by Andy McNab
The floorboards still gave and plugs clattered and rattled out toward the deck. Others loaded the stuff into the wagons; I could hear their boots on the vans' metal floors.
The floorboards bent even more as the three lying next to me were hauled to their feet, amidst muffled groans and cries. The sobbing one was dragged past me and taken outside; the others followed. As the last of the three bodies passed, I heard a scream from the first one echo inside a van. I tried to convince myself they wouldn't go to all this trouble if they didn't want us alive.
As I listened to the second being manhandled after his friend, boots came for me, the creaking leather stopping just millimeters from my ear. Two pairs of large aggressive hands grabbed each side of me, under my armpits and on the arms, dragging me upright. I let my boots trail on the floor. I wanted to appear weak and slow, I wanted them to think I wasn't any sort of threat, somebody not worth worrying about, just a gray man in a bad way.
The two guys were grunting under the strain as we crossed the threshold onto the deck, my toes banged over the door ram and back down onto the wooden floor. At the same time my hands and neck were blitzed by the freezing cold, then it moved onto my face as the hood, made wet with my condensed breath, started to get cold inside.
Stumbling between my escorts down the steps from the deck, I was dragged straight ahead, then all of a sudden they stopped at the command of a gloved clap and turned right, jerking me round with them.
Perhaps they were going to separate me from the others? Would that be good or bad?
Within five seconds of being dragged in a new direction I knew I was indeed going into a different wagon. It wasn't a cold metal box; it felt like the backseat area of a 4x4. There was a climb up to get into it and it was carpeted and very warm. I was short-term pleased.
The door opposite was opened and hands reached over, gripping my coat and pulling me in, with grunts to match the effort. My shins scraped painfully over the door sill, and I was finally pushed down into the foot well I could feel one of the rear heating vents against my neck, blowing out hot air from under the seat; it was wonderful. Even through the hood I could smell the newness of the interior, and for some reason it made me feel a bit happier about my predicament.
The vehicle rocked as somebody jumped into the rear seat above me, their heels digging into me one by one, followed by a muzzle jabbed into the side of my face, smearing mucus back toward my ear. Nothing was said, but I got the idea: keep still. I was powerless to act anyway, so the best thing to do was just lie there and take advantage of the heat.
Our rear doors were kept open and the loading-bay activity was still audible. A few feet away I heard the telltale creak of a van door's retaining arm pushed back under pressure and then slammed shut.
There was a double tap on the side of the vehicle to let the driver know it was secure, but no one moved yet. We must be waiting to go in convoy. A few seconds later another sliding door was shut and there was silence.
There was still no talking from these people. Either they were working by hand signals or they knew exactly what to do.
The vehicle's suspension went into overtime as more bodies piled in.
All the doors closed, and it felt as if there were at least three people on the back seat. Boots were all over the place, a couple of pairs digging in their heels to keep me down. Another kicked my legs out of the way so he could rest his feet properly on the floor. I wasn't going to argue.
We seemed to be the first vehicle to move out of the compound, in low gear to handle the wheel ruts and ice, with the windshield wipers slapping side to side to counter the snow.
One of the people in the front was pressing switches on the dashboard.
There was a burst of music, some terrible Europop. It was turned off, and I heard them laugh quietly. No matter who they were and what side they were working for, at the end of the day they'd just done a job and so far it had been successful. They were releasing a little bit of tension.
I couldn't tell whether we'd reached the bend, because it was a long sweeping curve and I wouldn't feel it at this slow speed. But I soon sensed we were driving uphill; it wouldn't be far to go now before we hit the road. I was in deep, frozen shit and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.
23
We moved on for a few mare minutes and stopped. There was a clunk as the driver disengaged low gear and shifted into high, then set off again with a sharp left turn. We had to be on the gravel road, and the left turn meant that at least we wouldn't be driving past the Saab: that was further up on the right, toward the dead end. Did they already know where it was? Had they been here the night before, watching me carry out the recce, then followed me back to it? It made me worry about Tom again. Maybe they hadn't bothered to chase him too hard because they knew where he was heading. It wasn't whether he was dead or alive that worried me, it was just not knowing.
We began to accelerate gently. The front passenger seat back moved and creaked under what must have been a very large body pushing against my face. He was probably trying to get into a comfortable position with belt kit on.
The snow was now melting off the clothing of the three in the back and dripping down my neck. It wasn't the worst thing that had happened to me tonight, but it pretty much fitted in with the way my luck was going. There wasn't a lot I could do about it at the moment, apart from prepare for the ride by not tensing my body up and trying to relax as much as the three pairs of Banner boots would allow.
The front passenger suddenly bounced around in his seat with a shout of "What the fuck?"
The accent was unmistakably American. "Jesus! Russians!"
A split second later the driver hit the brakes. There was a crash of metal and glass behind us and the heavy-caliber sound of automatic fire.
The clear-cut, no-messing New England accent and the sound of rapid fire got me stressing big time. It got worse as our wagon came to a quick, sliding stop, turning sideways on the snow. The doors burst open.
"Cover them, cover them!"
