by Andy McNab
ZERO HOUR
Andy McNab
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Also by Andy McNab
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Four
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Five
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Six
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Seven
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
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 9781407054940
www.randomhouse.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright (c) Andy McNab 2010
Andy McNab has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBNs 9780593064986 (cased)
9780593064993 (tpb)
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.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Also by Andy McNab
Novels featuring Nick Stone
REMOTE CONTROL
CRISIS FOUR
FIREWALL
LAST LIGHT
LIBERATION DAY
DARK WINTER
DEEP BLACK
AGGRESSOR
RECOIL
CROSSFIRE
BRUTE FORCE
EXIT WOUND
Andy McNab with Kym Jordan
WAR TORN
Quick Reads
THE GREY MAN
LAST NIGHT ANOTHER SOLDIER
Non-fiction
BRAVO TWO ZERO
IMMEDIATE ACTION
SEVEN TROOP
SPOKEN FROM THE FRONT
For more information on Andy McNab and his books, see his website at www.andymcnab.co.uk
PART ONE
1
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
22.39 hrs
The Arab guy at the keyboard was so small his feet only just touched the pedals. His shirt collar was far too big for him, and so were his green suit and matching bow-tie. It looked like the management had ordered a dozen the same size and tough shit if you didn’t fit. Tonight’s menu had been dished up along much the same lines, but at least the place had air-conditioning.
Diane perched herself on the stool next to mine. She was dressed up for a night out. Everything was covered, but she’d overdone the makeup. She crossed her legs and leant towards me. The pack of B&H glinted in the bar light.
I picked up my orange juice with a shake of the head. ‘No thanks, I don’t.’
‘Quite right too.’ She tapped a long red nail on her disposable lighter, took her first deep drag and reached for her G-and-T.
‘What do you think of it so far, Nick?’
‘My kind of party.’ I checked my G-Shock. Less than nineteen minutes to go.
Her half-emptied glass went back on the bar. She studied me as she took another drag. ‘Your first time?’
I gave her a grin. ‘Thought I’d give it a go.’
‘This is my second.’ She swivelled to face me, losing herself for a moment in a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘The first time I didn’t really want to come. It was so soon after my divorce. But all my friends— Well, everybody has their own lives, don’t they? Kids and mortgages. Too much going on, I suppose.’
‘Same here. I was left at a loose end. My mates have better things to do than play around with a single lad. Or maybe their wives won’t let them out in case I lead them astray. I’ve always wanted to come here, so when I saw the ad I thought, Why not?’
She took another drag and raised her drink again. We clinked glasses, toasting our exclusion from the world. She sucked an ice cube into her mouth
and crunched it.
‘How long were you married, Nick?’
‘Not long. Couple of years. You?’
‘Fifteen.’ She made it sound like we were cellmates comparing stretches.
‘Long time …’
She downed the rest of her gin a bit too quickly. I sensed her life story was about to swamp me. I pointed at her glass and mimed a scribble to the barman.
She kept going. ‘You’re right. A very long time. We didn’t have any kids. He left me for a younger woman, of course. He’s got a little girl now.’
A fresh glass appeared. The first sip went down very smoothly.
‘What about you, Nick?’
‘Only one.’
‘How old?’
‘She was sixteen.’
Her face fell. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘How did she … pass away … if you don’t mind me asking?’ Her hand slid across and gripped my arm.
‘An accident. In London. She was … run over.’ I didn’t care if she thought I was lying or not. ‘Anyway, I’m knackered - I think I’m going to head back.’
‘Oh, please, I didn’t mean to upset you. Please stay.’
‘It’s not that.’ I smiled at her. ‘You know what? Maybe that’s why I’m here. The women in my life don’t tend to stick around for long. I tend not to get that involved, you know what I mean?’
The bill arrived. I made a move for my wallet but she gripped me more tightly.
‘I think you and me are exactly the same, Nick. The last thing I want is an … attachment.’
