‘I’ll tell them all I know. That’s a lot, believe me, I’ve a great deal to offer, I’m sure that from your security services’ point of view –’
‘I’ll tell you one thing. Even when you had me conned into believing you were Bob Knox, Royal Marines, I thought you were a prize shit.’
*
About an hour after they’d placed the bottled grenades, they were watching two Syrian soldiers getting close to one of them. Sticks murmuring, ‘Come on, lads, come on…’
He was sighting on the bottle, on the sun’s gleam on it, with his SA80’s sights at maximum elevation. He was getting the privilege of this first shot because he happened to be one of the Squadron’s best marksmen and at three hundred metres half a bottle wasn’t all that big a target. He was standing, using the remains of an ancient buttress as a rest for his left arm and shoulder, waiting for the Syrians to come within a foot or two of the grenade. At close quarters the L2A1 grenade had what the manual called ‘a high degree of lethality’, but outside a radius of ten metres its 1200 fragments would barely scratch a man’s skin.
‘You’re getting warm, boys…’
Wilkinson and Ben both had glasses focussed on the climbers, who were coming to the trap as surely as if someone had been leading them by their noses. As long as they kept coming… They might well have stopped before this, tried the range with their Kalashnikovs, if they’d had any target visible to shoot at. Ben was pretty sure his guess was right, that their tactic would be to put themselves where they could make the defenders keep their heads down while the helo put a sizable attacking force on that plateau.
Sticks fired. Sunlight glittered on flying glass. Both men had whipped round: then the grenade exploded. The nearer of the two fell backwards, his arms jerking upwards like a puppet’s and the rifle flying, clattering away downhill: the other stood for a moment with his hands clasped to his face, then folded down into a heap that didn’t move.
All other visible Syrians had stopped climbing. It would take them some time to work out what those two had walked into. Kelso said, lowering his gun, ‘Shame, really. Might’ve put a stun in, just warned ’em, first time round.’
He was right to the extent that there was no satisfaction in killing those people. But there was even less in having them kill you, and they weren’t being sent up here for any other purpose. The grenade traps might be frightening enough to keep them away until the light went this evening, but they wouldn’t be much of a deterrent if they left them with nothing more than headaches. In any case that hadn’t been a practical suggestion; Kelso had only been reacting to the shock of his own effectiveness.
Or ‘lethality’.
The sun was high now, and hot, and there was a need to conserve water in order to have enough to take with them tonight. To keep the heat off the wounded the stretcher-door was set up across piles of masonry.
‘May as well go into two watches, Sticks. If you want to get your head down, I’ll shake you in a couple of hours.’
But there was a ration distribution to be made — Israeli rations, and slices of sugar-beet — and other chores to see to. Like field-stripping the SA80s and cleaning them, sorting the Uzis and AKMs and ammunition. The AKMs could as well be used now, in fact, and left behind this evening, as one wouldn’t want to be burdened with their extra weight.
By midday one more Syrian had died, shot at long range by Romeo Hall, and for a while afterwards the rest kept their distance. Hafiz would be getting impatient down there, guessed; in fact he might have been getting desperate. But in fact the Syrian’s troubles — and his own, for that matter — were yet to come.
There’d been a certain amount of traffic on the road, and two or three times cars or lorries had stopped, no doubt to enquire what was going on. One of these transients might well have precipitated the crisis: maybe one of the southbound drivers, dissatisfied with whatever yarn they’d fed him, had pressed the panic button when he got into town. It started, anyway, at about one thirty with a Gazelle helicopter arriving from the Hama direction and landing beside the Hind. There was a lot of running to and fro, and the reluctant skirmishers were called down from the mountainside. Half an hour later a column of military vehicles appeared from the south, bringing in troops who looked a lot more business-like than the crowd Hafiz had had on loan; they put a roadblock on the rise behind them, the Homs side, and one vehicle drove on across the valley to do the same at the junction with the mountain road. Another, which had halted with the rest of them at the camp, re-embarked its troops and moved off in that direction, but then swung off the road on to the dirt floor of the valley, bounced northward over the flat, hard ground for about two kilometres to offload its passengers close to the bottom end of Ducky Teal’s route to water.
