Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  Mitch swivelled the focus on the sight. To his right he picked out seven—no, eight—hot spots. Moving right to left. It was the left-hand assault group. He looked in the distance beyond them and saw eight slightly smaller hot spots. The right-hand assault group.

  The plan was straightforward: At exactly two thirty, left assault would breach the front gates, and right assault would breach the back wall—almost directly opposite the front gate—using one of the pooh holes Mitch’s team had found. Once in, both teams would work anticlockwise, clearing room to room until they ended up at the other’s original breach.

  He checked his watch. It was 02:22. He looked again through his sight. Left assault hot spots were a few metres from the gate now; they’d be preparing the explosives soon. Right assault hot spots were twenty metres out.

  It was as quiet as it was dark. The whole troop was on radio silence. All of their radios were encrypted, but a simple intercept receiver would easily pick up any transmissions and alert the enemy that something untoward was going on. Their radios would only be used in an emergency. At the moment. At two thirty it would all go live; you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself for radio traffic.

  Mitch checked again. Still no hot spots in the compound. That was good, in some respects. If you assumed the terrorists and hostages were safely tucked up in bed—the thick, sand block walls preventing infrared radiation from escaping the compound. But no guards? It didn’t make a lot of sense.

  02:29.

  Here we go.

  Bang! Bang! The breach explosions, set to exactly the right magnitude to blow a man-size hole, reverberated around the compound. Mitch pulled away from the thermal imaging sight, which was now a screen full of bright yellow as the heat from the explosions sent the sensors haywire. Instead, he watched the event unfold without aids. It was now a well-illuminated show.

  Bang! A further explosion.

  Shit. What the . . .? That wasn’t planned!

  A noise like a man in agony echoed from the compound. The airwaves burst into life.

  “Contact. Claymore! Wait out!”

  Mitch’s mind reeled with the call. At lightning speed his brain scrambled through all the possible scenarios, but none made sense. Claymores were Vietnam-aged antipersonnel mines. Ambush was their speciality. Set at ankle height, the mine was designed on an outward curve and, when detonated, shot hundreds of ball-bearings and other pieces of shrapnel toward its victims in a wide arc. They could be devastating.

  Did they still use them? And did the boss really just call a claymore?

  We’ve been ambushed, but there’s no firing. Surely now, somebody should be firing. Claymore first; then shoot. It was the perfect ambush technique.

  Not this time. There was no firing—just an explosion.

  “30 Alpha, two men down.” Mitch recognised the voice of Captain Thomas. It had a sharp edge. “31 Alpha, carry on with the clearance. Watch for booby traps in every room.”

  “31 Alpha. Roger. Wait . . . Room 1 clear!”

  The beams of high-powered torches led the procession from room to room on both sides of the compound.

  “33 Alpha—Room 6 clear!”

  And so it went on. Teams clearing rooms and reporting accordingly. There was no gunfire, no further explosions. Just beams of light, flashing around like a laser show at a pop concert. The light was accompanied by radio acknowledgments as the compound was cleared. The code word for the hostages, cargo, wasn’t transmitted.

  The SRR boys weren’t there. It was an empty operation—the worst kind. All the effort and none of the reward.

  Someone’s fucked up.

  Mitch’s team was keeping an eye on neighbouring houses and streets. They used a different frequency to talk among themselves, confirming that, whilst some lights had come on in a couple of houses and a few of dogs were barking as if their tails were on fire, outside the compound, everything else remained relatively calm.

  Finally, “30 Bravo—compound clear. No enemy and no cargo.”

  “30 Alpha. Roger. Find me now. I’m by the front gate with 32 Charlie. We have one walking wounded and one pax on a stretcher. 21A is with him, and he is stable.”

  Mitch kept his team in place. Their job now was to stay in overwatch while 30 Alpha and Bravo extricated to the HLS.

  He reached for his pressel.

