Tutored by McGovan, five of the jihadists were taught to strip and assemble their SA-80s, and while that was going on, a further three-man team did ‘dry’ practice training with the Spigot anti-tank missile, assembling it, stripping it down, reassembling it, and practising range-finding, loading, reloading, and sighting – everything, short of actually firing it.
After their basic training in weapon-handling, the jihadists moved on to fire and movement drills using live ammunition, with some of the group providing covering fire while the rest were advancing towards a notional target. Known in the military as ‘pepper-potting’, it was the basis of all infantry manoeuvres, but the surveillance team concluded that it was as foreign to McGovan’s raw jihadi recruits as Ancient Greek. However, while they were raw and untutored, they weren’t lacking in bravery. Even with live fire whistling a few inches over their heads, Harper didn’t see a single one flinch, or hesitate for a second in rising from cover when McGovan gave the order to move.
Screened by the terrain of the valley and the belts of forestry that surrounded it, the jihadists’ training continued without any interruption from outsiders. The noise of their activities, even the rattle and crack of live firing from semi-automatics, was lost in the heavy crump of artillery and mortar rounds, and the barrages of small-arms fire from the main ranges on the other side of the hill, where various army groups and new recruits were being put through their paces.
The jihadists’ training went on until just before last light, when McGovan ended the practice drills. He formed his jihadists into a circle around him and spoke to them for almost half an hour. The surveillance team could not pick up what was being said but it was obvious from the jihadists’ body language – the way they sat motionless, not speaking but listening intently – that he was delivering the final briefing before their long-planned attack. When he had finished speaking, the jihadists embraced each other, then packed up all their weapons and equipment and began loading them back on to the Land Rovers. Harper concentrated on identifying which vehicle held the Spigot anti-tank missile – he was sure it would be the crucial piece of the jigsaw.
By now Harper was reasonably sure that the jihadists intended to attack the listening station on Menwith Hill, using the Spigot missile from long distance, followed by a short-range attack, probably using suicide bombers and shaped charges to gain entry, but he wouldn’t know for sure until they were on the move.
CHAPTER 50
Harper was woken just after dawn by a warning from Barry Big in his earpiece. ‘Look lively, Lex, the Tangos are getting ready to leave.’
Harper was sleeping in the back of the BMW and he sat up, rubbing his face. ‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re loading up the Land Rovers. Looks like they’re leaving the range.’
Maggie was awake. She had been napping in the front passenger seat and pulled it into the upright position.
‘Barry Whisper, you hear this?’ asked Harper.
‘Roger that,’ said Barry Whisper. ‘I’m ready to go.’
‘Okay, Barry Big take point, Barry Whisper car two. Maggie and I’ll bring up the rear. Hansfree, do you still have the trackers?’
‘Both are running just fine,’ said Hansfree.
‘Let’s give them plenty of space, then,’ said Harper. Maggie shifted over to the driving seat. Harper grabbed a bottle of water as he got out of the car. He rinsed his mouth, spat, then got into the front passenger seat. ‘Where are they, Barry Whisper?’
‘Heading for Otterburn village, probably towards the A1.’
Maggie put the car in gear and they headed off in pursuit.
Barry Big and Barry Whisper took it in turns to give updates on the progress of the three-vehicle convoy as it headed south. The Land Rovers followed the strict discipline of a military convoy, driving with headlights on and observing all the speed limits. McGovan’s VW led the way but his headlights were off.
As they got closer to the intersection with the A59, Barry Big closed the gap with the convoy. He kept up a running commentary over the final mile: they would be taking the westbound route if they were heading back to Menwith Hill.
‘The Land Rovers are turning off,’ said Barry Big, as the convoy reached the intersection. ‘But Tango One is not indicating and is not changing direction. Repeat, Tango One is leaving the convoy, continuing south along the A1.’
Harper’s mind raced. It could be that McGovan was in a rush to get to the target first or that he was heading somewhere completely different. If that was the case there was a risk they would lose him because, unlike the Land Rovers, there was no tracking device on his car. ‘Okay, I’ll go with Tango One, you stay with the Land Rovers.’ He motioned for Maggie to pick up the pace and she stamped on the accelerator.