Sticks came back from observing that part of the swift, unpleasantly efficient deployment.
‘Ben, you know that pumphouse on the river?’
Ben was kicking himself for having been so complacent in recent hours, having taken so much for granted. He glanced round at Sticks: ‘What about it?’
‘Machine-gun section, on its roof. That was going to be our way out, right?’
17
Charles Hislop, in a borrowed goon-suit, peered down from the Wessex HU-5 helicopter at the wrinkled blue Mediterranean so close under it that the downdraught was making it look as if a school of whitebait was trailing them at high speed. Not that a Wessex was all that speedy, despite this sea-level transit for optimum economy and time-saving. Hislop was sharing the rear compartment with the helo’s observer, a flight lieutenant, both of them linked to the pilots only by throat mikes and earphones. They were an hour out of Akrotiri and flying west — away from the SB team’s predicament, a fact of which he was uncomfortably aware.
The invitation had reached him at midday, after the US Task Group Commander in the aircraft carrier Saratoga had spoken personally to the Air Vice Marshal who was GOC of sovereign bases in Cyprus. Admiral Fermenger had suggested that Major Hislop might care to visit him on board the carrier, to discuss ways in which American assistance might be given to his team in Syria. The Air Marshal had passed this message on via Group Captain McKenzie, who’d offered the Wessex as a taxi to and from Saratoga, then about 450 nautical miles away, north of the Bomba and steering for the Antikythera Channel while her aircraft maintained surveillance of that Soviet Squadron.
He’d accepted because he’d been achieving nothing in Akrotiri. There was nothing to do at the moment except wait, maintain communications with the JOC in London and pray that Ben Ockley would be able to pull his own chestnuts out of the fire. Meanwhile the Sea-Riders had been unloaded from the Hercules; there couldn’t be any para drop for at least two days, and he’d been assured that another C130 would be provided when the time did come. All one could do meanwhile was be ready for it… He had a briefcase full of maps and recent satellite pictures, and one of the Harriers would be going in again this evening to get Ben’s update on the situation and to drop ration-packs and ammunition. SA80 ammo had been available at Dhekelia, and was being sent down by road.
But this visit wasn’t likely to yield any great dividend. A Satcom call from London had confirmed that the carrier-borne version of the Super Stallion would never be used in a combat situation. Joe Lance, the SF Adviser, had spoken to a US Navy airdale commander on the staff of CINCUSNAVEUR in North Audley Street, and he’d given him chapter and verse on the subject. This was perhaps what the American admiral would also be explaining. But it was conceivable that something might emerge that could help later: for instance, instead of the para drop, the offer of a pick-up out of boats inside Syrian waters. If the team could get themselves off the coast, to take advantage of this offer, getting the wounded men to hospital that much more quickly might save a life or two.
In fact, a Super Stallion might lift them out of the Sea-Riders. Para drop to pick them off the beach, then an R/V at sea. Maybe.
The Wessex soared suddenly, climbing steeply, and the pilot�
��s voice in Hislop’s headset told him, ‘We made it, Major… See them?’
The observer tapped his arm, pointed out to starboard. Frigates, or destroyers: four of them in line astern. A beautiful sight: white wakes brilliant on the sea’s blue gloss. Beyond them, with another small warship in attendance close astern, was the Saratoga. Sixty thousand tons of flat-top; the ‘island’ amidships, smothered with antennae, from this angle looked like a small pimple on that expanse of flight-deck.
Beyond her, another four destroyers ploughed a single vivid furrow. You could see the movement on those smaller ships as they dipped across the swell, but the carrier looked static, immovable in her dignity… Those would be Tomcat F-14s, he guessed about eight of them parked near the ‘island’, which was looming higher and bigger as the Wessex clattered down and touched gently, flight-deck crew running out from the superstructure to secure it.
*
‘Did you get any lunch yet, Major?’
‘I did sir, thank you.’
