by Ryan, Chris
‘He’s right,’ Porter said. ‘Every time we’ve been compromised in the Regiment, on exercises or ops, it’s been down to civilians. Ramblers, farmers, kids out playing, you name it. Even young couples looking for somewhere to shag. If we’re in that gully for more than a few hours, someone’s bound to stumble upon us.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ Taylor replied curtly. ‘Now. Let’s move on to the extraction phase.’
He reached for another map and pointed to a finger of land jutting out of the north-eastern Venezuelan coast.
‘Once you’ve rescued the hostage, you’ll head directly to your extraction point. There’s a fishing town here. Rio Verde. Four hundred and fifty miles from the stronghold. A reception team will meet you there.’
‘Who’s on the reception team?’
‘Two of our guys. Ex-SEALs. They’ve been briefed.’
‘What’s the plan once we get to the extraction point?’
‘You’ll RV with the reception team and take a boat across to Port of Spain, on the western side of Trinidad. The traffickers use the same route to transport their product to the island, for onward flights to Europe. One of the captains will take you across.’
Porter stared at Taylor uneasily. ‘We’re relying on a drug dealer to get us out of the country?’
‘Technically, he’s a trafficker. The dealers are the guys on the streets, cutting up product with anti-malarial pills, de-worming drugs and a bunch of other crap.’
‘Same difference. We’re still dealing with a bloke in the supply chain. Why should we trust him?’
‘Firstly, because we’re paying him handsomely. Second, because we don’t have a choice.’ Taylor took off his safari hat and ran a hand through his hair. ‘The hard truth is, we don’t have anyone on the ground in Venezuela. The embassy staff moved out months ago. Orders of the president himself. All the information you have has come from second-hand sources, political exiles and electronic surveillance. The only people we can rely on are the guerrillas and their own network of contacts. Which means the traffickers. It’s not ideal, I know. But it’s all we’ve got.’
‘Dude’s got a point, though,’ Hulk said. ‘What’s to stop this captain from stabbing us in the back?’
Taylor flashed a chilling smile. ‘He has family in Colombia. His parents, a sister and two nephews. The mother is very ill. Cancer. We’re keeping them under surveillance until the operation is over. If he tries to betray us . . . let’s just say it won’t end nicely for them.’
‘Once we reach Trinidad? What then?’
‘You’ll make your way to the British High Commission. A reception team will be waiting for you there. It’s all been arranged through our friends at Vauxhall. You shouldn’t have any problems. Questions?’
He looked round the meeting house. Nobody said a word.
‘Good.’ Hulk pressed his hands together and signalled for the others to get up. ‘Now, let’s hit the range. Show you boys the kit you’ll be taking with you.’
Taylor stepped outside the meeting house and called out to Zapata. The guerrilla came hustling over and exchanged a few words with the CIA man. Then he started abruptly down a track leading away from the main camp. Taylor followed him, with the rest of the team close behind. They made their way down a well-trodden path flanked by corridors of bamboo and rattan. Four minutes later, they reached a flat patch of land at the bottom of a gully. A wide-open space, two hundred metres long and a hundred wide. About the same size as two football pitches laid side-by-side. At either end the exposed sides of the gully rose up towards thick clumps of forest. Half a dozen shacks were arranged in an area on the right side of the gully, the walls and doors riddled with bullet holes. A dozen plywood stakes had been driven into the ground along the far edge of the gully, ninety metres away.
‘FARC’s old training ground,’ Taylor said, sweat soaking through his linen shirt. ‘Commander Uribe has given us permission to use it as we see fit.’
‘Looks like they haven’t used it for a while.’
‘They’re primarily in the drug-trafficking business these days. Less incentive to practise set-piece battles with government troops.’
‘We’ll need white mine tape,’ Bald said. ‘Timber posts, some rattan. We’ll need to build a facsimile of the stronghold so we can walk through the assault.’
‘Have a word with Uribe. He’s placing his men at our disposal for the duration of our stay.’
