It was up there on the Homs road, on the rise.
‘Hinges on timing, Sticks. Initially, that is. I want to start the move out of here as soon as it’s really good and dark, but—’
‘Move—’ Kelso took his glasses from his eyes — ‘out?’
The main clue was that the east and west faces of this peak were sheer, unclimbable, therefore didn’t have to be guarded up here or staked out by the Syrians down below. But the east side wasn’t all that sheer right up near this summit, it fell away gradually for a while before the vertical drop to the plain. You couldn’t get up or down on that face, but just below the edge of the qal’at you might get around, in cover of darkness. It would bring you to the far side of the track, well east of where the track curved in behind the central spine and up to the plateau. That was very rough, craggy terrrain, with the sheer drop on your left as you’d be coming down. Geoff would have to be carried. Charlie could make it on his feet — with some help, maybe but the Russian would have to be left here.
It was simply an answer — the only one he could see — to an otherwise hopeless situation.
‘Sticks, that flat piece below us is the only spot they could put their helo down, right?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘I wouldn’t think there was enough unobstructed space anywhere up here, I mean.’
Kelso agreed: ‘That’s where they’d land it.’
‘So we could prepare it for them with Romeo’s PE, right?’
With plastic explosive charges linked by the explosive Cordtex and with several igniters. When they touched down on it, they’d wish they hadn’t. And that would be the moment to break out, while the besiegers were preoccupied. Down the east side and around. No stretcher: Sticks would have to take Geoff on his back. Around the side of the peak and then south, diverging from the track, and if that area was staked out too the Syrians would have to be dealt with quietly, one at a time, in ways in which all members of this Squadron were proficient. Actually he didn’t think there would be Syrians in that stretch of broken rock; they were concentrated in front here, doubtless in the belief that between the track and the west edge of the ridge they’d have all the southbound routes covered.
For the same reason, that strip wouldn’t be floodlit either. None of the trucks pointed that way. If there was any significant leak of radiance from the one halfway up the track you’d have to shoot its lights out before you started: one guy down that way ahead of the main force, then cutting across to join up lower down.
When you got to the road, the roadblock, that of course would be something else. But again, one had the skills: as long as one could also bank on a reasonable share of luck.
*
The Wessex lifted from the Saratoga’s deck, swung up and away, feeling to Hislop as if it was standing on edge as it turned and he took a last look down, seeing a foreshortened bird’s-eye image of Tom Dubyak walking back to the screen-door in the superstructure. The pilot asked him — that soft Devon burr in his headphones — ‘Good visit, was it?’ a he told him — remembering the throat microphone and speaking quietly — ‘Absolutely fantastic.’
Ten minutes earlier, when he’d returned to the admiral’s quarters to say goodbye after an hour with staff and flying personnel in the carrier’s War Room, he’d wrung the Task Group Commander’s hand and told him truthfully, ‘I don’t know how I’d even begin to thank you, Admiral.’
Harry Fermenger’s broad grin: ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Just give me a good reference to a certain female person, huh?’
Then on the flight-deck Tom Dubyak’s farewell had been, ‘What are cousins for, for God’s sake?’
He was checking through his notes now, of things to be attended to as soon as he landed at Akrotiri. Like cancelling the rations drop. The Harrier was still to go in, just ahead of the Super Stallion, but not to drop food. Food — sandwiches would be easiest for them — plus gallons of hot tea — was to be prepared at Akrotiri for loading into the giant helicopter when it landed to top up with fuel. Sergeant Hattry could organize that supply of provender: he and Corporal Clark and Marines Deakin and Kenrick were to be ready to embark with it, in fighting order, and Hislop would be with them. The RAF as to be asked to provide at least one doctor and maybe two medical orderlies, with all necessary equipment including stretchers, and the base hospital was to have beds and an operating theatre ready, surgeons standing by for when they got the wounded back. Refuelling was to be laid on in both directions not only for the Super Stallion but also for one Grumman Hawkeye E-2C early-warning aircraft, the kind they’d wanted earlier in the week, and two Grumman F-14 Tomcat fighters.
