Special Deception

by Special Deception (retail) (epub)

  ‘And meanwhile—’ the admiral was addressing the SF Adviser — ‘someone has to tell the Minister that a team of the Special Boat Squadron has entered the Syrian Arab Republic.’ He screwed his eyes up for a moment, adding in an even flatter tone, ‘With the object of assassinating a former officer of the SAS.’ The eyes opened: he looked surprised to be back with them all, as if he’d thought he might have been in a dream… ‘Major, perhaps you’d be so kind?’

  The SF Adviser, effectively the DOD’s staff and under his command, pushed his chair back and got up. His eyes met Hislop’s briefly, ironically, the two of them sharing the thought that good news was invariably passed upward through the ‘chain of command’. If the Special Boat team had been out and clear, Swale eliminated, the Duty Operations Director would himself have been on the telephone to the Minister by now.

  * * *

  * * *

  13

  Kelso rolled up his strip of map before he switched off the torch. ‘First home, let’s hope.’ Ben, busy with his starscope, muttered, ‘Yeah. Let’s hope.’ But the opposition couldn’t have got here ahead of them, he was sure of it. He had about a hundred minutes of pre-dawn darkness left in which to put his team in positions from which to receive them. Or at any rate to see them, see where they elected to lie-up, if they arrived in daylight.

  You wouldn’t expect them to move by day, but knowing next to nothing about them you couldn’t be sure of it.

  Darkness was total all around except for a shading of moonlight from behind a slab of mountain to the north. Moon eclipsed by rock… He had Laker and Teal with him as well as Kelso. They’d crossed the road — a shelf blasted out of the mountainside — and were crouching among uncomfortably spiky bushes below its outer edge. Above them on the hillside, above this road but also in a position to command the track they’d followed from the west. He’d left Geoff Hosegood and Tony Hall; and he’d sent Ray Wilkinson and Chalky Judge ahead to the right, to the head of the valley, covering the approach from the south but also with a binocular view up this road towards the village of Ayn Al-Dariqhah.

  In darkness and with a telescope’s narrow field of view it took a bit of time and concentration to relate mapped features to those on the ground. But he’d got it sorted now, more or less. The moonlight leaking from behind that peak silvered the open northern end of the valley where it widened into the vast spread of the plain, also lit high ground on the valley’s eastern side. That spur, the last protruding finger of the Alawis, was about three kilometres long from the head of the valley here on his right to the summit on its tip, a high point commanding the valley’s entrance. As it would have done in Crusader days. Right on the end, his starscope picked out shapes like the stumps of broken teeth.

  Castle ruin. There’d had to be one about there, and the target would be somewhere near it. On this side: couldn’t be beyond it, nothing could, the ridge ended there in a cliff-like drop to the plain.

  And from the south, the ridge, access looked almost as sheer.

  ‘See the ruin?’

  Sticks grunted. Glasses at his eyes. ‘If that’s what it is.’

  ‘Map shows the Homs road crossing that ridge at the low part, halfway along. Low this side, anyway. It carries on across the valley slantwise, joins this road five or six k’s north of here. My guess is where it dips down into the valley — thereabouts — there’ll be a village, buildings, something.’

  ‘Be dead right for the grid reference.’

  ‘And there was mention of a qal’at. Castle. That thing. Which is why I’m sure it’s not just flat rocks… OK, let’s—’

  He’d been starting to move, but stopped now. Traffic sounds from up there, from the south. Now lights flickered through the tops of the bushes. Diesel, and a lot of crashing and banging. Old banger, literally… Geoff and Romeo would have seen it before this but they wouldn’t have bothered to break the silence with a warning, knowing that none of their colleagues had cloth ears or carried white sticks… Lights accompanied by the sound of churning scrap-iron passed close above, continued northward. The pair on the mountainside would be watching it go, taking advantage of its headlights — if they were strong enough — illuminating some of the village as it got there.

  ‘We’ll work round the head of the valley, on to that ridge. Then recce whatever’s down there on the Homs road, and you, Sticks, you with these two guys, suss out the ridge right back to its end, including that ruin, then find a place to lie-up facing back to the south. I’ll shift the others farther round, this end of it.’