‘To do what exactly?’ asked Barry Big.
‘Just stick with them,’ said Harper.
‘Roger that, but they’re armed to the teeth and all I’ve got is my wit and charm.’
‘I’ll send reinforcements. Just keep eyeballing them,’ said Harper. ‘Barry Whisper, you stay behind Barry Big. Hansfree, you’re still tracking them?’
‘Affirmative,’ said Hansfree.
‘Keep me posted. Maggie and I’ll be with Tango One.’
As Maggie accelerated, Harper unzipped his hip-pack and took out the phone he’d used to store Button’s numbers and tapped one out. It rang out for a minute and she didn’t answer. He redialed and this time she picked up the call. ‘The RAF station at Menwith Hill is going to be attacked,’ he said.
‘When?’
‘The jihadists are heading there with all the gear. But Tango One is still driving south and I’m going with him.’
‘What do you think’s happening?’
‘I’d say they’re definitely getting ready to attack Menwith Hill but that might be a diversion. Get everyone’s attention focused up here while they do something bigger down south.’
‘What about Tango One? Are you still on schedule for the cancellation?’
‘If I get him on his own, yes. That’s more likely now that the main group has split off. But as I said, at the moment I’ve no idea where he’s going. You need to take care of Menwith Hill otherwise it’s going to be a bloodbath.’
‘The professionals are on their way,’ said Button. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m following Tango One. He’s on his own so he’s less of a threat now. But I’ve no idea what he’s up to. You need to get Menwith Hill sorted.’
‘I heard you the first time. I’ll deal with it. You just concentrate on McGovan.’
She ended the call. Harper peered through the windscreen. There was still no sign of the VW Jetta and he was about to tell Maggie to put her foot down even further when she gestured with her chin. ‘There he is. Just in front of that coach.’ She eased back on the accelerator.
‘Nice job,’ he said. ‘All right, everybody, we have eyes on Tango One, heading south.’
CHAPTER 51
McGovan kept his VW at a steady 70 m.p.h. and Maggie had no trouble following him as he headed down the A1. He joined the M1 outside Leeds, and Harper had assumed that McGovan was driving back to London so he was caught by surprise when the car took the M62, heading west to Manchester.
‘What’s he up to?’ he wondered. ‘Manchester hasn’t been on our radar.’ He called up Hansfree and asked him for a sit rep on the Land Rovers.
‘They’re not moving,’ said Hansfree. ‘They’re about a mile away from the listening station.’
‘Barry Big, Barry Whisper, either of you have eyeball?’
‘Roger that,’ said Barry Big, in Harper’s earpiece. ‘They’re unloading their gear. They’re not going anywhere.’
‘Keep well clear. The SAS are heading their way,’ said Harper.
‘Lex, four more Yankees have arrived at the unit,’ said Hansfree. ‘All Asians.’
‘Four more? How many’s that now?’
‘That makes eight. The latest arrivals came in two ca
rs so there are four vehicles there now.’
‘Can you see what they’re doing?’
‘Negative on that. They’re all inside the unit. To be honest, if it was me I’d be calling three nines by now. They’re clearly up to something and there’s enough ordinance in there to put them away for a long time.’
‘Just maintain surveillance,’ said Harper. ‘Let’s see what Tango One is up to.’
McGovan drove into the city. Maggie had to get closer to make sure they didn’t lose him but McGovan didn’t seem to be checking his mirrors or doing anything in the way of anti-surveillance.
Harper’s mobile rang. It was Button. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Manchester.’
‘Manchester? What’s happening in Manchester?’
‘That’s where McGovan is.’
‘He’s on his own?’
‘Yes. And if I get the chance I’ll take care of it.’
‘And everybody else?’
‘One of my team is with me. The rest are split between the industrial unit in Gravesend and the jihadists up at Menwith Hill.’
‘That’s why I’m calling,’ said Button. ‘The SAS are heading to Menwith Hill now. You need to make sure your people are clear by the time they get there.’