‘So you’ll take coffee, right?’
Tom Dubyak said sure, he’d like some too. A tall, ginger-headed Navy captain, he was the Task Group’s Operations Officer; he’d met Hislop down below, led him up here through a maze of passages and ladderways and introduced him to Admiral Fermenger, a small, square-built man with a balding head, glasses, and a wide, infectious smile.
‘Sit down, make yourself at home, Major.’ He said into a telephone, ‘Coffee in here for three of us, and bring us some of those sandwiches, will you?’ He put the phone down, and came over to dump himself into an armchair facing Hislop; the stateroom was spacious, as well as furnished as any town-house reception room. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you and your Special Boat Squadron, Major, and I’m glad of the chance to welcome you on board.’
‘I’m grateful for the invitation, sir. Also for your offer to lift my team out of Syrian territorial waters, if things go that way.’
‘Well, we’ll get to that.’ From the glance he exchanged with the Operations Officer, Hislop guessed that they’d changed their minds. So — para drop, and Sea-Riders, back to square one… He didn’t let his disappointment show. The admiral was saying, ‘We’re well cognizant of your problem, Major. You have my sympathy, and 6th Fleet Commander’s, and also — now — the personal concern of the President of the United States. Did you know your Prime Minister spoke with him this morning?’
‘No. I guessed it could be a possibility, but—’
‘Yeah, I guess you would have.’ The smile was dry. ‘Anyway, I don’t have to tell you, I’d like to help in any way that’s possible, so would every man in this Task Group. You can take that as fact.’
He looked round as the door opened: two stewards, bringing coffee and open sandwiches, a mixture that looked like chicken and mayonnaise. Hislop realised he was hungry, after that flight. Tom Dubyak enquired during this interruption, ‘Did you have a good flight out from Cyprus, Major?’
He looked as if he was really interested in the answer. Hislop studied him with interest, knowing he couldn’t surely give a damn what kind of flight he’d had… Then a second question: ‘And you’re based in London, that right?’
‘Well, no—’
‘Here, come on now, help yourselves.’ The admiral showed them how… ‘I was saying — we want to help. I have to tell you, though, right after I’d said to your people OK, we’ll snatch those guys out of Syrian waters, my staff here gave me a hard time. Fact being, and I believe you’ve caught on to this yourself, Major, that our Super Stallions, the 53Es, are not suitable for missions that could involve confrontation with enemy forces. This is for technical reasons which if you like Tom here will show you, down in the hangar, before you leave us.’
‘No — I mean, thanks, but it was explained to me this morning, sir.’
‘Well, I mention it because, in that transatlantic telephone call which I referred to just a moment ago, there was a suggestion that this could be just some kind of lame excuse we’d offer. It happens to be no such damn thing, and I want you to know this, Major.’
‘I — believe I do know it, sir.’
‘Don’t you take sugar in coffee?’
‘I had some.’
‘Oh. Well, I didn’t… OK. That was the point I had to make.’
‘Somebody must have confused the issue, after I spoke to our Ministry of Defence in London early this morning. That was after the recce flight by the Harrier, the bad news. I’d just been told about this technical snag, by a senior Royal Air Force officer. I mentioned it to the guy I was talking to, explaining that he’d better know about it because any instruction sent from Washington would need to state clearly that such a risk was to accepted. My point was that unless they could give that specific directive, a blanket instruction wouldn’t be worth having, however much goodwill existed, because there’d be no way you could act on it.’
‘That makes sense.’ A grin, at Dubyak. ‘Of a kind… I guess someone higher up the tree got something or other in a twist.’
Dubyak nodded. ‘Would seem so, sir.’
The admiral peered at Hislop over the top of his glasses, and said in a somewhat fruity tone, ‘Didn’t want any damned excuses, were we going to help or were we not?’
Hislop blinked. ‘My God.’
‘Yeah… But OK, that’s disposed of, Major. Now we can move on to the nitty-gritty, as they say. I told you — I got bawled out for saying we’d do that. And they were right. So, I scratched my head, sent out a few enquiries — and I was fortunate in having the support of my boss down road here — and — well, bottom line is that in about thirty minutes—’
A glance at Dubyak. ‘Thirty, Tom?’
