He didn’t intend to be here when it rose, either. The thought of it added urgency to the imperative of getting the team and their Sea-Riders the hell out as soon as possible.
Lights fringed the coast road. A power-line followed the line of the road and new motorway; it was shown prominently on the map with pylons at intervals. So you could guess there’d be electricity to those shacks. Road and power-line linked Tartus to Baniyas, with a couple of smaller settlements and coastal villages in this stretch of about sixteen miles; one village was only a few hundred metres from this beach, a stone’s throw to the south and with a hill behind it.
He’d heard aircraft passing over, high and flying west, Russell Haig’s Migs maybe. Haig and his Nimrod would be back at Akrotiri now… Darkness here, away from the surf, was total, the shacks and boats visible only because the flow of light from the direction of the road was behind them. To his left, the surf’s brilliance, and the shingle rattling in constant movement. He was crawling in dead or very dry tall grass that rustled as he moved through it. Thistles in it too. A scent of lusher vegetation, almost a greenhouse odour, could only be from a distance, on the breeze. And a black mass straight-edged against the background of stats in the north was Marqab Castle, the coastal landmark in this area, a massive Crusader ruin two miles south of the centre of Baniyas. It was built on a rocky hill that ran seaward in a ridge terminating in the headland, Ras el Buri, where the triple-flashing light was.
He was moving in the direction of the road. Doc Laker had begun his recce about four hundred yards from where they’d landed, after the swim ashore from Sticks Kelso’s Sea-Rider. They’d split up there, at one possible exit from the beach that Swale and company might have taken; the other way they might have gone would be this way, eastward, directly inland, over the road and the coastal strip and straight on into the foothills of the Alawis.
They’d be more likely to have gone south, he thought. The easier route. And where Laker was prospecting was a likely area in which to have cached a boat. Close to where they’d have landed, the nearest higher ground, sand instead of shingle and this scrubby grass for cover. You didn’t need a very large hole for an ordinary inflatable and its engine, the boat deflated of course and a plastic bag to keep sand and stuff out of the outboard. A hole like that could be dug and filled in again in minutes.
Stopping again: to watch and listen from this higher ground. But there was no movement, and no sound. At least, no scrape of a spade in sand, no voices. If they’d landed here — which they must have done — they’d now be yomping into the hills. They’d get to the mountains before daylight too, probably. To them, not through or over them. They’d reach their destination, that map-reference, on the second night, maybe not much before the following dawn. It would be rough going in places, and steep, that second night, and since the former SAS character was reputedly an alcoholic you wouldn’t expect him to be in prime condition.
Marines might yomp it a lot faster, in fact.
Bloody well ought to, anyway. And having failed to catch the bastards here, that would be the way to go about it — head straight and fast for the target location, be there ahead of them. With a team of eight you could stake out the area well enough to give them a real Bootneck welcome. Then back to the coast in one good night’s yomp; you’d know the route by then and you’d have taken out that whole party and covered all tracks. God knew, you’d been trained hard enough and long enough for just that kind of operation.
Nice thought — while it lasted. He could imagine just how the CO would react, if by some kind of mind-reading act from London he could fathom Captain Ben Ockley’s fanciful thinking on a Syrian beach. Hislop would shut his eyes, clamp his jaw tight in a few seconds’ tense exasperation, a hand smoothing that tonsured scalp as his eyes re-opened, the bland expression returned…
Marvellous guy. Terrific record in the Squadron’s recent past, and doing a great job as its CO now. He’d still throw a fit.
Circling around the top of the shingle beach, low in the thistle crop and hearing a vehicle or two rushing past from time to time along the coastal highway, he decided that while he was here, as close as he’d now come to those boats, he as well take a look at them. Whatever information sprang from recces on forbidden coastlines, it was all grist to the mill, all of interest and maybe one day of vital interest. And there was time in hand: Kelso would have taken five minutes to get back to the immobilised Sea-Rider, a few more to take it in tow and maybe ten to bring it inshore, actually to a waiting position just offshore on the far side of the headland. And it would only take him — Ben about five minutes to get back there, collecting Doc Laker on the way.
