Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  Also by Chris Ryan

  The One That Got Away Stand By, Stand By Zero Option The Kremlin Device Tenth Man Down The Hit List The Watchman Land of Fire Greed The Increment

  Chris Ryan's SAS Fitness Book Chris Ryan's Ultimate Survival Guide

  In the Alpha Force Series

  Survival Rat-Catcher Desert Pursuit Hostage Red Centre^

  i i

  Published by Century in 2005

  3579 10 8642 Copyright � Chris Ryan 2005

  Chris Ryan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

  or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the

  publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed

  on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by Century

  The Random House Group Limited 20Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  ^ Random House Australia (Pty) Limited

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia

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  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009 www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Ubrary

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  ISBN 1 8441 3384 2 (Hardback) ISBN 1 8441 3438 5 (Paperback)

  Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited Polmont, Stirlingshire

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Ltd, Chatham, Kent

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To my agent Barbara Levy, editor Mark Booth, Kate Watkins, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.

  PROLOGUE

  April 20th. Night;

  The air was warm and humid, with the faint smell of the wild irises that dotted the hillside drifting through the night air. Josh Harding paused. He lifted the Russian-built AN30 rifle to his shoulder, the butt nestling into the thin linen shawl wrapped across his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, the skin of his face creasing as he focused all his concentration into the thin cross-hairs of the gunsight.

  The man in those sights was about thirty, with a black, wispy beard and the slow, ponderous movements of someone preparing for bed after a long hard day. The flickering embers of a fire were illuminating the darkness, sending pale shafts of light out across the tiny encampment. Josh could see various people moving in and out of the shadows. Ignore them, he told himself. He narrowed his gaze still further. Stay focused. Wait until the weapon and the target are perfectly aligned. Then squeeze the trigger.

  One bullet, thought Josh. That's all it takes to shatter a man's skull. *

  There were only a tiny handful of people in the world whom you could assassinate with total peace of mind. With no doubts, no regrets. And Khalid Azim - one of the top five al-Qaeda leaders in the world, and the man charged with delivering a terrorist atrocity in Britain -- was one of them.

  A movement. A woman slipped across the camp, blocking

  Josh's line of fire. Josh hesitated. The bullet he had loaded into the AN-30 was made of hardened tungsten, a lethal alloy designed for the battlefield: it was said that it could kill one person, move straight through a body, and still have enough strength to kill the next person it hit. That was in the manufacturer's manual, thought Josh. Every soldier knew that the kit never did what it said on the box. There was a chance that the bullet could slice straight through the woman, and then take out Azim. But it was risky. A bone or even a thick artery could deflect it from its path, sending it harmlessly into the ground. And once Josh fired, the whole camp would know he was up here in the hills.

  If I ever set up an assassination school, Josh told himself, I know what my first lesson will be. You only get one shot. Make sure it's the right one.

  Azim moved away. The woman was still in front of him, blocking Josh's line of fire. Two other men stepped forward, both heavily armed, shadowing Azim's steps as he went back inside the tent. 'Fuck it,' muttered Josh to himself. 'I've lost him.'

  He rested his forearm, letting the gun drop to his side and looked down towards the camp with disappointment. Ashfaq Dasmunshi moved across to where Josh was standing. 'We'll still get him,' he said.

  Josh nodded. For three months he had been tracking both Azim and Osama bin Laden through the border region where al-Qaeda still had its most loyal supporters, and where its leaders still returned to retrain and re-equip themselves while they planned their next atrocity. Since joining the Regiment five years ago, he had been on some tough assignments: first in Bosnia, then in the Afghan invasion, then in Gulf Two. But this was the toughest of the lot. Placed on secondment to The Firm's specialist antiterrorist unit, he had been sent out here to the Afghanistan-Pakistan borders with a mission that was as simple to define as it

  iiiv

  was difficult to accomplish: to track down and execute any al-Qaeda leaders he could find, spending whatever money it took, running whatever risks he had to.

  'We need help,' said Josh. 'I'll speak to base.'

  Ashfaq nodded. The pair of them had been together for three months now. They worked their way through the region on foot and by motorbike, bribing and cajoling local villages into giving them any information that might lead them towards their target.

  Josh knew that Ashfaq was a mercenary: he was only doing this for the five hundred dollars a day he was being paid, and he would go back to his village and live like a king on the money he had made in the past few weeks.

  Still, a decade of soldiering had taught Josh that mercenaries were as good as any other men on the battlefield. It didn't matter whether a man was fighting for the security of his country or the security of his wallet -- as long as he knew how to hold his weapon, and how to play for the team, Josh was never going to question his motives.

  'We'll have to be quick,' said Ashfaq. 'They won't be at that camp for more than three hours. Four hours maximum.'

  Josh glanced back down at the camp. He had counted a dozen people, at least two of them women. A squadron of about thirty-six men would be enough for an assault, so long as they were properly armed and properly led. He picked up the satellite phone, checked the area to make sure that they were still hidden from view, then punched through the call.

