‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Raj.
It wasn’t a question that Shepherd could answer. In fact he was trying not to answer it, because he could only see their predicament ending in one way and that was with their deaths. Al-Qaeda didn’t take prisoners, or at least they didn’t keep them for long. They weren’t like the Somalian pirates who took hostages for ransom. Al-Qaeda wasn’t about money, it was about political ideology. They would keep Raj and him alive only for as long as they were extracting information from them. Once they had what they needed, Shepherd was sure that they’d be killed. And killed brutally. Probably with a blade, the words ‘Allahu Akbar’ ringing in their ears.
Shepherd helped Raj sit up then fetched him a glass of tea. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You need the liquid.’
Raj sipped the tea. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘I’m not sure. But I am sure that you need to eat and drink as much as you can because I’m not sure when we’ll be offered either again.’
Raj took a bite of chicken and this time managed to swallow some. Shepherd grabbed a handful of lamb and began chewing on it. He had swallowed three pieces when the door opened. It was Al-Farouq. Behind him was a guard holding a Kalashnikov. The guard stepped to the side and four heavyset bearded men rushed in. They grabbed Shepherd and Raj and roughly dragged them out of the room.
The phone rang and Button put on her headset. ‘That number is live,’ said Yokely. ‘How good is your source that the number belongs to Al-Farouq?’
‘I’d stake my life on it, Richard.’
‘I’m going to need specifics.’
‘It’s the channel for an imam in Bradford to contact Al-Farouq. Rarely used but obviously when contact is necessary it has to be done quickly. The only way to get the number is through a secure website and the Sim card is changed every twelve hours. Where is the phone?’
‘About ten miles to the west of Peshawar,’ said Yokely. ‘Capital of what used to be called the North-West Frontier Province.’
Button went over to the map on the wall and traced the route that Salma’s contact had been taking out of Islamabad. ‘The car was heading that way, Richard.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘It’s Al-Farouq. It has to be.’
‘If the contact is going to see Al-Farouq, why didn’t they phone?’
‘Because the cellphone is only to be used by the imam in Bradford. He’s staying off the grid in Pakistan, but he probably figures any incoming call from overseas is probably OK, especially if they call on Skype.’ She stared at the map. ‘Peshawar is close to the border, Richard. Very close.’
‘It’s still a border, Charlotte. If we go in, we have to be sure.’
‘I am sure, Richard. But we have to move quickly. Al-Haznawi is probably only an hour away from Peshawar. If we’re going to do it, it has to be now. As soon as Al-Haznawi reaches Al-Farouq, they’ll move locations again.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Yokely. He sighed, clearly weighing his options. ‘OK, we’ll do it,’ he said. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? Both our careers crash and burn?’
‘It’ll be fine, Richard. Trust me.’
‘God bless, Charlotte.’
‘God bless.’
The line went dead. ‘They’re going in?’ asked Singh.
Button nodded. ‘They are.’
Harper was rolling Shakeel Usmani’s corpse up in the plastic sheet when his mobile rang. He stood up and smiled at Ullah as he took the call. He had shoved a piece of rag into the imam’s mouth and held it in place with duct tape. It was Charlotte Button. ‘You’re a star,’ she said.
‘It worked?’
‘It worked. The SEALs are going in now.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ he said.
‘Amen to that. What are your plans now?’
‘I’ll clear up here and get back to Thailand.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Harper. The line went dead and Harper put the phone into his back pocket.
The imam stared at Harper with fearful eyes. ‘So now you can let me go?’ he asked hopefully.
‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ said Harper. He smiled, took out his gun and shot the imam in the chest, three times. ‘Allahu akbar,’ he said as the imam bled out.
Adam Croft took long, slow breaths, trying to get his pulse rate down to a manageable level. He wasn’t scared, but he was apprehensive. There was a big difference mentally but the physical symptoms were the same; a fast heart rate, rising blood pressure and increased respiration. It was coming up for 1900 hours and sunset was only minutes away.
