Nothing, except the black curve of the sea. Sky slightly less black, thanks to the stars. Polaris still where it ought to be. Levelling out a bit now, the motion slightly more violent but less vertical movement in it because of the speed building, speed carrying her from ridge to ridge… Ben was wondering if he’d taken too much for granted, expecting as he had to find the gulet just where it should have been if it had held on with unchanged course and speed. It might have reduced speed as it a roached the coast, or stopped to launch its dinghy farther out than one had expected.
Not that one could have done anything about it. That Nimrod report was all he’d had to go on.
But if it had sent its boat in from say twenty miles offshore — no reason not to, in conditions as good as these — one might guess they’d have picked a landing place farther north. In relation to the inland target this wouldn’t make a lot of sense, but it was a possibility; and if that was what was happening the dinghy might be on its way inshore now, somewhere higher up this coast.
Split the force, send Sticks north at high speed to cover that possibility?
It was the improbability of Swale and company choosing to add about ten kilometres to their overland transit that decided him against it. Also, the conclusion that he might be panicking for no good reason. Visibility with the PNG would be only about half a mile, if that, and the gulet could be not far at all from where he’d anticipated it would be, no more than a mile or two behind the schedule he’d imposed on it.
He had the chart — for offshore detail — and the map, for landmarks, pictured clearly enough in his mind. He knew he must be nine and a half or ten miles off the coast, and within about half a mile north or south just about opposite the landing place which he and Charles Hislop had agreed they’d have chosen. And this patch of sea where the Sea-Riders with a mile between them and visibility of half a mile were covering a width of two nautical miles, four thousand yards, as they advanced, was where the gulet’s course and speed established by that Nimrod should have brought it by midnight.
And it was now — the glow of his diver’s watch-face told him — ten minutes short of midnight. Ten minutes at 10½ knots: ten and a half over six: one point seven five.
So no problem. Swale’s ship still had one and three-quarters miles to cover; with vis roughly half a mile, the effective distance before sighting would be near as damn-it one mile — since at twenty knots the gap was closing fast anyway. One mile at twenty knots — three minutes. But two minutes, if the gulet was herself making ten.
Two minutes, then. Brainstorm concluded.
The Sea-Rider was hardly noticing the swells now as she banged across them in a fast thumping rhythm, white wake peeling away astern. He thought of calling Sticks on the VHF and telling him the gulet couldn’t be far ahead. Deciding against it: he had the starscope up, trying to hold it steady enough for a search across the line of advance, when Wee Willie yelled, ‘Aircraft!’
He’d heard it too. He shouted to Hattry to slow down, knew he didn’t have to tell Geoff to keep Sticks informed. It was 2351 now, and Foxtrot 2 Bravo could have been airborne by 2330, could therefore he overhead now. He got his Sarbe up out of the neck of his drysuit, knowing it well enough by feel to thumb one switch to ‘speak’ and the on-off to ‘on’. Half expecting Russell Haig’s voice to boom right out of it at that moment but getting nothing except static.
There was no send/receive switch, as long, as the thing was switched on the line was open both ways.
‘Foxtrot 2 Bravo, d’you hear me? Ben calling Foxtrot 2 Bravo!’
Engine-noise had dropped, and the boat had only steerage-way on, bashing around again…
‘Foxtrot 2 Bravo—’
‘— you loud and clear, Ben, you receiving me?’
‘Fives, Russell. Go ahead, where’s my target?’
Fives meaning five out of ten, reception not too bad.
‘Bad news, I’ve two on the screen, the gulet and its boat. Gulet bearing from you now is zero-seven-zero distance six point four, course three-four-zero, speed ten. The other—’
Steering northwest… He knew the answer now. Disliking it intensely… Hosegood talking on VHF in the background of sea-noise and the outboard’s slower hammering telling Sticks to mark time… Haig’s voice crackly with static but audible enough: ‘— leaving, it’s dropped them off. Second contact is a dinghy, nine miles from you on zero-seven-four, speed fifteen, course zero-nine-zero. It’s getting close to the beach, I can’t promise to hold contact much longer.’
