Strike Back

by Chris Ryan

  CHRIS

  RYAN

  Strike

  Back

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Also by Chris Ryan

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eightteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407069890

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Century 2007

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  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2007

  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 Great Britain in 2007 by Century

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

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

  HB ISBN 9781844135356 TPB ISBN 9781844135479

  The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from wellmanaged and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/paper.htm

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  Also by Chris Ryan

  The One That Got Away

  Fiction

  Stand By, Stand By

  Zero Option

  The Kremlin Device

  Tenth Man Down

  The Hit List

  The Watchman

  Land of Fire

  Greed

  The Increment

  Blackout

  In the Alpha Force Series

  Survival

  Rat-Catcher

  Desert Pursuit

  Hostage

  Red Centre

  Hunted

  Black Gold

  Blood Money

  Fault Line

  Untouchable

  In the Code Red Series

  Flash Flood

  Wildfire

  Non-fiction

  Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book

  Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To my agent Barbar Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.

  PROLOGUE

  The Mediterranean: Tuesday, 12 September 1989

  John Porter folded the telegram into the inside breast pocket of his olive-green combat uniform. He permitted himself a brief smile, then walked swiftly up the grey gunmetal stairs that led up to the deck of HMS Dorset. A stiff breeze was blowing up from the Lebanese coastline, and he could feel it catching his jet-black hair, thrusting it down into the bones of his face.

  ‘Baby Girl. Born 23.11, 11.9.89. 7lb. Sandy. Love Diana,’ the telegram had read. The words were already stencilled into his mind. My first kid, he thought to himself. Sandy. I can hardly wait to see the smile on her face when she lays eyes on her dad.

  All I need to do is try not to bugger things up by getting myself shot in the next few hours.

  He walked purposefully towards the rest of the unit. The Dorset had been anchored off the Lebanese coast for three days now, waiting for the spooks to assemble enough info for the mission to kick-off. A British businessman, from one of the arms manufacturers that racked up billions in vital exports every year, had been held in one of the brutal basements of Beirut for the last four months. There was no way the government was willing to negotiate with his captors: they were already armed to the teeth without handing over the sophisticated missile systems they were demanding for Kenneth Bratton’s release. So the government had done what it always did when the going got tough: called on the Regiment to sort out the mess. Their mission was to go in, and bring Bratton out. Preferably, though not necessarily, alive.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Porter’s eyes swivelled round. Major Chris Pemberton was standing only a couple of feet away. A tall man, with more lines chiselled into his face than was normal for a man in his late forties, he was smiling, but there were still traces of ice in his steely, grey eyes. He had a rich Yorkshire accent, and a scar sliced down the side of his right cheek.

  Porter nodded. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Called Sandy.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Pemberton. ‘Girls love their dads. Always. Doesn’t matter what a useless old bugger you are.’

  ‘Is that …’

  Porter could have finished the sentence, but he could tell the Major had already lost interest. He wasn’t here to swap tips on brands of nappies. A harsh wind was blowing in from the coastline, and a few miles across the horizon some blacklooking clouds were starting to swirl out across the sea. If they were going to fly in tonight, there wasn’t much time left. It looked as if a storm was brewing.

  ‘We can stand you down if you want to,’ said Pemberton. ‘We have backup.’

  Porter paused. Stand down? Why the hell would he want to stand down? He had spent eight years in the Irish Guards, and seen plenty of contacts across the water, then, a year ago, he’d made his third request for a transfer to the SAS. When he’d been accepted into the Regiment, it was the best moment of his career. Now he was about to go on the first mission where real blood was at stake. He’d sooner toss himself over the side of this ship than stand down. This is what it had all been about.

  ‘Appreciate it, sir,’ he said tersely. ‘But I’ll be fine.’

  Pemberton examined him closely, the grey eyes flickering across his face, scrutinising him for any sign of weakness. ‘We don’t like to send men out when they’ve got other things on their mind, and this is an important mission. We can’t afford any fuck-ups
. You’re entitled to forty-eight hours leave when you have a kid, and if you want to take it, no one will think any the less of you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’ve already proved yourself, Porter. You don’t need to prove yourself again.’

  ‘I said, I’ll be fine …’

  Pemberton patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good man,’ he muttered.

  Together they joined the rest of the unit. Steve, Mike, Dan and Keith were all far more experienced than Porter. Mike had only been in the Regiment two years, but the other three had clocked up fifteen years between them. They should know what they are doing, Porter reflected. And if they don’t, then God help us.