  'What do you want, Harding?' said Mark Bruton.

  The base camp was at Khost, about eighty miles back along the border. It served as the headquarters for the British and American soldiers who had been in the country since it had been invaded two years ago. Although it was three months now since Josh had been back there, it was the place he reported back to for orders.

  'We've found Azim,' said Josh.'I need back-up to take him out.'

  'What's your position?' barked Bruton.

  Over the satellite phone, the voice was transmitted as clearly as if the man was sitting right next to him. It doesn't matter where the Rupert is, reflected Josh as the tone of the commanding office grated on his nerves. Smug, self satisfied, and dead wrong -- they all sound the same.

  Josh read ou
t the GPS coordinates. They were nestling high in the mountains, just on the Afghan side of the border, among tribesmen and warlords who recognised no law or government other than their own. Borders didn't mean anything out here: every tribe was a government all to itself.

  'Stay where you are, Harding,' said Bruton. 'I'll send in a cruise to blow the camp. I'll put a couple of drones into the mix to clear up any stragglers, then send along a Black Hawk to pick you up. Got that?'

  Josh gripped the side of the Motorola 9500 sat phone. It was hooked up to an Iridium satellite a couple of miles up in the sky and he could feel the slim black plastic casing of the machine vibrating in his tight grip. 'I've spent three months tracking this man,' snapped Josh. 'I can't wait for a missile strike. All I need are some guys in a chopper and we can go in and get him.'

  There was a pause. Even at a distance of three thousand miles, Josh could feel Bruton's annoyance. 'Nobody's going to win a bloody medal on this one, Harding. We're using missiles. Now hold your sodding eround, and wait for the big boys.'

  'But

  The single word struggled from Josh's lips, but the rest of the sentence was never born.

  'That's a bloody order, Harding. Got it?'

  'I'll guide the fireworks home, sir,' he replied stiffly.

  He put the phone down, flicking off its power. Ten years

  in the Army, five in the Parachute Regiment before he moved up to Hereford, had taught Josh about anger management. A girl he had knocked around with once had even given him a book on it: take deep breaths, find a still spot somewhere inside yourself, accentuate the positive, and some other rubbish he couldn't remember. The girl had chucked him after he'd lost his rag once too often, and he'd never finished the book.

  Whoever wrote it had never had to deal with a quarter brained Rupert like Mark Bruton. He'd get a whole chapter all to himself.

  'The tosser,' said Josh contemptuously, looking towards Ashfaq. 'He's sending some cruises in, then a chopper to bring us out.'

  'That could take hours,' said Ashfaq.

  Josh nodded.

  A look of disappointment flashed across Ashfaq's face. Josh knew that the other man was as anxious as he was to get the fighting over and done with. There was a thousand dollar bonus for- every al-Qaeda operative they captured and killed.

  'Azim never sleeps in the same place two nights running, and he never sleeps for more than a few hours. He's constantly on the move, that's how he stays alive,' said Ashfaq. He swatted away a mosquito that had landed on his thick, trimmed beard. 'Maybe we'll be lucky, maybe not. We'll see.'

  Josh glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven at night. Dawn would start breaking about five tomorrow morning. The chances were that Azim would be gone by three. That gave them less than four hours.

  Josh fed the coordinates of the position back to base, then lay down on the pebbled ground. In the past three months, he had grown used to sleeping on the open ground, his body hardened to the roughness of the surface. The

  dusty perfume of the mountain flowers even made sleeping easy. You woke after an hour or two as alive and fresh as if you'd just come out of the gym.

  Josh glanced up at the stars. Missile strikes weren't the answer to this war, he reflected to himself. That was just robot wars, not proper soldiering. You had to be willing to take the same risks the enemy were. That meant putting your life on the line.

  Josh started to close his eyes.The Motorola phone strapped to his belt was switched to vibrate: a call a few minutes before the missile strike would wake him. Take the sleep when you can get it, he told himself.You never know when the chance will come again.

  Waking, he turned over, looking at his watch. It was onefifteen in the morning. Josh sat bolt upright. He placed the AN-30 to his shoulder, using its telescopic sights to scan the camp. Apart from a single guard patrolling the perimeter, there was no sign of movement.

  Where the hell are they? Josh thought.

  He scanned the night sky, looking for a vapour trail among the twinkling stars. He'd seen enough cruise missiles to be able to spot them: they flew gently through the sky, like ducks skimming the surface of the water. A low, throaty hum was the only sound they made. They are a familiar enough sight in Afghanistan, he told himself. Even the kids recognise them.

  He picked up the Motorola and punched out the number. 'What's happening?' he said into^the phone.

  'Hold your position, Harding,' said Bruton. 'The missiles are being got ready'

  Josh glanced down at the camp. 'It won't wait much longer.'

  'Just sit tight, man,' snapped Bruton. 'The fireworks will start soon enough.'

