22nd December. 1217 hrs. Poole.
Mick was stunned. A day that had started with the mother of all hangovers looked like it might end with the mission of a lifetime. During his time in the SBS they had done several mock call-ins; they were a familiar training exercise in the unit. The men would be called back to base for a practice run, but the worry in Dyer’s eyes had made it crystal clear that this was not rehearsal. Not even the idiots in Whitehall would have dreamed of doing such a thing three days prior to Christmas, especially when two-thirds of the SBS were away fighting in The Stan.
He headed into the back office and pulled down the duty list, which showed the men available for operations along with their contact details. It was thinner than he would have liked, but he set about making the calls. Within an hour he had made close to fifty. It hadn’t taken long for his colleagues to start arriving. The noise of scrapping chairs and the low rumble of conversation coming from the Toad had steadily increased, as the lads reported in for duty. By the time Mick finished his final call he had forty-three men either back on the base or on their way there. He entered the Toad to a sea of familiar faces - some of the best of the best amongst them.
On the other side of the room three men stood together, talking. Mick headed over to join them. The first was ‘East End’ Eddie, a battle hardened cockney and a veteran of the SBS, who had a reputation for being a sharp operator. Mick and Eddie had worked on black operations together in Iraq and Afghanistan, and they trusted each other completely.
Then there was Jamie ‘Bomber’ Atkinson, a lad in his late twenties. He was a gentle giant of a guy and one of Mick’s closest mates. He was a dark-haired chunk of muscle and bone, and, at six foot two, towered over Mick and Eddie. Like Mick, he came from the north of the country, so they shared the same sense of humour. Bomber rarely swore and always thought about what he wanted to say before he opened his mouth. He had a great liking for beer and was known to get emotional when drunk, but he was an absolute killer when the red mist of combat went down.
Then there was Donald ‘Mucker’ Johnson. Mucker was a Scot and the real joker in the pack. He was about the same height and build as Mick - five foot eight and solid, and they shared a sweet tooth. But Mucker seemed to pile on the weight far more easily that Mick. He had wild brown hair, a pudgy face and a big round stomach. Among the lads his other nickname was ‘The Hobbit’, though few dared to say it to his face.
In quieter moments, some of the blokes had been known to question how Mucker had passed the murderous selection course to make it into the SBS, but Mick reckoned his incurable good humour made him a great asset on the team. Mucker saw himself as the team joker and the lads encouraged him - so much so that, often as not, the joke would be on him. Still, Mucker didn’t seem to mind and this, Mick thought, was one of his greatest strengths.
The three men had fought with Mick in Iraq, Afghanistan and North Africa and trusted his leadership implicitly. A four-man team like this was known as a stick, and Mick was proud of each and every one of them.
Mick sat down with his stick, taking chairs on one of the long tables. Around the room the others had gathered in their groups, and the talk in the room was all of the Al Hambra and the assault options that were open to SBS.
“Effing pirates,” said Eddie. “What next? We gonna be dealing with a bunch of guys with bloody ‘ooks and eye patches?”
Mick and the others grinned.
“I’ve fought pirates,” commented Bomber, “and they ain’t no laughing matter. Off the coast of East Africa. Last year. They’re an evil bunch. Ruthless. Killed a bunch of hostages before we got sent in. Found a load of bodies and...well, it was enough to make you sick what they did to ‘em.”
“Aye, I was there too,” said Mucker. “Had some serious weapons. If these guys were trained in Somalia, they’ll be tough bastards.”
At that point Dyer walked in. His eyes looked a bit less bleary and he’d managed to flatten his hair, but his face was still flushed with concern. There was a scraping of chairs as the men gathered in a loose semi-circle around the CMS.
“Gentleman, I’ll keep this short,” Dyer announced. “Thank you for coming in. The Al Hambra is getting closer by the hour. We need to hit it sharpish. That means dawn tomorrow.”
“So we’ve got the green light, boss?” asked Mick
“We’re ninety per cent there. Politicians are still talking, but we’ll know pretty much for sure by the time we get to Yeovilton.”
“What weapons are we taking?” one of the others asked.
“Whatever you want. You’re going in hard. Very hard. Take what you need from the armoury and be ready in an hour.” Dyer turned to leave but, just as he was getting to the door, he stopped. “One more thing. Best get a shave before you go. From what I hear, you’ll be wanting your gas masks on this one.”
Mick knew what that meant. If there was a serious threat of gas you needed to be clean shaven. A bristle or any stubble could break the seal of the mask and let the poison gas in. He made a mental note to grab his razor before he left. “Right lads. Let’s get a move on.”
“Aye,” said Mucker, “We’ve got a boat to catch.”
Within the hour they had loaded their assault kit, weapons, ammunition and boats in to a fleet of black Mercedes Benz vans. The vehicles were fitted with 2-way radios and much more powerful engines. They roared off at top speed. To ensure there was no delay they had a police escort, with blue lights flashing. It forced the traffic to the roadside as the convoy sped passed. Mick wondered what those drivers thought about their convoy. He hoped they would never know what was going on or where he and his men were heading.
People got scared at the best of times and the Al Hambra was sure to send panic rippling up and down the country - that’s if they didn’t stop it and stop it fast.
Hard Targets: A Doc Palfrey Omnibus Page 25