  ‘They’ll come this way then, you reckon.’

  ‘Yeah. But you could have one guy watching the reverse slope, couldn’t you. In case I’m wrong.’ He put the starscope away. ‘Right. Back to where we left Geoff and Romeo.’

  He felt sure that Swale and company would appear from this direction, no matter which route they might have taken through the mountains. Ten to one they would not be coming down from the north, the Masyaf direction, which would have involved a long detour, with no obvious justification for it.

  He still didn’t know what the target might be. Only a location, and the CO’s sketchy outline of the background, something about a hostage who wasn’t there. Wasn’t thought to be there. He’d said, We’re having to guess most of it, but effectively that’s it… Swale was supposed to believe that he was coming to extract this hostage, whereas in fact he was being lured in so as to be set up in some way that would incriminate the SBS.

  He was mapping the area in his mind as he took the other five to join Wilkinson and Judge, after collecting those two from the mountainside.

  ‘Listen — I’m guessing they’ll come by the route we just came on. Probably not before tonight, but — anyway, Geoff, you and Romeo put yourselves somewhere about here. You’ll command both approaches. Ray and Chalky’ll be five hundred metres to your right, and I expect I’ll join them before sunrise. OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Hosegood had glasses up, studying this view of the peak at the end of the ridge, and the ruins on it. ‘Right.’

  Wilkinson and Judge, too, would have sections of the southern and western approach routes in view, and also — to their right — they’d look down on the road from Homs. Straight across the valley, they’d see any movements around Ayn Al-Dariqhah.

  ‘I’m going with Sticks to recce along the ridge. Sticks — you, Ducky and the Doc — the whole bit, up to that summit, scout out the ruins, then find a place on that slope to lie-up with views down this way and across the valley. Main object’s to know where they are — if they show up between now and sunset — so we can move in on them after dark. Soon after dark — for maximum withdrawal time… Remember Swale’s a big guy, most likely stand out taller than his chums, and he’s the star attraction — if they split up and you had a choice…’

  Kelso said, ‘Water could get to be a problem. Where you’re putting me, map shows a river down below us, bottom of that cliff. We three might give you lot what’s in our bottles, and I’ll send Ducky down to fill ours, when we get there. Down and back up before the sun’s up.’

  ‘Your risk — if you can’t get down.’

  ‘Human fly, is Ducky.’

  Chalky muttered as the water gurgled, emptying three bottles to top up the other five, ‘One more duck on a swamp won’t notice, will it.’

  ‘Got Puritabs, have we?’

  ‘Course.’ Sticks growled, ‘Teach your grandmother…’

  Water was more important than food. Once the sun was high they’d all be reminded of this simple truth. And Puritabs would kill the river water’s bugs.

  About an hour to go before dawn, Ben thought, when he made the next halt, dropping off Wilkinson and Judge. Then four of them moved on.

  The moon wasn’t going to show its face from behind that mountain, he realised, wouldn’t be either a help or a danger to them in the next hour. Moving downhill, northward towards the Homs road in the dip, Laker was off to his right, the others a short way back on his left. Want
ing to get down there reasonably quickly but also exercising caution, the need for which was well ingrained in them, awareness that a twisted ankle or a barking dog could equally bring problems when you were somewhere where you should not have been. Dislodging a stone could start an avalanche of other stones, disturb the village dogs: the village, Ayn Al-Dariqhah, was only a couple of thousand metres away by crow-flight across the valley.

  They’d been picking their way downhill for ten minutes when Laker’s voice called softly from the right: ‘Ben…’

  ‘Coming… Sticks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Moving right, to join the Doc. Who, last time he’d called him out of the dark, had found a boat. This time he’d found a road. He loomed over Ben suddenly at a confusing level — about nine feet high, stars behind him… ‘It’s the road, Ben.’ He was up on some kind of bank. ‘Dry-stone wall this south side. But to my right there’s a track branches off, leading north.’