  “30 Alpha and Bravo, this is 11 Alpha. All good from here. HLS is clear. We’ll cover you as planned.”

  With that, Mitch, switching back to his thermal imager, watched the two teams leave the compound. It was dark again, the torches extinguished. He could see fourteen able-bodied hot spots accompanied, near the front of the group, by one dragging his leg and another lying on a stretcher. They were making their way to his left, in the direction of the HLS. They would be there in five or six minutes.

  Once the others were secure at the HLS, and when he had confirmation that the two Chinooks were just minutes out, his and the boss’s team would pull out. They would be the last onto the helicopters.

  Pride of Dover, English Channel

  Sam thought of nothing in particular. It had been a wacky forty-eight hours. Sitting on a blue bench, her back to the slanting windows of some deck way above the English Channel, she tried to sweep the fog from her mind. She wanted to piece it all together: the drive; the crash site with all its trials and fears; meeting the Koreans; her first unnerving cross with Wolfgang; the images from Yemen—so many of them, with so little to say; the mad dash across western Europe to Dresden; the apartment incident—oh God, the video!; Wolfgang again, standing in front of Bertie like the apparition he was; their discussions, which led to nothing of consequence; and now the trip home.

  Was she any further forward? She had visited the crash site, but she found no closure. She and Wolfgang had exchanged e-mail addresses, and they’d both said they’d keep in touch. She would certainly try to find out who the man in the flat was. And, she guessed, Wolfgang would continue to pursue his ridiculous, poorly supported conspiracy theory that a good number of major international accidents had been preconceived by some higher power.

  Did he really believe that Uncle Pete’s plane had been brought down on purpose?

  Murder hidden by mass murder. Nonsense.

  It didn’t hang together. No matter which way you looked at it.

  The journey from Berlin to Calais had been an interminable one. After the stop near Hanover, where she’d had the excitement of reviewing the latest photos and making the connection with the black Hilux, there had been little to entertain her. She had been flaky, but not so much that she needed to stop.

  Driving on the Belgian motorways, especially as the light faded, was akin to watching a French film noir without subtitles. It was dull as cold dishwater—incomprehensibly tedious. She understood why the Germans hadn’t stopped for a picnic. Twice.

  She had trundled along, the white lines thankfully providing Bertie with all the driving advice he needed, while Sam’s thoughts had sloshed from side to side, not focusing on much. When she did dwell on where she was with her life, the grey mist crept in. As it always did. Mist that clouded rational thought and forced her to feel pathetically sorry for herself. It was the mist’s fault, not hers.

  Mum and Dad. And now Uncle Pete. Apart from her boss Jane, her next-door workmate Frank, a couple of old army pals, and, if she were pressed, probably Henry in New York, she had nobody to call a friend. Not like a best pal, one who looked out for her no matter the time of day. She really felt that she had nobody.

  Her mum had always been her best friend . . . no, she couldn’t think about her without crying. She couldn’t. So she didn’t.

  Wolfgang was an interesting diversion, and she struggled with defining his position in her sad life. She was military—well, ex-military. Everything had a part in the order of things. Nothing was allowed to drift about. If it stood still long enough, paint it white.

  But Wolfgang defied defining. He was enigmatic and mysterious. And, she had to admit, attra
ctive. Add to that, being honest, he was also rich. Did that matter? She would keep in touch. Maybe she would go out to Germany to see him during her next leave. If he wanted her to. When was that due? At least they had something in common to talk about.

  Her phone rang. It was Jane. God, an update on the Op. She’d almost forgotten about it in her tiredness.

  Bleep. “Hello, Jane. I’m on the ferry.”

  “I know, Sam, I have your location on my screen.”

  Great. She had to remember to turn the bloomin’ thing off when she needed some space.

  “The Op has gone ahead.”

  “And?” Pressing. Sam was in a rush now.