Anyway, nobody’d be kept waiting very long.
Plenty of reasons not to go chasing after Swale. No authority to land in Syria was the obvious one: he shouldn’t be here now, shouldn’t even have a toe on this beach. In fact he knew he could justify having taken this much of a risk, when there’d been a good chance of catching them. If that outboard hadn’t fallen apart he probably would have scored. One shot, Swale dead, three terrs with no place to go.
Might still be achieved?
In the mountains: not tonight, probably, but maybe the night after or the following day…
So what about withdrawal?
Another para drop. Boats with crews only, for a rendezvous at the original beach, the one Swale should have landed at if he’d obeyed the rules… Boats away now, so that by moon-rise they’d be well clear and by sunrise in international waters. You could be sure there’d be a Nimrod over at dawn, looking for the team as it withdrew. Hattry could talk to it over the Sarbe voice link; effectively he’d be talking to Dhekelia, Akrotiri and London as well as to the Nimrod, asking for a replacement outboard to be flown out. It could be at Akrotiri by this next midnight. As could the two Sea-Riders, if they got into Dhekelia in the afternoon and were transferred by road. In act you wouldn’t want the pickup off this coast before Friday night: might even settle for Saturday night, allowing an extra day for completion and withdrawal to the coast, spending a day lying-up somewhere if you finished sooner. They’d have bags of time for setting up their end of it.
He’d got to the fishing boats. Feeling his way around the first one. he found it was about sixteen feet long and constructed of heavy timber. There were holes to take crutches — rowlocks — but no oars. The oars would be locked up in one of those shacks, he guessed. It would be a very heavy boat to row, in any case, you wouldn’t move it very fast. The transom was notched deeply, for propulsion with a single oar, but there was no scarring on the timber as there would have been if an outboard had ever been fined. And being so heavy it would take a lot of moving, without a trolley — which wouldn’t be any use on shingle anyway. You’d need at least two men each side to get it down to the water.
He was beginning to think he was wasting time. Some vague notion of being able to withdraw this way. He told himself to forget it: he’d be withdrawing in about twenty minutes, by Sea-Rider under tow.
Imagining Hislop‘s sigh of relief, and some comment like Must say I didn’t believe you could be that much of a fucking idiot, Ben…
Except that he had pointed out, quite forcefully, that Swale’s death or removal was of huge importance. If you were in his position and you went around stressing points like that you’d have to expect to be taken notice of. Nobody was going to feel they had any right to say, ‘Oh, what the hell, let’s pack it in…’
This second boat was glass-fibre. Twelve foot, roughly. Intact, as far as he could tell; there was a little water in the bottom which wouldn’t have been there if it was not. Crawling to the stern, he ran his hands over a strong transom with a metal plate where an outboard would clamp on. The outboard itself would be wherever the other boat’s oars and crutches might be, he guessed.
You’d shift this one easily enough, two men could drag it down to the water without much trouble. But you’d have to (a) locate, (b) steal the outboard. And, the boat wasn’t big eno
ugh for eight men, not over any distance or in even moderately disturbed sea.
Time to go back, anyway. Having wasted at least the last ten minutes. Out of reluctance to accept failure, leave Swale alive with God only knew what consequences.
Halfway back he paused, listened, whistled, heard the same signal repeated to the right. From where he was crouching now, that was the direction of the corner of the beach, the tidemark closest to this higher, grass-covered spit. He heard Laker call quietly, ‘Over here, Ben.’ Then two or three more words, he thought something like ‘found their boat’. Probably something quite different, though. Joining the Doc, and not really wanting any further delay now, he asked him. ‘Say you’ve found it?’
‘Right here.’ He’d grabbed Ben’s arm, guiding his hand to loose, recently excavated sand and stones. Sand and shingle… ‘Feel down there.’
A foot or so deep, digging down through loose sand, his fingers touched wet rubber. Laker’s whisper asked him, ‘Got there?’
