by Chris Ryan
‘Bloody hell. And how long until . . .’
Danny sensed that Buckingham was talking out of nervousness, and maybe the best thing was to keep him talking. ‘A couple of hours,’ he said. ‘When they drop us off, we’ll have to tab about a kilometre inland. There’s a T-junction leading to the main highway. That’s where we’ll meet our fixer and pick up the cars.’
Buckingham looked confused. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for him to meet us with the cars as soon as we land? I mean, we’d rather be in vehicles than on foot, wouldn’t we?’
Danny shook his head. ‘We don’t know this fixer from Adam. If we meet him at the T-junction, he’ll assume we’re approaching by road, not by sea. We can check him out before we make contact. Let’s not get compromised before we’ve even begun.’
‘Compromised? He’s an MI6 agent. Surely we can trust him?’
The rest of the guys laughed.
‘What?’ Buckingham demanded. ‘What?’
‘He’s a fixer, mate,’ Spud explained. ‘They’re the same the world over. Sneaky. Out for what they can get. He’s helping us because the Firm are paying him, but he’ll betray us just as quickly if someone comes along with a better offer.’
Buckingham looked a bit sick.
‘Don’t worry, pal,’ Greg told him. ‘Any problems, we’ll sacrifice Spud, not you. Right, Spud?’
Spud looked down at the bulge in his chest where the dry suit was covering his handgun. Then he looked back at Buckingham. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said.
23.30 hrs, Eastern European Time.
A sharp rap on the door of their quarters. A bearded submariner appeared. ‘Breaking the surface in ten minutes, guys. Wait here till we give you the word.’ In his arms he had a pile of inflatable vests. He handed them round to Buckingham and the unit, who slipped them over their heads. Then they waited.
Danny felt the sub roll a few degrees as it broke the surface. Buckingham flinched – he’d barely spoken a word since they’d been submerged. The guys grabbed the waterproof bags. Two minutes later the door opened again. The bearded submariner nodded at them. Silently, they filed out into the narrow corridor and followed the guy back in the general direction of the conning tower. They didn’t take the spiral staircase up into the tower, however, but carried on ten metres past it to a ladder that led up to an overhead hatch. Commander Flemming was waiting for them here.
‘We’ve had a communication from Hereford HQ,’ he said. ‘There’s been a night of heavy fighting in Homs. Two Médecins Sans Frontières doctors went missing. Reports are coming in that one of them’s been found dead.’ He gave Danny a piercing look. ‘Watch how you go, lads. Looks like they’re killing foreigners in the streets.’ He glanced at Buckingham and his face was filled with distrust. Whether Buckingham noticed it or not, Danny couldn’t tell. The captain pulled a red lever on the corridor wall. A hiss, and the hatch in the ceiling slid open.
A sudden rush of noise as sea air blasted down the hatch. A face appeared up above. ‘Send your gear up!’ it shouted. The guys passed their waterproof bags up through the hatch, then Greg, Jack and Spud climbed the ladder, leaving Danny alone with Buckingham and the captain.
‘Ready?’ Danny asked.
Buckingham took a deep breath. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said.
‘You go first. I’ll be right behind. Go carefully on deck. It’s not a good night for swimming.’
Buckingham nodded, then carefully climbed the ladder.
‘Good luck with that one,’ Flemming said quietly. Danny felt his brow furrowing as he nodded in farewell and followed the MI6 man.
On deck there was a stiff breeze. Here, two miles from the Syrian coast, the weather conditions were different to those they’d left behind in Cyprus. The moon was still bright – bright enough for the conning tower to cast a sinister shadow over the vessel – but the sea, ten metres below the deck, was rougher. The foam where the swell hit the sub was almost phosphorescent, and the spray made the deck treacherous. After the relative quiet inside HMS Vanguard, the steady throb of the sub’s engines seemed ominously loud. But that was OK: they were two miles out to sea. Cloaked in its dull metallic black paint, Vanguard was out of sight and out of earshot. A black RIB was waiting for them, along with two Marines in neoprene suits and with MP5s slung around their necks. As the hatch hissed closed, Danny saw that the guys had already loaded up the RIB and were climbing in.
