Still clear-headed at this stage, he saw no reason why the plan shouldn’t go ahead. He’d have to attend to the crippling of Charlie Swale himself, that was all. Charlie could still be treated to the sight of the Doppelgangers, shades of the two slaughtered Brits, massacring the old people. He wouldn’t see Bob Knox taking part, but that was all he’d miss. Leo yelled towards the stone hut in Arabic, ‘Start the killing, start killing them now!’ Then, down in the dead ground with the bodies, knowing he had only seconds in which to get ready for Charlie — who’d surely be on his way, having heard those shots he wouldn’t just be sitting there — and that the first essential was a stun grenade. Crouching over a PLO corpse, patting at it to find the bulge of a grenade… Getting desperate: hearing shots from the direction of the tents at last, relieved that Charlie would be seeing it, but then it also sounded like shots coming from the hillside. Imagination: echoes off rock, an acoustic illusion… Confusion brought stirrings of panic all the same: scrabbling at that body, then realising this one didn’t have the grenade, the other one… Expecting Charlie to come charging at any moment, having of course no way of knowing that Charlie had been coming, sprinting, had just been hit by a burst from Ducky Teal who’d dropped on to one knee for a long shot at the fast-moving target continued skidding down the slope in that telemark-like position which must also have been agonising, but sighting and aiming-off skilfully enough to score, hitting the tall, sprinting figure which he’d realised had to be Swale. Charlie went into a spin; he’d dropped his Uzi — he’d been hit in that arm and shoulder and the arm was hanging, useless — and the other arm was stuck out in a kind of involuntary balancing act as he revolved, the impetus of that motion having been his sharp turn, just before Teal got him, towards three sources of automatic fire, three unknowns pounding down the mountainside. He’d tripped then, and fallen, bouncing and rolling down the incline. Leo was then rising from the PLO body — he’d found no grenades, was utterly confused by the volume of gunfire seemingly from all directions — with his Uzi up, waiting for Charlie. Geoff Hosegood appeared on his left — above him, looming tall with the moon behind him — and Leo fired, although in the same moment his attention was diverted — Charlie arriving in an avalanche of loose stones down the slope on his right: Geoff was hit, but aiming at the Uzi’s flash in the shadowed depression he squeezed off a burst and hit Leo harder than he’d been hit himself.
Which meant, hard. Geoff was down, his legs having folded under him.
From the direction of the tents meanwhile there’d been more shooting and a bedlam of shouting, wailing, screaming. A Syrian in green fatigues had begun firing bursts at random into the tents, and Chalky Judge had come over the wall and blasted him with a stream of 4.85-millimetre. Romeo Hall had cut down the other Doppelganger, who’d been about to kill an old woman. She’d been on her knees, in front of him, pleading, terrified. The gunman had just pushed a new magazine into his AKM and had been about to shoot her when he’d seen Chalky kill his friend, and he’s decided to fix him first, swung his weapon that way. Chalky hadn’t seen this, but Romeo Hall had, and he’s used a whole clip, virtually gutting him.
Ben was there now. And Sticks. They’d been the farthest away when it had started. Hall pointed at the Doppelgangers’ bodies: ‘Bloody murdering ’em. Jesus, I mean, they—’
‘Would’ve had me too. Thanks, Rome.’
Doc Laker arrived, limping heavily. He’d fallen and sprained something. And Teal shouted, near the stone cabin, ‘Geoff’s been hit, he’s—’
A blast of SA80 from the road interrupted him. Two hundred metres uphill the Citroën’s headlights and windscreen shattered. The car had been free-wheeling own this way with no lights on, Ray Wilkinson told them afterwards, he’d seen it coming and decided to discourage it. It was reversing away up the hill now, its engine screaming in the high gear.
‘Where is Geoff, what’s—’
‘Doc’s gone to him, Ben.’
‘I’ll be there in a moment.’ He was looking up at the village: seeing no movement yet, but knowing he’d better get the team out of here double quick… ‘Ducky, did you kill Swale?’
