Hell Gate (Richard Mariner Series Book 9)

by Tonkin, Peter

  *

  In contrast to Merrideth’s relentless “need to know”, and as something of a reaction to it, Richard explained the mjaor’s access of information, his proposals and his plan at length, in detail and with exhaustive openness to Andrew Fawley. Moreover, he engaged the quiet but acute captain in wide-ranging and wholly unmilitary speculation about who might be holding New England.

  When Merrideth called Richard back for a final briefing two hours later, once again Mac came and escorted him across the accommodation area. The men were all there and the bald doctor — his white dome all the more striking above a face apparently only in its mid-thirties — was again testing heart rate, reflexes and blood pressure. It looked to Richard as though he should have been testing his own. His face was a disturbing jigsaw of livid colour and deathly pallor. This struck Richard as odd; in fact the whole set-up was odd, now he came to think of it. The SAS men he had known had all been super-fit and medically trained to a high degree, so that all they needed was trauma management equipment in case someone was wounded. This fierce medical attention was unusual, to say the least.

  Merrideth’s first words to Richard rendered much of the speculation he and Andrew had indulged in redundant. “We have had new information about the enemy,” he said. “There are a dozen of them, and they are definitely professional mercenaries, not terrorists. There seems little doubt that they are very well armed and supplied. As well as what was loaded aboard at Heaven’s Gate, they’ve got the contents of a complete PIRA arms cache from Donegal. Intelligence doesn’t know if they’ve bought it all or stolen some — there were a couple of deaths in Donegal — but they certainly have a lot.”

  “But what makes you say they’re mercenaries rather than terrorists?” Richard asked. Hadn’t Bull said something about mercenaries in the briefing? He couldn’t quite remember.

  “We think we’ve ID’d one,” explained Merrideth glibly. “Some traces left in a burned-out car. Enough to allow a DNA genetic fingerprint. Ex-forces personnel — everything on file and easy enough to trace with the big new NATO security system. Name of Angela van der Piet. Dutch. Ex-BSB. They train women up to front-line combat status there. But she’s got a bit footloose. Gone commercial. She’s a particularly bad case, by all accounts. They call her Pitman — a pun on her name. You know about the Pitman system?”

  “The American forces experimental system. Body armour extended up through robotics to a sort of personal tank. Robocop for real.”

  The corners of Merrideth’s strange grey eyes crinkled into the ghost of a smile. “Indeed. Gives you an idea of the lady’s, ah, potential.”

  “OK. But where does that get us?”

  “It explains why there have been no demands. No contact even. Not with us, anyway.”

  “True. But only partially so, surely. If these are mercenaries then someone hired them. Why hasn’t anyone heard from them, whoever they are?”

  “Because their job’s not complete,” answered Merrideth. “We’ll hear from whoever the real players are when these people have delivered their load of whatever it is to wherever it’s supposed to go.”

  “But your intelligence and security have to have been monitoring all incoming and outgoing. Surely the Garda have the equipment for that.”

  “Their Special Branch certainly do. And the mercenaries — and their employers — know that too.”

  “So, no contacts.”

  “Nothing out. Nothing in.”

  It struck Richard that Merrideth was being unaccustomedly voluble about what his intelligence sources knew. It was almost as if he wanted to redress the balance after his poor showing at the briefing with regard to his knowledge of New England. Richard’s concerns about Merrideth’s need for a native guide resurfaced. If he was going to do anything about it, now was the time to broach the subject.

  He was about to speak when the most unexpected sound came from immediately outside. A scream.

  Merrideth sprang to his feet with the same alacrity as Richard. Neither of them had moved beyond that before the curtain was pulled back and Mac stood in the doorway. His face was pale and mottled. A look of awed incomprehension slackened the square of his jaw.

  “It’s Doc,” he said. “Looks like a major heart attack.”

  Doc had spasmed into a foetal position, dead before his knees hit the floor, and by the time Richard and Merrideth reached his side, he had been rolled over and his expertly trained colleagues were working on him.

