Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  ‘The Defender is Cameron’s; the Mercedes must be the kidnappers.’

  ‘Makes sense. I’ve been checking on the Brankos’ phone signals. All are still in North London and there is no trace of their vehicles on ANPR, so I suspect it’s just the Glasgow crew you have to deal with.’

  Tom digested this information. If there was only one vehicle, it meant a maximum of five individuals at the cottage, if the Brankos were still in London. Tom couldn’t see that they would commit more resources to what was, essentially, a babysitting job.

  ‘Anything from our corrupt police friends?’

  ‘Branko has been calling Taylor, probably making sure you’re still in London.’

  ‘I guess so. Listen, I have to go; I’ve got stuff to do.’

  ‘Be careful and stay safe.’

  ‘Always,’ said Tom, and he rang off.

  The kettle began to whistle and Tom took a tea bag from a jar on the unit to make himself a cup of black tea. In his mind he was back in a war zone, preparing for whatever may come next.

  He opened the peli-case and withdrew the MP7, checked the action and ensured that the weapon was unloaded, more by habit than necessity.

  It was immaculately clean, but he still stripped and examined all the components in any case, fully aware that his life depended on its reliability. Once satisfied, he reassembled the weapon and set it to one side. He screwed on the square-shaped suppressor, ensuring it was tight.

  He took one of the magazines and loaded it with thirty-five high-velocity rounds but topped it off with five of the subsonic low-velocity ones. The remaining fifteen low-velocity rounds he loaded into the remaining magazine.

  He checked the workings of the Armasight scope, which was secured onto the weapon’s Picatinny sight-mounting rail. It seemed simple enough to use and similar to other optics he’d used in the past. There was a rubberised menu button on the top of the sight, with directional buttons that would adjust the sight’s directions minutely once the operator had ascertained how true the weapon fired when testing. He fully intended to use ten of the low-velocity rounds to give at least a basic zeroing, living as always by the military rule of the Seven Ps.

  He went to the large, heavy, metal cupboard in the corner of the room which was secured with a stout combination padlock. He always kept a spare set of warm clothes in the bothy after one occasion when, soaked after an unsuccessful deer stalk, he had to endure cold and soaking clothing for hours while they slowly dried on him by the fire.

  Opening the lock, he withdrew an old set of CS95 multi-terrain pattern camouflage trousers and a windproof smock that he’d kept hold of after leaving the military. He also dug out an old chunky green fleece, hunting gloves, and his camouflage cap. He was glad of the well-used pair of brown Meindl walking boots and thick socks that sat at the bottom of the cupboard. He would now be far more appropriately dressed for what he was about to undertake.

  He quickly changed, leaving his discarded clothes in the cupboard, apart from his T-shirt, which he kept on. He strapped on the Kevlar vest and adjusted the straps to make sure it fitted well and close to the body to offer the best protection. He was impressed at how light and comfortable the vest was: far better than anything he’d worn in the past.

  He pulled the windproof smock over the vest and picked up the harness that Bill had mentioned. He found that it was a fairly simple bit of kit, but not one he’d seen before.

  Under the left arm, there was webbing strap storage for three magazines to be secured with a clip fastener; the fourth magazine would remain in the weapon. This harness appeared to be a bespoke item, probably commissioned covertly by CIA field teams as, with the butt folded, the whole rig wouldn’t be visible beneath a loose-fitting jacket.

  He secured the three high-velocity-filled magazines in the harness and snapped the remaining magazine, loaded with the fifteen subsonic rounds, onto the weapon.

  He took a long swig of his cooling tea and grimaced at the bitter liquid before topping it up from the kettle.

  He slammed a magazine into the Glock, racked the slide, and slotted it into the thigh holster without checking it. Glocks were bomb-proof, hence being one of the most commonly-used handguns.

  He checked his watch: 19:32. Still at least a full ninety minutes of light left. He wanted to be in position immediately after dark, giving him a little more time for some essential preparation.