‘Get in!’ he shouted at Buckingham, before walking him five slippery metres across the deck to the stern of the RIB. With a nod at the Marines he helped Buckingham into the vessel, then climbed in too. He gave the Marine at the outboard a thumbs up. The Marine flicked the pressel of his radio twice.
‘Hold on!’ he shouted.
At first it seemed that nothing was happening. But then, after about twenty seconds, the massive sub juddered slightly. Slowly, it started to sink.
Five metres to sea level.
Three metres.
One.
The sea suddenly closed in over the deck. They were still in the shadow of the receding conning tower, but they were afloat. The RIB rocked precariously, caught precisely in the crash of the sea rushing in from either side. Salt water splashed over them. The coxswain waited ten seconds for the deck to submerge another few metres before swinging the hinged outboard down into the water and starting it up. As water continued to slosh over the RIB, the Marine increased its speed, heading ten metres towards the submerged aft of the Vanguard before turning in a wide semicircle and making directly for the shore.
Half blinded by the spray, Danny peered into the night, towards the Syrian coastline. There were lights to his ten o’clock, but in the darkness he couldn’t tell how far away they were. Overhead, a commercial flight was travelling in a southerly direction. Danny wondered how many aircraft there were up there that he couldn’t see. He remembered catching the glint of a drone when he was lying beside Boydie in the OP in Syria. Those drones were like guardian angels. You never knew if they were really there, or even if they’d help you out when you needed it most. Straight ahead, there was nothing. The deserted stretch of beach to which they were heading was five klicks from any known human habitation in any direction. He wouldn’t have expected to see any lights, but that didn’t mean their insertion point was safe. Far from it. If he’d been on the shore looking out, nobody would have seen him either.
Time check: 00.15 hrs. Forty-five minutes till RV. They were cutting this fine. If the fixer didn’t hang around with their vehicles, they were screwed.
The RIB’s outboard slowed down, becoming quieter: a sure sign that they were approaching land. ‘Two hundred metres,’ the coxswain announced. Greg and Jack, sitting on either side of the boat, raised their weapons, scanning the coast through the lenses of their IR sights. Ten seconds later they slowed again. The motor was very quiet now, barely audible above the sound of waves crashing on the beach. There, about fifty metres distant, Danny could see the humped outline of a sand dune. A sudden surge as the RIB caught a breaking wave. They glided into shallow water, where the second Marine jumped from the boat. The sea was knee-high. The coxswain killed the outboard as his colleague dragged them towards the beach.
Five metres from dry land. The unit moved quickly. This was a moment of vulnerability – anyone could be waiting for them, unfriendly eyes searching – and so they needed to be especially watchful. And fast. And quiet. Greg and Jack splashed into the shallow water and ran to shore. Ten metres up the shingle beach, they threw themselves on their bellies in the firing position, carefully scanning the area, on high alert for any sign of a threat.
‘Get out,’ Danny told Buckingham, who nodded and eased himself carefully into the water while Danny and Spud grabbed the waterproof bags and joined him. While the Marines grounded the RIB, Danny, Spud and Buckingham ran on to the beach. ‘Get out of your drysuit,’ Danny told Buckingham. The three men tore off their inflatable jackets and peeled away the dripping suits to reveal their civvies underneath. Danny stuffed the wet clothes b
ack into the waterproof bag and picked up his weapon. He grabbed Buckingham’s shirt, dragged him over to where Greg and Jack were lying and pushed him to the ground. ‘Don’t move,’ he hissed. As he and Spud adopted the firing position, Greg and Jack returned to the Marines to hand over their wet gear.
Danny scanned the surrounding area, ignoring a sharp stone digging into his elbow. The beach was about thirty metres deep. The sand dune that backed on to it was about fifteen metres high and had an incline of roughly forty degrees. It was high summer. Expected rainfall in western Syria was close to zero, although the winter and spring rains meant this part of the country was fertile and scrappy plants sprouted from the surface of the dune. There was no movement that he could make out. No sign that anyone had witnessed them land. No government troops. No locals.
At least, not that Danny could see.
