by Damien Lewis
‘God, Operation Terminal Search – who thinks up these names?’ Nick muttered under his breath.
In spite of four decades of military service, General Peters’s hearing on his left side was still sharp. Unfortunately, Nick was sitting at the General’s left shoulder.
‘Sorry, son, did you say somethin’?’ the General growled. ‘We’re only having to proceed with Operation Terminal Search for one goddamn reason, and that’s because one of your boys has gone over to the dark side. You hear me? And boy, is his shit dark.’
Nick nodded. He had regretted making that comment almost before it was out of his mouth. From the file he’d read on the General, he knew that Peters had a long and distinguished combat history and was famed for his robust temper. With a rogue SAS soldier training the world’s newest terrorism outfit – the Black Assassins – to take out seven of the West’s top leaders, it was hardly surprising that the General was displeased. It would be a terrorism spectacular the likes of which the world had never seen.
The General glared at Nick. ‘Now, Operation Terminal Search is about the best hope we got of stoppin’ your boy. So, if you don’t appreciate the mission name, son, maybe we can settle on a better one? How’s about “Operation Terminate with Extreme Prejudice that Goddamn Traitorous Brit Son of a Bitch”? Sound better to you, son? Does it?’
‘Probably … I’m not sure, sir.’
‘Well, like I said, probably ain’t good enough, son. So, don’t you sit there with your oh-so-superior English attitude and take the rise out of my operation, you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir … And sir, I apologise.’
‘Apology accepted,’ the General grunted. ‘Now, let’s get on with the mission and kill this bastard.’
The General glared into the computer screen as the UAV was brought around for another pass over the target, and Bob Kennard recommenced his commentary on the mission.
‘Now starting transect five, bearing 0407 degrees. I’m aiming for a second overflight of the target area. Should be overhead that position in less than three, repeat three, minutes. This is the attacking run …’
‘One thing, General,’ Nick remarked as the two men stared at the live video feed. ‘The Searcher was never a commissioned SAS officer. He was only ever an NCO.’
‘Don’t make a heap of difference, son, now he’s gone over to the dark side. Still knows his stuff, don’t he? Makes my goddamn blood boil. What kinda name is that for a soldier, anyways – The Searcher? Don’t the son of a bitch have a proper name?’
Before leaving London Nick had been told not to reveal The Searcher’s true identity. The US military was notoriously leaky, and the last thing Her Majesty’s Government needed was a story breaking about an ex-SAS operator training the world’s most fearsome terrorist outfit. There were half a dozen of the General’s men crammed into that stifling ops room, not to mention the assistants who kept buzzing in and out. Any one of them could have a contact in the media, and once they had the man’s name then they had a story.
‘The Searcher’ was a nickname that had been given to the target by his SAS mates back in the 1970s, Nick explained. He was always seeking some greater cause or meaning in life. He’d gone through most of the major religions – Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism – before converting to Islam and training up the Palestinian resistance.
But in 1986 there’d been a raid by Force 17 terrorists on an Israeli yacht. Two of the gunmen were Palestinians, but the third was a British mercenary. That man was almost certainly The Searcher. At that time he’d made the crossover to direct involvement in terrorism. Since then The Searcher’s name had been linked to operations by Black September, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Abu Nidal, the Turkish Grey Wolves and more. And now he was with the Black Assassins, plotting a world-class terrorism spectacular.
In spite of the submarine’s air-conditioning, Bob Kennard was sweating heavily in the bowels of the USS Polaris. The tension of the mission was getting to him. His hands felt lumpy over the computer terminal as he waited for the image of the target to reappear. Every atom of his consciousness was focused on that tiny aircraft as he willed it to seek out and find its prey. Even though Bob knew little about their fair-haired target he could sense the threat in his bones, and was determined to go get him.
Sea Strike One pushed onwards and the group of stick-like figures reappeared in the video screen. As Bob zoomed in he noticed one of them glancing skywards. Something – perhaps the glint of sunlight on the camera lens – had alerted him to the UAV’s silent presence. The figure detached himself from the main group and hurried across to an underground bunker.
