by Chris Ryan
'Delta Four. Roger. We have one casualty. Bravo Seven has a serious leg wound. He's stable, but we need a doctor soonest. Best if we can have one on the Here.
Over.'
'Zero Alpha. Roger. We'll do what-we can.'
We found a different way down into the wadi and picked out a path across its boulder-strewn floor without difficulty. After a quick run across the gravel plain, we were on the pick-up location well within the window I'd given. The ground there was flat and hard, with a bit of sand on the surface, but no obstructions, so that the heli would be able to land anywhere. Having chosen the best-looking spot, we spread out in all round defence and listened for the sound of engines.
The night was utterly quiet, with just a breath of wind from the south-east. Looking back to the north, I could see no lights in the sky, no sign of vehicles moving, and I guessed that after a token watch in the desert the Libyans had retreated into camp. I imagined a fire-crew fighting the blaze in the accommodation block. If the whole building had gone up and Khadduri's body had been incinerated, the home team might never realise that he'd been assassinated.
Scanning through my PNGs, I could make out the other quads dotted round in a circle. It was difficult to sit still and wait, so hyped-up did I feel. Every minute or two I had a word with Pat, lying in the trailer beside me. During one of the longer silences, the idea of meeting Norm's next-of-kin began to bug me. Because he came from so far away - Glasgow - and spoke so little, I didn't know much about his family. I had the impression that his father was dead and his mum had married again. What was I going to say to her?
I kept trying to work out when our Chinook would have taken offfrom Siwa and how long it might take to reach us. As we had no solid information, everything was guesswork. From their pre-briefing, the crew knew that EtV Six was twenty kilometres due south of the camp perimeter, and I was confident they were heading for us.
It was Whinger, with his very sharp ears, who heard the sound first. 'Aircraft engines east,' he announced. I switched my radio to the channel I expected the chopper crew to be using and called, 'Hello Steve, hello Steve, this is Geordie. How d'you read me? Over.'
'Hi, Geordie. You're loud and clear. I'm heading two-six-zero. Estimating six minutes to the LZ. Over.'
'Roger. That's great. Keep coming. We can hear you due east of our position. The deck's clear for you to land. We've got i firefly on now.'
'Roger. Do my guys need any particular instructions for loading your casualty?'
'No, thanks. We've got him laid in the trailer, so he can be driven straight in.'
'Roger. Standby.'
'And… Steve?'
'Yes?'
'We've only four quads left. Had to bin the others.
So the loadies'll only need to count four in.'
'Roger.'
It was a fantastic relief to know that the chopper was on course. Again I gave thanks for the existence of the Magellan and the pinpoint accuracy it offered us. No doubt the crew of the Chinook would have found us in the end by using old-fashioned methods of navigation, but almost certainly the recovery would have taken longer. Most of my anxieties fell away; now the main worry was Pat.
For three or four minutes the engine hum grew steadily louder.
'We're hearing you stronger,' I called. 'Keep coming.'
'Roger,' Steve called, and then, 'OK, OK. I've got you. We were almost spot on. Turning towards you now. OK, the firefly's on the nose. All clear to land beside it?'
'Perfect. We're standing off.'
'Roger. I'll come straight in.'
I went back on to our chatter net and called to Whinger: 'Pull away from his line of approach or you'll get your bloody head cut off. All stations, start up. He'll be here in under a minute. Stew, you'll be first on with the trailer.'
'Roger.'
Pulling the PNGs down on to my chest, I replaced them with ordinary ski goggles, started the quad and turned to face into the circle. For a few moments I could hear the noise of my own engine. Then the thudding of rotor blades and the scream of turbines blotted it out, and all at once a great black monster was looming towards us out of the night, practically at ground level, with a dark sand-cloud seething behind it.
Without wasting an instant, Steve hovered, turned in the air and put his arse down right beside the firefly. In the last few seconds the noise became overwhelming.
Sand and dust boiled up furiously, and as I drove into the cloud I found the ramp already down, and there were the loadies, beckoning Stew on. In less than a minute all four quads were safely aboard, and we lifted away.
In the dim light of the hold I could see that Tony's face and hands were smeared with dried blood.
Khadduri's. My hands were the same, but the blood was Pat's. The blood all down the backs of my legs was Norm's.
For our lads, the relief of being airborne was overwhelming; we felt we were already half-way home, our troubles behind us. For the crew, though, things were different. From their strained faces I could see they were shitting themselves with the possibility of going down in alien territory. Not until we'd cleared the Egyptian border would they be able to relax. Engine failure, or a SAM from a trigger-happy sentry in some Libyan frontier-post - either would spoil the party in a few seconds. In my mind I ran through the emergency drills we'd talked about in Hereford, what we'd do in the event of a forced landing. We still had enough explosive to destroy the Chinook if need be, but that would be the last resort.
As for Pat, I knew the important thing was to make him keep fighting. On other operations I'd seen guys who'd been wounded hold out well until they thought they were in safe hands, and then suddenly slide downhill as they stopped making a positive effort to survive. When that happens, shock can take over.