  He’d got up there to have a bird’s-eye view of it, Ben did the same, and saw that the track led off in the direction of the qal’at.

  ‘Your best route, Sticks. You three go on, I’ll recce this way solo, maybe pay you a visit after if there’s time.’

  ‘Check… Luck, Ben.’

  The ground still fell away on the road’s far side, and the road itself led downhill too, having passed over high ground up on the right, now sloping down into the saddle from which it debouched into the valley. Following the line of it, he was glad of the wall’s cover — potential cover — from traffic on the road for instance, if any came. There’d be a certain amount, he supposed, between Homs and Masyaf, it just hadn’t started yet.

  Light…

  A pinpoint: high, but bigger and brighter than any star. At the village, some early riser… Then a dog began to bark — not here, but from the direction and distance of that light. Early-riser disturbing dog… He’d paused — noticing a new amalgam of scents. Well, smells —agricultural, biological — and as he moved forward again another hound gave tongue much closer to him: not far ahead, maybe in the road or close to it.

  Habitation, then — hamlet, farmstead, whatever? Target location — within fifty metres?

  He didn’t think he’d alarmed the dog. More likely the barking from across the valley had set it going. A chorus now, from that direction, and he was wondering whether this reconnaissance might be counter-productive: however careful or clever you were, there was a danger of being seen or heard, and it was absolutely vital not to be.

  Creep away, play safe, see it in daylight from a distance?

  From across the valley he heard a motor being started. High whine of the starter, repeated spasms of it before the engine fired. The sounds carried very clearly in the quiet night, drowning the dogs’ yelps. Then the car’s lights showed, seemed to grow out of the darkness and then move away slowly towards the south.

  Here, he was close to something — to a village or a farm, a house. It wasn’t only the presence of the barking dog, but there were other sounds as well, people or animals stirring, animal smells. Entirely different from the clean, cold air of the mountains. No lights: not surprising at this hour. Except there was movement. Might not have electric power but surely they’d have oil… He crept forward along the wall, to see what could be seen. Having come this far. The village had to be right on the road, abutting its other side he guessed. If it was a village. He paused again, the headlights passing from right to left and out of his field of vision, at that point they’d have been just below where he’d posted Geoff and Tony Hall.

  Light, suddenly, and close…

  A flare of it. He was crouching against the wall. Hearing what he then realised was the cracking of dry wood, someone lighting a fire. The image that jumped into his mind immediately was that of a camp. Military?

  It might make sense. In the context of holding a prisoner — some military unit under canvas. From as much — or rather, little — as one knew of it. Firelight was flickering continuously along the top of the wall now, above his head and for some distance farther along. This would not be a good place to poke one’s head up. He turned around — slowly, careful not to let the SA80 clatter against the stones — and began crawling back the way he’d come. Uphill, crawling on until there was no longer any reflection of firelight on the stones.

  He was thankful he’d re-touched the cam-cream job on his face. Lifting himself slowly, to see just over the top.

  Th fire flamed and smoked in the centre of a circle of stones. There was a tripod built over it and a cooking—pot suspended — high, the fire not ready for it yet. Figures crouched or stooped around it. Three of them. Four… Behind them — he’d been right with that guess — tents stood in lines. The nearer ones clear to see in the fire’s light, others ranged away into the dark background in straight lines, geometric shapes, the pattern of an officially-organised camp, disciplined. Impossible to count how many: but there were a lot of them.

  Those weren’t soldiers. He’d caught a sight of grey beard as one moved round to the other side of the fire and squatted to poke at it. Head cowled, Arab-type headdress, an impression of a bony, old man’s face. He was back on his haunches now, away from the heat — and light.

  Refugees? A refugee would hardly be a surprising thing to find here, but it seemed unlikely in the context of the Swale business. And yet there it was. There had, as everyone knew, been a huge flow of refugees into Syria, driven out of territory now occupied by Israelis, there’d been thousands displaced in various waves at different stages of Israeli settlement and expansion. This might be some more recent, small-scale exodus.

