by Chris Ryan
A red light appeared at the back of the plane, above the tailgate – the pilot’s signal that they were to get ready to jump. They shuffled forward, closer to the edge of the tailgate. Danny caught another glimpse of moon, and gradually became aware of stars in the night sky. As he peered downwards, however, he saw nothing but blackness. No lights on the ground. No topographical features. It meant there was cloud cover, which they’d have to penetrate.
A minute passed. Then, suddenly, the green light came on. Danny heard a loadie screaming at the top of his voice: ‘GREEN ON! GO!’ There was no hesitation. There couldn’t be, since a delay of just a few seconds could mean missing their landing zone by a substantial distance. Spud pushed the freefall container out of the aircraft before immediately following it. At the same time, Danny and Caitlin tumbled out.
The rush of wind against Danny’s face was sudden and intense. The cold was shocking. It almost knocked the breath from his lungs. He concentrated hard on breathing steadily, sucking down the oxygen from the canister at his chest. At the same time, he pulled one of his two ripcords. He didn’t see the drone chute engaging, but he felt a slight upward force as it slowed their rate of acceleration. He arched his body firmly against the strong air currents that were buffeting them around. Caitlin did the same. He had to hand it to her. She was a natural.
The scream of the wind grew louder as their speed increased. Danny could make out Spud. He was about twenty feet below them. From the shape of his body, he could tell that his mate was trying to de-arch a little bit in order to slow down his rate of descent and keep close to Danny and Caitlin. And a little below him, little more than a smudge against the sky, was the weapons canister, hurtling down to earth.
Suddenly everything went black. They were in the clouds. They were no longer accelerating – they’d hit terminal velocity, the point at which they’d reached their maximum speed – and the shockingly icy temperature had eased a little. But now the moisture of the clouds seemed to saturate every part of him. His clothes were soggy. He almost felt like he was inhaling water, not oxygen. The altimeter on his left arm was only a faint glow in the thick mist.
As quickly as it had arrived, the blackness disappeared. For the first time since they’d jumped, Danny saw the terrain below.
He knew that their LZ was a long way from any built-up areas, and his vista confirmed this. There were barely any ground lights for miles in any direction. To the north, on the horizon, he saw a glow that he took to be the Turkish town of Silopi. Elsewhere, he saw the occasional line of an arterial road, and here and there the headlamps of a car. But in the immediate vicinity, nothing.
It was much warmer now. He checked his altimeter. Six thousand feet.
Five thousand feet.
Below, he saw the sudden eruption of the weapons canister’s rectangular chute. It had obviously hit the 3.5k altitude. At the same time, he saw that his own altimeter was about to hit 4,000 feet. He tapped Caitlin on the shoulder in the prearranged signal. He felt her tensing up slightly as he pulled the ripcord for his main chute. He felt the familiar sensation of his chute opening, then the sudden upward jolt as their velocity dramatically reduced. The rush of wind in their ears disappeared. Danny grabbed the brake lines and checked for Spud’s position. He was close – about twenty metres to the west, and at approximately the same altitude. Danny could tell that he was positioning himself to follow the weapons canister down. Danny did the same.
Forty-five seconds passed. The weapons canister hit the ground – Danny could see its chute starting to deflate. ‘Loosen your pack,’ he shouted at Caitlin, while releasing the strap that bound his own bergen to his legs. Both packs fell, suspending in the air beneath them for a moment, before hitting the earth. Seconds later, Danny and Caitlin made landfall, running in tandem as they touched the earth.
As the chute deflated behind them, Danny quickly unclipped his rig from Caitlin’s harness. He spun round and started dragging his chute towards him as quickly as possible, aware that Spud was doing the same thing twenty metres to his nine o’clock. HALO jumps were dangerous, but this was by far the riskiest moment. They needed to collect up their gear quickly so it couldn’t be seen. And they needed to scan the immediate area for threats. Danny saw, from the corner of his eye, that Caitlin had thrown herself on to the ground in the firing position, weapon engaged, as she did just that.
Within thirty seconds, Danny and Spud were in exactly the same position, their chutes bundled up beside them, their masks and visors disengaged. Each of them were pointing out in a different direction, covering the three vertices of a triangle. There was complete silence. Danny could feel his heart thumping behind his ribs as he took in the terrain.
It was hard, rocky ground. Desert-like, though it was clear that it had rained lately, because there was a slight moistness to the earth. The air was chilly – five degrees C, perhaps, though the slight breeze made it feel colder. The ground itself undulated quite heavily, so it would have been difficult to see more than about twenty metres in any direction even during the day. Danny remained completely still for a full minute, scrutinising the landscape and listening hard for any sight or sound of movement. There was none.
‘Where’s the weapons drum?’ he heard Spud hissing.
Danny allowed himself to look around. Spud was right. There was no sign of it. ‘Stay put,’ he said. ‘I’ll look for it.’ He slowly pushed himself to his feet, orientating himself and trying to fit their position to the mental image he had of the mapping they had been studying for the past twelve hours. Off to his three o’clock, there was a rough road. Danny thought this must be the track that would lead them to the RV point. He’d double-check that in a minute, but for now he needed to locate the weapons drum. At first glance, he couldn’t.