Porter glanced round, frowning. ‘Where’s the hardware?’
Taylor didn’t answer. Instead he said something quickly in Spanish to Zapata. The Colombian marched over to a patch of ground at the edge of the gully covered with loose sticks and palm fronds. He dropped to a knee and brushed the fronds aside to reveal a trapdoor hidden beneath. The door groaned as he slid it aside, revealing a deep pit containing half a dozen forty-five-gallon drums.
‘Your weapon systems,’ Taylor said. ‘Plus equipment and armour. Everything you’ll need for the mission. Delivered yesterday, courtesy of our friends at Langley.’
Bald peered inside one of the drums. He counted four weapons, each one individually sealed inside a reusable plastic bag. Small one-pound bags of silica gel helped to keep the moisture out. Taylor reached into the drum and pulled out one of the guns. He laid it down flat on the ground, untied the bag and removed a sleek rifle. It looked similar to an M16, thought Bald, except the barrel was shorter and the weapon generally looked more compact. He recognised it immediately.
‘M4 carbine,’ Taylor said. ‘A1 variant. Five point fifty-six millimetres. Thirty-round box magazine. I assume you guys are familiar with the operating system.’
He directed the question at Bald and Porter. They both nodded. ‘We know it,’ Porter said. ‘Spent a lot of time in the Regiment working with the M16 variant.’
Bald picked up the rifle and examined it up close. The M4 was the slimmed-down version of the M16. The same performance but housed in a more compact structure. A fine piece of hardware, in his opinion. Weapon of choice for the elite warrior. It had also been heavily modified. Like taking a Ford van and putting a Formula One engine inside. A rail system had been mounted on the upper receiver, with several attachments fitted to it. There was a red-dot sight and an additional rear iron sight and a night scope, plus a vertical fore grip fitted to the underside of the weapon. He was looking at several thousand pounds worth of weaponry.
Bald gave a grunt of approval. ‘This stuff is all premium quality. Top-of-the-range components.’
‘That’s right, bud,’ Taylor replied. ‘No expense spared when it comes to helping our British friends.’
Bald stared at him but couldn’t tell whether he was taking the piss.
They went through a bunch of other equipment. The other drums contained enough firepower to take over a small African country. There were four Glock 17 semi-automatic pistols to use as secondary weapons, plus lumps of plastic explosive to use as framed charges or to create a distraction charge. There was a box of L2 fragmentation grenades, three per member of the team, and four M18 Claymore anti-personnel mines. Plus black tactical plate carriers with front and rear armour inserts, with a series of pouches on the front for carrying spare ammunition clips and accessories. There were several pairs of black aviator gloves, tourniquet bandages and shell dressings, small fold-up binoculars and detachable 5.56mm sound suppressors for the M4s. Another drum was filled with ammunition for the M4s and pistols. Every item was top of the range. Taylor wasn’t joking, Bald realised. The Americans really hadn’t spared any expense.
‘This is a lot of fucking kit,’ he said.
Taylor flashed a smile so white you could build a snowman out of it. ‘The Company is keen to help in any way it can.’
‘Since when did your people give two shits about someone like Fuller?’
Dudley lowered the Glock he was holding and looked up at him. ‘What’s the problem? You don’t like getting handouts from Uncle Sam?’
‘I just don’t underst
and why Langley is giving us the five-star treatment.’
McGee snorted through his flared nostrils. ‘Who gives a shit? You should be grateful. At least we’re not going in with whatever out-of-date crap you people use in England.’
Bald stared at him.
Porter said, ‘What about comms?’
Taylor said, ‘You’ll be issued with Company-approved devices. They’re stored at the meeting house. We’ll run them through later.’
He stretched to his full height and checked his watch.
‘I’ll leave you boys to it. Get yourselves acquainted with your weaponry. Report back to the meeting house at eighteen hundred hours for your comms briefing.’