‘Will do.’
‘And keep me posted on McGovan.’
‘Understood,’ said Harper. He ended the call and switched to the radio. ‘Barry Whisper, Barry Big, you need to pull out now. Back to Gravesend.’
‘They’re all out of the vehicles, Lex,’ said Barry Big. ‘I think it’s going to kick off.’
‘That’s why you need to get the hell away,’ said Harper. ‘The heavy mob are moving in.’ Ahead of them, McGovan’s VW was slowing and indicating a left turn into a multi-storey car park. ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Harper.
McGovan stopped at a ticket machine, took a ticket, and after the barrier had gone up he drove through. Maggie followed him.
McGovan parked on the third floor. Maggie drove past and reversed into a parking space. McGovan got out of his VW and headed for the lift.
‘Do I stay or come with you?’ asked Maggie.
Harper had to make a split-second decision with almost no intel to go on. All he had was his gut feeling. ‘Come with,’ he said, grabbing his backpack. He climbed out, lifted the carpet, retrieved his gun from the hidden compartment and shoved it into his backpack. They hurried down the stairs and got to the ground floor just as McGovan stepped out of the lift. They followed him outside. McGovan was walking purposefully with no anti-surveillance techniques. Maggie slipped her arm through his. ‘Cover,’ she whispered.
Harper laughed. They walked faster, closing the gap. Harper realised they were heading for Manchester Piccadilly station. ‘Hansfree, looks like he’s catching a train,’ he whispered into his radio mic.
‘Where are you?’
‘Manchester Piccadilly.’
‘The trains run every twenty minutes to London Euston. Journey time just over two hours,’ said Hansfree. ‘But there are trains leaving for Liverpool, Hull, Norwich, Blackpool – he could be going anywhere.’
The pavements were relatively crowded so they were able to stick fairly close to McGovan as he headed inside the station. He joined the queue for the ticket office. Harper let a couple of people join the line, then took his place. Maggie put a phone to her ear and faked a phone call, standing close to the ticket windows.
When it was McGovan’s turn to buy a ticket they were lucky – the window was only a few feet from where Maggie was standing and she was able to overhear his destination. She nodded at Harper and went to one the automatic machines, still pretending to talk on her phone. Harper waited until McGovan had paid for his ticket before leaving the queue and joining her at the machine. ‘London,’ she said, feeding notes into it.
‘We’re London-bound, Hansfree,’ Harper said into his mic. ‘Get someone to meet me and Maggie, and set up surveillance there. A bike would be good.’
‘No problem,’ said Hansfree.
Maggie pulled the tickets from the dispenser. Harper looked around. McGovan was buying a baguette and coffee. Harper looked up at the departures board. The next train to London was due to leave in six minutes.
CHAPTER 52
It took the twin-rotored Chinook less than an hour to travel from Hereford to Menwith Hill. The helicopter flew the last twenty miles at treetop level and came in to land some ten miles from the RAF station. The rear ramp came down and eight SAS troopers drove out on two-man silenced four-wheel all-terrain vehicles. The four passengers were facing to the rear, their carbines at the ready. They were all dressed in camouflage gear, including Kevlar helmets. The troop leader had a GPS on his handlebars and headed off cross-country. The three others followed him in an arrow formation, like geese heading home for the winter.
They got to within a mile of their target, then left their vehicles parked in a small copse that bordered a field of bright yellow rape. They hurried up a slope and lay down at the crest of a hill overlooking the Menwith Hill listening station.
Two of the troopers had high-powered binoculars and soon located the eight jihadists, who were preparing their attack. Two of the men were assembling the Spigot on its tripod, which suggested the attack was imminent.
‘We need to move,’ said the oldest member of the squad, a ten-year veteran called Gary Jones, who went by the nickname Shagger, in reference to his Welsh ancestry rather than a description of his sexual prowess. He looked over at the squad’s medic, a former paratrooper who had been in the Regiment for just a couple of years. ‘What do you think, Dusty? Five minutes?’
‘It’s rough terrain,’ said Dusty. ‘Seven, maybe.’