The Operations Officer checked the time. ‘Twenty, sir.’
‘Twenty minutes, you’ll see one US Air Force HH-53C touch down out there. Flew from south Germany to Sicily last night. I knew I should not have made that promise, see, but I didn’t like to go back on my word. And this led to a successful exercise in what we call joint service coordination.’
Hislop was staring at him, hardly daring to believe it.
‘HH-53C… Combat search and rescue… Might it be able to fly into Syria tonight, sir?’
The admiral spread his hands. ‘I don’t know what the hell else they’d be here for.’
*
Mid-afternoon, baking hot, and they had the place surrounded. The mountain slopes were infested with Syrians, there was a large detachment of them around parked transport at the camp, and they’d reinforced the group who’d set up a GP machine-gun on the flat roof of the pumphouse. More trucks and men had arrived in the last hour, and a few had left, taking away the old folk from the camp. Transport in various shapes and sizes had been spaced around the area in a way that made the intention easy to read: after dark, all the approaches — and exits — could be floodlit. One scout-car had driven as far up the track as they could get it, and they’d parked it aslant and on the incline so its lights would blaze clear across the hillside.
Now it was all static and quiet. Dispositions made, the qal’at surrounded and isolated. Siesta time.
Ben, Kelso and Ray Wilkinson were flat among the ancient stonework and rubble on the qal’at’s south edge. Hall was keeping lookout on the other side, above the goat-path; the others were resting, maybe even getting some sleep, in patches of shade among the ruins.
Ben put his binoculars down for a moment, massaged his eyes. ‘They want us alive. Any other way they’d be blasting us off this rock with mortars. Or a gunship or two. Incidentally, that one’s not armed, can’t be.’
‘Plan on moving in on us after dark, won’t they.’
‘Yeah… Mind you, they can’t know how many we are — or who, or what… All they know of for sure is Swale, and their ally who may have ratted on ’em. But anyway he’s not those guys’ ally, is he, he was tied up with Hafiz, who’s a dissident, very likely has electrodes clamped to his balls by now… But whoever they may think we are, they’ll want us alive — for th
at kind of purpose.’
Sticks said, ‘Something to look forward to, then.’
It was the pattern of things, though, the hostage and show-trial syndrome. A mountain summit with a scattering of foreign bodies on it might make for some kind of propaganda picture, but corpses couldn’t have confessions screwed out of them.
‘They’ll do what I thought the others might try. Send that helo up while they pin us down from all around.’ He glanced sideways at Kelso. ‘And we could handle that, all right. Mind you, I wish I hadn’t been so fucking clever with those grenades, could’ve used some up here now… But a Hind’s capacity is fourteen, fifteen guys, with weapons. Suppose they crammed in twenty — short hop like this they might — five of us could take them, huh?’
‘Five?’
‘One mobile, one on the goat-track.’
‘So what then? Ammo won’t last long. OK, so we take out your lot of twenty, but they’re coming over the slope too aren’t they.’
Sticks was right. Ammunition would not last very long. As the Syrians would be well aware. They’d have no problems, they could sit it out as long as it took, exert a certain amount of pressure so that ammunition got used up, hang on until there wasn’t any more.
‘You’re right, Sticks. Dead right.’ He had his glasses up again, watching various small movements around the camp. He did have an answer to the problem now, although he’d been through a bad time, mentally sweating over it, a touch of panic stirring deep down, seeing no way out… Back there on the beach a couple of days ago it had looked easy, straightforward: and it had been entirely his own decision, local initiative by Ben Ockley, rightly famed for his nerves of steel and head of bone…
Then, recollection of that snide comment had jerked him out of the negative thinking. ‘Bull at gate’ was another phrase he’d heard applied to himself: but he told himself now that bulls who charged gates had been known to smash through them — and at least had to know what a gate looked like when they saw it.
Special Deception Page 34