  Bleep. “Noting the insecure line, I can tell you that the place was deserted. The boys were ambushed on the way in. A claymore. Two down, but both alive.” Bleep. Bleep. “They have some photos and video, which should be on the cloud tomorrow morning—sorry, this morning.” It was well past midnight.

  Bleep. “So they knew we were coming?”

  “That’s the collective view here. The ambush tells that story.”

  They both said nothing for a few seconds. The line continued to bleep.

  “The two other SRR lads will be dead now?”

  “We think so. But let’s talk about that when you’re in.” Bleep. “Oh, I don’t know if it adds anything, but the Saudis went in early. Could have spooked the Op? Whichever way you look at it, it’s been a helluva cock-up.”

  Bleep. Sam didn’t respond. Cock-up. That’s one way of describing it.

  “Sam?”

  “Sorry. Distracted. It’s been a complicated forty-eight hours. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Let’s hope the photos give us something. It would be nice to think we had the right target, even if it was empty last night.”

  “Yes, indeed. Drive carefully, Sam.”

  “Will do, Jane.”

  The line went dead.

  How did they know? Did the Saudis spook Daesh? Was it Manning and Bell again? Have they still got connections that could have unearthed the Op details? Maybe there’s another leak somewhere. Who else knew about the SF assault?

  Sam was sure that the post-Op wash-up would pursue all of these lines of enquiry.

  She stopped thinking, her mind blank. She was so tired. The driving, the excitement, the whole episode. And now this: the two SRR soldiers. Two of the army’s very best almost certainly sentenced to death by the events of the past few hours. And two more injured. Chasing shadows.

  Captain Tony James and Corporal Ted Groves. This one chance had been their only lifeline. And now it was gone.

  God, it was all rubbish.

  Sam was crying again. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. The ferry was full of eastern Europeans. She didn’t have the energy to ask herself what she thought about their situation. At least they had passports and were free to roam. Unlike so many other families she’d been following on their miserable journey to liberty.

  She so needed to get back to work.

  Conspiracy

  Chapter 9

  Parliament Square, London

  David was tired. It had been a long night and a very early morning. The PM had wanted a face to face with him, Jon, Alasdair, and Jack, at six that morning at Number 10; a mini-JIC with the prime minister. His head hadn’t hit the pillow much before 3:00 a.m., and that had been on his pull-you-down in the office. One of the luxuries of working for SIS: if you needed to sleep over, the firm could oblige.

  The good news was that neither of the two members of the SAS injured in last night’s rescue Op had succumbed to their wounds. Luck was the major factor, as the claymore appeared to have been set up in a rush; much of the mine’s fragmentation had been fired at the floor. The first two soldiers into the compound were hit, and most of the shrapnel had struck them below knee. Anything above the knee had lost momentum, having bounced off the sand and gravel floor. Their body armour had protected their torsos from most of that blast.

  It wasn’t all good news for the soldiers, though. One would almost certainly lose a leg. The second would need major reconstructive surgery below the knee, but should be OK; he might even remain in the SAS.

  As for Captain James and Corporal Groves, his analysts hadn’t yet had a chance to look over the images from the assault in any detail. Only then would they know if the soldiers had been in the compound. At some point. If they had been, then why did Daesh pull everyone out? Could it have been that the early attack by the Saudis had spooked them? GCHQ had picked up some mobile traffic in the area, but couldn’t pin it down to an exact location—not yet, anyway. Or maybe Manning and Bell had some insider knowledge and passed it on? The short answer was that they didn’t know. And that’s what they had told the PM.

  “When are we likely to know what has happened to the two hostages?” the PM had asked.

  “With our current level of intelligence, which is patchy, most likely when Daesh pass footage to Al Jazeera of their execution,” David had responded honestly. It was an awful thing to say, but true. Now wasn’t the time to be flowery.

  The PM had mused for a few seconds. He looked surprisingly well for a man who had been entertained by bankers until the early hours.

  “Do we go public with the failed rescue attempt?”