I went and looked down over the side of the trailer.
Pat's eyes were shut, so I gave him a tap on the arm and shouted, 'Stick at it, mate. There's going to be a doctor on the Here. Only an hour to go.'
The morphine had put him half-under, but he mustered a bit of a smile and muttered, 'Fuck 'em all!'
I raised a thumb, held my fist above his head for a moment, gave him a tap on the shoulder and moved away.
When I called the head-shed on the secure radio link, I was put straight on to the CO. I told him about Norm and Pat, but there was only one subject he seemed interested in: was I sure that the target was dead?
'As fucking mutton, Boss,' I told him. 'He had two rounds through the head, one from the front, one from the side. His brains are spattered half-way across Libya.
We've got photos to prove it.'
'Good work,' he conceded. 'And nobody got a good look at you?'
'Only the target. No one else.'
'Brilliant. We'll see you back here presently.'
EIGHT
When I heard that Tracy had been on the phone the night before my heart leapt, but the surge of hope lasted only a few seconds.
'I'm afraid she made the call under duress,' Foxy Fraser told me. 'The message was very downbeat. Listen for yourself.' He switched on a tape deck, and when Tracy's voice came loud and clear out of the speakers it nearly cracked me up. I had to get hold of myself before I could grasp what she was saying. Apart from the emotional shock of hearing her apparently so near, there was something odd about the rhythm of her speech; it didn't sound natural, and I had to run through the tape twice before I realised she'd been reading out a prepared script.
'Geordie, listen,' she said. 'You have to come and get us. You have to make the arrangement very soon. We can't wait any longer. If you haven't made the arrangement by midday on the first of June they are going to kill Tim. Tim first, then me. Geordie, I love you. You can't let us die. For God's sake send a message through Sinn Fein in Belfast.'
I clenched my fists under the table, took a deep breath and looked across at Fraser.
He twitched his head quickly to one side, chin out and back, as if to say, 'I'm feeling for you, mate.'
'What do we do?' I asked. 'We've got to
move now.'
Fraser cleared his throat. 'We had one false alarm,' he said. 'Not sure ;what it was - whether the tout was trying to make a quick buck, or what. We got a tip that the hostages were being held in a flat in Earl's Court not one of the known addresses. We put the place under surveillance immediately. That night three men came out at ten o'clock. Nobody we knew. While they were in the pub a lock-picking specialist slipped in and took a look round.'
'And?'
'Nothing. There was nobody else at home, no sign there ever had been. Our operator left a microphone in the ceiling light, but it's yielded nothing. The men are just Paddies working on building sites. All they talk about is prostitutes and race-horses. It was a bum steer.'
'This call…' I gestured at the tape, 'was it a bluff?'
'With the PIRA you can never tell. They're so blasted ecratic. Obviously they're trying to crank up the pressure. Somebody in Belfast is probably putting the screws on the London boys. We need to take the threat seriously, whatever.'
'What's this about Sinn Fein?'
'We do sometimes send messages through their office in Belfast.'
'Well, can you do that now?'
'Of course - when we've decided what to say.'
'In that case I'm going to make a move.'
Fraser glanced at me sharply. 'What are you proposing?'
'You know that scheme I told them about the last time?'
'For springing Farrell from a police convoy?'
'Exactly. I'm going ahead with it.'
'Geordie!' Fraser stood up and moved towards me with an anxious expression on his face. 'There are some things you can do, and some you can't. This is '
'Listen!' I cut him off. 'It's my kid's life that's at stake.
I'm not going to sit around and let him get killed.
We've got to get off our arses and act.'
'I wouldn't say we're sitting around, exactly. We've got a big operation going on out there.'
'Yes - and what's it producing? Two thirds of three fifths of fuck-all.' Seeing Fraser colour up, I added, 'I didn't mean that personally. I'm not trying to criticise; I know how cunning these bastards are. But they're not getting away with this one.'
I found I was pacing about the room: something I don't usually do. I made myself sit down again and said, Tve thought it through, and it's perfectly possible.'
'I don't see it,' Fraser replied. 'Apart from anything else, you'll get yourself kicked out of the Regiment.'
'No, no - I 'haven't explained properly. 1 changed my mind. We'll do it with the Regiment. Their support will be essential.'
Fraser looked blank. 'I still don't get it. Don't tell me your commanding officer's going to sanction your breaking the law of the land, setting a dangerous criminal free.'
'Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Everyone's got to agree, of course.'
'Who's everyone?'
'The Regiment. Yourselves. The prison authorities.
The regular police. Then, I suppose, the Home Office and the Home Secretary. Maybe ultimately the Prime Minister.'
'I think you're getting a bit carried away.' Fraser was staring at me as if I'd gone round the twist. 'So what exactly do you propose doing?'
'I'm calling it Plan Zulu. In training or on operations we always start off with Plan A and Plan B - Alpha and Bravo. This is the ultimate plan, the last resort.