Nine miles away, and already close to shore. Visualizing the coastline and the bearing and distances, he knew he hadn’t a hope of getting to it before it beached. So that was that, and—
Haig’s voice in a stronger burst: ‘— in the bay south of Ras el Buri — getting right into it…’
Ras el Buri was the headland with the triple-flashing light on it, this side of Baniyas, and the bay was about two miles south of that light. It meant they were on the point of landing about six miles north of where he’d decided they ought to land. As more recently suspected — and the idea rejected…
Wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it, anyway. Too bloody late.
‘Foxtrot 2: are you certain it’s them?’
‘Affirmarive. Had it at long range on our way over, saw one split from the other, and—’ Cut off. Static crackled wildly, faded with voices audible in the background: then sharply, clearly out of it: ‘Have to leave you, Ben, Syrian fighters scrambling from Al Qusayr… Hear me?’
‘Yeah. Fours…’ But simultaneously he’d woken to a chance he still did have. ‘D’you hear me, Foxtrot 2 Bravo?’
‘Fours. Make it quick.’
‘I’m going to catch them on that beach. Out.’
The airfield at Al Qusayr was only about ninety kilometres away. No distance for Migs…
‘Geoff! Tell Sticks to take station astern of us when we cross his bows in a minute. Speed forty-plus… Bert — steer for that light, full speed, go!’
By aiming straight at the light on Ras el Buri, you’d clear the nearer headland by about a mile. When he had it in sight he’d turn in towards the beach, on this side of it. There was a chance, even if Swale and party were already landing they’d have to cache their boat, which couldn’t be done all that quickly. Especially if they tried burying it in a shingle beach. So — nine miles at forty knots — fourteen minutes, say. Call it fifteen, you weren’t making that speed yet… Coming round, Polaris crossing the bow and coming to hover on roughly fifty, fifty-five degrees to port as Hattry aimed for the light and the speed mounted, bow lifting, the deep-V’d hull beginning to take the battering of the swells as she hit them with increasing frequency an power.
Hosegood yelled, ‘Message passed!’
A steady crashing, bouncing from ridge to ridge: you tightened your gut to counter the punching impacts. He shifted back… ‘Change over, Geoff…’
Wanting to explain to Kelso what he had in mind. Hall shouted, ‘There, on the beam!’
White patch in the black background: the other Sea-Rider also working speed up while this one steered to cross ahead of it. Coming up on to the plane now, skimming the swells instead of hitting them… ‘Ben calling Sticks, over!’
A roar of noise struck the ear that was close to the set; and they’d be getting the same hurricane sound out of their end of it. Sticks’ voice then — as if his mouth was full of water — ‘Go ahead, over.’
‘Steering for the lighthouse — Ras el Buri. Hear me? Over!’
‘Check, Razzle Barry, over!’
‘Two miles south of it — headland, no name, enclosing a north-facing beach. The gulet’s dinghy’s there now, gulet withdrawing northward. I’ll land south of the headland, cross it to hit them on the beach. When I turn inshore, you stop, lie off, wait for me… Got that? Over!’
He’d switched to ‘receive’ but for a few seconds he wasn’t getting anything. Then it came alive with the other boat’s noise: and finally Sti
cks’ voice again: ‘Roger… Roger, Ben. Good luck. Out.’
Not liking it…
This felt like fifty knots, nearer than forty. Flying… Trying to keep a balance, kneeling, while using his starscope trained over the bow, back-up to Bert Hattry’s PNG. Hattry had a better range of vision from up there on his padded seat. But he’d be keeping a more general lookout — for flotsam, for instance. If you hit a log at this speed, that would be it.
He checked the time, saw four minutes had gone. Ten to go: maybe nine, to the point where he’d turn in towards the land. He was already looking for the headland — careful not to look straight at the flashes from the Ras el Buri light which would be blinding; it was the light itself now, not just its loom fanning the sky. When he spotted the headland he’d steer directly towards it and then hug this south side of it; the chart showed rocks inshore not so far to the south. Shingle beaches all along, with offshore rock in patches not infrequent. He’d have Hattry take the boat in slowly and stop about a hundred metres off; he’d get out then and swim. Himself and one other. Wouldn’t matter which: whoever was best placed to slip over. None of these guys was any more proficient than any of the others.