It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to see what had happened. Thirty paces to his seven o’clock – a quick glance at the compass on his wrist told him this was a south-westerly direction – the terrain fell away over a kind of cliff. Danny ran towards it, got to the ground again and carefully peered over. The canister was five metres below him, completely covered by its chute. He spent a moment checking for threats or other movement again – nothing – then hurried back to Spud and Caitlin. ‘This way,’ he hissed.
They followed him back to the cliff, each of them now carrying their packs on their backs, Danny and Spud with armfuls of bundled-up chute and para cord. The cliff was not entirely sheer – a moment’s examination and they located a narrow gulley that they could scramble down. They lowered their gear over the cliff, then climbed down it and hurried towards the weapons container.
‘We lucked out,’ Caitlin whispered. She pointed to the base of the cliff. There was a cave here – a narrow entrance about two metres wide. It was cold inside the cave, and there was a horrible smell, like something was rotting inside. ‘We can stash our freefall rigs in there.’
Danny shone his flashlight into the cave. It was deep – at least ten metres, although parts of the back were still hidden in shadow. They didn’t, however, seem to have disturbed anything or anyone.
‘We’ll store the weapons canister too,’ Danny added. He stepped back outside the cave and checked his GPS device. ‘We’re approximately two klicks east of the RV location. We can’t move covertly across this terrain if we’re carrying that.’ He looked at his watch. 2203 hours. The RV was at midnight and they wanted to be in position well before then. They were behind schedule already, and needed to move fast.
Danny turned to Caitlin. ‘Wait here with the drum. We’ll make the RV, then get them to drive here and pick it up.’
A shadow crossed Caitlin’s face. She obviously didn’t like the idea of staying back to babysit the hardware, but she didn’t complain. She quickly went about the business of stashing the freefall rigs far into the back of the cave – by the time anyone found them there, the unit would be long gone. Danny and Spud removed the remainder of their HALO gear and stashed it with the chutes, before manoeuvring
the weapons drum quickly into the cave.
Caitlin took up position inside the cave mouth. She was clutching her rifle, which was strapped across her body, and had an unflinching, resolute look on her face that for the briefest moment reminded Danny of Clara back home. He pushed that thought from his mind. ‘We RV at midnight, expect us back here at approximately 0030 hours, assuming there’s no delays. If anyone else passes this way, stay hidden as far as possible. We don’t want things to go noisy on us.’
Caitlin gave him a withering look. ‘And if I want to kill someone, which end of the gun do I use again?’
Danny ignored that. ‘We’ll be in radio contact. We’ll check in every thirty minutes, on zero hundred and zero thirty. Otherwise keep transmissions to a minimum.’ He turned to Spud. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
They shouldered their bergens, checked that their personal weapons were cocked and locked and engaged their radio equipment. Spud took a moment to check over his 66 Law, and they both fitted their regular Kevlar helmets with NV goggles fixed to the top. Danny dropped a pin on his GPS unit so that they could quickly locate Caitlin’s position when they returned. Then they moved silently away from the cave mouth. It was very dark – cloud cover obscured the moon and stars. That suited them fine – it made it easier for them to cross this rough, rocky terrain without being seen. Danny knew, from his examination of the GPS device and the mental image he had of the maps they’d been studying, that if they travelled approximately 500 metres at a bearing of thirty degrees, they would hit a small road. Two klicks further along, the road hit a T-junction. Their RV point was 500 metres directly north of this junction – the kind of location where it was extremely unlikely that anyone would randomly show up.
They would not, however, be following the road itself towards the junction. If the Kurds, or anyone else, had eyes on it, they’d spot Danny and Spud immediately. And while Alice Cracknell, safe in the belly of a C-130, might be calmly confident that these Kurds were on the level, Danny knew they’d be making a massive strategic error if they trusted them blindly. Just because they were enemies of Islamic State, it didn’t mean they were friends of the SAS.
Instead, they kept a good 350 metres to the west of the road. They travelled side by side, with a gap of approximately ten metres between them, in order not to present a bunched-up target to any potential shooters. They jogged, clutching their personal weapons across their chests, but scanning for movement all the while. Every couple of minutes they came to a halt, went to ground and listened hard. But so far as they could tell, the area was deserted.
After twenty minutes of jogging, Danny checked his GPS unit again. They were seventy-five metres from the road junction. They went to ground and waited for a couple of minutes, watching and listening. There was no sight or sound of any traffic, so they continued to the junction itself.
Danny examined the road surface. Old, cracked tarmac. No road markings. There was wet mud at one edge, with a fragment of tyre markings. A vehicle had passed this way recently. They needed to get off the road, quickly. Danny jabbed a forefinger in a northerly direction. Spud nodded.
The RV point was a featureless patch of open ground. But it was surrounded by undulating terrain that meant it was unobservable from the road. Danny and Spud avoided the RV point itself. Instead, they started looking for suitable OPs. They couldn’t both lie up in the same place. When – if – the Kurds arrived, their strategy was clear. If everything seemed OK, Danny would approach by himself, while Spud covered the Kurds and their vehicle. For that to work, they needed to be facing the RV at a forty-five-degree angle to each other, at least.