‘Yeah. How come you—’
‘The outboard’s a metre to your left. Probably all one hole they dug… I just struck lucky. Guessed they wouldn’t have lugged the stuff farther than they needed to, and this is just up from where they’d likely have beached. So I groped around for a while and then found the diggings.’
The outboard was there, all right, and so was the fuel tank, separately bagged. He remembered that according to Russell Haig the inflatable had been making fifteen knots on is way inshore.
He sat back on his heels, fixing this spot in his memory.
Also, plumbing his own thought-processes, wanting to be certain he wasn’t raving mad…
‘Marvellous, Doc. Well done.’
It had changed things dramatically, this find. He was back to contemplating the possibility of seeing the task through, killing Swale, not crawling back to Cyprus — and then to Poole — with his tail between his legs.
*
‘Yes. Hang on a second.’ He told them, ‘Drybags can go home in the boat that’s being towed. But let’s be sure we have all we want out of the containers now. Not LAWs, not the M-79s either. I want to travel as light as possible, and we’re after one guy, not a bloody regiment. Don’t leave any second-line stuff behind, though — especially rations… Bert if you blokes have any spare I’d say our needs are greater than yours, OK?’
He turned back to answer Kelso’s question. He’d sent Laker down there to flash a message to him to bring the boats inshore, while he himself had gone to suss out those fishermen’s shacks. There’d been no dogs. He’d noted the positions of doors and windows and checked there were no telephone or power lines. It was knowledge he’d need when he got back here in a few days’ time. If there’d been wires he’d have planned on cutting them, and you’d cover exits to prevent interference while you carted that boat down to the water and — maybe — even found its outboard.
‘Right, Sticks. Answer is, we can now finish the job… Bert, listen—’
Various jobs were in progress in the Sea-Riders — preparations for the tow, extracting gear from containers, stowing the drysuits… Ben told Hattry, ‘You shove off as soon as we’re ready. Four in the one boat — if you meet trouble, cut the other adrift. There’ll be a moon in about ninety minutes, but you should be well out by then. By sunrise you’ll be in legit waters and you can bet there’ll be a Nimrod around by then, you can give them the update by Sarbe. Hey — heads down…’
Helicopter: coming towards, up-coast from the south. He’d heard it and now its belly-light was visible, flashing red.
The Syrians had several helo types in their armoury. Including — this passed through his mind at the first sight of it — Mi-24 gunships.
But why the light? Surely if they were on an offensive — or defensive — mission, they’d hardly be advertising their approach?
Crouching, heads down, immobile, ears filling with the noise as the helo pounded straight at them. It wasn’t an Mi-24, wasn’t anything like it. This was a Gazelle, its sound clearly recognisable when your brain relaxed enough to take it in. ‘Syrian Air Defence Command’ did have French-built Gazelles; they specialised in Migs but they had a few others, such as these.
Dark figures on black rocks; the Sea-Riders might look like extensions of those rocks. It was at any rate better than being on the water at high speed with a spreading wake: half an hour ago you’d have been spotted for sure.
Over the top — noise at its peak — now…
Passing on over and away northward. No change, no alarm. The decibels from the hammering rotor fell away as rapidly as they’d mounted: out of nothing in the quiet again, back to nothing now. He could hear the sea again, slapping and sucking through the rocks.
‘Let’s get on with it… Bert, I’ll have the spare tank out of the one you’re towing. You’ll still have plenty. Someone give Doc a hand, he knows where to bury it. Bert, tell the Nimrod by Sarbe, for info London, that we’re going into the mountains to grease Swale. Having missed out here for reasons which you can explain. I’ve a grid reference for where Swale’s heading and we can get there first, take them out then yomp back here, push off either Friday or Saturday night, depending on how quick we’ve been.’
‘You say “push off”.’ Sticks cut in, low-voiced: ‘Eight guys, in—’
‘Two boats. The Swale lot’s inflatable with its outboard, plus a GRP twelve-footer that’s up on that beach. It’s light enough to tow easily. And they came ashore at fifteen knots, with the bigger load we should work up to maybe ten. So, maximum four hours and we’re out there sunrise Saturday, Got it, Bert?’