  What had happened seemed to have shaken all of them, even Merrideth. Richard crossed to the two men labouring desperately over the body. “Any sign of a pulse?” he asked. He received a curt shake of the head in reply. Richard saw that the last thing the doctor had been doing was writing in a little book. He picked it up without thinking. A glance at the final page showed a set of figures and instructions. As though concerned that his memory might be failing, the doctor had written a series of directions to himself to give doses of various drugs to a man called Bruce and to check the effects. The course of treatment was laid out very simply and was tied to a pattern of watches due to run for the next two days.

  Richard felt someone take him gently by the arm. “That’s enough, thank you, sir,” said Mac. “We’ll deal with things from here on in. If you’ll just leave us to it.”

  Richard walked through the men and up the steps. Tension seemed to tremble on the air like a bass note too deep to be heard but powerful enough to be felt, and it was with great relief that Richard closed the door behind him and ran up to the bridge.

  These men were sick. It did not surprise or particularly alarm him that this should be so. He had been in the Gulf and knew, long before the general public, that it was anything but the “surgically clean” campaign it had been presented as being. Quite apart from Iraqi chemical and biological attacks that the West could not admit to, troops had been exposed to a horrendous mixture of inoculations and treatments including NAPS tablets designed to protect them against chemical attack, chemical pesticides, and a grossly polluted atmosphere. And, of course, there had been the depleted uranium ammunition, highly toxic to those who had used it as well as to their targets and those who had discovered the spent rounds.

  Anyone who had been through all that would bear scars. Richard himself, though not exposed to a fraction of what was around at the time, still had regular and careful checks. The men’s medical status was not going to compromise the mission, they were extremely fit — fitter than Richard had ever been — and obviously on a carefully planned medical regime. It was good to see that their experience and skill had not been wasted. But he was convinced their ignorance about New England could compromise their mission.

  “They’re going against some very dangerous professionals in a completely unknown environment,” he said to Andrew, “and maybe I can help.”

  “They won’t want you. You’re not one of them. You’re not trained, you’re not fit enough and, to be blunt, you’re too old. These guys are what? Mid-thirties? From what you’ve said, even Merrideth isn’t much older than that. You can give them a lot of years, and you haven’t used those years all that well from a body maintenance point of view if all I’ve read is true.”

  “I doubt it is. But I take your point. Nevertheless, I think I must offer my services. Quite apart from any other consideration, two very good friends of mine are aboard New England.”

  *

  It would be going too far to say it was a different Merrideth that Richard found alone in the briefing room going through Doc’s personal stuff, but it was clear that the major had been badly shaken by his colleague’s death. It seemed to Richard that Merrideth was being badly served by both Lady Luck and the green slime in the head shed.

  He put his offer of help quickly and concisely. The ghost of what he took to be gratitude seemed to glimmer in those cold grey eyes, but for what felt like a very long time, Merrideth was silent.

  Under his unwavering stare, Richard felt the short hairs on the back of his neck
begin to rise.

  At last, Merrideth nodded. “I would certainly like to load the dice a little more in our favour, and as you say, you’re at home on ships, and you are familiar with this one. The only difficulty will be cross-decking but we can treat you as cargo.”

  The major certainly didn’t waste words, thought Richard grimly.

  Merrideth went out into the main area, and Richard followed. At the dead doctor’s pile of kit, Merrideth stopped. “One other thing, Captain, minor but worth mentioning,” he said. “Normally Corporal Smith would take over Doc’s duties, but he will have his work cut out with his other tasks. As you will have noticed, no doubt, we have only two patrol teams instead of the regulation three. Perhaps you would be kind enough to see to the medical side of things for us. Doc’s treatment log will tell you all you need to know.” Merrideth ran his black-gloved hand through his thin hair. “If that’s all clear, then I think it’s time we moved.”

  Two men came past carrying Doc’s body in a black bag. Stunned, Richard looked back at where they had come from and then forward to where they were headed. “My God,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re taking him with you!”