  ‘The mission is set for 2000 hours,’ snapped Pemberton. ‘There will be a full briefing in fifteen minutes.’

  Porter could feel the adrenalin surging within him. It was only forty-eight hours since they’d been assembled in Hereford, and put on a plane to Cyprus. From there they were flown out here on the same Puma chopper that was going to take them straight into enemy territory in the next couple of hours.

  ‘Well done on the kid, mate,’ said Steve.

  He grinned. A Welshman with a neat line in patter, Steve was the only other man on the unit with a wife and kids at home. He joked all the time about how he’d rather be back in the Falklands than pushing prams around Newport.

  ‘We can organise a nice little flesh wound, if you like,’ said Keith. ‘Get you a few months in hospital chatting up the nurses, and by the time you get back, you’ll have missed all the nappies.’

  A Londoner with an easy charm, Keith was the joker of the pack, and always the first of them to organise a night out. Porter laughed. But there was no time left to mess around. The five-man unit trooped below deck to the Dorset’s ops room. Pemberton was standing in front of a white screen, tapping the palm of his right hand with a well-chewed pencil. At his side, Porter noticed a guy of maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, with dark blond hair, the colour of biscuits, and a nonchalant cocksure manner that Porter didn’t much care for. ‘This is Peregrine Collinson,’ said Pemberton. ‘Irish Guards. He’s going to be observing us today.’

  ‘Call me Perry,’ Collinson interrupted. His voice rang out around the tiny room, at least a couple of decibels too loud. We’re just having a chat, mate, Porter thought. You’re not addressing a battle-ready battalion.

  ‘I’ll call you Gloria,’ muttered Steve.

  Porter was already laughing when he heard Pemberton snap: ‘What was that?’

  ‘Glorious, sir, glorious,’ said Steve.

  Pemberton ignored him. ‘I know we don’t usually include men from any other regiments on our briefings, but Perry is a fine soldier, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help out.’

  There was no time for any of the men to worry about him: they had just a few minutes to memorise their instructions. After weeks of patient detective work, the Firm had identified the address where Bratton was being held. Hostages were moved every eighteen to twenty-four hours to reduce the chances of their location being revealed, usually using Hezbollah operatives posing as taxi drivers. Agents inside Beirut had managed to turn one of them: the man was desperate for money, and grateful for the fifty thousand dollars handed over in crisp, clean notes. In return, he’d been given a Coke tin with a satellite tracking device hidden inside it. When he had a fix on the hostage’s location, he crushed the tin to activate the tracker and dropped it in the gutter outside the house. He’d left it there two hours ago, and ever since then the Firm had known precisely where Bratton was. But they had to go in tonight. By morning, he could have been switched to another location.

  Intelligence reckoned there were twelve Hezbollah guards, on two rotating shifts of six men. There was backup not far away, so they would have to move fast. Thirty minutes was the maximum window from touchdown to evacuation. Any longer than that and they would be overrun by the enemy. The plan was what they’d trained for over the years. Standard hostage-evacuation procedure. A Puma chopper would take them in, and drop them onto the roof of the building. They would go in hard, kill everything that wasn’t nailed down to the floor, then get the hell out. If anything went wrong there was a backup unit waiting on the ship. They had all done it at the killing house back in Hereford a dozen times. There was no need to change the formula now. Just make it work.

  ‘One word of warning,’ said Pemberton, his voice turning grave. ‘The Firm reckons its man inside Hezbollah has put this marker outside the right building but you never know if you can trust any of those bastards. Beirut is the most dishonest, double-crossing few square miles of real estate in the world. They could have turned our informant, or he might have been double-crossing us all along. Just be prepared to have a welcoming party waiting for you.’

  His eyes rested for a brief moment directly on Porter. ‘So you could be walking straight into a trap. The moment you smell anything fishy, don’t stop to investigate. Shoot your way clear of danger then get the hell back to base. The last thing we need is five British soldiers taken prisoner in that hellhole, and we won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you if that happens. Remember, just living to fight another day is a victory in itself. So good luck, and give them hell.’

  Porter was next to Steve as they climbed up towards the deck. The Puma chopper was revved up and ready to go. Before lift-off, each man was responsible for his own kit. Porter ran a quick inventory of his pack. Two stun grenades, two regular grenades, a pistol, a knife, a first-aid kit, a water bottle and, most important of all, an M16 assault rifle, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.