I freed my sleeve and counted out some notes. She was getting ready to leave too. ‘So, Nick, maybe we could go back to the hotel and have a quiet drink there, away from the rest of the gang?’
She nodded over at the restaurant area, where a table of eight or nine was still waffling about today’s highlights.
‘Thanks, Di. But I think I’ll just get my head down.’
I grabbed my nylon day sack and slid off the stool. I turned for the door as she finished off her drink. She wasn’t giving up. ‘Nick, if you can’t sleep, call my room. I’ll only be reading. Or I’ll be downstairs with the others. Anything but sleeping. It’s just so … hot …’
She wasn’t wrong. I pushed open the doors and walked out of the Jisr al-Kabir into the heat of the night. The restaurant was only a stone’s throw from the landmark suspension bridge that spanned the Euphrates in the north-eastern city of Deir el-Zor, but there was no cooling breeze off the river. Deir el-Zor meant ‘monastery in the forest’, Baltasar had told us. I’d have to take his word for it. All I’d seen was rugged mountains and desert, and farmers tilling the fields on the banks of the river. Not much went on here unless it had to do with the newly invigorated tourist trade. All the action was eighty miles downstream, in neighbouring Iraq.
There were untold numbers of ancient cities around here, our guide had continued. They’d survived Romans, Jews, Ottomans and even the French, who ran the country until 1946. Just about the only natives we’d come across were street vendors trying to flog us camel-hair blankets or sacks of cardamom or coriander. What the fuck was I going to do with any of those?
It was here that we’d be staying for the next three nights of our ten-night run-around of Syria’s religious and cultural sights and antiquities. Our tour group was a mix of born-again singles looking for the Promised Land, history-buff singles who wanted to follow the routes of Crusaders and sad-fuck singles like me and Di.
The hotel was the other side of the river. I wandered past the teahouses that lined the road down to the bridge. The pavement tables overflowed with old guys, their hookah-pipes bubbling away as they spun the shit. You name it, the topic was taboo in Syria, but the night was the coolest time to get out and get waffling to your mates, so here they were. And the open air was just about the only place they could be confident the secret police’s ears weren’t flapping.
I smiled to myself. If everything went to plan in the next two hours, these lads were going to have a lot more to talk about. And they weren’t the only ones.
2
As I crossed the suspension bridge I couldn’t help another little smile. We’d been here earlier today with our ever-enthusiastic guide. Baltasar was a squat, energetic little man with an enormous moustache. He kept twirling the tips as if they were waxed, but they weren’t. Seconds after each twirl, the whole arrangement would collapse again in the heat.
He was so devoted to his mother-country that he claimed just about everything you could think of originated from here. Even Jesus spoke Syriac - which was probably the only fact he’d given us that was actually true. As we’d gazed out across the mighty waters he’d told us the Euphrates featured strongly in the prophecies of the Book of Revelation. ‘Where it is written that the river will be one of the scenes of Armageddon …’ He’d raised his hands to the skies like a prophet. ‘The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the east.’
Tonight it wasn’t going to be kings coming from the east. It was going to be loud bolts of thunder roaring in from the west, in the form of seven F-15 fighter jets armed with AGM-65 Maverick missiles and 500-pound bombs.
The hotel lay a block beyond the far bank. The rectangular concrete monolith had had a few licks of green paint and a bit of a dig-out to cater for the tourists, but that was about it. The air-conditioning, like Baltasar’s take on history, was beyond repair.
The security guard at the front door had a blue sweater on over his blue overalls. There wasn’t as much as one drop of sweat on his ancient face. I went into the lobby. The small bar area and a couple of soon-to-be-threadbare sofas were taken up by faces from our Road to Damascus tour. I hadn’t bothered to find out all their names. Baltasar was at the centre of the group.