The suspension bounced as everyone leaped down from the wagon, using me as a springboard. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, hooded and plasticuffed here in the foot well-a vehicle is the natural focus of fire. But I didn't care what was going on and who wanted what from whom. It was time to disappear.
Wind whistled through the open doors and the engine was still running.
The heavy automatic fire was only about fifty yards away. A series of long, uncontrolled bursts echoed off the trees. This was my opportunity.
Pulling up my plasticuffed hands, I tried to tug the mask off my face, but the drawstring got stuck on my chin. My fingers were grappling with it when I heard hysterical shouting further down the road. The one advantage of working with Sergei and his gang was that I had learned to recognize some Russian. I might not know what it meant, but I knew where it came from. This had to be the Maliskia.
If I could get the hood off, my plan was to crawl into the driver's seat, then just go for it. As I was struggling with the string I got a little reminder to keep my head down. Safety glass cracked as a round came through the rear windshield and hit the headrest above me. At almost the same instant two rounds from the same burst ricocheted off a slab of granite at the roadside and shrieked up into the air. There were more shouts, this time from American voices.
"Move!"
"Come on, let's do it! Let's do it!"
My 4x4 wasn't going anywhere, but other engines revved, doors slammed, and tires spun uselessly in the snow.
At last I got the mask off. Pulling myself up, I couldn't feel any of my pain, and had just begun to move toward the gap between the seats when I realized it wasn't an option. About fifteen feet away, at the side of the driveway behind a mound of granite, a white-clad figure was pointing an SD at my center mass. I knew, because I could see the red splash of his laser sight on my jacket. The black-covered head screamed at me above the nightmare that was happening down the road: "Freeze! Freeze! Down, down,
down!"
Change of plan. With the laser on me, the only problem he had was not missing. There were more screams and shouts mixed with the heavy Russian fire. I got down as flat as possible in the rear foot well if I could have crawled under the carpet I would have.
I was feeling even more exposed now I'd seen what was happening behind me. Headlights shone in all directions, illuminating the snowfall as the Americans tried to make their escape around the van that was directly behind our 4x4. It was off to the side of the driveway, its left wing wrapped around a tree; the driver must still have been in his seat as I could hear and see the wheels spinning in a frenzied attempt to get back on the gravel.
The shadows thrown by the headlights caused even more confusion as bodies moved within the treeline. I saw the muzzle flash of the Russian fire, but coming from way behind the convoy now. They were moving back.
My cover must have seen movement in the treeline nearer us. He brought his weapon up and started to fire, putting down a series of rapid, well-aimed three-round bursts. It sounded pathetic compared with the heavier caliber opposing fire; these weapons were not designed to be used at long range. Even sixty feet was a long way for an SD.
"Stoppage!"
The boy needed to change mags. I watched as he gripped his outer glove in his teeth, keeping his eyes on me. The moment the glove was off I saw a white silk touch glove in the headlights. The empty magazine went down the front of his white smock and, producing a new mag from his belt kit he slapped it into place. He then hit the release catch, which told me these guys were the newer version of the SD-even more indication that these were official. It was all very slick; I wasn't going to escape just yet. He had a bolstered P7 and his weapons drills were so good that even with him under fire there was no way I'd have time to do anything. I kept my head down and lay still.
Vehicles screamed past me with skidding wheels, the tree-loving one in the lead, glass smashed and holes in the body work revving far too fast, trying to gain speed. Our vehicle group must have been giving covering fire while they moved out of the danger area.
The New England voice was back in earshot. "Move on, move on. Come on, let's go, let's go, let's go!"
The guy covering me got up, still pointing his weapon at me as he moved forward. He jumped into the wagon, ramming his heels down into my back and the weapon into my neck. The barrel was very hot and I could smell cordite and the oily odor of WD40. He'd probably smothered it in the stuff to protect it from the weather and it was now burning off the weapon.
The last thing I had a chance to see was him getting hold of the hood then pulling it back down over my head.
All the others were now jumping back in, making the vehicle rock with their weight. I felt the gearshift being engaged and we started to move off faster than we should, the tires slithering and sliding as we turned back on line to move up the driveway.
The doors were slammed shut and I was hit by a rush of air from above.
The electric sunroof was opening; a moment later I heard dick-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud and a yell of, "Get some, get some, get some!" as New England fired through the open aperture. I couldn't hear any reply from the Russians.
One of the others turned and opened fire through the rear window, adding more holes to the safety glass.
Click-thud, dick-thud, dick-thud.
Empty cases hit the side window with a metallic ping-ping-ping, then fell and bounced off my head.
Freezing cold air blasted through the roof, then the motor whined and the rush of air stopped.
"Anybody down?"
"I didn't see anyone." That came from the rear. "If there is, they'll be in the wagons. No one was left."
I got a heavy slap around the head. "Fuckin' Russians! Who do you think you are, man?"
The front passenger was, without doubt, the commander. His WASPy accent sounded as if he should have been standing on a soapbox fighting an election for the Democrats in Massachusetts, not trying to sort out a gang fuck in Finland, but thankfully he seemed to be sorting it out rather well. I was still alive.
