugh that threatened to bubble up; once she started, she might not be able to stop.

  Jim White’s breathing slowed and he was out for the count, whether sleeping or unconscious made little difference given his condition. In their current circumstances, Maggie envied him the oblivion.

  *

  The attack had come without warning and so suddenly she wasn’t quite sure, even two days later, what had actually happened.

  And I don’t know what they are.

  There had been the four of them working in the fifteen-foot square chamber, digging some three feet below the old floor level: herself, Jim White, Jack Reynolds, and Kim Chung Won. The noise had come in from somewhere outside, as if funneled and amplified along the corridor. Loud shouting, then louder shooting and accompanying screams echoed loudly around them and White had been the first to react.

  “Rebels,” he said. “Stay here and keep quiet, I’ll check it out.”

  The next few minutes were endless, punctuated by wails, screams, and more shooting but Maggie and the others knew better than to venture out of the chamber; it had been their choice to come to a war zone but they didn’t have to be stupid about it. They could only sit, listen, and wonder as to their fate should anyone other than Jim White be the one to return.

  White had come back at a run two minutes after the last shot they heard and not long after the wailing died down, leaving a silence that was nearly as terrifying. He dumped two rucksacks on the floor and turned to put his shoulder to the heavy stone doorway of the chamber.

  “Help me. We need to get this closed. Get it closed now,” he shouted. He was wide-eyed, pale-faced, and had blood pouring from a wound in his left shin but wouldn’t speak until the door was fully shut. It took all four of them to get it into place but finally it closed with a rasp of stone on stone and sat flush with hardly a groove to show where it met the wall. Margaret had no idea how they’d ever get it open again but White didn’t seem to think that a matter of import at the moment.

  “Was it rebels?” Maggie asked but when he replied, it wasn’t to answ
er the question. He looked sweaty and puffed, hair standing on end and his eyes wide and wild.

  Bloody hell. What did he see out there?

  “I got a message out on the radio,” White said, his voice little more than a croak. “And I got us some supplies. We need to hide out here until the cavalry come for us. It’s a fucking mess out there.”

  “Did you get a reply at the other end?” Maggie asked. “When will they get here?”

  But White had spoken his last words between then and now. His eyes rolled up and he fell into a faint. They’d made him up a rough bed from the rucksacks once they’d emptied them of several bottles of water, two loaves of unleavened bread, and a bag of cheeses and meat that was all he’d managed to recover in time.

  Since then, they’d settled into a routine of taking turns watching the man, sleeping and having circular conversations that could never come to any conclusions. Their only light came from two portable LED lamps they’d been using on the dig and even only using one at a time, they were visibly starting to dim. It wouldn’t be long now until they would be left in the dark entirely. When that happened, the scratching was going to sound a whole lot worse.

  *

  The noise had started an hour after White fell into his semi-conscious state, a hard rasping as if someone stroked roughly with a stick or knife at the bottom of the door on the outside.

  “Who’s there?” Reynolds shouted and the rasping had turned into frantic scratching. Maggie had a cat back home in Edinburgh and it made similar sounds trying to get under the bathroom door when Maggie had the temerity to try to get some personal time in there.

  I doubt that’s a cat out there.

  Reynolds had looked like he might call out again but Maggie shushed him with a finger to his lips.