Zero Option

by Chris Ryan

  'Right, Norm,' I whispered. 'There's your door.'

  Tony and I remained on full alert as he set to with his torch and little bag of tricks, ten metres from us. We were both sweating like pigs, partly from the heat, partly from tension. I saw Tony's forehead gleaming in the faint light and beads of moisture trickling down his cheeks.

  Inevitably Norm made a few clicks and scrapes exactly the sounds I'd heard in my nightmare at the cottage - but nothing to compare with the steady background drone that filled the air, and in an incredibly short time he had the door open.

  'Rubbish,' he muttered, indicating the lock. 'Just a Yale-type. Opens from the inside with a turn of the knob.'

  'Brilliant! We'll see you soon.'

  We slung our rifles over our backs to leave our hands free, slipped inside and closed the door gently behind us. Inside was a passage, dimly lit by a single fluorescent tube. A smell of spicy food hung in the air - turmeric or cumin - and I guessed we were in the kitchen area.

  After the heat outside, the air-conditioned atmosphere bit cold. I began to shudder, and felt the sweat congealing in the small of my back.

  Two metres to our left the corridor came to a dead end in a closed door; to the right, it turned a corner. I calculated that our target room was almost directly above our heads.

  I peeped round the corner. Another passage, longer, with doors on both sides, almost dark. This one lay parallel with the-front of the building. I reckoned it must lead to stairs opposite the front door.

  The floor was cement painted with some dark-green compound. Our boots made no sound on it as we tip toed along. In fifteen paces we were at one side of a small entrance-hall or lobby, bare of furniture. The front door was to our right, and stairs with a metal banister rail and the same dark-green paint on the treads rose to our left. Beyond the reception area the passage carried on through the other half of the building.

  Tony put a hand on my arm and pointed. Farther down the corridor, on the left, light was showing through the crack of a partially opened door. The room could have been an office - but equally it could have been the bog. Whatever it was, nobody was moving, and I shook my head to show we should ignore it.

  I went.up the steps first, the Browning cocked, while Tony covered me from below. At the head of the stairs another corridor ran directly above the one on the ground floor. Dim fluorescent tubes glowed in the ceiling.

  Standing on the second-top step, I put my head cautiously round the corner of the passage. From under the last door on the left, at the end, light was showing.

  Without turning back, I waved my left hand to bring Tony up. A moment later I felt him materialise at my shoulder.

  There in the heart of the building the noise of the air conditioners was much reduced, and it was quiet enough for me to hear my heart pounding. This was it.

  This was the spot we'd come 4,000 miles to reach. All we had to do now was creep forward about twelve metres, open the door and drop the target where he sat.

  Suddenly we heard a noise below: a chair had been pushed back or the drawer of a filing-cabinet slid shut.

  Then door-hinges squeaked, and soft footsteps came towards us along the ground-floor corridor.

  In a second we were both round the corner, into the upper passage, backs to the wall, in full view of anyone who came out of the target's room but shielded from the stairs. The footsteps started up the first flight. In ten seconds they'd be level with us.

  Without a sound Tony pressed his Browning into my left hand and drew his Commando knife from its sheath on his belt. As the newcomer reached the top step Tony struck so fast round the corner that I saw nothing but a flurry of movement. The man made hardly a sound -just one gargling grunt as the blade drove into the side of his neck. If you rip out a guy's jugular and windpipe with one thrust, he doesn't start shouting. Tony caught him by the shoulder as he crumpled, turning the torso away from himself so that the spurting blood flew wide. The limp body slid bumping down the steps and came to rest on the half landing.

  I could feel Tony quivering as I handed him back his pistol. Now, I thought: move, move.

  Before I'd taken a step the passage lights went off. A second later they flickered back on, pinking and clicking, then went off, came on again, and finally died.

  With them went the air-conditioning, and the background drone sank away into total silence.

  Jesus! A power-cut. The extreme tension made me connect the shut-down with the corpse on the stairs.

  Had we somehow caused the breakdown? Had the fall of that body triggered some switch? Impossible, surely.

  It must be a coincidence. Whatever the cause, maybe the blackout would work to our advantage. Maybe it would flush Khadduri out and send him straight towards us.

  I felt for my torch, down a slim pocket on my left, thigh. 'Get ready, I breathed. 'This'll bring him out.'

  For a moment-nothing happened. I was stricken by a fleeting panic that Khadduri wasn't in his lair after all.

  Then we heard movements inside his room, and I tensed myself for the door to open.

  Another wait. What the hell was he doing? Maybe he was frantically trying to save whatever he had in his computer. But then, after another few seconds, came back the power: the fluorescent strips clicked and popped back into life; the air-conditioning units started up again.

  With the background noise restored I ducked back on to the staircase, jabbed my pressel switch and said softly, 'Pat, what the fuck's happening to the power?'

  'Dunno,' came the instant answer. 'The whole system went down for a few seconds. The entire camp was dark. Back on now.'