  He left the bothy and walked back up to the plateau where Donnie had dropped him off. It was a long, flat area with a slight uphill gradient heading towards the steep ascent to the summit.

  He walked up to the rocky outcrop where he’d sheltered against the helicopter’s blade-wash and picked up a small piece of soft stone, using it to scratch a small square mark onto the side of the rock to give himself a rudimentary aiming point. He then turned and paced back fifty metres. He extended the telescopic stock of the MP7, took up a kneeling firing position and activated the scope, noting that it was set on day-mode as he adjusted it to two-times magnification. He squinted through the reticule at the rock; aiming at the scratched square and selecting single-shot on the weapon, he squeezed the trigger. The report from the MP7 was eerily quiet: no tell-tale crack as would have been given off by the standard high-velocity weapon, more of a metallic ‘Thunk’ as the working parts recoiled and another round was fed into the chamber.

  He squeezed the trigger three more times in quick succession. Through the scope he could see that the standard zero on the sights was not too bad for his eyesight. The four rounds had struck slightly high and left of his aiming points. He made minor adjustments on the sights to correct the inaccuracy.

  Pulling the MP7 back into the aim, he squeezed off a further three rounds at the makeshift target. Checking his grouping through the scope, he noted that the new marks were central on the rock: as good as could be expected for that type of weapon.

  He stood and engaged the safety catch and let the weapon drop on its harness before squatting to locate the seven spent shellcases, which he pocketed. He had no intention of leaving any evidence of his presence.

  He walked back down to the bothy for his final preparations before the trip to Cregganmore Farm Cottage.

  Once back in, he slid the kettle back onto the stove. While he waited for the water to boil, he took out the communications device, switching it on and turning it over in his hands. It was grey in colour, the same size and weight as an average smartphone, but with no screen and only an on/off button and volume switch. He located the small earpiece, which was similar to ones he’d used in the past, and slotted it in his ear.

  He heard a light hiss and then a tinny voice sparked up.

  ‘You took your time, Detective,’ said Pet.

  Tom picked out the wireless pressel switch, depressed it and said, ‘Sorry, Pet. Been busy.’

  ‘No problem. You have some unpleasant weather coming in. Heavy rain and a forty-mile-per-hour easterly wind.’

  ‘Perfect. I like bad weather.’

  ‘Mad Englishman.’

  ‘I’m not English.’

  ‘You got me there, Detective. I have nothing new on the Brankos: they still appear to be in London. He’s not tried to call you and he’s not used the phone apart from one call to Arken about ten minutes ago. There’s been no movement at the house, but we think one of them went out for a cigarette a few minutes ago. I can send you a screen grab to your tablet.’

  Tom reached for the tablet and saw a mail icon appear on the screen. Selecting it, he saw a blurred image, zoomed in on the farmhouse. Tom took in the sight of Cameron’s battered Land Rover and the smarter-looking Mercedes both at the front of the house, a two-bedroom place set well back from a small farm track, about half a mile from the nearest road. He saw smoke drifting from the chimney and the top of a figure stood outside the door, a glow in front of his face.

  His approach would have to be stealthy and he was thankful of the forthcoming inclement weather. He did not fear rain. ‘If it ain’t raining, it a
in’t training’: the words of his old troop sergeant rang in his ears.

  ‘Thanks, Pet,’ he said and then, as an afterthought, ‘If Branko calls, will you be able to patch him in to this comms system?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘That’s great; means I don’t need to carry the satellite. I still have to prepare so I’m signing off. I will call in again later.’

  He appreciated the help he was being given, but he was conscious that it was now down to him, although the thought didn’t make him nervous, it made him determined. He switched off the communications set and removed the earpiece, tucking both items into his inside jacket zipped pocket.

  He took the boiling kettle and made another black tea.

  Once more it was him, on his own: the little boy from Sarajevo.

  *

  He retrieved a small camouflaged day-sack from the locked cupboard in the bothy, another item that he’d held onto after leaving the military. Digging through it he found a folding pocketknife, a tactical pocket-torch, and a stick of camouflage cream which resembled a matt green double-ended, large lipstick.