Two minutes passed. Behind him, Danny heard the cough of the RIB’s outboard. He didn’t look back – he knew that Greg and Jack would by now have stuffed their wet gear into the waterproof bags and given these to the Marines, who would be on their way back to HMS Vanguard. There was a light crunch of footsteps as his two unit colleagues stepped past the three men on the ground and headed stealthily towards the rim of the dune.
‘What’s happening?’ Buckingham asked.
Danny said nothing. He was too busy concentrating. Moving about ten metres apart, Greg and Jack crouched low as they approached the brow of the dune, then adopted the firing position as they reached it.
They lay there, perfectly still.
The low hum of the RIB’s motor had faded. The only noise was the gentle crash and hiss of waves against the shingle.
Jack raised his right hand: the signal to advance. ‘Stick close to me,’ Danny whispered. He jumped up and pulled Buckingham to his feet. Then, covered by Jack and Greg up ahead and with Spud ten metres to the left, they advanced. The sand of the dune was soft. Buckingham stumbled twice and Danny had to help him up. He was already panting by the time they reached the top. Danny scanned ahead. The terrain sloped gently downward for a kilometre before it reached a road running north–south, parallel to the coastline. He could make out the distant outlines of trees and bushes, a reminder that the climate on the Mediterranean side of Syria was a good deal less harsh than the desert on the eastern side and the border with Iraq. Approximately to their two o’clock was the T-junction. Here, parked in a line facing south, were three vehicles. The lead vehicle had its headlamps on, lighting up the road.
Danny removed a night-sight from his pack. Focusing in on the lead vehicle, he could just discern the outline of a figure at the steering wheel. ‘Bingo,’ he said. ‘We got one guy up front. I’m guessing there’s at least two more as they’re in three vehicles.’ He lowered the sight. ‘OK, everything looks as it should, but let’s not take any chances. I wouldn’t put it past this Muhammad bloke to do the dirty on us and set up an ambush. Spud, Greg, stay here. Keep eyes on. We’ll make contact and check over the vehicles, then send Muhammad and his boys packing. If it looks like we’re having any trouble, you know what to do. Jack, Buckingham, come with me.’
Jack gave him a troubled look. ‘You sure about this?’ he said with a glance at their companion.
Danny nodded. ‘I don’t want this guy to know for sure how many of us there are. If we leave Buckingham behind, they’ll know we’ve got at least one more guy looking after him. Let’s keep Muhammad in the dark if we can.’
Jack inclined his head. ‘Roger that,’ he said, then looked at Buckingham. ‘I don’t want to get your back up, mate, but when we get down there, do what we say and keep your mouth shut. We’ll do the talking.’
The vehicles were at their two o’clock. Danny, Jack and Buckingham headed out to their eleven o’clock. Danny estimated that this would allow them to hit the road approximately 250 metres from the convoy. They could then approach from behind and their fixer would be none the wiser about which direction they’d really come from. Running with full pack and hindered by Buckingham’s lack of fitness, it took them the best part of seven minutes to cross the open ground and reach the road. It was a good eight or nine metres wide, but its surface was potholed and stony. They walked in single file – Jack first, then Buckingham, then Danny, each man ten metres from the next. When they were twenty metres from the T-junction and the convoy, they stopped and lay on the dusty ground, surveying the site.
A car door slammed. A figure emerged from the front vehicle and walked on to the rough ground east of the road. He stood ten metres from the car, and it was perhaps five seconds before Danny realised he was taking a slash.
‘Wait here,’ he hissed.
Silently and in less than five seconds, Danny covered most of the twenty metres to the pissing man. The guy wasn’t even aware of his presence until Danny was three metres away. He was shaking himself off as Danny wrapped his left arm around his neck and covered his mouth with his right hand. The guy tried to shout, but all that came out was a muffled whimper. Looking over his shoulder, Danny saw Jack sprinting towards the lead vehicle. Moments later he had ripped the door open and was aiming his M4 directly into the front. A babble of Arabic emerged. Jack pulled two men roughly out of the car and threw them on to the ground. Aware that Buckingham was nervously approaching, Danny pushed his man over to where the others were crouching, then beckoned to him to hurry towards them.
Danny looked at each of the three Syrian men in turn. ‘Muhammad?’ he asked.
