by Andy McNab
We were a few feet short of the gap between the treeline and fence when I stopped again and listened. Tom did the same, one pace after mine.
If they had NVG (night viewing goggles) and were keeping watch, we would find out very soon. There was nothing I could do about it; this was our only approach.
Tilting my head so my ear pointed toward the house, I tried to listen just that little bit harder, my hearing trying to overcome the noise of the wind, while at the same time edging my eyes round in their sockets toward the house to check for movement. I must have looked like a mime artist to Tom.
There was a faint glimmer of light coming from the left-hand shutter on the ground floor; it was far weaker than last night. I could only just see it. Did that mean everyone was in bed, or crowded round the TV?
I put my hand up in front of his face and signaled Tom to wait where he was. Then my fingers did a little walking-sign motion.
He nodded as I moved off into the darkness, following the wheel rut toward the gate. I was exposed to the wind once I'd passed the treeline. It was now strong enough to push against my coat, but not enough to affect my walking. Nothing much had changed on the other side of the fence, even the 4x4 was parked in the same position.
On the recce there hadn't been any electrical current running through the fence; I would have known when I'd touched it. If there was some tonight I was just about to find out. Biting off my right outer glove, I pulled the touch glove down and quickly felt the gate, not even taking a breath in anticipation. Fuck it, just get on with it. If it was wired up, the shock wouldn't be any different because I'd hesitated. As I put the gloves back on I checked the padlocks. They hadn't been left undone, not that I'd expected them to be. That would be too much like good luck.
There was no way I could cut the gate chains or fence, because that would compromise the job. The bolt cutters weighing a ton in my backpack were only to get us out of the compound if we were compromised on target without them we'd be running around in there like rats in a barrel. Getting out of a place had always been more important to me than getting in,
21
I headed hack to Tom and out of the wind. He hadn't moved an inch since I'd left him; head down, arms by his side, a vapor cloud rising above him. Slowly easing the backpack off my shoulders, I knelt down in the wheel rut and tugged on his sleeve.
Tom lowered himself to join me.
You only take out one bit of kit at a time from a backpack, then deal with it, which means packing so the first item you want is the last bit you put in. Getting him to keep the backpack upright by holding the bolt-cutter handles sticking out on either side of the top, I undid the clips and lifted the flap. Then, moving some of the toweling that stopped everything from rattling around, I took out one webbing loop and a hook.
Twisting two turns of the strapping around the nail hook, where it emerged from the wood, I handed the device, now with a three-foot loop hanging from it, to Tom. He gripped the wood in his right hand, exactly as he'd been shown, with the hook angled down and protruding between his index and middle fingers. Attaching another webbing loop in exactly the same way to another hook, I handed it over, and he took that in his left hand. I then assembled the other two devices in the same way, and re clipped and replaced the backpack on my back, then took one in each hand.
Looking around at both the target and the sky, I noticed no discernible change in either. I just hoped it would stay that way.
Taking a step closer to Tom, I whispered into his ear, "Ready?"
I got a slow nod and a couple of short, sharp breaths in return. I started to move the last few feet toward the gate.
My eyes were fixed on the house, but my brain was already crossing the fence: It was going to be our most vulnerable time. If things went wrong in the house, fine, I could react. Up there on the fence, we'd be fatally exposed, just like my friend hanging from his jacket cord, watching helplessly as they walked up and shot him.
I stopped, my nose six inches from the gate, and turned.
Tom was two paces behind, head bent to the left, trying to keep the wind out of his face.
Turning back to the gate, I raised my right hand to just above shoulder height, the hook facing the diamond-shaped lattice, and gently eased the bent nail into a gap. The rubber bands around the nail were to eliminate noise, but I'd deliberately left the bend itself exposed: When I heard and felt metal on metal, I'd know it was correctly in position. Otherwise, if weight was applied with the hook badly positioned, there was a possibility of the nail straightening under the strain. That was why we both had a spare device. If there was a drama and one of these things started straightening while we climbed, the other loop and hook would have to hold our weight while the broken one was replaced.
The bend in the nail engaged the fencing with the gentlest of scrapes, the bottom of the strapping loop hanging about a foot above the wheel rut. I inserted the left hook about six inches higher, and a shoulder width apart.
It was pointless at this stage worrying about being so exposed to view from the house. All we could do was just get on with it, hoping they didn't see us. There was no other way. If I'd tried the previous night to find somewhere to cross on the side or rear of the building, I would have left tracks everywhere for someone to spot this morning, and my boot prints sure didn't look like reindeer hooves. Even if I'd been able to recce all the way around, I would still face the problem of sign inside the compound. At least the front of the house was crisscrossed by footprints and tire tracks.
Gripping both chunks of wood so the hooks took my body weight, I placed my right foot in the right loop and, using my right leg muscles to push my body upward and pulling up with my hands and arms, I slowly rose above the ground. As the loop began to take the strain I could hear the nylon creaking, stretching just a few millimeters as the fibers sorted themselves out.
The gate and chains rattled as the structure moved under my weight; I'd expected this to happen, but not so loudly. I froze for a few seconds and watched the house.