‘Ben.’ Sticks again. ‘Suppose it’s less easy than you think, and we can’t make that schedule—’
‘Then twenty-four hours later. If not first light Saturday, Bert, Sunday.’
‘Right.’ Hattry offered, ‘Rucksack here if you want it.’
For some of his gear. He had too much slung round his neck and weighting the DPMs’ pockets. Several of the team had brought their own light packs to hold second-line equipment inside the containers. Hall had one for his explosives; Laker had a specially fitted bag, of course, for his medical kit. The team was more or less ready to move off now except that he — Laker — and Teal, who’d gone off with the spare tank of petrol, weren’t back yet. Waiting, Kelso drew Ben aside.’
‘We’re not equipped for this, Ben, are we. Rations, for one thing. Clothing — be cold up there, right?’
‘We’ll travel too fast to get cold. Really fast yomp, flat out. ‘We’ve a ratpack each, plus whatever else, and we can forage, maybe… Christ, we’ve managed on short rations before this, haven’t we?’
‘And trainers — for fast yomping over mountains?’
‘Turning wimpish on us, Sticks?’
lt was a joke: but neither of them was even smiling. He could see the whites of Kelso’s eyes in the dark: and behind him the shadowy movements of men making their final preparations, the white flickering of the surf and its sound, boats moving against the rocks, crewmen fending them off. High time Laker and Teal got back: although digging a hole with divers’ knives and bare hands in that stony ground might be slow… ‘Come on then, Sticks, what else?’
‘Well, like — not your fault we fell short, was it. We could pull out now, and — well, Jesus, Ben, this is fucking Syria!’
The politics were scary, all right. Too much so to spend time on. In terms of having to come to an immediate decision, however, he’d considered it — the motivation, whether he was dragging them into this for his own sake, out of aversion to accepting failure. And there was a touch of that: but no more than a touch, the real issue was that he’d been given a job to do, had some notion of the consequences of its not being done, and reasonable certainty now that it still could be done. The bottom line was that he’d be wrong to pull out, wouldn’t honestly be able to justify it to himself later if he did.
Recalling, in that context, the CO’s words: If you’re in there with a fighting chance…
‘It’s what we’re here for, Sticks. OK, slight extension of the plans, but — “local initiative”, remember that item?’
Kelso’s grunt indicated acceptance. Maybe. Ben asked him, ‘Any practical contribution to make now?’
‘Yeah.’ A nod in the darkness. ‘Sea King or something to meet us first light Saturday, or Sunday. We could have some guys hurt, or the Swale bloke with us, might need lifting out.’
It was a good idea — if they had any helicopters to spare. Wessex, maybe; he was fairly sure there weren’t any Sea Kings on the Cyprus bases. He called to Hattry, ‘Bert — Friday sunrise — or whenever — out in the middle, see if they’d lift us out of the boats in a Wessex or some such. Might have to be two Wessex — or two trips.’
Two minutes later Laker and Teal were back. By this time Ben had decided on yet another burial party: they’d take the grenade-launchers and one of the LAWs when they moved off in a minute, bury them above the beach where they could find them when they got back here. In case of Syrian interference at the embarkation stage. Hattry would have the other LAW in case of need during his withdrawal now. The brief appearance of that Gazelle didn’t necessarily presage trouble, but you couldn’t take anything for granted.
‘OK, gather round.’ He had his own map out, and the blue torch carefully shaded. Sticks had a copy of the same map too — or rather the piece of the map, as supplied by the CO for navigational purposes. Ben explained the route they’d take now: the roads to be crossed, four to five kilometres of flat, low-lying coastal strip, skirting the nearby village and passing wide of another before coming to a river which they’d follow in a curve to the left around a 2000-foot hill. Up-river south-eastward then, into the Alawi foothills and leaving the river, crossing an east-to-west-lying road: a steep yomp to a ridge, then, and down into a valley with a smaller watercourse in it. There’d be enough moonlight by then, he hoped, to make the climb possible, and it would save a long detour. From that valley it would be all upward, up a spur of the mountain range.
Special Deception Page 24