  They moved out swiftly along the metal staircase, twisting through the narrow spaces that led up to the metal deck. It was already two minutes to eight: the mission was scheduled to kick of 2000 hours. Porter heard a snapping sound behind him, then a muffled cry. As he turned round, he could see Dan keeling over, his face contorted with pain. Porter had seen that face a dozen times playing football. He’s ripped open a tendon, he thought. ‘You OK?’ he said.

  Dan was trying to stand up, pushing himself towards the staircase, but tears of pain were streaming down his face every time his foot touched the ground. ‘It’s no bloody good,’ hissed Steve. ‘You’re useless like that.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Sod the heroics, mate,’ growled Porter. ‘You’re sitting this one out.’

  ‘I’ll take his place,’ said Perry, standing at Porter’s side.

  Porter turned to look at him. ‘This is a Regiment job, mate,’ he said. ‘Get yourself down to Hereford and pass the selection test, and then we’ll consider you.’

  Pemberton had already joined them. He was looking from Porter, to Steve, then across to Perry. There was a frown creasing up his forehead. Not surprising, thought Porter. One minute to take-off, and we’ve screwed it up already. ‘You’re a man short,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll be fine as we are,’ said Mike.

  ‘You need the men,’ said Pemberton.

  ‘Get one of the backup guys,’ said Steve.

  Pemberton shook his head. ‘They’re too far away.’

  He glanced at Perry, as if he was assessing the man’s character. ‘You’re in,’ he snapped. ‘Now the lot of you should be on that chopper in thirty seconds.’

  Porter started running. Within seconds he was out on the open deck. ‘I can’t believe we’ve some fucking Rupert coming with us,’ snapped Steve. ‘I reckon we just tip the snotty-nosed little git out into the Med.’

  ‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Porter.

  ‘His old man was a general, Daniel Collinson,’ said Steve. ‘Then he made a second career for himself in the City. His godfather’s Sir Arnold Langham, used to be at the Ministry of Defence. Collinson knows where all the strings are and how to pull them. The bloke has got more connections than bloody British Airways. Doesn’t mind using them either.’

  The chopper was revved up, and ready to fly. Porter climbed inside, pushing his back to the machine’s steel fra
me. Steve, Mike and Keith were squeezed in next to him. Perry was sitting a few feet away. As the chopper soared upwards, Porter could feel a giddy moment of weightlessness. He looked into Perry’s eyes, wondering what he could see there. Fear, maybe? No. It was contempt. For the lads or for the enemy, it was impossible to tell.

  The roar of the Puma’s blades was deafening. Each man had a two-way radio tucked inside his helmet, allowing him to receive instructions from the pilot. Nobody was speaking. In the moments before a mission kicked off, nobody ever spoke. Each man needed a few minutes of silence to settle himself, and to make his own peace with the certain knowledge that although there was a decent chance of coming back alive, the odds weren’t what any sane man would accept.

  ‘As Sir Winston Churchill said on the BBC, in July 1940,’ started Collinson, speaking over the radio so that his words were delivered crisply to each man on the chopper, ‘“This is a war of the unknown warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of tyranny will be lifted from our age.”’ He paused. ‘I just thought we should remember that in the next couple of hours, and maybe draw strength from it.’

  Steve rolled his eyes. He took off his helmet, and pulled out the headphones embedded inside. ‘Funny, can’t hear a sodding thing,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard over the din of the engine. ‘Bloody kit must be on the blink already.’

  The Puma had rolled high into the air as it approached the coast, but now it was dipping low, hugging the ground, as it flew over the docks, and took them straight into the heart of the city. By staying as close to the ground as possible, the chopper would be impossible to detect on radar, and a lot harder to hit with a missile launcher: the enemy had no time to get it in their sights before it had disappeared from view. But it made for a stomach-churning ride. Porter had done it a couple of times in Ulster, flying low over dangerous border country when it was controlled by the Provos, and he’d learnt not to bother eating anything in the few hours before a mission. It just ended up on your shoes. Glancing around, he could see Steve and Keith hanging on to the side of the machine, their expressions grim. And glancing across at Perry, he noted with just a touch of satisfaction that the man was holding on to his stomach. You’re going to be a bloody liability on this gig, mate, he thought to himself.