  He smeared the green and brown camouflage cream across his face, making sure that the pattern he daubed roughly corresponded with the pattern on his CS95 combat smock. He ensured that his ears, back of his neck, hands, and arms up to his elbows were appropriately covered. Concealment was going to be his best friend that night: he needed to stay invisible even if he did not believe they would be expecting him. He had left London just over three hours ago: that was only long enough to drive as far as Birmingham on a good day.

  He stood and began a physical check of all his kit.

  He ensured the Glock was loaded with a round in the breach, ditto for the MP7, and he did a quick check on the optic sights, setting them to two-times magnification. He checked all his spare ammunition and placed the box of fifty 9mm rounds into a zipped pouch on the day-sack.

  The satellite phone he put into the day-sack, secured within the main top-flap zip pocket.

  The torch he jammed into the pen pocket on the right sleeve of his smock, and the pocket knife he tucked into the top of his walking boot, using the clip to secure it in place.

  He ensured all his pockets were securely fastened and that the covert communications kit was secure and switched on, then took the tablet and tucked it into the day-sack, along with a small bottle of water which he’d already filled at the burn. He fixed the earpiece in his right ear and ensured that the covert microphone was well-positioned.

  He checked his watch: almost 20:00. Perfect. That gave him enough time to advance to the cottage and get there just before last-light.

  He hefted his day-sack onto his back and adjusted the shoulder straps so it was as comfortable as possible, before leaving the bothy, his shoulders squared and his jaw set in determination.

  He was ready. Game on.

  The cottage sat about five miles north of the bothy, which meant Tom would have to traverse the foot of Bynack More and follow the river to the forest block. He could then follow the track to the cottage. A portion of the forest that sat at the front of the cottage had been harvested, leaving it open for about two-hundred metres, which afforded plenty of cover but also good vision.

  He planned to set up his initial O.P. at the edge of the cleared forest block using the wood piles as cover, which would give him a good view of the front of the building.

  Tom pressed the communications pressel. ‘Pet, you getting me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Tom. What gives?’

  ‘I’m setting off to the cottage now. Only contact me if it’s urgent, especially if Branko calls.’

  ‘Sure thing. Last satellite about twenty minutes ago showed no changes.’

  ‘Thanks, Pet. Speak later.’

  He walked around the bothy to the lean-to at the side of the structure. It had been built by him and Cameron as a shelter and also as somewhere to hang carcasses after a successful shoot.

  The wind was picking up and Tom shivered as it blew the cold, northern air across the plateau.

  The door was locked with another combination padlock that Tom thumbed open. Inside sat a green quad bike: a Yamaha Grizzly 4500 four-wheel drive machine, the same as was often used by the military.

  Tom sat on the machine, which still had its keys in the ignition, and pressed the electric start button. The first turns were slow but then the quad barked into life with a muted roar. He eased the machine out of the lean-to and headed off north into the cold, wild Cairngorm wilderness in the shadow of the dark, foreboding peak of Bynack More, the wind picking up and ominous clouds forming.

  *

  Tom made his way down, following the contours of the river which he knew would take him to the forestry block opposite the farmhouse. The rear of the cottage was bordered by livestock grazing, usually Auld Willie’s sheep in one of the fields and a pedigree herd of Highland cattle in the others.

  He was able to maintain a brisk enough speed without revving the life out of the quad. The wind was brisk and blowing from the east, which Tom was grateful for as it meant that he would have the wind in his face as he approached the farmhouse, carrying any sounds away from the enemy within. He was well-practised in infiltration and exfiltration from CTRs, having done both in hostile environments right under the nose of the enemy, but any advantage was to be utilised: including being able to take the quad up close for a speedy getaway if necessary.

  He hit the road as he left the Bynack approach and entered the forestry block through an open gate which led onto a wide, well-maintained forest track.