Satisfied that the right loop was supporting me, I lifted my left into the bottom of the one about six inches higher. I was now a foot off the ground, only about another forty-four to go.
I didn't bother looking at Tom again. From now on I was going to concentrate on what I was doing, knowing that he would be watching me closely and that he knew what was required of him.
I shifted my body weight again until all the pressure was on my left foot and hand; now it was this loop's turn to protest as it stretched that few millimeters for the first time. Lifting out the right hook, but keeping my foot in the loop, I reached up and put it back into the fence six inches above the level of the left one, again a shoulder width apart. Tom was right, it was like Spiderman climbing a wall, only instead of suction pads my hands had hooks and my feet had loops of nylon strapping.
I repeated the process twice more, trying to control my breathing through my nose as my body demanded more oxygen to feed the muscles. I checked below me. Tom was looking up, his head angled against the wind.
I wanted first to gain height and clear the snow drifts in the gap, then traverse left over them and continue climbing near a support post.
I didn't want us to climb directly above the wheel rut, not only because a vehicle or people might appear at the gate, but also because the higher we climbed, the more noise the fence would make as our weight moved it about. I was aiming for the first of the steel poles that the lattice sections were fixed to. If we climbed with our hooks each side of it, it would stop the fence from buckling and lessen the noise.
I now moved vertically to the left six inches at a time. After three more moves I was off the gate and onto the fence proper, and halfway up the first of the three sections that gave the fence its height. The smooth, unmarked snow was a couple of yards below me. There was still a few feet to go before I reached the support, but I didn't want to get too far away from Tom.
Stopping, I looked down at him and nodded. It was
his turn to play now and follow my route. He took his time; there was a slight grunt as he took the weight on his right leg, and I hoped he remembered what I'd said, that it was all in the leg muscles, even though that was a lie. He'd need quite a bit of upper-body strength as well, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I didn't want to put him off before he'd even started.
The gate moved and the chains raided far too loudly for comfort.
Thankfully the wind was blowing from left to right, carrying some of our noise away from the building.
Tom hadn't quite got the hang of how to balance himself. As he went to insert his left foot in the loop he started to swivel to the right, forcing himself round to the left so he was flat against the fence once again. I could hear clown music playing in my head already. As I looked down at him under my right armpit, I thought of all the other times I'd had to climb over obstacles or move along roofs with people like Tom, experts in their field but simply unused to anything that demanded more physical coordination than boarding a bus or getting up from a chair. It nearly always ended up in a gang fuck He looked so ridiculous that I couldn't help smiling, even though his incompetence was the last thing I needed right now. For a moment I thought I'd have to go back down to him, but he eventually got his left foot into the loop and made his first ascent. Unfortunately he was so jittery that he started to swing over to the left as he released the right hook from the fence.
Tom worked hard at it, huffing and grunting as he struggled to sort himself out, then, strangely, he found the traverse a bit easier. He still looked a bag of shit, but he was making progress. I kept my eyes on target while he made his way toward me.
Moving up and across a few more times, my hooks were soon on each side of the first support. The massive steel pole was maybe a foot in diameter. I waited again for Tom, who was generating less noise now that he'd traversed onto the more rigid fence. The wind burned my exposed flesh as I forced myself to look around and check. The snot from my runny nose felt as if it was freezing on my top lip.
Ages later, Tom's head was less than a yard below my boots. Beneath us lay a deep drift of snow which extended back fifteen feet to the treeline.
Now that we both had a hook on each side of the support, the going was good and firm. All we had to do from here was climb vertically and get over the top. Pulling one hook away at a time I checked the nails.
They were standing up to the strain.
Tom was going at it like this was Everest, great clouds of vapor billowing round him as he panted for breath, his head moving up and down with the effort of sucking in more oxygen. He'd be sweating big time under his clothes, as much from the pressure he was under as from the huge amounts of physical energy he was needlessly exerting.
I moved another six inches, then another, edging my way upward, wishing we were going a bit quicker. About two-thirds of the way up, I looked down again to check on Tom.
He hadn't moved an inch since I'd last done so, his body shape flat against the fence, holding on for dear life. I couldn't tell what had happened and there was no silent way of attracting his attention. I willed him to look up at me.
He'd completely frozen, a common occurrence when people climb or rappel for the first time. It certainly has nothing to do with lack of strength-even a child has enough muscle to climb-but some people's legs just give out on them. It's a mental thing; they have the strength and know the technique, but they lack the confidence.
At last he looked up. I couldn't make out his expression, but his head was shaking from side to side. From this distance there was no way I could reason with him or offer assurance. Fuck it, I'd have to go down to him. Extracting the right hook, I began descending and traversing to the left. This was turning into a Ringling Brothers Circus act.
Getting level with him, I leaned across until my mouth was against his left ear. The wind picked up more and I had to whisper louder than I wanted. "What's the matter, mate?" I moved my head round to present an ear for his reply, watching the house as I waited.
"I can't do it, Nick. I'm fucked." It came out somewhere between a sob and a whimper. "I hate heights. I should have told you. I was going to say, but you know."