When went in for something, these Cousins, they really did go in for it.
*
It wouldn’t be long before the sun dipped behind the Alawis.
‘Let’s hear it, Ben.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a good plan, Geoff.’ Then the time-worn joke: ‘If it works.’
‘Change your name to Houdini, if you get us out of this one.’
‘Am I going with you?’
The Russian… Ben said, without looking at him, ‘Not because any of us want you. Only because they’ll want to interrogate you in England.’
Charlie had asked him, half an hour ago, ‘Those gulet people, Leila and co – obviously they’re not Israelis, but—’
‘Palestinian originally. It’s her own team. They worked for Abu Nidal once or twice. There was a killing in the yacht harbour in Larnaca a while ago — remember?’
‘That was a Brit — a Brit and some—’
‘You always need backup, Charlie.’
Leo asked now, ‘You’ll carry three of us, to the coast?’
‘No, two. Charlie’s legs are OK… Charlie?’
‘Walked up here, didn’t I.’
He was still in shock, at the extent to which he’d been fooled. And the horror they’d had in store for him. Underlying that now, Leo’s cool confession: as if it was a game without any rules at all until suddenly you felt like stopping, or were stopped: then he reckoned to just cash in his chips and walk away. Be carried away, for Christ’s sake…
‘And one arm’s strong, you could tote a Uzi one-handed… And you’ve got both arms, Geoff. If we propped you up — a wall behind you? I’m talking about the next hour or two.’
Hosegood nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘Doc, get him on that door again, then some of you cart him over this side.’
Leo offered, ‘I’ve one good arm—’
‘Go fuck yourself with it.’ Ben walked away, explaining to Sticks, ‘I only want Geoff where I can talk to him, away om that prick… Suggest to Charlie he tries his legs out, will you?’
Ten minutes later he had them all together, near the southern edge. Charlie had made it, after an uncertain start. Ben had a feeling they’d end up carrying him as well; and Laker had said he’d lost too much blood through that smashed shoulder, which it had been virtually impossible to staunch.
‘OK, here’s the masterplan… First thing is Romeo’ll set up a booby-trap for that helo. Can’t be much doubt they’ll try to land it up here what the light goes, or later. We’ll have them peppering us from all round, then it’ll fly in an assault team and put itself down on Romeo’s PE. And we’ll start out when it blows. If I’m wrong and this doesn’t happen we’ll move anyway as soon as it’s good and dark… Oh, incidentally, I’m not taking that shit. No point telling him before he needs to know — we’ll just leave him here, the Syrians can have him. OK, Charlie?’
‘They’d have made a meal of him in London.’
He nodded. ‘I know. Might have cleared out yardarm for us, too. But that can’t be helped… Geoff, Sticks has kindly offered to transport you on his back. Got morphine left, Doc?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Give Geoff a shot before we pull out. Carrying him that way’ll hurt, won’t it. You’ll stay with him, Doc — with Sticks — as minder. I’ll lead with Ray and—’ glancing round—– ‘yo
u, Chalky. Behind us, maintaining contact with Sticks and letting me know if they’re stopped or in trouble — you two.’ Ducky Teal and Romeo Hall. ‘Two halfbacks and three strikers, you might say.’
He explained the route, and that the withdrawal was to be silent.
‘So we get to the Homs road.’ Sticks rubbed his bearded jaw. ‘Roadblock above us, half a battalion below.’
Neither his tone nor his expression were as cynical as the words might have implied. Ben nodded. ‘Yeah. I’d thought of crossing the road and sneaking up to where some of us were yesterday. But we can’t hang around, food and water as it is, and these two… So — Sticks, you hang back with Geoff and Charlie, put Geoff down, sit tight in cover while the rest of us push on and take out the roadblock. Looks like half a dozen guys there, and no support nearby. Softly-softly approach therefore, and knives, whatever.’
Nods. So far, no insuperable problems.