Bob put the tiny aircraft into close-orbit mode and began punching buttons on his console. From the nose cone of the UAV an invisible beam fired earthwards as the aircraft began to ‘paint’ the target area with the hot point of its laser. Seconds later a pair of miniature bomb doors swung open beneath the fuselage, revealing a blunt-headed projectile some three feet long, its four guidance fins folded against its body.
Sea Strike One was ready to attack.
The video image was still now: internal gyroscopes in the camera’s housing kept the lens focused exactly on target. All Bob had to do was hit the ‘fire’ button, and the silent, gliding Viper Strike munition would drop almost vertically, accelerating to some 250 feet per second.
It would reach the target area in forty seconds, giving the enemy scant time to take cover – that was if they ever saw the strike coming, for they certainly wouldn’t hear it. The 2.5-pound thermobaric warhead would hit without warning, throwing out a vapour cloud of fuel–air explosive that would detonate in a terrible vortex of heat and flame.
Bob spotted the figure re-emerging from the bunker and recognised it as their target. He was carrying an indistinct bundle slung across his right shoulder. Bob punched the ‘fire’ button, there was an inaudible click within the belly of Sea Strike One, and the Viper Strike munition dropped silently away from the aircraft.
As the warhead dragged the bulbous nose of the Viper Strike downwards four fins unfolded from the bomb’s tail end and it began its graceful, gliding dive towards the ground. Immediately it did so, the on-board guidance system picked up on the hot point of the laser and began to minutely adjust the Viper Strike’s glide path so that it exactly homed in on the target.
Bob’s eyes were glued to the digital read-out on his computer screen as it counted down the seconds to impact – 30, 29, 28, 27 … But all of a sudden there was an intense flash of light at ground level. Bob refocused the camera, only to find the target with a smoking missile-launcher balanced on his shoulder and the arrow-like form of a surface-to-air missile streaking upwards towards Sea Strike One.
Bob knew that he had only seconds in which to act. If the missile struck the UAV then the debris of the aircraft would tumble to earth in the midst of the training camp – in which case their ultra-secret mission would be blown wide open. Several of the UAV’s parts were clearly identifiable as American military: it even had ‘Made in the USA’ stencilled across the experimental titanium airframe.
For an instant Bob vacillated, torn between hitting the self-destruct button to vaporise the UAV and hanging on to see the Viper Strike detonate. But then he punched a button on the computer terminal hard. There was a sudden belch of smoke in front of the camera lens and the screen went black.
Just as the image died on Bob’s screen the Iranian-made Sayyad-2 missile went hurtling through the plume of fire and fine debris which was all that was now left of Sea Strike One. At exactly that moment the Viper Strike bomb ploughed into the hard-packed earth of the training camp. The compact warhead impacted with a dull thud and a small charge threw a fine mist of fuel–air explosive high over the camp.
A split second later the weapon detonated, instantly transforming the air above the training ground into a seething white-hot fireball. As the raging fire-monster sucked in oxygen, the blast wave flashed outwards from the epicentre of the explosion. It tore across the open gr
ound and slammed into the nearest bodies, ripping them limb from limb.
It was followed in an instant by the firestorm itself, like the breath of an avenging dragon that incinerated every living thing. A black mushroom cloud of smoke belched upwards and outwards from the point of impact. And as the firestorm raged onwards it tore the very air out of the lungs of anyone caught in its path.
At 11,000 feet above the training camp the Sayyad-2 missile started to hunt across the horizon, trying to reacquire its target. Deprived of its kill it burned itself out. By the time the spent projectile fell to earth on a distant mountainside, the survivors of the Viper Strike explosion were stirring.
They emerged from the camp’s bunkers to be met by a scene from hell itself. Pulverised weapons, torn clothing and the odd shoe lay scattered across the camp. And mixed in with this smoking debris were contorted, blackened shapes barely recognisable as human – the bodies of those caught in the fearsome vortex of the Viper Strike’s blast.