There was a short pause, maybe while he marshaled his thoughts, then, "Bravo Alpha." He had to be on the net, listening to his earpiece. "Situation?"
There was silence from the others. Well-trained operators know better than to talk when somebody's on the net.
The Wasp let out a cry. "Shit! They have Bravo's vehicle." He got back on the net, "Roger that, did you total the kit?"
There was five seconds of silence before he replied in a low, depressed voice. "Roger that, Bravo." He addressed the vehicle crew. "The sons-of-bitches have some of the hardware. Shit!"
There was no reply from the crew as the Wasp composed himself before getting back on the net.
"Charlie, Alpha-situation?"
He checked through all his call signs. There seemed to be four of them: Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo. How many people at each call sign I didn't know, but there had seemed to be loads of them at the house. It seemed the whole thing had been a gang fuck for everyone.
Me getting caught; Tom, well, I didn't know; the Americans and Maliskia each only getting part of the hardware they wanted; as for the three Tom lookalikes from the house, they must be more pissed than all of us put together.
The radio traffic had been in clear speech, which indicated they were using secure and probably satellite com ms not like my Motorolas at the Intercontinental. As they transmit, these radios skip up and down through dozens of different frequencies in a sequence that only radios with the same encryption fill, fluctuating at the same rate and frequency, can hear. Everybody else just gets an earful of mush.
He must have got a message from Echo. "Okay, roger that, Echo. Roger that." He turned toward the bodies in the back. "Bobby has gotten hit in the leg. But everything's fine; it's cool." There was a sigh of relief from the back.
I felt the fabric press against my face as he turned. "Is that asshole still breathing?"
My cover answered, "Oh yeah." He gave me another dig with his heel and a muttered insult in Texan drawl.
I moaned in deep Russian acknowledgment. The commander's ass swiveled again and my head moved with it. He got back on the net. "All stations, this is Alpha. We're still going as planned. My group will take the extra paxes. Acknowledge."
I imagined him listening in to the other call signs on his earpiece.
"Bravo."
"Charlie, roger that."
"Delta, roger."
"Echo, roger dee."
It seemed that I was the extra "paxes." Whatever happened to me now, it would be down to the Wasp.
We drove in silence for another twenty minutes, still on the paved road. By my estimation we hadn't gone far; we couldn't have been traveling that fast because of the heavy snow.
The Wasp got back on the net. "Papa One, Alpha."
There was a pause while he listened.
"Any news yet on Super Six?" More silence, then, "Roger that, I'll wait."
"Papa One and Super Six" didn't sound like ground call signs. Where possible these are always short and sharp. It stops confusion when the shit hits the fan or com ms are bad, factors which normally go hand in hand.
Ten minutes later the Wasp was back on the net. "Alpha." He was obviously acknowledging somebody.
There was silence, then, "Roger that, Super Six call signs are no go. A no go."
After a pause of two seconds, he announced, "All stations, all stations. Okay, here's the deal. Go to the road plan; the extra paxes still goes with me. Acknowledge."
Nothing more came from him as he got the acknowledgment from the other call signs. At least these guys were having a shit day too. The Super Six call signs must have been helicopters or fixed wing aircraft that couldn't fly in these conditions. In better weather we would have been flown out of here by people who worked for their Firm. Nine out of ten times these are civilian pilots with background jobs as commercial fliers, so they have solid cover stories. They'd fly in on NVGs, maybe pick u
s all up, or at least the kit, injured, and prisoners, and scream back out of the country to a U.S. base. Or maybe, if they were helis, they'd land on an American warship in the Baltic, where the computer equipment and its operators would be sorted out and moved on to whoever was so anxious to have them. If I didn't sort my shit out soon and escape I'd land up with them in one of the Americans' "reception centers." I'd been shown them in the past; the rooms ranged from cold and wet 3x9 foot cells to virtually self-contained suites, depending on what was judged the best way to get information out of "paxes" like me. No matter how you looked at it, they were interrogation centers, and it was up to the interrogators CIA, NSA, whoever they were whether you got processed the easy way or the hard way.
Fuck the pizza boys; I didn't care what happened to them. But now being one of the Maliskia, I'd be checking straight into my personal 3x9 with corner en suite. There was nothing I could do about that for the time being. I could only hope I'd have a chance to escape before they found out who I really was.
24
We drove quite slowly for about another twenty minutes. It was physically painful lying crammed in the foot well but that was nothing compared with how depressed I felt about what the future held.
"Papa One, Alpha-at blue one."
The Wasp was back on the net. Papa One must be the operating base. The Wasp was counting down to it, sending a report line so that Papa One knew the group's location.
A minute or so later we turned a sharp right.
"Papa One, Alpha-blue two."
I could hear the material on the driver's arms rustling as he worked at the wheel, and the tire noise told me we were still on pavement and snow.
There was a sharp right turn and my head was squeezed against the door.
Then we were bumping over what felt like a speed bump, and drove another ninety feet or so before the vehicle came to a halt.