One of the pair that Jack had pulled from the car looked up sharply. He looked unpleasant – the photo they’d seen back at base had massively flattered him. A big, fat, bald bastard with rotten yellow teeth and bags under his eyes. His eyes darted angrily to Jack’s gun. ‘What you do?’ he said in broken English. ‘I your friend. Put the gun down. I have cars for you. Very good cars. Put the gun down, please.’
Danny gave Jack an almost imperceptible nod. Jack lowered the M4, though Danny noticed that he kept it firmly in his grip.
Instantly, the fixer’s face softened. He stood up and his two friends did the same. Muhammad opened his arms and gave them a grin that displayed his rotten teeth even more clearly. And then, in a voice that bore no trace of his previous anger, he said: ‘Welcome to our poor country, my friends. Welcome to Syria!’
TEN
He was a fixer through and through. Glib, talkative, slightly nervous, slippery as a fish. He presented the two vehicles with the aplomb of a car salesman flogging a Bentley. In fact, the cars looked knackered: a dull-brown Renault and a red VW, both covered with scrapes and dents and rust. Each was decorated inside with religious icons and coloured beads, was the custom in that part of the world, and they smelled faintly of petrol and hashish.
‘Very good cars!’ Muhammad said.
‘Yeah,’ Jack muttered as he checked the vehicles over. ‘Enough to give Jeremy Clarkson a lazy lob-on.’
‘Jeremy?’ Muhammad asked enthusiastically. ‘Who is this Jeremy? A friend of yours? You have more friends coming?’
‘No,’ Danny stated. ‘No friends coming. Just us.’
It happened in a split second. Buckingham said nothing, but his gaze darted briefly to the west, where they’d left Spud and Greg. Had the fixer noticed? Danny couldn’t tell.
Jack was checking one of the cars, and got it started. Danny looked at Muhammad’s two companions. ‘OK, fellas,’ he said. ‘Time to move.’
The fixer turned to Buckingham and smiled his gruesome smile. ‘Where do you travel to in our poor country?’
Danny wasn’t fast enough. Before he could stop him, Buckingham had already answered. ‘Aleppo,’ he said.
Muhammad’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Aleppo. Very good—’
‘You heard what the man said, guys,’ Jack interrupted, deftly steering the conversation away. ‘Time to make tracks.’
The fixer ignored Jack, turning back to Danny instead. ‘You pay me now!’ he said.
‘Nice try, pal. You’ve had your pa
yday. Time to go.’
An outraged expression crossed Muhammad’s face. He was obviously about to escalate this argument. Danny pulled his Sig from his chest rig and pressed it against the fixer’s head.
‘Go,’ he said quietly.
Muhammad’s whole demeanour changed. He stepped back, barked a single word in Arabic to his two companions, then gave Danny an obsequious little half bow, his eyes still searching and suspicious. Moments later the three men were all in the car. The engine coughed a few times, but then the car moved off into the night.
Danny and Jack watched it disappear. Then they turned back to Buckingham. Jack’s face was a storm cloud. ‘I told you to leave the talking to us,’ he said.
Buckingham’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I said we were going to Aleppo,’ he said. He looked to Danny for support. ‘I thought you were trying to put him off our track.’
Danny glanced over at the departing vehicle. ‘Aleppo’s a hundred klicks from the Turkish border,’ he said. ‘If that’s where we were headed, we’d never start our journey from here. Muhammad, or whatever his name is, knew you were lying.’ He did everything he could to keep his voice level, even though he was as angry as Jack.
‘Well, what the bloody hell was I supposed to say?’ Buckingham said.
‘Nothing,’ Jack told him.
‘We can’t do anything about it now,’ Danny said. ‘We’ll just need to keep alert.’
‘Roger that,’ Jack muttered. His eyes followed the lights of the fixer’s vehicle. It was about 1.5 kilometres away when it turned to the left and out of sight. He removed a thin torch from his pack and pointed it back towards the coast in Greg and Spud’s direction. Two quick flashes. A signal for the guys to join them.
Danny kept stag with his Sig while Jack loaded their gear into the boot of the brown Renault. He lay their M4s along the outside edge of the boot and covered them loosely with a grey travelling blanket that he’d found in the rear seat. Their packs fitted behind it. He shut the boot very quietly. Sounds could travel a long way over open ground.