‘He hit the goddamn destruct button!’ General Peters yelled for the umpteenth time, as he stared dumbfounded at the blank computer screen. ‘He hit the goddamn destruct …’
The General turned away, cursing in frustration. He had been replaying the last few seconds of the video over and over, but it seemed to lack the final moments when the Viper Strike hit. Deep down the General knew that the aircraft’s operator had been right to send the self-destruct signal. But it still galled him.
The General glanced at Nick Coles, searching his face for some kind of confirmation that they’d made the kill. But Nick just shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t about to stick his neck out and say that they had.
‘Sergeant Ames, I want you to grab that last image,’ the General barked out an order. ‘The very last frame before the screen went black. You got me?’
‘Yes, sir!’ came the reply from a bank of computers to the General’s right.
‘Let’s just hope and pray we hit the bastard where it hurts,’ the General growled, more to himself than to anyone else.
An image appeared on the General’s computer screen. It was a fuzzy picture of the Viper Strike, guidance fins outstretched like the wings of a bird of prey, streaking downwards. It was the very last video frame filmed by Sea Strike One, and it showed the warhead still some 300 feet or more above the target area. And there, at the corner of the video frame, was the target – The Searcher himself – running hell for leather for the nearest cover.
‘Dammit,’ the General cursed to himself. ‘We got no video of the point of impact.’
General Peters turned away from the computer terminal and spoke into his radio mouthpiece. ‘Sunray Zero Alpha, what d’you reckon, son? Tell me, you’re the operator – you reckon we got him?’
‘Sir, I just dunno, sir,’ came back Bob Kennard’s reply. ‘It was a damn good Viper Strike hit, sir, just like we trained for in exercises. That’s a thermobaric munition we used, sir – pretty much incinerates everything … But I just can’t say for certain, sir, that we got our man.’
The General grunted. ‘I’d like to say “Mission accomplished”, son, but I can’t … What I can say is a real warm thank-you, ’cause you did us proud. And pass my congratulations to the captain and crew of that boat, son. The mission couldn’t have been done without them …’
The General squared his shoulders and pounded a balled-up fist into the palm of his hand.
He glared at Nick Coles. ‘On balance, I reckon we got him. But this is a goddamn war, and you know what they say: presumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. You’d be amazed what people just walk away from. So you’d better get onto your people, son. It was your Humint that found this guy in the first place. Whoever you got out there on the ground in your local networks or whatever, they’d better put their feelers out again. See if they can pick up news of your Searcher – find out whether he’s dead or alive.’
‘Of course – I’ll see what we can do, General.’
‘Appreciate it. You know, we should’ve had a man on the ground. All it takes is one good operator up on one of them ridge lines and we’d have confirmation of our kill. You know what worries me most? Those moments after the UAV self-destructed there was no laser guiding in the Viper Strike. When you self-destruct the aircraft, you self-destruct the laser guidance system ’n’all. Just have to hope we were close enough to fry the son of a bitch.’
‘Why didn’t you have that man on the ground, General?’ Nick asked. He knew that he held the trump card on this one, although he wasn’t about to reveal it to the General.
‘Goddamn politicians, that’s why,’ General Peters spat out. ‘Wouldn’t risk having one of our special operators dropped in country, just in case he got compromised. Political fallout with Syria would have been “too hot to handle”, according to them pansy-assed bastards who sit up there in Washington scratching their backsides all day long.’
Nick saw an opportunity to needle the General and get a small piece of revenge. ‘I suppose you have to see things from their perspective.’
‘Nope, son, I don’t have to see things from their perspective. Period. Haven’t done for forty years, and I ain’t about to start now. From where I’m sitting we’ve got us a bunch of murderers training for the greatest kamikaze mission of all time. Way I see it, we’ve got our President and your guy menaced by a bunch of crazies.’