  But why would they hold a political hostage in such a camp? Unless it was military, those old people just camp-followers?

  The dog whined, crouching behind them, firelight like sparks in its eyes. Ben just about holding his breath, not even blinking, not fond of dogs in circumstances as these. The breeze was the right way, luckily, he could see it in the drift of smoke towards the dog. The barking from across the valley had ceased too, Ayn Al-Dariqhah returning to its slumbers now that its solitary commuter had left. This animal here had its eyes on the cooking-pot, which one old scarecrow had just lowered, letting it down to the heat now that there was less flame, more glow.

  His eyes shifted. Back from the fire, somewhere among the tents, a man had hawked and spat.

  He saw him — a match flaring in cupped hands. A soldier: the light gleamed along the barrel of a slung rifle before it flickered out. Cigarette, its end glowing red as he drew on it.

  Ben smelt it — cigar, not cigarette — and heard the exhalation. He was that close. Lowering himself by about half an inch… Military camp, with hangers-on.

  The soldier was coming towards the fire, between the lines of tents. Pausing to spit again. He’d die of lung cancer before any bullet got him…

  No question, anyway. The last thing one wanted was a battle. The requirement was for one man dead, eight withdrawing unseen and unheard-of.

  Swaggering way of walking… The old people at the fire shifted, making way for him. There wasn’t much light from it now the flames had settled, but enough to see that he was wearing shabby green fatigues, baseball-type cap of similar material. He was stretching his hands to the warmth, cigarette wobbling in his dark face, a gruff muttering of Arabic. Ben let himself down behind the wall. From the look of the sky he’d just have time to let Sticks know what he’d found here, then get back to Wilkinson and Chalky.

  *

  Thirty hours after he’d had the news that his SB team had vanished into the Syrian mountains, Charles Hislop had to attend a meeting at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. In the interim — yesterday — he’d been busy enough. First, down to Poole to attend to urgent Squadron business; and while down there he’d actually seen his wife, spent several minutes with her. It had felt like playing truant. Then by early afternoon he’d been back in the JOC for a conversation by Satcom with Sergeant Bert Hattry, who by this time had been at Akrotiri,
having been lifted out of the sea with his boats and crews by a US Navy Air Force Super Stallion helicopter sent from the carrier Saratoga.

  The Cousins had turned up trumps. That Task Group Commander had also said he’d be glad to help again when the team got themselves out of Syria.

  When…

  Hattry had given him the full story of the para drop, the outboard’s failure and Ben Ockley’s decisions to (a) intercept the target on the beach, (b) continue the pursuit inland. He’d described the boats in which Ockley intended to make his withdrawal, and various other details such as grenade-launchers and a light anti-tank weapon having been cached above the beach in case of later need.

  Hislop saw the point, and approved of Ben’s forward thinking. The beach was obviously a focal point, and where they’d be at their most vulnerable in the withdrawal stages. But he was also chilled by the prospect of confrontation — on that beach, in the mountains, anywhere on Syrian territory.

  It wouldn’t happen, he assured himself. With a bit of luck, and reasonably good management… The Squadron’s very specialist arts included long-range penetration of enemy territory, operating and remaining undetected in that territory, and getting on of it on completion of the task. This was precisely the requirement now; its swift and efficient conclusion was the one and only outcome that would justify the present trauma.

  And he was going to have to justify it, or try to. Right after this talk with Hattry he was due to present himself to the Chief of Defence Staff.

  Hattry hat detailed again Ben’s intention of listening—out over the Sarbe voice link, in case the RAF might consider sending a Nimrod over… ‘What he said, sir, was if they were stuck you’d want to know was this Swale bloke out of it or wasn’t he. Only way he could see to get word out, like.’

  ‘I see. But of course that’s not at all likely.’

  The way to get the word out was for the team to bring it out with them. He wasn’t prepared to consider the possibility of their becoming ‘stuck’. He’d been thinking on these lines — the only way you could afford to think, in the circumstances — when he’d finished the de-briefing of Ben Hattry and left the JOC just in time to keep his appointment upstairs.