  That was the million-dollar question. The JIC hadn’t been able to come to a unanimous verdict on the answer. David’s view was: not yet. They should prepare a statement that would respond to online or TV news footage of the soldiers’ execution. Something that, whilst condemning the executions in the strongest possible terms, acknowledged that British soldiers had undertaken a dangerous rescue attempt, deep in Yemeni territory. By the time they had got to the location, the hostages had been moved on. Blah, blah.

  Jon, the JIC’s chair, didn’t answer immediately. He was about to, his right hand slightly raised, but David thought his prevarication spoke volumes. The PM pressed again.

  “Do we mention that we suffered casualties in last night’s assault?”

  That was an easier question to answer. Jon had no problem taking the lead, making up for his previous indecision.

  “No, sir, we don’t think so. Daesh, whilst they will know we went in, are unlikely to have any details of the operation. Any disclosure of casualties by us will only attract supplementaries from the press as to how they were injured. And how badly.”

  The PM nodded and then pressed on.

  “Come on, fellas, why has the JIC not been able to come up with a unanimous view on releasing a line about the rescue attempt? I guess it’s you, Alasdair—you don’t want the Special Forces’ role mentioned?”

  Alasdair cleared his throat.

  “That’s correct, sir. And whilst I can understand why we may want to tell the public that we weren’t exactly resting on our laurels, I do think it creates more questions than it answers. The most obvious: Why was our intelligence so poor?”

  Alasdair wasn’t being as pointed as he came across, but it was a question that they’d all been asking themselves. Alasdair, of course, hadn’t wanted his men to go in in the first place. He could easily have been saying “I told you so.” But he was much bigger than that.

  “When will we know if the soldiers were being held in the compound?”

  David answered. “We’ll be much clearer by close of play tonight. My analysts are poring over the images brought back by the SF now.”

  “OK.”

  The PM collected his thoughts.

  “Here’s what I want to happen. If we get conclusive proof that the soldiers were being held at the compound, then we prepare a press release that says that we attempted to rescue them. This goes out after news of any execution. If we don’t get proof, then we don’t mention a rescue attempt.” Whilst he was giving direction to the whole team, it was the Cabinet Secretary who was making notes. He was the one who would issue a briefing note detailing who was to do what when the meeting was over.

  “And, Nigel,” he now looked directly at the Foreign Secretary, wh
o had been quiet up until that point, “If we do come clean about the rescue attempt, I want it out there that we believe that the Saudis spooked the operation by going in early. We can leak that from an embassy somewhere, possibly Washington. You choose. I want the world to know that, if it weren’t for the blundering of the Special Forces of another country—you won’t need to specify—Captain James and Corporal Groves would be with us now enjoying a pink gin. Happy?”

  Nigel nodded, a little sourly.

  And at that point it was all over—6.22 a.m. according to David’s watch.

  Within a few minutes, David was out of the front door of No. 10, through the back gates of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO), across the FCO’s courtyard, and out onto King Charles Street. For anyone prying from Whitehall, looking into Downing Street—especially the press—to all intents and purposes none of them had attended a before-breakfast meeting with the PM. Emerging from the building at slightly different times, they might have been in separate meetings at the FCO. It wasn’t brilliantly deceptive, but it was one way of keeping the press guessing. They didn’t want this going public.

  As he strode down Whitehall toward Parliament Square, he reran the meeting in his head. The PM didn’t mess about, that was for sure. Whilst David wasn’t necessarily in tune with all of his government’s policies, there was no doubt that the current prime minister was a decisive chap.

  David headed away from Parliament Square, down Milbank to Lambeth Bridge. He’d made his mind up to walk over the Thames back to the office. It was longer than a tube ride, but it would help wake him up. It was overcast and breezy, and the trees had given up their fight to retain their leaves. But no rain. Not yet. Glancing west down the Thames, thickening grey clouds looked certain to empty themselves sometime later that day.