  'OK. Nobody moving?'

  'Not a soul.'

  I felt .my boot slip on the second step down, and realised the stairs were running with blood. Now I'd be leaving footprints. Too bad. Even our boots were Soviet-made.

  I gave Tony a nudge and pointed down the corridor, breathing, 'Let's go.' But we'd taken only a couple of steps when the power went down yet again.

  We stood still in the pitch-black corridor. I had the Browning in my right hand, torch in the left. Now he'll come out, I told myself. I reached back, hooked the torch round Tony's elbow and drew him forward with me. We crept on, one step, two, three, until I reckoned we were no more than six or seven feet from the target's door.

  Noises came from inside the room: somebody stumbling over furniture. We heard the handle turn, then the hinges squeaked as the door came open. Torch on. There in the beam was al-Khadduri - heavier, greyer than I remembered, hair ruffled up on end, but without the slightest doubt the same man - in an open-necked white shirt, carrying a bufffile-holder in his right hand.

  His eyes had a startled look and he opened his mouth to say something, but before any word came out my 9mm bullet smacked him in the centre of the forehead.

  The impact knocked him backwards bodily, and he slumped to the floor. On the deck his head turned sideways, and in an instant I was on top of him, putting a second round through his skull just above the ear. At the second shot the body twitched and jerked as if it had had an electric current shot through it, and the feet, which were encased in some kind of soft shoes, went slap, slap, slap against the wall as the dead man's knees doubled up and straightened violently, up, down, up, down. I saw now there'd been no need for the second round, because the first bullet had blown offthe back of his skull and a mess of brains was hanging out. The papers had cascaded out of his file and scattered along the floor. There was blood on his face, his shirt, the floor, the door.

  Subconsciously I knew that even the silenced pistol had made two heavy thuds, enough to have alerted anyone on the upper storey, but our immediate need was to snap some pictures of the dead man so that Western intelligence chiefs got absolute proof he'd been eliminated.

  For a couple of seconds I sat on Khadduri's legs to stop that mad thrashing. Then, as the nerve-responses faded, I stood up, and in a pre-arranged move Tony bolstered his pistol and grabbed the body under the armpits. The hands and arm
s were still twitching as he dragged it a couple of steps backwards and propped it against the door. By the time he had it in position I'd got my Instamatic camera lined up, the torch beam giving enough light to aim the lens, and I knew the automatic flash vOould do the rest.

  'For Pete's sake get a move on,' Tony gasped. 'The bastard's bleeding all over me. I hope to hell he hasn't got AIDS.'

  'Tip his head back a bit,' I hissed. 'Up! Up! Get him by the hair… That's it. Wipe the blood off his nose.

  There - hold him there. Now turn his head sideways for a profile.'

  I fired off six frames, three full-face, three profile, then pouched the camera and turned to go. In a couple of seconds we were at the top of the stairs, but shouts and a rush of feet in the lower corridor halted us on the top landing.

  Men were yelling 'Misabeeh! Misabeeh!'

  'Lights,' whispered Tony, 'they're shouting for lights.' Then, voicing my own thoughts, he said, 'They'll find the body on the stairs. That'll stop them.

  Use the window. It's only a ten or twelve foot drop.'

  We ran back to Khadduri's door, stepped over his huddled body, turned the handle and went in. On impulse I reached back, felt for a soft, still warm hand, grabbed it, dragged the body into the room and shut the door behind it.

  The room was slightly less dark than the corridor, lit by enough moonlight to make out the pieces of furniture. As Tony picked his way through them to the window I felt for the key and turned it in the lock.

  Then he hissed, 'Shit!'

  'What's the matter?'

  'Can't shift the window. Must be locked.'

  I knew from our observation during the day that the casements were made of heavy-duty metal. I came up beside Tony, grabbed the lever-handle and heaved downwards. No movement whatever. Bringing out my Browning, I slammed the butt against the glass - but although the pane buckled it didn't break. Against the moonlight I peered closely and saw that it was reinforced with wire mesh.

  I whipped back to the door and opened it slightly to listen. They'd found the body on the stairs and were jabbering like monkeys. There was no way we'd get down past them. We were trapped on the upper storey.

  I locked the door again and got on the radio. 'All stations. The bird is down. P,.epeat, the bird is down.

  But we've been compromised. We need immediate distractions. Pat, are you hearing me?'

  'Loud and clear.'

  'Get an IPG into the right-hand end of our building. Upper floor, your right-hand end. Now.

  Then fire your distraction charge soonest. After that, if it's still on, have a crack at the satellite dish.

  'Whinger?'

  'Hello.'

  'Once the rocket's gone, get rounds down into the area of the guardroom. Are there any lights on in the camp? Over.'

  'No lights, Geordie. The whole system's gone down.'

  'OK. Let me know if anything comes on. We're in the bird's nest itself. We're stuck for the moment. But it's no sweat. When we can, we're coming out through the window that was lit.'