He trudged back down the track towards the main camp, Zapata hurrying after him. Hulk, Dudley and McGee started distributing ammunition and kit between them, while Bald and Porter took a set of yellowed paper targets from a wooden box and a pair of staplers and carried them over to the plywood stakes at the other end of the range. Bald glanced back at the three ex-SEALs, a sense of unease brewing in his guts.
‘They’re giving us a lot of help.’
‘It’s the CIA, Jock. They’re not going to send us across the border with pea shooters.’
‘It’s not the kit that worries me,’ Bald said.
‘What is it, then?’
‘They’ve sent their operations officer down here. They’re controlling the intelligence, handling the briefings. They’ve organised everything with the guerrillas.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘This is more than a bit of friendly assistance. The Americans are practically running the show.’
‘Thought you’d be chuffed. You were always moaning about this stuff back in the Regiment. Kit going missing. Supply fuck-ups. At least now we get access to all the high-grade hardware.’
Bald grunted. ‘I can understand the Yanks throwing us a bone or two. But they’re going to a lot of fucking trouble to rescue one of our own.’
‘It’s like Merrick said. They’re involved in the operations against the cartels. They’ve got as much interest in rescuing Fuller as we do.’
‘If you believe that.’
‘Why would they lie to us?’
‘Fuck knows,’ Bald muttered. ‘But I trust the CIA about as far as I can spit a brick. We’re going to need eyes in the backs of our heads from now on. That’s for bloody sure.’
SEVENTEEN
They spent two hours on the range, zeroing their weapons, sorting out their equipment and putting down rounds on the targets. It had been more than a year since Bald had discharged a weapon. The old skills were still there, but the edges had been blunted by time and a lack of practice. It didn’t take him long to get back into the groove. He had spent years in the Regiment operating the M16 variant, putting down tens of thousands of rounds on the ranges in Hereford. The weapon was instantly familiar to him. Like catching up with an old friend. By the time they packed up their kit and headed back to the camp, he was feeling confident about his abilities again. He was ready to soldier.
They reported back to the meeting house at exactly six o’clock. Taylor gave them a brief lowdown on the Company-modified phones they would be taking with them. Which looked exactly like regular smartphones, but housed in protective black cases with stub-like antennae mounted on the top edge.
‘The devices you’re taking are military grade, battle ready and cutting edge,’ said Taylor. ‘Field-tested by our best people. They can operate on any network, in the most remote environment on the planet. That’s important, considering the current situation in Venezuela.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Porter.
‘The crisis there has led to a number of blackouts in recent months. That could cause you big problems in terms of retaining comms with us. If the mobile towers are down, these cases allow you to turn your devices into satellite phones. Just open the relevant app, and you can start communicating with us via satellite link. There’s also this . . .’
Taylor grabbed one of the phones, held it up in his sweaty paw and pointed to a weather app icon.
‘This looks like a standard weather app, but it actually turns your phone into an emergency personal locator beacon. If you’re compromised, tap it once and it will begin transmitting a signal back to Langley. The signal is continuous and accurate to within a couple of metres. It will keep on transmitting, even if your phone has been switched off or damaged.’
Hulk said, ‘Are these things clear comms?’
Taylor nodded. ‘End-to-end encryption for both voice and text. If you need to speak to us, you can do so in plain language.’
‘What if we run out of juice?’
‘You’ll take portable charging units with you. One for each team member. These phones have been optimised for longer battery life, so they should last longer than a civilian handset.’
McGee nudged Bald. ‘Don’t sweat it, Grandad. We’ll show you how to use these babies.’
‘We’re not fucking imbeciles,’ Bald said angrily. ‘Me and Porter have used these things before.’
Taylor clicked his fingers. ‘Speaking of. You’ll need to hand over any other electronic devices you’ve brought with you. Phones, tablets, laptops.’
Bald and Porter looked at one another.
‘What the fuck for?’ Bald demanded.
‘Operational security. Company protocol. No foreign devices are permitted across the border.’
‘The phones we’ve got are from Six. They’re secure.’