‘Someone bloody near did.’ Shambling towards them, one arm dangling straight down and a mask of blood over that side of his face and the shoulder. He’d come to a halt: peering round at their faces as SA80s homed in on him. Wilkinson said, climbing over the wall and joining them, ‘Thought this guy was dead. I was on him myself, saw him go down. Swale, is it?’ Charlie stared at him — one-eyed, the other was full of blood — then lurched round, shifting the glare to Kelso, someone his own size… ‘Mind telling me who—’ he’d swayed, that eye half closing, and the colour sergeant put out a hand to steady him — ‘who the fuck…’
*
Flight Lieutenant Malcolm Worrall in his Harrier GR3 smashed inland over the coast, over the Lebanese border, at a height of fifty feet and with his throttles wide open, flying therefore at 1180 kph, crossing the coastline just less than fifteen minutes after taking off from Akrotiri.
Over the sea, dawn had been a soft tinting of the eastern sky; this much closer to the inland mountains you wouldn’t have known it. Hugging the ground, contour-hopping, although in a moment he’d have to bring her up a bit — his first overland leg was on 080 degrees through the Tall Kalakh valley and out of it on a direct course for Homs. It was fifty-two kilometres from the coast to the turn, less than three minutes, under all and any radar, virtually scraping the ground except that now — roughly halfway — to be doubly safe in relation to pylons and power-lines in this area he was coming up to a hundred and fifty feet. For twenty seconds: he stretched it to twenty-five, by which time he was getting to the end of the leg. Like — now…
Banking, a left-handed turn through 97 degrees on to a course of 343. There were — had been — pylons on his right smokestacks beyond them as he’d gone into the turn, and a mass of masts and other obstructions on the periphery of the town of Homs about five k’s — twenty seconds’ flying — dead ahead if he’d held on.
He had the eastern escarpment of the Alawis close to his left wingtip, shutting out his view of the sky on that side, and a run of twenty kilometres into the designated target area.
Entering it — now…
Throttling back from 1180 kph to 120 — like slamming on brakes in a very, very fast car — he adjusted his altitude upward again, to two hundred feet. There’d have been some advantage in going higher, to broaden the scope of the Sarbe transmissions, but the dominating factor was Syrian radar, the need to stay below the lower curve of its reach. He put a gloved hand down to switch on the radio, which was pre-set to the Sarbe voice frequency.
‘Victor 4 Tango calling Ben Ockley. I say again, Victor 4 Tango calling Ben Ockley.’
If he got any answer he could put himself right over the guy and go into hover. Not for long, because hovering Harriers guzzled fuel at a colossal rate, but long enough… In fact he wasn’t expecting to make contact. That crazy bastard in his Nimrod hadn’t scored, and there was no reason to expect anything to be different just because six hours had passed. He began again, ‘Victor 4 Tango, calling Ben Ockley…’
*
‘Christ’s sake, what can you lose?’
Time, that was what. Kelso nagging like an old woman. Turned on by some low-flying, slow-flying, ultra-loud airplane’s racket to the east of them. Ben didn’t have time for it: partly because he didn’t like it, he was expecting his problems here to escalate and he was well aware that Hama, spitting-distance in that direction, had an airbase with a swarm of Migs on it.
The SBS team was withdrawing. Not westward, but up the ridge to the qal’at. With Geoff Hosegood in a stretcher case — he’d been shot in the legs — and twelve hours of daylight imminent, and that gunship at the village, there could be no question of starting the long haul through the mountains.
God only knew why the Hind hadn’t moved yet, after all the shooting. But you could bet it damn soon would.
�
�Ben, do us a favour, just see?’
He pulled is Sarbe out of the rucksack. Thinking that maybe they were waiting for daylight. He told Romeo Hall — who’d been doing some useful foraging, collecting ration—packs that wouldn’t be wanted by dead men — ‘Go with the stretcher when they’re ready. Hurry them up, will you.’
For a stretcher they were going to use the door off the stone hut; Chalky and Teal were getting it off its hinges.
He pushed the selector to ‘voice’, and switched the Sarbe on. Immediately, like turning a tap and getting water out, a voice cracked out of it, a West Country accent demanding, ‘D’you hear me, Ben 0ckley?’