It was pointless showing him how pissed off I was. That's just the way some people are; it's no good shaking them or telling them to get a grip. If he could, he would. I knew he wanted to get over the fence just as much as I did.
"Not a problem."
Moving his head away from mine, he looked at me, half nodding, half hoping I was going to call it a day.
I got my mouth into his ear again. "I'll stay alongside you all the time, just like I am now. Just watch what I do and follow, okay?"
As I checked the house I heard him sniffing. I looked back; it wasn't just snot; he was in tears.
No point rushing him; not only did we have to get over, but we had to do it again once we'd done the job. If it started snowing now this really would turn into Ringling Brothers' evening performance.
My feet were in the wrong position; his right foot was down, but mine was up. Moving to alter that, I put on my best bedside manner. "We'll just take it nice and easy. Lots of people are scared of heights. Me, I don't like spiders. That's why I like coming this far north, there's none of the fuckers here. Too cold, know what I mean?"
He gave a little nervous laugh.
"Just keep looking at the top of the fence, Tom, and you'll be okay."
He nodded and took a deep breath.
"All right, I'll go first. One step, then you follow, all right?" I slowly put my weight on the left strap, moved up one and waited for him.
He shakily raised himself up level with me.
We did the same again.
I leaned toward his ear. "What did I tell you, no drama." While I was close to him I quickly checked his hooks. They were fine.
I decided to let him have a rest, let him bask in his glory and gain some confidence. "We'll rest here a minute, all right?"
The wind gusted around us, picking up ground snow in flurries. Tom was staring straight ahead at the fence just inches from his face. I was watching the house, both of us sniffing snot.
When his breathing had calmed down I gave him a nod; he nodded back and I started climbing again, and he kept pace, stride for stride.
We reached the top of the second of the three sections. Tom was getting the hang of it; a dozen or so more pulls on each side would take us to the top. I leaned across. "I'll get up there first and help you over the top, okay?"
I needed to traverse again. I wanted to cross away from the top of the pole so we didn't kick off any of the snow that had collected on its top. Something like that would be too easy to notice in daylight.
Tom was getting worried again and started to slap my leg. I ignored it at first, then he grasped my trousers. I looked down. He was in a frenzy, his free hand waving toward the track as his body swung from side to side.
I looked down. A white-clad body was fighting its way through snow that was nearly waist deep in the gap on the other side of the driveway. Behind him were others, and yet more were emerging from the treeline and moving directly onto the track. There must have been at least a dozen.
I could tell by the position and swing of their arms that they were carrying weapons.
Shit, Mahskia.
"Nick! Whatdowedo?"
I'd already told him a few hours ago what to do if we had a drama on the fence: do what I did.
"Jump. Fuck it jump!"
22
Gripping the wood hard and lifting with my arms so the hooks took my body weight, I kicked my feet from the loops and let go with my hands.
I just hoped the snow was deep enough to cushion my thirty foot fall.
I plummeted past Tom, who was still stuck to the fence, and prepared myself for the jump instructor's command when the wind is too strong and the drop zone, which should have been a nice empty field, has suddenly become the beltway: accept the landing.
I plunged into the snow feet first
and immediately started a parachute roll to my right, but crumpled as my ribs banged hard against a tree stump, immediately followed by one of the handles of the bolt cutters giving me the good news on the back of my head. It was starburst time in my eyes and brain. Pain spread outward from my chest, the snow that enveloped me muffling my involuntary cry.
I knew I had to get up and run, but I couldn't do a thing about it: My legs wouldn't play. Eyes stinging with snow, I moaned to myself as I fought the pain and tried to work out how deep I was buried.
Tom had found the courage to jump. I heard the wind being knocked out of him as he landed to my left, on his back. I still couldn't see anything from under the snow.
He recovered, panting hard. "Nick, Nick!"
The next thing I knew, he was towering over me, brushing the snow from my face. "Nick. Come on, mate, come on!"
My head was still spinning, my coordination screwed. I was no good to him and knew it would be only seconds before we were caught.
"Station, Tom! Go, go!"
He made an attempt to pick me up by my arms and drag me, but there was no way that was going to happen. It would have been hard enough for him in normal conditions, let alone in deep snow. "Tom, the station.
Go, just fuck off!"
His breathing labored a second time as he tried to take me with him.
The pain in my chest increased as he pulled my arms, only to be relieved as he let me drop back down. At last he'd got the message.
I opened my eyes to see him pulling the spare hook out of his coat. For a split second I couldn't work out why, and then I heard grunting right behind me. The Maliskia had got to us.
Tom launched himself over me. There was the sound of a thud, and a scream that was too low-pitched to be his.
The next thing I knew, Tom fell beside me, sobbing. There wasn't any time for that shit, he had to go. I pushed him away from me with my hands.
Not checking behind him, he left, stumbling over me on the way.
I wanted to follow but couldn't. Rolling over onto my stomach and pushing myself onto my hands and knees I started to drag myself up out of the hole. As I crested the top I saw Tom's victim, just ten feet away and trying to get to his feet. He brought his weapon up, blood oozing from the thigh of his white cold-weather gear and all around the climbing hook that was embedded in it.