‘That’s not our assessment,’ said Taylor. ‘Our people believe they might be vulnerable to security breaches. You can’t take them.’
Porter’s frown deepened. ‘We should check in with Strickland. Clear this with her first.’
‘This is for your own safety,’ Taylor said. ‘If your phones are hacked into, it could compromise your location. This is non-negotiable as far as Langley is concerned.’
‘Sod it.’ Bald shoved a hand into his trouser pocket and dug out the smartphone Merrick had given him. ‘Makes no difference to me.’
Porter watched him slide his phone across the table. ‘You’re okay with this?’
‘What good would them phones do us anyway? Not as if Vauxhall are going to send help if we call them, is it?’
‘I’ll need your phone too,’ Taylor said.
Porter reluctantly took out his handset and passed it over. Taylor pocketed the devices and gave them a brief run-through of the bespoke military apps installed on the phone. Geo-spatial location software, navigation apps. Then he finished up the meeting and handed out the packs containing the blueprints and maps of the stronghold and the surrounding area. He said that he would remain at the camp to oversee their preparations until word came through from Langley to green light the operation. He would be leaving the camp the morning after the team had departed, he added. His tone suggested he was already looking forward to quitting the forest and returning to the comforts of modern civilisation. Somewhere with an AC unit.
The team spent a few hours in the meeting house, poring over the layout of the stronghold and the surrounding area. They looked at the dead ground, studied blueprints of the various floors and rooms inside the mansion and read the report from the colonel’s contact about the upgrades that had been made to the building in recent years. They also looked at the layout of the nearby barracks, studying the laager points for the vehicles, the locations of the armoury and ablutions.
The Company had done a thorough job on the intelligence front. They had detailed information on the likely routes taken by the guards on patrol, the rotation of guards based at the guardhouse, the number of staff working at the residence. Everything they could possibly need.
Hulk, as team leader, took charge of the planning. He took a fresh wad of tobacco from a tin with an eagle engraved on the lid and popped it into his mouth.
‘Talk us through it, Brendan.’
Dudley sucked the air between his rotten teeth. ‘Way I see it, we got two mai
n problems. One, the guardhouse. There are two guards posted out front at all times. They’ll see us coming a mile away. Literally.’
‘Why can’t we approach from the other side?’ McGee questioned. ‘Sneak up on ’em.’
‘Too steep, dumbass. We’d have to navigate them there hills first. We’d be exhausted by the time we hit the stronghold. Especially you. All that muscle slowing you down.’
‘Those slopes are badly exposed, too,’ Porter pointed out. ‘Barely any cover in the five-hundred-metre gap between the trees and the fence. If the guards spotted us we’d be caught cold.’
‘And we’d still have to breach the fence. Which would take time.’
‘I think they’re saying your idea is shite, mate.’ Bald said with a smirk.
The heavyset Bostonian glowered at him with rage. Years of steroid abuse, probably, fused with a lifelong hatred of the British. They weren’t going to be best friends after this, Bald decided.
Hulk said, ‘Tell us about the second problem.’
Dudley said, ‘The number of guards. Eighteen of them in total. We’ll need to find some way of fixing them in place while we breach the stronghold and rescue the girl.’
‘You’re forgetting the barracks,’ Bald said. ‘That’s another forty-odd soldiers we’re potentially up against.’
Hulk spat out tobacco juice. ‘Taylor says they’re not an issue.’
‘Do you really believe him?’
‘No reason not to.’
‘What fucking diversion is going to pin down those soldiers? A missile?’
‘You’d be amazed at what our people are capable of. Even when they’re thousands of miles away. Some of that shit, your jaw would hit the ground so hard it’d break.’
‘That’s why we call the shots these days, instead of your piss ant country,’ McGee said.
Bald stared at him with gritted teeth. Imagined what the guy’s face might look like if he gave him a knuckle sandwich.
Dudley said, ‘Whatever happens, we’re going to have to get in and out of there fast.’
‘How long?’ asked Porter.