‘You’re not in the Bird Shit now, chum. I say five.’
Bird Shit was the common nickname for the Parachute Regiment. It came from the observation that only two things fell from the sky – paratroopers and bird shit.
‘I suppose the vehicles are out of the question?’ said the medic.
‘They’ll hear us coming,’ said Shagger. ‘Even with the exhausts silenced.’
‘We could keep to the other side of that ridge. That’ll disperse most of the noise.’ He pointed off to the right.
Shagger nodded. ‘You’ll do anything to avoid a walk, won’t you?’
‘Fuck it, you take the vehicles and I’ll run,’ said Dusty. ‘But we could get a nice crossfire situation going. They wouldn’t know what’d hit them.’
Shagger knew that he was right. ‘Go, he said. Take Jethro and Sumo with you.’
The four troopers hurried back down the slope end retrieved their vehicles. They started them up and cut across the fields.
Shagger looked through his binoculars again. The jihadists were having trouble assembling the Spigot but they were making progress and he couldn’t wait too long.
‘That’s a Fagot, right?’ asked the trooper on his left. He was a Geordie called Beanie because of his likeness to the actor Sean Bean. ‘Saw a few in Afghanistan.’
The anti-tank missile had the NATO reporting name AT-4 Spigot but the Russians called it the 9K111 Fagot, which meant ‘bassoon’. It had been developed as a weapon that three men could carry and use to destroy a tank , but it would make a decent dent in the listening station. The launcher and tripod were carried by one man in a backpack, and the other two carried two launch tubes. So far as Shagger could see, the men down below had a full complement of four missiles.
‘How the fuck did they get one of those?’ asked Bean. ‘That’s a big boy’s toy, that is.’
The missiles were fired with the gunner lying prone and a good team could fire one every twenty seconds. Considering the trouble they were having assembling the equipment, Shagger doubted the men he was watching would get anywhere near that.
The missiles were easily big enough to take out a tank. It left the launch tube at 80 metres a second, then a solid-fuel motor kicked in more than doubling its speed. It was a fly-by-wire weapon,
which meant that the gunner had to keep aiming until the missile reached its target, up to two thousand metres away. It wasn’t a weapon for amateurs.
Shagger put away his binoculars. ‘Lock and load, and let’s get this started,’ he said. ‘The enemy down there are in uniform and carrying weapons, so this is a military engagement, pure and simple. We’re looking to take out the opposition, not collect prisoners.’ The men nodded, all eager for the off.
They crested the ridge and headed down the slopes, their carbines at the ready.
They moved at a slow run, crouched down, spread out across the hill. It took them the best part of two minutes to reach the bottom, and then they were moving across a field. Ahead was a ditch and they went through the muddy water without breaking stride.
Ahead the Spigot team finished assembling the weapon. One of the men stood up and looked at his watch, then towards the listening station in the distance. Another was lying down, preparing to take the shot. The third was arranging the missile tubes.
Shagger increased the pace. The man who had looked at his watch shouted something and the jihadists with rifles began to move towards the listening station. It was a mile away and they weren’t SAS fit, which meant it would take them at least ten minutes to cover the ground, probably longer. Shagger figured they wouldn’t fire the missile until the men were closer to the installation.
‘In position now,’ said a voice in his earpiece. Dusty.
‘Wait until we have contact,’ said Shagger. The closer they got to the targets the better, though they were already within range.
The jihadists were about halfway there and the man standing by the Spigot was shading his hand against the sun as he watched his colleagues’ progress. Then, slowly, he began to turn, scanning the area. Shagger knew he had two choices: to drop and hope the man wouldn’t see them or to start firing. They were well within range and the closer the jihadists got to the listening station the greater the risk they would start shooting.
‘Contact!’ he shouted, stopped and raised his carbine to his shoulder. He fired a short controlled burst at the man standing by the Spigot and was rewarded by the sight of his chest exploding in a mass of red. The rest of his team opened fire at the Spigot gunner and his assistant. More than a dozen rounds thwacked into them and they went still.
2016 - Takedown Page 20