‘Then we jump in the truck. Me driving. It’s pointing downhill so we run down to the junction — unless there’s reason not to, in which case I’ll turn it up there on the hill. While I’m doing it, Sticks, you lot join us and willing hands’ll haul you in. They may be shooting at us by then, may not be. With real luck their attention will still be on this place, and if they’re not bothered there’s no reason we should be. Either way we’ll take off towards Homs, then north. Nobody’ll see the turn northward — please God — but I’ve worked it on the map and I’m sure they’d expect us to head south —and then west, that’s the obvious way to go. But we’ll circle right up near Masyaf — thataway. If we have to we’ll dump the truck in one of those ravines, but if we’re lucky we just might make it to the beach before dawn. Barring roadblocks, helos, or an empty gas-tank, etc. So that’s about it. We’ll be getting that Harrier over us before long, so Akrotiri’ll have warning and be looking out for us.’ He paused. ‘How d’you like it?’ Picking on Kelso, the heavy-weight: ‘All right, Sticks?’
‘Yeah.’ The colour sergeant’s sombre gaze met Ben’s. ‘Yeah, it’s a chance. Good chance.’
The snags were obvious; Ben could see them registering in Kelso’s by no means unshrewd mind. The terrain they’d have to get over swiftly and quietly despite the complication of moving with the wounded, the fact that Charlie for all his guts might not hack it, and the chance of running into opposition at such a range that it couldn’t instantly be silenced. Then getting the truck and turning it on that narrow road: there could be Syrians on the road by then, other trucks… But he was accepting it — they all were — because none of them was stupid, they could all see it was a chancy scheme but also that it was the only chance they had.
*
Hislop, coming from the Communications Centre where he’d been talking over the Satcom link to Joe Lance in London, joined Wing Commander Cox at a window in the control tower, to watch the arrival of the Cousins.
Earlier in the day at the Old Bailey, Lance had told him, a verdict of ‘guilty’ had ended the trial of Nezar Hindawi, the Jordanian terrorist on the Syrian payroll, who’d tricked his Irish girlfriend into carrying a bomb that would have blown an Israeli jet-liner to pieces in mid-air. And about now in the House of Commons, the SF Adviser had confided, the Foreign Secretary would be telling crowded benches of MPs that the Syrian ambassador and his staff, deeply implicated, were being thrown out of Britain. Syrian signals traffic, Lance had reported, had increased sharply during the day; the trial and this, but there might also be other contributory causes — such as an intruding force holed up in the mountains. Until now the consensus of opinion had been that the Swale conspiracy was probably only a factional operation not involving the High Command or political establishment; minds were now open to the possibility of that situation having changed.
He watched the Super Stallion in its US Air Force warpaint lower itself ponderously to the apron. Almost as it touched the noise began to wind down, the 72-foot-diameter, seven-bladed rotor gradually becoming visible as it slowed. Personnel and vehicles were already closing in around it, a welcoming party which included Group Captain McKenzie heading for its front end, starboard side, where the crew entry door was situated. Then as that sound ceased, from the west you could hear the next one coming.
Cox said, shielding his eyes against the westering sun, ‘Here’s your E-2.’ He glanced round, saw Worrall, the Harrier pilot — he’d come looking for Hislop — and turned back to watch the Hawkeye lining itself up to land. Telling Hislop, ‘Turbo-prop, not all that quick, but it’s a very efficient early-warner. Little brother to the AWACS.’
He’d asked Joe Lance whether the Americans were aware of the flurry of signals traffic in and out of Syria, and of that possible implication. Joe’s answer had been affirmative: National Command Center was watching the situation closely.
He checked the time. Aware that the Pentagon might still pull the plug on this, if it began to look like going public… The E-2 was settling down towards the runway. High-winged, with a large, saucer-shaped radar rotodome on top. Touching down — now… Then it was racing up the tarmac, with a full attendance up at this end preparing to receive it, and through the open window the sound of more aircraft coming.
Worrall caught Hislop’s attention, while he had the chance. ‘Anything new or changed, sir, for, my transmission to Ben Ockley?’