The eight SEALs in the fuselage of the Lockheed C-130 Hercules were all dressed in black and kitted out with full high-altitude parachute life-support equipment. They each carried their own air supply but they were still fifty miles from the drop zone so were breathing from the plane’s internal supply. Even just a few minutes without oxygen at thirty thousand feet would lead to hypoxia and unconsciousness. The cold was also a problem. The four-engine turboprop plane wasn’t heated and the SEALs wore black thermal suits with felt liners and polypropylene knit undergarments to protect themselves against the sub-zero temperatures at high altitude. There was a digital thermometer at the cockpit end of the fuselage giving the temperature at minus forty degrees Fahrenheit. They also wore black balaclavas, gloves and insulated over-boots on top of their regular boots. On top of their heads were goggles that would protect their eyes against the freezing wind on the way down.
Jake Drake was sitting opposite Croft. Like most of the SEALs he was leaning slightly forward so that his parachute didn’t rub against the fuselage. Drake was a three-tour veteran of Afghanistan, and had been wounded twice. Shrapnel from an IED had taken out a piece of the calf of his left leg, and a bullet had grazed his right shoulder. The two near-misses had earned him the nickname ‘Lucky Ducky’ but it wasn’t a nickname that Drake appreciated so it tended not to get used when he was around.
Henderson was sitting next to Drake. He caught Croft looking at him and he grinned. He was clearly looking forward to the jump. Henderson was an adrenalin junkie, no question. Croft had been with him in firefights and Henderson always seemed to come alive when the bullets were flying. The closer the bullets flew, the more Henderson seemed to enjoy it. Croft loved being a SEAL and the physical and mental challenges that came with the career, but there was no getting away from the fact that his sphincter had a tendency to tighten in combat. Maybe it was an age thing. Croft was thirty-five, which in the SEALs had him on the wrong side of middle-aged, whereas Henderson had a couple of years to go before he hit thirty. Neither men was married – few SEALs were – but Croft had a steady girlfriend that one day he hoped to settle down with, while Henderson pretty much had a girl in every port.
Croft grinned back and made an OK sign. Henderson’s grin widened and he returned the gesture.
Croft looked down towards the tail of the plane, where the jumpmaster and his three loaders were making the final checks to the plastic pods that contained the six 4 × 4 All Terrain Vehicles they would be using on the ground. The jumpmaster was Jim Grant, a grizzled veteran with a quarter of a century’s service under his belt. Like the three younger men assisting him he was wearing light blue fatigues and sneakers and breathing from the plane’s air supply. Each of the men was linked to the fuselage by a thick green nylon strap attached to a webbing harness.
Like the SEALs, the pods were fitted with self-opening chutes using the Cybernetic Parachute Release System that would open at seven hundred feet above the ground. The pods weren’t steerable so they would be jettisoned first and the SEALs would do their best to land in close proximity to them. The system’s computer also had a GPS, which meant that the SEALs would be able to track the pods if they did land some distance away.
Grant looked up and flashed him the OK sign. Croft nodded. He rolled his shoulders. He had only been sitting for a couple of hours or so but the interior hadn’
t been designed for passenger comfort and his back and neck were already throbbing. He could see the rest of the team were just as uncomfortable. They were sitting on metal frames that were attached to the fuselage. On their laps were the black nylon operation bags containing their equipment. The bags were clipped to their harnesses but would be released just before they landed. They cradled their weapons on top of the bags, barrels pointing down. Croft favoured a Heckler & Koch 416, though several of the men preferred the FN SCAR standard assault rifle, chambered for the 7.62 × 51mm NATO-calibre round and fitted with a standard sixteen-inch barrel. All were fitted with noise suppressors.
The HK416 had been specially made for the American special forces teams. It used a gas piston system, which meant that hot gas and burnt carbon were expelled with each shot, making it less likely to foul. It was capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute, but Croft had it set to single fire. He preferred to pick each shot carefully rather than use the ‘spray and pray’ technique. As with most HK carbines the kick was negligible, minimised by a recoil pad in the stock.