Astonished: Kelso laughing in the darkness above him, and Laker’s voice telling Hosegood, ‘You’ll be OK, Geoff. Fix you up a lot better when we’re up there, OK?’ Ben said into the Sarbe, ‘Ockley here. Hearing you two’s, threes — you’ve passed to the east of me. Who are you?’
‘Victor 4 Tango, Harrier GR3. Delighted to hear you even twos, Ben Ockley. Turning back to you now. On the ridge, are you?’
‘Right. Where the road crosses over, nearer the west side than east. Did you say Harrier?’
‘Out from UK yesterday, two of us. Listen, Ben — report wanted, by your CO. What’s new?’
‘I’ve got Swale. Alive, wounded, no threat now. Otherwise — less good. We’ve had a firefight, details obscure but I’ve a sergeant wounded, stretcher case, it’ll slow us down. You getting this?’
The noise was increasing as the Harrier returned — west of them, low over the valley. Deafeningly loud but not visible, the moon gone, slipped behind the qal’at peak, this whole area in shadow again. Ben squatting, hunched over the Sarbe, concentrating on hearing this and trying to shut out the thunder up there in the darkness. The Harrier pilot had told him affirmative, getting it on the recorder, go ahead.
‘Well — we have to sit out the daylight hours so I’m withdrawing to the ruin on the tip of this ridge, and we’ll sneak out westward after dark. Can’t hang about — ammo’s short, ditto rations, and there are Syrian troops, two Mi-24 loads so maybe thirty, also the Mi-24 that brought them, at Ayn Al-Dariqhah village. No idea why they haven’t deployed yet, could be waiting for daylight. But we’ll hold out up there until sunset, I’d guess… Got that, Victor Tango?’
‘Roger. Message from your CO now. Starts: American Super Stallion will lift you out of boats inside Syrian waters if you can give them an R/V they can count on. Alternatively Sea-Riders will para-drop and take you from boats or from any beach — repeat, from any beach. Message ends. OK, Ben, in your situation you obviously can’t give any R/V forecast. Expect me or my oppo back later, maybe after sunset. Anything else for your CP? He’s at Akrotiri, by the way.’
‘Is he…’ That was good news. But he couldn’t think of anything else: and time was short… ‘No. Nothing more. I’m moving now.’
He switched off, and as if that touch on the switch had done it the Harrier’s ear-splitting din changed its pitch; he was looking straight up, and saw it, a black shadow moving slowly at first against the lightening sky but then gone, catapulting away southeastward, ripping away in a trail of deafening then swiftly falling sound. Ben was on his feet: the dawn was here now, every minute counted; he admitted, to the gleam of Kelso’s eyes, ‘You were right.’
Those two were coming with the door.
‘Chalky, what’s the casualty situation look like there?’
‘One old guy killed, shot through the throat. That’s all, except most of ’em’s having heart attacks.’
You couldn’t blame them. But they’d been lucky… He swung round: ‘Yeah, Ray?’
‘Swale.’ Wilkinson had his arms full of weapons and spare magazines. No less than six Uzis, and two Rumanian-made 7.62-mm AKM assault rifles. ‘He wants to bring along this joker who conned him into believing he was a Bootneck.’
‘Says he’s Russian, now.’ Swale loomed behind Wilkinson. The improving light did nothing for his appearance. Not that any of them were exactly beauties by this time, but Charlie was a walking ghoul. ‘He’s prepared to tell everything he knows, and I want to hear it.’
‘Didn’t Doc say he was dying?’
Looking past Swale, seeing Geoff being loaded on to the door… Thinking about several things at once: ammunition, water, rations, weaponry, that helo… Swale said, ‘He’d not dead yet, anyway, and he could be useful. Syrian intentions and so on?’
‘How would you get him up there?’
Meaning, up to the qal’at; but staring up at the village again and wishing he’d brought the grenade-launcher and the LAWs…
‘Carry him.’ Swale glanced at Kelso. ‘If you’d put him over this shoulder for me.’