‘You’re telling him to be ready for a quick pick-up by the Super Stallion twenty minutes after your own departure. Right?’ Worrall nodded. ‘And that’s all… Well, if you have time, you could add that I’ll be on board with four Marines, the Sea-Rider crews. We’ll disembark and hold off the opposition while he gets his wounded and the rest of ’em on board, so he doesn’t have to think of anything but that embarkation. And we want it quick… I thought the other Harrier’d be making this run?’
‘Well, as I know the way…’
Cox said, ‘Here come the Tomcats.’
Two F-14 two-seater fighters, their variable-geometry wings adjusting themselves to reduced speed as they came in to land. They’d be. patrolling high off the coast, controlled from the E-2, which would pick up and track any threat that might develop. The expectation was that their presence in the area, with their speed of Mach 2.4 and armament including Sidewinder, Sparrow and Phoenix missiles, might be enough to ensure that no threat did develop. In any case, for most of its time in Syrian airspace the Super Stallion would — like the Harrier — be well below the reach of radar.
The Tomcats came screaming down. Like darts that changed shape, feathers opening up as they slowed, thundering down out of the sky…
Refuelling this force was going to take fifty minutes, and by then it would be getting towards takeoff time for the Harrier. The helicopter, with a top speed that was only half the Harrier’s, would take off at the same time, so as to be hammering in over the Syrian coast a few minutes after the Harrier emerged seaward; emerging, Worrall was going to divert northward before turning towards Akrotiri, so the Super Stallion’s pilot didn’t have to worry about head-on collisions. The Hawkeye would be over the sea and high by that time, while the F-14s could sit on the runway for another forty-five minutes and still be out on the job in time.
*
The light was going. It wasn’t truly sunset yet, there was still luminosity reflecting downward from overhead, but the sun was behind the peaks and effectively this was dusk.
The troops who’d scattered themselves across the rockscape were moving up. Not hurrying, but there was an observable upward drift that would soon bring the front-runners to the outer radius of grenade traps.
‘Pick your bottles…’
While there was light enough. There wouldn’t be for long.
It wasn’t a happy situation. His own move depended on the enemy moving first, and the enemy might not oblige. And he wanted the Harrier before that anyway. It was a lot to ask for: for a man who’d bitten off more than he could chew to ask for. A biblical proverb recalled from childhood made him wince: As ye sow. so shall ye reap.
&nbs
p; Hall was with Wilkinson on the other side, the goat-track approach. Laker was roaming loose, all-round surveillance as well as being available as necessary to the wounded. Geoff was sitting upright with his back against a section of wall, clasping an AKM, and Charlie was on Ben’s left with an Uzi in his good left hand; he’d found he could use it well enough by raising that knee to rest it on.
Ducky Teal called, ‘Customers…’
‘How many?’
‘Three of the sods.’
Ben had swung his glasses that way just as Teal fired. The same crash of splintering glass, a pause before the burst. One man down, a second crawling — a loud, high cry — then collapsing; and the third — he was down too, there were two bodies in that sprawl. Numerous Syrian rifles fired, bullets screaming off the centuries-old fortifications; but they could have had no targets in sight. Lucky them, with enough ammunition to afford to waste it… Chalky called, ‘Got a single here, Ben, just plug him or shall I use the bottle?’
‘Use it. If you miss it, then plug him.’
Chalky didn’t miss. One of Charles Hislop’s stock remarks in appropriate situations, Ben recalled, was, ‘We don’t train our guys to miss.’ That Syrian screamed as he staggered back, vanished into the dark jumble of rocks. And another SA80 barked out a single shot from the right; Kelso told himself complacently, ‘Nice one, John.’
The light was in its last moments of extra time, sky darkening overhead. Ben let his glasses drop on their strap and raised his SA30, sighting on a dark splodge which he happened to know was one of the few remaining bottles on that 300-metre radius. Two DPM-clad figures were clambering up towards it: about five metres apart, unfortunately. But maybe they’d close up, in that gap. The bottles had been well placed, exactly where climbers would naturally choose to pass… Sighting, letting the first guy pass it: a shot cracked out on his right, glass shattered, the grenade exploded and Ducky Teal recorded, ‘Two, that was.’
Special Deception Page 35