  “We didn’t leave anyone in Ras Al’I,” said Merrideth, “and we’re not leaving anyone here.”

  A thunderbolt of revelation hit Richard. “Good God, of course,” he said. “It’s been at the back of my mind all the time. I don’t know how or why but there it is. You’re the Jellicoe Boys! You’re 13 Int.! Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Merrideth rose to his full height. “What do you know about 13 Int.?” he asked quietly.

  “More than most, I admit. I was up your end of the Gulf at the same time as you were. I heard the gossip and I read some of the reports.”

  Never had Merrideth’s strange eyes looked more like a pair of gun barrels, steel-grey surrounding absolute black pointing straight at Richard.

  “That was a long time ago,” Merrideth said at last, his voice a whisper, like a snake crawling over sand.

  “Ten years, near as dammit.” Richard’s voice was cool and calculating now.

  A brief silence returned. Then Merrideth seemed to shake himself. “Right,” he said. “There’s a couple of “ifs” if you’re going to get through this with us. We’ve got ten minutes to sort them.”

  The first “if” was could Richard actually understand Doc’s treatment notes. It took less than a minute to convince Merrideth that he could. Like all senior Heritage Mariner captains, he had an advanced first aid certificate, regularly updated.

  The second “if” was more difficult to address. With the kit stowed ready in the forward hold, Merrideth called the men back. Without expression they assembled in two groups of four and a pair. Ten pairs of eyes regarded Richard rather less indulgently even than Merrideth’s did.

  “This man,” said Merrideth in measured tone, “wants to help us. He does not want to join the Regiment. He is not and never can be 13 Int. But I believe he knows enough to be a considerable asset to us. He knows New England in detail, which we could never hope to emulate, and he has contacts among the hostages. In addition, he understands Doc’s treatment book and can oversee everyone’s shots. He even knows something about the way we operate. He was there, on the Ras, around the time we were. He says he wants to help. I think he can help. He showed us at the briefing how well he knows New England. I think he’ll make a first-rate scout. I think he’ll give us an edge. What do you think?”

  Mac spoke first. “We’re working light. We need someone who can brew up, if nothing else. If he can fit in without fucking up then he’ll be worth the risk.” The others stirred in silent speculation, not really convinced.

  Richard felt it was time to take a hand. He either spoke up or gave up. “Look,” he said. “Major Merrideth is right. I’m not up with you. But I do know the score. I am not some rear echelon motherfucker just here for a ride. Whether I can brew up is irrelevant because you can’t smoke or use heat on board without setting off alarms, as I told you at the briefing. And that’s the heart of it. I know New England. I know which way the doors open, where the security systems are, where the ducting leads, what you can stick magnetic mines to and what you can’t. I know where the opposition aboard are going to be and where they’re not. And I know every hostage by name. I was aboard her last week. I’ve been shown over her by the captain. With the exception of a couple of the passengers — and of course Pitman and her friends — I know every man and woman aboard. Take me and you’ve got intelligence and also doctoring, both of which, it seems, you can make good use of.”

  No sooner had he finished speaking than his personal radio buzzed. He pulled it out and put it to his ear. Glanced at his watch, nodded once, said, “Thanks, Andrew,” then swept a long last look around the men.

  “It’s make up your mind time, gentlemen. New England’s on the radar and we’ll be up with her in fifteen minutes.”

  Merrideth rapped out, “Bruce?”

  “OK, make it a go from me, boss.”

  “Tom?”

  “Yup.”

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Mariner. Mac?”

  The big sergeant stepped forward.

  “Take the captain in hand. If he looks the part, the others’ll come round. In the meantime, watch his back. Put him in Doc’s outfit. Brief him. He goes up with the kit.” As he said this, he was crossing to the communications case. “You haven’t time for a will form, Captain. Better pray you’re insured with Equity and Law. Any last messages had better be brief, broadcastable and left with Captain Fawley before you turn your personal radio in. My group uses my kit. That’s all.”