  In one of the pouches of my belt-kit I had two small demolition charges, ready made up. It took only a few seconds to mould them on to the window fastening. Tll wait for the RPG to hit,' I told Tony. 'Then I'll blow it. Block your ears.'

  We both lay flat on the floor at the base of the outer wall, heads away from the window, thumbs over ears.

  Seconds crawled past. I held the clacker between my knees, willing Pat to let drive. Then, without warning, there came a thunderbolt, an immense roar, and a concussion that shook the entire building. In its aftermath, the boom of our little charge was tiny, but still enough to leave our ears ringing.

  Tony and I leapt up. The window had swung open.

  With my shamag in a bundle I swept the sill back and forth to clear any broken glass and went out feet-first.

  The barrel of my AK-47 caught on the top of the frame, and I had to wriggle my torso violently to free it. Then I hung down, flexed my knees and let go.

  The landing was hard but OK. Just as Tony thumped down beside me, a huge sheet of flame split the night from along by the gate, instantly followed by the boom of another explosion. Good on yet, Pat, I thought.

  On the radio I called, 'Norm, we're out front and coming round the corner towards you. Are you there?'

  'Roger. Ready and waiting.'

  We scuttled to the corner of the building, felt rather than saw Norm in front of us, and all three headed fast for the gap in the wire. By then rounds were going down in every direction. Short bursts were coming in from Pat and Whinger, but from several points inside the wire tracer was flying out into the desert, most of it in the direction of the gate, where the explosion had started a small fire.

  As we reached the wire I heard the whoosh of another rocket coming in. Turning, I saw the streak of it heading for the comms dish. Automatically I began counting: one, two, three… By four I kne it had missed.

  Fractionally later came a boom as it self-destructed.

  Fuck the dish, I thought. We're not risking our lives for that.

  We wriggled through the gap in the wire, ran until we were well clear of the fence, and dropped into a hollow. I was panting and sweating in the hot outside air, but on a high, boosted by a mixture of fear and elation. I felt neither tired nor hungry, not even thirsty just great. 'Stew,' I called. 'Have you onpassed to the head-shed that the bird is down?'

  'Roger. Message passed and acknowledged. The heli's on its way.'

  'Brilliant. Let's go.'

  We fell in with Whinger easily enough. 'Fucking missed!' he went.

  'No sweat,' I told him. 'Where's the launcher?'

  'I binned it.'

  'OK, let's leave it. We've got problems enough already.'

  Little did I know the validity of what I was saying.

  When we reached the OP - our first EP, V - there was no sign of Pat. He should have been there by then.

  'Pat,' I called over the radio, 'EP, V One, now.'

  No answer. I called again, and waited with anxiety mounting fast. Then at last came an answer.

  It was Pat all right, but not the jaunty, cortfident response we were used to hearing. His voice sounded weak and slow. 'Problem,' he slurred, 'I've been hit.

  Can't move.'

  'Jesus!' I cried. 'Where are you?'

  'Main gate. Five o'clock, two hundred metres.'

  'Hang on there. We're coming.'

  We started running in his direction, parallel with the wire, a couple of hundred metres out. Bursts of automatic fire came cracking out over our heads, with the odd red tracer round looping past to show us it wasn't all that high. Whinger kept yelling 'FUCKIN' AISEHOLES!' like a lunatic. I nearly shouted at him to shut up, but decided he'd pay no attention.

  Whether or not the defenders could see us it was impossible to tell, but I guessed not. I reckoned they were just loosing offrounds into the desert to raise their morale. They had plenty to keep them occupied. The blaze started by Pat's distraction charge had died out, but the accommodation block was well alight, with flames spreading along it from the right-hand end. I could see figures running about outside the building, and hear men yelling in high, harsh voices. Vehicles were on the move, headlights sweeping the desert. I tried not to look at the lights or flames because the glare destroyed my night-vision.

  The ground was uneven enough to make searching difficult, the hollows containing pools of deeper darkness.

  'Spread out,' I called. 'Get a line. It's the only way to find him.'

  We fanned out to twenty metres apart in a line end- on to the wire, tripping and falling in the sandy hollows.

  Whenever headlights swung in our direction, everyone went down and stayed flat until the beams had passed.

  This made progress ercatic, and confused our eyes still more. I was beginning to think we must have gone past Pat when Norm suddenly called, 'Here he is.'

  We were round him in a flash. He was lying in a bit' of a dip, on his right side, with his left leg curled u
p but his right leg straight out beneath it. As we huddled round he didn't speak. With my back to the camp I switched on my torch and immediately saw blood gleaming in the sand.

  'Right leg,' I said. 'Turn him over.'

  He groaned and blasphemed as we got him on his back. With my knife I cut his trousers and slit upwards.

  One look told me that a bullet had gone right through his leg and caught his femur just above the knee. A splinter of bone was protruding from a bloody opening.