The General fixed Nick with a steely eye. ‘And as if that ain’t enough we discover they’re getting training from one of your best ex-operators. You don’t fuck around with that little lot. You do whatever it takes – whatever it goddamn takes – to get the job done. We should’ve had a man on the ground, son, simple as that.’
Half an hour later Nick Coles left the entrance gates to the SOCOM building and got into a waiting taxi to take him back to his hotel. As he pulled away from the vast military complex he breathed a sigh of relief. Nick hadn’t been sad to say farewell to General Peters. As far as he was concerned the next American who had the temerity to call him ‘son’ was going to get an earful. Even his ‘grey man’ persona had its limits, and the General had just about overstepped them.
As he settled back into his seat, Nick allowed himself to feel just a little smug. He felt certain that they’d hit The Searcher, which meant that it was mission accomplished. Either way, he knew he would be getting absolute confirmation of the kill in the next hour or so. Whilst the Americans mightn’t have had a man on the ground, the British had – only the General and the rest of the US military had been kept in the dark about it.
Nick punched a number on his mobile phone. It was time to check what their man on the ground had witnessed of the Viper Strike attack.
CHAPTER TWO
19 January 1979: UK Armed Forces Base, RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus
THE AIR OF the mess tent was thick with cigarette smoke, stale sweat and the reek of frying food. The fifty-odd men of Q Squadron SAS leaned back in their canvas chairs, taking it easy. It was nearly lunchtime, and they were far more interested in getting a good feed than they were in the briefing. Most had already been deployed to the Lebanon, so the MI6 liaison officer could tell them little new about the vicious little civil war that was going on there.
Since the outbreak of the fighting some six years earlier, Lebanon’s capital city, Beirut, had been devastated. It was now divided into a Christian east and a Muslim west, with a shattered and depopulated no man’s land in the middle. In recent months the men of Q Squadron had been tasked with inserting operators from the CIA and the US Intelligence Support Agency into Beirut, on a series of hostage-rescue operations.
As the MI6 officer finished his briefing, Major Marcus Thistlethwaite, Q Squadron’s Officer Commanding (OC), stood up to speak. An audible groan went up from the tent. The Major had been barely a month with The Regiment. He was a humourless individual who lacked the common touch, and everyone knew he loved the sound of his own voice far too much.
‘So that, gentlemen, is the Lebanon,’ the Major began. ‘Not a pre
tty picture. Now, yesterday morning I asked each troop for your plans on four mission scenarios. Well, I have your plans before me and I have read them all, and I can’t say I’m impressed.
‘Shall we start with the Lebanon bank raid?’ the Major continued. ‘To recap, your mission was to gain access to the vaults of the Imperial Bank of Beirut and seize papers that are of high intelligence value to Her Majesty’s Government. The bank lies in the middle of the Beirut war zone, so such robberies are not unheard of. You have all been on the ground in Beirut, I believe?’
Major Thistlethwaite glanced up from his notes, seeking confirmation of their previous Lebanon ops from the men. The British Government had green-lit these missions, but only begrudgingly. Increasingly, the Commanding Officer of the SAS was being forced to fight tooth and nail to secure such work. On several occasions in recent years the SAS had come perilously close to being disbanded.
The ruling Labour government was strongly opposed to covert operations, and even the military high command was questioning the need for special forces and the maverick men they attracted. New officers kept being foisted upon The Regiment, tasked with bringing the more unruly elements into line. The men of Q Squadron were certain that Major Thistlethwaite was one of these. Nothing else would explain how he’d made it into the SAS.
The Major glanced enquiringly at his men. All he got in return was a series of blank stares. The mess tent was silent for several seconds as he waited for one of the men to speak. If only the Major had been able to, he would have learned an important lesson from their silence: it was impossible to command an SAS squadron without the support and respect of the men.
‘No one got anything to say?’ the Major snapped. ‘Then I’ll take your silence as a tacit recognition of your previous Lebanese ops. So – the bank raid. Up-to-date intel suggests that the bank is continuing to do business five days a week …’
