Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

‘You’re an old drunk who does MI6’s dirty work. Playing by their rules, doing what they say. That’s your game. I’ve no interest in that. Got my own priorities.’

  Porter looked at his mucker with a feeling of concern. Despite their differences he admired Bald as a soldier, but he couldn’t understand the guy. The bloke had no ties, no settled routine. His whole life was chaos. Who could live like that? Maybe it’s better that the op is being cut short and we’re going our separate ways, he thought. Six months of working alongside Bald would probably have driven him back to the drink.

  They motored on past black fields, the road snaking through pockets of densely clustered birch and oak trees, grey beneath the darkness above. After another quarter of a mile they neared the turn-off for the dirt road and Porter crunched down through the gears, slowing to twenty miles per hour as they turned off the main road. They travelled north along a muddy, potholed track flanked by corridors of pitch-black forest. Bald squinted at the grainy darkness, keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of unusual movement. He didn’t think Six would lure them into a trap.

  But with those guys you can never be sure.

  They followed the track north for three hundred metres, the wagon juddering and bouncing over the deep craters. The path seemed to go nowhere, taking them deeper into the bleak wilderness. And then it abruptly widened into a flat, rough clearing the size of a football pitch. No buildings or vehicles. Just a wide patch encircled by vast tracts of woodland.

  No sign of anyone from Six.

  Porter pulled up at the edge of the clearing. He flicked on the parking brake but kept the engine ticking, the headlights running on full beam. He glanced around him, scratched his head.

  ‘You sure this is the right place?’ he asked.

  Bald consulted the map on his phone. The GPS signal was hovering right over the red pin on the map. ‘These are the coordinates Strickland gave us. No question.’

  Porter frowned. ‘Maybe we’re early.’

  Bald glanced down at the clock on his phone screen. 20.59 hours.

  Bang on time, he thought.

  So where the fuck is this person we’re supposed to meet?

  They both stepped out of the Volvo, dropping down to the frozen ground. The cold air nicked knife-like at Bald as he looked around the clearing, his eyes slowly adjusting to the blackness. For a few seconds, he saw nothing but the dark empty landscape, silent and moonlit.

  Then he heard it.

  A low steady thrum, somewhere towards the horizon. At first the noise was faint, no more than a distant hum. But Bald recognised it all the same. A sound he’d heard many times before.

  The unmistakeable drone of an approaching helicopter.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Bald lifted his head to the sky, straining his eyes as he searched for any sign of the chopper. So did Porter. The sound was getting louder now. An insistent whump-whump that carried sharply across the frigid night air, echoing across the vast plain around them. For a moment, he couldn’t see anything. Then Porter thrust out an arm and pointed to the west of the treeline. Bald spun round, chasing his line of sight. Between the gaps in the trees he saw a cluster of lights approaching the clearing. A large searchlight, and several smaller ones, some white, some flashing red, cracking and popping in the darkness. They swelled in size as the chopper glided towards the clearing, the thump of the blades rising to a deafening crescendo. Then Bald saw the chopper itself, emerging ghostlike from the darkness, sleek and dark blue, with a bulbous nose and prominent tailfin. A Dauphin Eurocopter AS365 N3, otherwise known as Blue Thunder. Painted in civilian colours and used by the Regiment’s CT Team to respond to terror threats.

  This must be the same Dauphin that Strickland told us about, Bald realised. The standby helicopter in Graz, Austria.

  The engine noise was impossibly loud now. Porter had to raise his voice to make himself heard, even though he was standing right next to Bald. ‘What’s the Dauphin doing here?’

  ‘Must have been sent to pick us up,’ Bald guessed. ‘Get us across the border without going through security.’

  He turned his attention back to the Dauphin as it made its final approach. The grass rippling, the branches of the surroundings trees shivering beneath the downwash as the chopper swung round, hovering directly over the middle of the clearing. The Dauphin seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment before the pilots began their slow descent, touching down thirty metres away from Bald and Porter. Rotor blades spinning, engine droning. Wind blasting across the clearing.