‘Ah! Mr Shepherd! Are you not coming to join us?’ He gave his whiskers a tweak. ‘I was explaining about the archaeological remains at Dura-Europos and—’
I kept on walking. I pulled out my BlackBerry and waved it. ‘I’ll maybe come down later, mate. I’ve got to make a call.’
There weren’t any lifts. The stairway was encased in mustard-coloured walls and a musty, smelly brown carpet that kept me company up all six flights. I’d asked for a room at the top. I wanted the view over the city; I didn’t mind what it cost.
I let myself in with a large key. The room was basic, but at least it was clean. There were two sheets and a pillow, a thin green blanket and no TV. A two-litre bottle of water and a small glass took the place of a mini-bar. I used it to clean my teeth each morning, then got the rest of it down my neck before buying another from Reception for the day’s sightseeing.
I shoved my earphones into place and hit the icon that looked like a date and time application. It took a second or two to load, and when it did I tapped in Cody’s number.
There was a long tone, followed by a short break. Cody Zero One was beginning to receive the call. The green padlock icon on his illuminated screen would be telling him it was in secure mode. He wouldn’t have to shove anything in his ear. He’d just press a button and take it on loudspeaker.
Cody Zero One was my new mate in Air Combat Command at Nellis Air Force Base. He was in the CAOC (Combined Air Operations Center) but this was a Coalition operation. The US might be controlling things from Nevada, but it was British boffins at GCHQ who’d contributed the technical and electronics expertise, while the Israelis were providing and flying the weapons-delivery platforms, the F-15s. All three empires were all taking part.
Nellis was about eight miles from the centre of Las Vegas. I knew it well. I’d been there a number of times when I was in the Regiment. We came with RAF Tornado crews to practise splashing targets with lasers so they could come in and bomb them. After a day on the ranges, we’d get down and hit Vegas for as long as we could. Not so much for the gambling - what’s the point? - but for the big bowls of shrimp the
y gave away free to keep you at the slots and tables.
The tone sounded another two times before a familiar Texan drawl came online. ‘This is Cody Zero One. Identify yourself. Over.’
The signal strength was fine, but sound quality wasn’t that good and there was a delay of about one and a half seconds. He sounded like he was doing lengths in a swimming-pool. The software was very much first-generation. It had to take what I was saying, bounce it off whatever satellite they were using, encrypt it, bounce it down to Cody and back to me once Cody started gobbing off. We had to follow radio voice procedure.
I pictured Cody in his air-conditioned bunker twenty metres under the Nevada scrublands, with his desert camouflage uniform starched to fuck, and his perfect teeth and white walled haircut. Alongside him would be a jug of coffee and a box of Krispy Kremes, and in front of him a set of massive plasma screens projecting real-time satellite pictures of the target about twenty miles from my balcony.
The al-Kibar complex was a nuclear reactor. Specifically, it was a gas-cooled, graphite-moderated reactor, a carbon copy of the Yongbyon plutonium reactor in North Korea. As you’d expect, the Israelis were unhappy about having one of these on their doorstep, especially one that was tooling up to produce nuclear weapons for a country they had technically been at war with for sixty years. To make things worse, North Korea and Iran were both implicated. Iran was going to use al-Kibar as a secondary facility for its own nuclear programme.
Tonight’s operation was going to take less than an hour from start to finish, but it had taken nearly a year to confirm and plan. Luckily for me, it was the UK that had put one of the two final nails into the coffin of al-Kibar. I was holding the shitty end of the stick, but that didn’t matter to me: I was here to fly the Union Jack. Fucking about in another country, getting things done and, more importantly, getting away with it, that was the juice for me.
My iPod earphones sparked up again.
‘This is Cody Zero One. I say again, identify yourself, over.’
‘Cody Zero One, this is James Zero Two. Over.’
I couldn’t wait for the day when the software was so smooth you could just talk.
Cody came back after a couple of seconds. ‘Roger that, James Zero Two. Fifty-nine - I say again, fiver-niner. Over.’