Therefore it's Plan Z for Zulu.'
I started pacing around again. 'We have a big O- group - collect tbgether all the people I've mentioned, and explain the scheme to them. Then, at an agreed time on an agreed day, the prison authorities move Farrell from Birmingham to somewhere else - it doesn't matter what the destination is supposed to be, as they don't have to tell him. The prisoner'll be in a closed van, and won't know where he's going.'
'He could be going down the road to Long Lartin,' said Fraser.
'Where's that?'
'The nick near Evesham where quite a few IRA prisoners are held.'
I stared at the Special Branch man, amazed that he seemed to be entering into my plan.
'Great!' I went. 'Presumably they don't have any obligation to tell him where he's going.'
'No. When they ship people like that and don't give a destination, it's known as putting them on the ghost train.'
'Got it. So they bring him out. We get guys from the Regiment to drive the police cars and the prison van the meat wagon, you call it, don't you? - and at a predetermined spot we ambush the convoy, ram the van, force it off the road and stage a realistic battle, with plenty of bangs and rounds going down. We - myself and two or three of the lads - grab Farrell and take him to a safe house. As far as he'll know we're renegades from the army, doing this on our own initiative. I'll tell him I'm so desperate I've taken leave and brought in some civilian friends to help.'
Fraser had his eyebrows raised in a sceptical arch. 'Go.'
'Then, from the safe house, we'll contact the PIRA and tell them to set a rendezvous for an exchange. But we'll also put a bug into one of Farrell's shoes, or his belt, and make certain that he can be trailed. Then we'll hand him over, do the swap, secure Tim and Tracy, let Farrell think he's got clear, and have the police nab him again.'
'And throw a bridge across the Irish Sea at the same time, just so you can go after him quicker.'
I glared at Fraser. He seemed to have lost heart again.
'Look,' I said, 'you don't appear to realise that all this is shit simple. We're trained to the eyeballs in ambush techniques. We have the cars to do an intercept, we have the weapons to stage a battle, and we can set up a safe house in our sleep. Apart from back-up on the ground, we'll have a helicopter airborne but standing well offout of sight, so that Farrell won't stand a cat in hell's chance of getting away. Nobody else has to do anything except put him in a van and let us drive him a few miles out of Birmingham into the country. All we need is the co-operation of the authorities.'
'And your commanding officer,' Fraser prompted.
'And the CO, of course. I'm due to see him in a minute, for a wash-up on our operation. Once that's over, maybe you and he can get together.'
'You're going to propose Plan Zulu to him, then?'
'Most certainly.'
'Well… I wish you luck.'
'Thanks.'
I got up to go, feeling that Fraser was still with me and willing to have a go - but only just. 'By the way, what's become of your assistant? Karen whatever?'
'Oh.' The Commander looked suddenly uncom fortable. 'She's . . . she's gone on a couple of days' leave.'
At the time I didn't challenge his statement, but there was something about Fraser's manner which made me doubt if it was tree.
On the flight back from Cyprus Pat had been given priority and put on board a TriStar, so that within an hour of touch-down at Lyneham he was in the operating theatre of the tri-service hospital at RAF Wroughton, south of Swindon. The rest of us had lumbered back in a Here, but because our departure was delayed we'd come in so late at night that our debrief had to be postponed until the morning.
Now, in Yorky Rose's office in the Subversive Action Wing, members of the head-shed had gathered to welcome us back.
Apart from Yorky himself there was Mac, the ops officer, the int officer, Gilbert the Filbert from the Firm, and above all the CO, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Brampton - commonly known as 'Wingnut', because of his ears, but liked and respected none the less. A fitness fanatic, he was glowing with good health; he looked like he'd been for a ten-mile run (which he probably Had) and then had a big breakfast of vitamins.
The lads in our team were well spruced up, shaved and showered, but it wasn't surprising that we all looked a bit hollow-eyed, and yawns were two a penny.
If it hadn't been for the death of Norm, the atmosphere would have been positively euphoric. As it was, the CO was on a kind of muted high. He shook each of us by the hand, exclaiming 'Well done!', 'Great effort!', 'Tremendous!' and suchlike, but behind his laughing and joking sadness hung like a dark
cloud.
He addressed us all. 'The Regiment's going to get a lot more work as a result of this. We're going to be run off our feet by the demand for our services.'
l knew that our success would increase his own credit rating as well - he might even end up with a gong - yet I could tell that he was feeling our loss as much as we were.
When the initial hubbub had subsided, the ruperts took a row of chairs behind Yorky's desk and we sat in a semi-circle facing them. The prize exhibits were the mug-shots I'd taken of Khadduri, full-face and profile.
(The film had been whipped off me the moment we reached base and developed in the middle of the night.) The photos weren't a pretty sight, but they were technically spot-on, and proved that Tony and I hadn't been exaggerating. You could even see the tattoo of an eagle on the back of Tony's left hand as he held the dead man's head up by the hair, with the blood-spattered door of the office in the background.