  He was able to make good progress for the final mile and then pulled off the track through a gap in the trees where he continued at walking pace, negotiating the moss hillocks and fallen branches, the revs kept low on the quad’s engine. Having got far enough, he killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition slot as he quickly gathered some fallen boughs, criss-crossing them across the quad in a rudimentary camouflage. He finished it off with some sphagnum moss slabs and a few ferns, making it all but invisible from the forest track, but visible enough for him to find.

  He paused for a moment and re-checked all his pockets and equipment to ensure that nothing had loosened during the bumping and lurching of the quad bike ride. He extended the telescopic stock of the MP7 and squatted, putting the sight to his eye and scanning his route. He switched the night vision on but there was still too much light to make it of any use. He was confident that his approach had not been audible with the stiff breeze that was blowing into his face, which he estimated to be twenty to thirty miles-per-hour, and would therefore carry any sound nicely away from the farmhouse.

  He reached into his pocket and pressed the communications pressel. ‘Pet, you hearing me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Tom.’

  ‘No words from Branko? I’m about to deploy close-in.’

  ‘Nothing. His phone made and received a few calls: at least one to Arken and one from a number in Nigeria. Want to guess who?’

  ‘Let me guess. Adebayo?’

  ‘Boom! He’s run off. He must have got a false passport as there’s no trace of him leaving with his own. I guess he didn’t fancy his chances.’

  Damn, Tom thought. That made the solicitor untouchable if he’d fled. He pushed the thought out of his mind; there was nothing he could do about it now.

  ‘Anything else to report?’

  ‘I managed to trace the Mercedes. There’s not so many of that model registered in Glasgow, so I ran all the possibles from the PNC through the ANPR database. We got just the one that hit all the ANPR cameras between Glasgow and Aviemore, where it turned off.’ She sounded pleased with herself as she reeled off the registration plate number.

  ‘It’s not registered to Arken, but I did manage to get an image of it on the A9 at the Perth roundabout, and I’m as sure as I can be that there were three people on board. So that’s how many there are for you to deal with,’ she said, still sounding quite smug.

 
‘Thanks, Pet, that’s useful. You are a magician.’

  ‘Other than that, Branko and his boys’ phones are all still hitting the same cell mast as before, so I guess they’re waiting for you to hand over the card tomorrow. Unless they are using untraceable communications as well.’

  ‘I have to go, Pet. I’m going quiet now unless I have to speak to Branko. Are you familiar with the click system?’

  ‘I ask a question, you answer two clicks for yes, one for no, right? Three deliberate separate clicks for ask-me-questions?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Be careful, Tom.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ Tom said as he began to move towards the farmhouse.

  He moved carefully as he approached Cregganmore Farmhouse, in full patrol mode: eyes scanning, senses tuned in. He listened as intently as the wind would allow, the butt of the MP7 tucked firmly into his shoulder. He was entirely familiar with the environment, having played in those same woods as a child. The forest smells were familiar to him: the heady, resinous pine scent and the soft earthy smell of the fertile soil. The ground was soft underfoot, and he tried as best as he could to be as silent and stealthy as his surroundings would allow. Even with the wind masking his movements, the covert approach was as natural to him as breathing.

  Every twenty steps or so, he adopted a crouched stance and scanned a full 360 degrees, observing for anything alien to the environment: the muscle-memory of patrol skills as strong as ever.

  He soon came to the edge of the forest and the clearing in front of the farmhouse, which sat about two-hundred metres in front of him, a large log pile immediately in front obscuring his view and, hopefully, that of any watchers as well.

  He tucked himself down behind the log pile and took stock of his situation, again with close observations to his sides and rear, taking in the view in the half-light. His plan was to get to a viewpoint from the edge of the forest and observe until the light had completely gone, whereupon he would move up to his close observation point, which he was estimating to be about fifty metres from the farmhouse. From there, it was a case of a few hours CTR and then he would make an assault plan, depending on the intelligence obtained from the previous observations.