He and Spud identified the best locations immediately. They were two small hills – little more than mounds, really – one of them situated fifty metres north-west of the RV point, the other about sixty metres south-west. Danny headed to the northernmost OP point, Spud to the southernmost. When Danny reached his mound, he crouched down at its base and opened his bergen.
Each man, at the top of their pack, had what looked like a camouflage-patterned blanket. Back in Hereford, they’d dubbed these things ‘combat burkas’. They were fitted with electronic anti-surveillance devices. It was new technology, capable of disrupting radar and infrared signals, which the guys knew were often used to scan wide-open desert areas in a search for human signatures. It was unlikely the Kurds would have such sophisticated surveillance systems – but it wasn’t just the Kurds they had to worry about. This was Turkish territory, and although the Turks had given permission for a British aircraft to enter their airspace, there had been no mention of men on the ground. Hammond had warned of Russian and American SF in the region. And then, of course, there was IS.
Danny donned his combat burka, knowing that Spud would be doing the same at his OP. His radio earpiece crackled. Caitlin’s voice. A single word: ‘Clear.’
Spud responded: ‘Clear.’
Then Danny: ‘Clear.’
He carefully carried his pack and weapon on to the brow of the hill. He lay on his front, completely covered, with his weapon alongside him, clutching a small night scope. Danny focussed in on the RV. It was simply a bleak, empty, windswept patch of open ground.
Time check: 2232 hours. An hour and twenty-eight minutes till RV. Time was important. As soon as they made contact, they needed to advance to target, because the longer they could put in surveillance on Dhul Faqar’s compound – to work out the lie of the land and establish the regular movements of his men – the better their chance of success.
Danny lay there, totally silent, every sense on high alert, as he waited for their contacts to arrive.
‘Sandringham tomorrow,’ Yellow Seven had said. ‘Tonight, we party.’
That had been two hours ago. It had briefly crossed Tony’s mind that he should be staying sober. He was on duty, after all. But Yellow Seven had been quite insistent that they get pissed together. And who am I, Tony thought, to disobey a royal command? The guy had seemed so genuinely delighted that he’d found somebody to join him in his recreations, he appeared to be redoubling his efforts to have a good time.
They had remained in the penthouse suite of the hotel for an hour, hoovering up Yellow Seven’s stash of marching powder like it was going out of fashion, and necking shots of single malt. It didn’t take long for Tony to start feeling disjointed from his own body. Every time he turned his head, the lights in the room cast a trail across his vision. When Yellow Seven had called in his royal flunky and told him that he wanted to go to a club called Mahoka in downtown Dubai, Hughes had looked daggers at Tony, as if Tony himself had suddenly pushed the young man off the rails. Not that Tony gave a shit. He was happy to go along for the ride. And when his Grace had reminded him that there was no booze served in these places, so they’d better take advantage of the bar while they could, Tony had been happy to oblige.
Now he was sitting in the back of a black Mercedes. Tinted windows, suited chauffeur. The regular close protection guys were in a vehicle behind them. They too had given Tony the deadeye as he’d accompanied their charge out of the penthouse, through the lobby of the hotel and into their waiting vehicle. He’d been aware of a couple of people holding up their smartphones to snap a picture, and idly wondered if his own pupils were as dilated as Yellow Seven’s.
‘You’ll like this place,’ his royal companion said as their Merc swept across the short causeway that linked their hotel to the Dubai mainland. He was talking quickly, and had a slightly high-pitched edge to his voice. ‘It’s where all the best chicks hang out.’ He grinned. ‘We could have a competition. See which is the best fanny magnet – the royal family or SAS.’
‘That’s not a fair fight,’ Tony said. ‘A Regiment man never lets on in public that he’s SAS.’
Yellow Seven’s grin grew broader. ‘Bad luck,’ he said.
Tony raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe I don’t need any extra help to score,’ he said.
His companion doubled over with laughter, as if that was the funniest thi
ng he’d ever heard. ‘You’re fucking hilarious,’ he bellowed. ‘I’m telling Hughes to get you along every time I need close protection. You’re a hell of a sight more fun than Dick and Dom in the other car.’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the CP guys’ vehicle behind them.
Tony sniffed. The charlie had numbed his nose and he found himself craving a little more. Not a problem, he thought, glancing at Yellow Seven, who was still giggling to himself. Plenty where that came from. He caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror and realised he was smiling. Looked like he was landing on his feet after his summary dismissal from the Mediterranean op.
The bright lights of central Dubai flashed past his peripheral vision. He realised that the coke had screwed up his sense of spatial awareness, and even of the passing of time. Before he knew it, he was walking alongside his new companion into the VIP entrance of an impossibly swanky club. Fawning staff bowed as they opened doors for them, while the two CP guys kept a respectful distance of several metres. They walked into a warm, neon-lit room with softly thudding dance music. There were private booths along the left-hand side, and the whole place was decked out like a rainforest, although whoever had designed these sparkling indoor waterfalls and beautiful, verdant plants draped everywhere had obviously never spent much time in thick, stinking, primary jungle.