  The enormity of what he was doing hit Richard then. As far as Robin was concerned, he was asleep in a hotel in Dover. She had no idea of New England s true situation or of his place within it. She could be a widow and the twins fatherless within the hour and she would never know why. But there was no time for reasoned explanations. And none he could offer would really be good enough in any case.

  As he followed Mac across the suddenly empty accommodation area, Richard hesitated. “I need a couple of minutes with Captain Fawley, Mac,” he said. “I can’t just go off with you. I can’t just leave my personal radio, I have to leave word; there’s no way round it. Two minutes.”

  “Two minutes. I’ll wait,” said Mac.

  Richard ran up to the bridge. “I’m going with them, Andrew,” he said as he came in through the door.

  “You don’t even know who they are, Richard,” said Andrew, his open face folding into a frown.

  “Yes I do! They’re the Jellicoe Boys. 13 Int.”

  Andrew shook his head in simple incomprehension.

  “Come on, Andrew! You must remember. They were the crack Special Forces unit of the Gulf War. Inter-service, half British and half American. The undercover unit that did all the dirty work behind enemy lines. The 13th Intelligence Liaison Unit. The Jellicoe Boys!”

  “Right! The group that worked out of the captured Iraqi cruiser Tewfik! I remember reading about them. But weren’t they involved in something terrible…?”

  “That’s right. On the Ras Al’I. There was a massive battle between the Jellicoe Boys and Saddam’s Elite Guards as Desert Storm went into Kuwait behind them. Fighting withdrawal along the Ras itself under a full naval barrage.”

  “Jesus!” said Andrew. “It’s a wonder any of them are still alive!”

  “Well, they are,” said Richard grimly. “And I’m making it my job during the next few days to try and keep them that way. They need my help and I think they’ve earned it so I’m going.”

  “It’s your call, Richard,” said Andrew. “Anything you want me to do?”

  “Nothing you can do except go home and keep quiet. Get Hero onto her cross-Channel schedule and wait to hear from me. Only, if by any chance anything should go wrong and you don’t hear from me in, say, five days’ time…” Richard handed over his personal radio then.

  As he accepted it, Andrew said, “I understand
. I’ll hear from you in five days or I start making calls.”

  “Just one. To Sir Justin Bulwer-Lytton on this number. It’ll reach him any time, day or night. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Right. Got it. No one you want me to contact in the meantime?”

  “Why hand out a lot of sleepless nights?” asked Richard, and was gone.

  *

  The forward hold was packed and claustrophobic. The sea smell Richard had associated with such places since childhood was overwhelmed by the locker-room odour of men in close proximity. It was round about now that Richard realised he had not been to the head for a while and was not likely to get the opportunity for some time. But it was too late to worry about such mundanities now. Mac was speaking to the men, and that now included him.

  “Boss’ll be along with Op and the scaley kit in a minute. In the meantime he wants me to complete briefing. The first abseil hooks will go up as soon as there is a clear target. Two men will go up at once and set up a secure base on New England’s rear deck. That’ll be you, Tom, and Danny. Scaley up next and Op to go with it, and we’ll have to use the kit hook for the equipment. Then the captain here, also on the kit hook. As the equipment goes up, Bruce, you and your team should send up two more lines. Then the rest of us will come up in agreed order. I’ll come up before Bruce and help the captain move the kit down the hatch on New England. We should all be in by the time the jets kick in. Anyone who isn’t had better grow wings. Any questions?”

  “What about Doc?” asked Bruce belligerently.

  “It’s not going to make any difference to Doc, is it, Mac?” said Tom, corporal in charge of the second four-man team. “He’d be happy enough to slip over the side, no one any the wiser.”

  “I agree, Tom,” said Merrideth as he and Op arrived, “but I think it would be safer to bring him with us. We don’t want him washing up unexpectedly. Now, are we all ready? Because we’re in business!”