Each of the SEALs also carried a sidearm, either a Heckler & Koch 45 or a SIG Sauer P226. Two of the SEALs also had M320 grenade launchers fixed under their weapons.
The parachute canopies they were carrying on their backs were twice the size of standard sport parachutes, attached to a specially strengthened army harness. The SEALs were not carrying reserve chutes. There was no point. Their CYPRES opening systems were set to open their main chutes at seven hundred feet. In the highly unlikely event the system failed, at terminal velocity they would hit the ground in less than six seconds, nowhere long enough for a reserve to be safely deployed. Not that there was a likelihood of a chute failure – the SEALs used the best equipment available and they all packed their own chutes.
Next to the digital thermometer were three lights, one red, one amber and one green. The red one winked on and Grant stood up. ‘We’re approaching the drop zone,’ he shouted above the noise of the engines, even though the SEALs all knew what the red light signified. ‘Check your buddy’s equipment.’
The eight SEALs heaved themselves up off their metal frames and began to methodically check each other’s equipment – the oxygen supply, the webbing straps, the Irvine height-finder and the device that would ensure all the chutes opened at seven hundred feet. The SEALs were more than capable of pulling their own ripcords but at terminal velocity there was zero room for error and it was best left to technology.
Croft had been paired up with the SEAL on his left, Julio Morales, a stocky Hispanic with massive forearms and a pinched waist that suggested long hours lifting weights and a carb-free diet. Croft checked that Morales was good to go, then clapped him on the shoulder. Morales then went over Croft’s gear, nodded and gave him the OK sign.
Once all the checks had been completed, the SEALs turned to look at Drake.
‘Comms check,’ said Drake. ‘Sound off. Sierra one.’
‘Sierra two,’ said Henderson.
‘Sierra three.’ Julio Morales.
‘Sierra four.’ Lars Peterson.
‘Sierra five.’ Salvador Garcia.
‘Sierra six.’ Franklin Sanders.
‘Sierra seven OK.’ Calvin Wood.
‘Sierra eight OK,’ said Croft.
‘All good,’ said Drake.
Croft turned and looked up at the light array. Red was still showing. His heart began to race and he took slow deep breaths as he pulled the goggles down over his eyes.
Al-Farouq held open the door and the men manhandled Shepherd and Raj down the stairs to the basement. Al-Farouq said something to the men and they bundled Shepherd on to a chair and tied him with a length of rope. The men holding Raj dragged him underneath one of the hooks. One of them held both his arms while the other stood on a chair and threaded a length of rope through one of the metal hooks in the ceiling. Shepherd struggled but the men either side kept him pinned to the chair.
‘Dan!’ shouted Raj, as his wrists were tied together. ‘Dan, help me!’
Shepherd turned his face away. There was nothing he could do to help Raj.
The man finished tying Raj’s wrists and the other man hauled on his end of the rope, pulling Raj’s arms up. ‘Dan!’ shouted Raj.
‘You know what is going to happen?’ asked Al-Farouq.
‘What sort of man are you?’ replied Shepherd.
‘I am a man who requires the truth, that is all,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘Tell me the truth and your friend does not get hurt.’
The men holding the rope pulled it harder so that Raj went up on his toes. One of the men walked over to a table and picked up a cane. He swished it back and forth. The man holding the rope tied it to another hook on the wall. If he stretched, Raj could just about manage to stand on his tiptoes.
‘You can stop this, Mr Shepherd,’ said Al-Farouq.
‘So can you,’ said Shepherd.
Al-Farouq nodded at the man with the cane. He took a quick run at Raj and then smacked the cane against his backside. Raj screamed.
Shepherd closed his eyes. He heard the shuffle of feet, the whistle of the cane, and a second scream, louder than the first. Shepherd put his hands over his ears but the men holding him ripped them away, forcing him to listen.