The left one. The other wasn’t usable. A stream of 4.85-mm slugs from Teal’s SA80 had scored the side of Charlie’s head like a tiger’s claws, ripped that ear, smashed the collarbone and upper arm. This had been Doc Laker’s instant assessment; he’d been more concerned with Geoff Hosegood, which was natural enough.
*
Leo Serebryakov felt himself being grabbed and picked up, and a spasm of agony shot from the region of his elbow through all the nerves of his body, shrivelling his brain. He’d let out a shout, and a voice said gruffly, ‘Better give him a shot. Got it to spare?’
‘Haven’t, really.’ Laker said, ‘Early in the day, and Geoff’s going to need some. This guy too.’
Charlie said, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m not feeling any—’
‘You will, though.’ That was the other voice again. ‘Give us a hand, Doc… Stoop a bit, er — Charlie?’
The pain was fading. It had been as if that elbow, which he guessed might have a bullet in its joint, had snagged against itself. He couldn’t feel his left leg at all; earlier, making an attempt to stand, he’d found it simply didn’t work.
‘OK?’
A grunt… ‘Yeah, just — just get him balanced… Hang on a mo’, might—’
‘Sure.’ Kelso asked quietly, ‘Where’s he hit?’
‘Which?’
‘This one.’
‘Left arm — elbow — and two clean through the chest. Those I know about, but you saw how the leg dragged, too… Sticks, I’m going ahead now with Geoff, OK?’
Gudyenko, Leo thought, wouldn’t want to set eyes on him again. Safer maybe if he didn’t, at that… Facing this now — because he was locked into it, nowhere else to go — facing what had been a recurring nightmare to be dismissed in daylight hours as paranoia, the suspicion that he mightn’t have been intended to survive in any case. The way Hafiz had answered his question about transport to Damascus had stirred it up again, the doubt which he’d been suppressing but which had surfaced from time to time in periods of sleeplessness: over and over, rehearing Gudyenko telling him about the leak that was being set up, some traitor in London they’d been manipulating; Gudyenko of all people to be dishing out highly sensitive information to someone who didn’t need it, couldn’t use it, wouldn’t do his job any better as a result of possessing it.
Because the time it blew up he wouldn’t have been around to talk about it?
In fact he wouldn’t have boasted of his knowledge. But there were plenty who might have, and it was the kind of unnecessary risk that Gudyenko not only didn’t take, actually prided himself on never taking.
‘OK, there?’
Charlie’s voice. Plodding more slowly, slow rhythmic lurchings, left arm up to hold the burden on his shoulder. Hunched forward, eyes on the ground a few feet ahead of each footfall, probably unconscious of dawn’s light growing to light the sky and the rocks, the peak up there where they were going burning in the first direct rays of the rising sun.
‘Can you speed it up, Charlie?’
Kelso, behind him, closing up behind to urge them all on faster, increasing daylight adding to the sense of urgency and also enabling one no see enough to push it along a bit…
‘Here, I’ll take him, Charlie. Stop a minute, let me have the bastard…’
*
‘What they’ll have been waiting for, I bet. Signalled on his lights before, didn’t he.’
A hundred metres downslope from Charlie and Sticks, Ben and Ray Wilkinson had their glasses up to watch the Citroën race across the valley. They’d known it by its shattered windscreen when it had appeared over the rise from the Homs direction a few minutes ago. When it got to the mountain road it would hairpin left: then it would be in the village, and his bet was that a deployment would ensue.
‘Ray — go on up, tell Sticks what’s happening, get ’em all up there and into cover, quick… Except Teal plus one — down the other side for water. And beets while they’re at it. Tell him Christ’s sake watch out for the helo.’
‘Right—’
‘That was a smart move you made, Ray.’
Shooting the car’s lights and screen out, he meant. Otherwise it would have been at the village a quarter of an hour ago, or signalled anyway, and with Geoff immobilized they’d have been caught with their pants down.
*
The wing commander — Cox — leant across his boss’s desk to switch off the tape. Group Captain McKenzie sat rock-still, frowning slightly, pale eyes resting on Charles Hislop. They’d been listening to the tape of Victor 4 Tango’s exchanges with Ben Ockley; it was a relief to have made contact, but it hadn’t been happy listening.
Special Deception Page 32