There were still about five miles — seven minutes — to go when the outboard seemed to explode.
The Sea-Rider jarred savagely as it hit the next ridge, only impetus carrying her forward, no thrust now at the stern. It had sounded like an explosion. Hitting the next sea and the next, all but stopped, down from well over forty knots to nothing, burying her snout in the next swell, stern rising: Chalky was back there, he and Bert Hattry swinging the engine forward to the shaft and screw up out of water, Ben wishful-thinking, that they were surely right, prop must have hit some submerged object, something solid but in neutral buoyancy and far enough below the surface for the planing hull to have passed over it. Lucky, at that: if you’d hit it squarely, there’d as likely as not have been men dead.
Count your blessings, therefore. A spare screw could be fitted in about one minute. As long as the shaft wasn’t bent: which please God—
‘Screw’s intact!’ Chalky’s voice yelling as the other Sea-Rider crashed past them, swerving in a sheet of spray and a blast of noise — falling note, doppler-effect as it swept by, Froggie shutting his throttle on the turn, and the wash of its passing throwing this lot around… Hattry shouted, telling Ben, ‘He reckons crankshaft or a piston!’ Sticks’ boat was circling to manoeuvre itself up close to this one, and Ben praying Oh God, no… Because that would be the finish of it, absolutely.
Chalky had swung the outboard back into its upright, functional position. He reached for the lanyard, telling Hattry as he leant back to give himself some room, ‘If it’s either, we’re fucked.’ He tried the lanyard, drawing it out slowly: winning a few inches, then no more.
Seized up, solid.
‘Crankshaft or piston.’ Yelling his verdict to Ben. ‘Could be either. Sold us a dud, didn’t they.’
It was a brand-new outboard, of a make chosen after enormously painstaking research and long experience. Since its delivery to the Squadron it would have been prepared and tuned by expert engineering staff, put through its paces on a Sea-Rider at Poole and then pampered with further maintenance to ready it for operational deployment. Chalky was right, they’d been sold a dud. The manufacturer unfortunately wasn’t here.
But Swale was almost certainly on that beach.
Even though a few minutes had been lost. With a few more yet to lose. There was still a chance. He told Hosegood, ‘I’ll have Sticks put me on the beach, then he’ll come back an tow you in. Sit tight here.’
He unclipped his SA80 from the blister, and slung it. The other boat could tow this one at — well, easily, say fifteen knots, loaded. Two and a half hours then, to get clear of Syrian waters. There ought to be about four and half hours of darkness left; so you had two hours in hand. You wouldn’t need that long: only long enough to get (a) ashore, (b) into a position overlooking that beach, (c) Swale’s head in the nightsight on this weapon, at any range up to three hundred metres, at which distance an SA80 in the right hands had killing accuracy.
*
Foxtrot 2 Bravo’s report had been relayed by Satcom and received in the JOC in London. The Duty Operations Director had leapt up as if the Minister’s red chair had stung him.
‘Intending to land?’
Hislop was seeing it in his mind’s eye, understanding Ben Ockley’s dilemma in the suddenly charged situation: the gulet having changed course, dropped its passengers prematurely and in the wrong place. The question he needed to answer was what he’d have done if he’d been out there with the responsibility for decision, immediate, there and then.
Pack up, admit defeat, head for home comforts?
Knowing that Swale, the vital target, was almost surely on that beach, and that if he could get there really fast he’d have a good chance of completing the task in a matter of minutes?
He told the admiral, ‘He’s got his man within reach, and he knows how much is resting on it. I’d be disappointed in him if he didn’t have a shot at it.’
The admiral re-settled himself on the ministerial seat. Accepting Hislop’s expert view — with which the SF Adviser agreed, after a moment’s hesitation — but still looking extremely worried. Computer screens along the right-hand wall were static, displaying the information most recently demanded of them, and there was a background mutter of telephone conversations.