The red light on the bulkhead flicked off and the amber one went on as the pilot cut power to two of the engines, one port and one starboard. ‘That’s amber!’ shouted Drake. ‘Time to switch on your O2 supplies!’ The SEALs began switching from the plane’s oxygen supply to their own personal oxygen cylinders which they would be using all the way to the ground. Once they had checked the oxygen was flowing as it should, they unfastened their harnesses and shuffled towards the rear of the plane, keeping close to the fuselage. The engine noise died down again as the pilot set the throttles of the remaining two engines to idle. With a metallic grinding that the SEALs felt as much as heard, the rear door began to lower. The amber light winked off and the green light went on.
Jim Grant gave his first two loaders the OK sign. They pushed the first of the pods on rails that led down the ramp. It gathered speed quickly, and when they let go of it six feet from the end of the ramp it flew off into the sky. The loaders hurried past Grant and his colleague, who were already sending the second pod on its way. In a series of well-practised manoeuvres they threw the remaining pods out so close together that they were almost touching.
Grant flashed Drake the OK sign and Drake patted Henderson on the shoulder. Henderson nodded and jogged down the ramp. Morales followed him. Then Peterson.
Henderson threw himself off the ramp, thrusting out his arms and legs in a starfish pose as he went out. As Morales and Peterson followed, Henderson, Garcia, Sanders, Wood and Croft filed down the ramp. One by one they jumped, and then Drake took a deep breath and followed. He gasped as the wind tore at him, and he had to fight to keep his arms and legs out as he fell through the slipstream. He found himself spinning to the left so he pulled his left arm in closer. He arched his back so that his centre of gravity shifted towards his stomach. The turning stopped and he concentrated on slowing his breathing as he looked around, mentally counting off the seven other jumpers below him. They had left the plane almost as one but the speed of the Hercules, even close to stalling, meant that they were already fifty feet or so apart. Down below them were the six pods. Each pod had a small drone chute popping around, keeping them from spinning as they fell.
The pods were falling at a faster rate than the SEALs and the men moved to keep close to them. Drake concentrated on keeping stable as the seconds ticked by. He snatched a quick look at the altimeter on his right wrist. He had already fallen eight thousand feet and they were less than thirty seconds into it. He did a quick count again, ticking off the seven men by name. Beyond them, the six pods seemed to be moving to the north. The men were tracking to keep in line with the pods and Drake followed suit. He arched his back to look up and he could see the brightest of the stars twinkling above him. He snatched a
nother look at his altimeter. Eighteen thousand feet gone. Eleven thousand to go.
Even through his insulated gloves he could feel the chill in the air. At thirty thousand feet the temperature was below minus thirty-five degrees Celsius, and without the protective gear and oxygen he would have been unconscious already. As he fell, the air warmed one degree with about every two hundred feet but it was still bitterly cold.
The ground was closer now. He could see hills off to the west, the border with Afghanistan. To the north of the drop zone there were a cluster of brown buildings and what looked like farmland. He didn’t see any major roads but the area was criss-crossed with tracks.
He counted off the men again, then the pods, then checked the altimeter. Twenty-five thousand feet. Not long now. He mentally prepared himself for his chute opening, even though he had no control over it. As the pods reached seven hundred feet the CYPRES computers fired the small explosive charges that cut the line holding the main parachutes in place. The spring-loaded pilot chutes on the pods broke into the slipstream and pulled the main chute with them, and one by one the massive canopies popped open like blossoming black flowers. Then Henderson’s chute popped, quickly followed by those of Morales and Peterson. Drake’s breath caught in his throat as Garcia’s chute didn’t deploy but then it popped open at the same time as Sanders’. Woody’s chute opened, then Croft’s, then Drake’s altimeter hit seven hundred feet and his own chute automatically deployed, yanking him by the shoulders and dramatically slowing his descent. He reached up and grabbed the toggles that controlled the direction of his chute and pulled the right one so that he turned towards the pods. He looked up and gave his black canopy the once-over. The nine-cell flat ramair canopy was clean with no tangled lines. He made another adjustment to his direction and then looked down at the liquid crystal display tablet on his chest. It showed all six pods as small dots, off to the north.
Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies Page 31