  Josh snapped the phone shut. He lay back down on the

  ground. Cruise missiles are no way to fight a war, he said to himself. We'd be better off with swords and sabres.

  Josh checked his watch. Two-fifteen. He felt certain that he could see a man moving in the camp. Were they preparing to leave? he wondered. Or were they just changing the night guard?

  He punched the same number into the Motorola. 'Where are they?' he demanded.

  'Couple of glitches on the cruises,' said Bruton. 'For two million dollars a pop, you'd think they'd give you a bugger with a proper starter motor on it. We're having to send one in from one of the American subs in the Indian Ocean. Might be a bit of a delay'

  Josh lay back down on the ground and tried to sleep some more. His eyes closed, but sleep wouldn't come. He was burning with anger. Three months I've spent tracking these bastards through this wilderness.Three months of crap food, no washing, and only a sodding cave to sleep in. And now that I've finally tracked one of the bastards down, they're going to let him slip from my grasp.

  Another hour. It was three twenty-five now. More movement in the camp. The guard was drawing some water from the barrels strapped onto one of the trucks. For washing, thought Josh. That meant they would be leaving soon.

  'There isn't much longer left,' he snapped into the phone.

  'Relax,' said Bruton. 'The missiles are airborne, and the chopper is on its way. Get ready to evacuate. You're coming home for a shower.'

  Josh stood on the hillside. He could see the guard preparing a basin and boiling a kettle, taking them towards the tent. Leaving, he thought. A quick wash and a cup of tea, and they'll be on their way.

  He looked up to the sky. If it was coming from one of the American subs, they'd be sending a Raytheon Tomahawk cruise missile. They were subsonic, travelling at around five

  hundred miles an hour, about the same speed as a commercial passenger aircraft. If it was being fired from a sub in the Indian Ocean it could still be another ten minutes or so before the strike.

  Josh started pacing, walking around in smaller and smaller circles. A breeze was starting to blow across the mountain, rustling through the white robes that hung loosely on his body. After three months without anything except a stream to wash in, or a cave to sleep in, he could feel the dirt clinging to his body. Good to get back to base, he told himself. But I don't want to go back without a notch or two on my belt.

  He fingered the trigger on the AN-30. There was a just a chance he could take them himself. To risk Ashfaq's life would be unfair. The other guy was just a hired hand. Yet one man with a machine gun could do a lot of damage against a camp that was waking up. Take the guard with a single shot from here. Put down some grenades to distract them. Then go in quick, dressed like a local, and hope to getlhem all before they realise what's hit them.

  No, he told himself. You can't bank on that kind of luck. It's suicide. And there's no glory in that.

  'Did you hear something?' he whispered towards Ashfaq.

  The Afghan nodded. 'A starter motor,' he replied. 'The white truck. It's leaving.'

  Josh strained his eyes. He could see a man climbing into the passenger side, another climbing into the driver's seat, firing up the engine. It started to pull away, moving down the mountainside.

  The bastard is escaping.

  He peered through the AN
-30's telescopic sights again. One bullet, he told himself. Blow a tyre out, and hope that sends the car crashing down the mountain. Behind him, he could hear the distant drone of the Tomahawk, like an aeroplane, except quieter, and lower in the sky. He squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet smashed into empty scrubland. The truck kept on moving.

  In the next instant, a blinding flash lit up the sky. A BGM 109, the Tomahawk could either be equipped with a thousand-pound high-explosive bomb, for destroying big targets or penetrating deep bunkers, or it could be equipped with a thousand pounds of cluster bomblets, which showered a camp with dozens of tiny, lethal explosives. Now Josh saw that this one had a deadly pack of cluster bombs built into its nose. The bombs were spinning out of the missile like confetti. A rain of fire drenched the camp, sucking up everything within it as the fireball gathered force. Josh could hear the pop, pop, pop of the charges exploding down in the valley, the echoes bouncing off the sides of the mountains to build a murderous wave of noise.

  Josh turned his gaze back to the white truck. It was disappearing along the single-track road that led away from the valley. It's him, thought Josh grimly. They can send across as many clouds of fire as they want. It's useless unless the target is standing right beneath them.

  Now Josh could hear the roar from the helicopter blades slicing through the air above him. A smell of avgas filled the air as the machine dropped out of the sky. The Black Hawk hovered a few feet above the ground. A soldier was leaning out, waving him on board.

  Josh looked towards the truck. A trail of dust had been kicked up as it turned the corner and vanished from view. Just as I thought. The bastard has escaped.

  Dawn was starting to break as the helicopter dropped down at the centre of the compound. Josh hopped from its side hatch, walking out across the thin strip of tarmac that led away from the landing circle. Three months, he thought to himself, looking across to the low, prefabricated row of huts that made up the mess room, the barracks, and the debriefing

  centres. A long time to be out in the wilderness, with only your own wits to live on.

  Some beer, some food, a shower and then some sleep. In that order, Josh thought.