‘Syrian Migs crossing the coastline westward, south of Tartus at ten thousand feet.’
The report had been made by an RAF warrant officer who was manning an open line from Dhekelia. A protected line, ‘open’ in the sense that it was being manned constantly at both ends.
‘Show of strength.’ A wing commander submitted to the DOD, ‘If that’s the right description. They’ve been careful to give our guy time to clear out. I’d guess they’ll make a sweep and then go home again.’
‘Sea-Riders at high speed make a bloody great wash, don’t they?’
The admiral was thinking of their being seen from the air, the phosphorescence of their churned wakes visible even on the darkest night.
Hislop nodded. Adding, with an eye on the RAF man for confirmation, ‘But hardly from that height, and the Migs’ll be looking for intruding aircraft, I’d imagine, not for small boats. Even if they saw the wakes they probably wouldn’t regard it as anything to take notice of.’
The airman agreed. The fighters would have been scrambled because Foxtrot 2 Bravo’s visit to Syrian airspace had been the second intrusion and they’d have felt some gesture of defiance had been called for. They’d sat still during the Hercules’ brief visit, but the repeat performance had seemed like one too many. Even now, though, they’d hardly be seeking confrontation.
‘Joe, what was the last reported position of the gulet?’
The SF Adviser consulted a computer that was right beside him, and told Hislop, ‘Six miles off Baniyas, steering due north at six knots. Before that it was heading northwest at ten. The alterations indicate it could be the intention to put in to Latakia at first light.’
The DOD asked, ‘Do we have much interest in the gulet now?’
‘No immediate interest, no, sir. Except it might be intended to pick up some or all of Swale’s companions at some later stage. Must admit, it gripes one slightly to see them getting away with it.’
The gulet had certainly made a nonsense of the surveillance operation. Obviously there’d been some kind of cock-up, for 8 Kilo 6 to have only picked it up when it was just about nudging the Syrian coast. Whether this had been caused by human error or equipment failure was something for the Crabs to look into, but whatever answer might emerge from a post mortem, that failure — compounded by the earlier blunder at a higher level was why Ben Ockley was having to stick his neck out now. Hislop had no way of knowing at this stage, of course, how much more exposed that neck had just become as a result of a piston disintegrating in one Sea-Rider’s outboard.<
br />
The admiral was lighting a pipe. ‘Might get a crack at the gulet some other time, Charles. Now we have it identified as a terrorist conveyance and with luck they don’t know we have. Did you say you’d passed details of it to the Americans?’
‘Ockley did that, from Akrotiri.’
The SF Adviser murmured, taking the chair beside Hislop’s, ‘And now he’s paddling on a Syrian beach.’
‘Not for long, with luck.’
‘But it’ll be a long time before we’ll hear any more, won’t it.’
Because the Nimrod was out of it, now, and with the Syrian airforce stirring could hardly go back in there.
12
The headland was flat, low-lying, not a lot higher than the beach which it sheltered from the south. Elevated enough to give him a view of the crescent of shingle, dayglo white of the surf and the beach itself like a dog’s bite out of the low coastal belt. He was already fairly sure he’d got here too late. Andy Laker was somewhere between Ben and the sea, making his own recce of that area, a distance of roughly four or five hundred metres separating them.
There were some fishing boats at the top end of the beach, pulled up there out of the sea’s reach. Maybe in expectation of autumn storms: and the locals would know… Beyond them, on rising ground between the beach and the coast road, was a cluster of shacks, no doubt fishermen’s homes, but with no lights showing anywhere in or around them they could have been deserted.
Sand would have been preferable. You’d have had tracks to look and feel for, which you did not have in shingle. He considered checking the shacks at close range, but decided against it. Might set dogs barking — there were nearly always dogs around — and there’d be nothing gained, he guessed; Swale’s lot wouldn’t have holed up here, they’d surely have pushed on towards their target — or whatever their purpose was — using the hours of darkness that were left.
There’d be a moon later. Some time after 0300. Until now he’d ignored this, not having expected to be hanging around for anything like that long in Syrian territorial water, let alone on the Syrian coast.
Special Deception Page 23