  A moment later, the door on the side of the main cabin slid open.

  Two figures jumped down from the cabin and hastened over to Bald and Porter. They were both in their late twenties or early thirties. Dressed in dark-blue combats and Gore-tex boots, with bulletproof vests over their long-sleeved plaid shirts.

  The guy on the left was six foot, darkly tanned and sporting a straggly beard. The black guy on the right was the bigger of the two. His brawny physique was apparent even beneath his outer layers. The dome of his cleanly shaven head glistened beneath the glare of the chopper lights.

  Bald recognised their faces as they drew closer.

  Two guys he hadn’t expected to see again.

  He said, ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’

  Phil Lyden grinned at Bald and thrust out a hand. ‘Surprised to see us, Jock?’

  Bald left the hand unshaken. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘We’re the standby team. Six called us in.’

  Porter looked questioningly at Bald, brows arched. ‘You know these two fellas?’

  ‘Aye.’ Bald tipped his head at Rowe. The silent partner. ‘Anthony Joshua and his mate did us a favour, back in Mexico.’

  ‘A favour?’ Lyden spat out the words. ‘We saved your bacon, mate.’

  Porter looked at his mucker more closely. Bald didn’t offer up an explanation, and there was no time to press for one. He turned back to Lyden and Rowe. No need to introduce himself. Porter had seen the pair of them around Hereford a few times, exchanged words with them, been on a few of the same training exercises. They didn’t go out for drinks together, didn’t have that level of friendship, but Porter knew they were good operators. They took care of business.

  ‘What’s going on, lads?’

  Lyden indicated the Dauphin. ‘Get in. There’s no time to lose. We’ll explain everything on the way.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Békés. The airfield. Strickland’s orders.’

  Bald and Porter glanced at each other in surprise.

  ‘The op is still on?’ asked Bald.

  Lyden nodded and said, ‘Six wants us to intercept the Russians. We’re the only assets who can reach the airfield in time. They told us to RV with you and brief you on the way.’

  Bald and Porter swapped a look, suddenly understanding why Strickland had told them to go in the wrong direction. Not to send them home – but so they could link up with the standby team. The Dauphin was one of the fastest helis in the business, with a maximum speed of a hundred and eighty miles an hour. Which meant it could cover the distance to the airfield in around forty-five minutes. Much faster than going by road.

  If we leave now, thought Bald, there’s still enough time for us to get to Békés ahead of the Russians and set an ambush for the fuckers. With the two younger Blades for company, they stood a much better chance of overwhelming the FSB officers and retrieving Volkov.

  We underestimated Strickland.

  She knew exactly what she was doing all along.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  Lyden and Rowe started off towards the Dauphin. Bald and Porter rushed back over to the Volvo, switched off the engine and fetched the modified iPad from the back seat, checking that they hadn’t left any other sensitive materials behind.

  Bald sent a quick message to Strickland, listing the bugs they had hidden in Lansbury’s hotel room at the Royal Duna and supplying the code for the s
afe in their twin room. One of Six’s local assets would have to gain access to their hotel room, posing as a member of the cleaning staff. Grab Porter and Bald’s holdalls, empty their valuables from the safe, remove the bugging equipment from Lansbury’s suite.

  They locked up the wagon, hurried over to the Dauphin. Porter climbed in first. Bald followed him into a cramped interior cabin and took up one of the seats facing towards the cockpit. Lyden and Rowe occupied two of the seats opposite. There was a whole bunch of stuff on the seats next to them: a military-grade laptop, four pairs of boom mics and headsets for communicating over the internal comms system, plus a block of rubber with a lens on it that Bald guessed was some sort of specialist digital camera.

  Lyden was wearing a transponder, inserted into one of the front pouches on his bulletproof vest. A brick-sized black lump with a six-inch cylindrical antenna and coaxial cable hanging out of it. Bald had used something similar during his time at Hereford. The radio was a personnel locator, data transmitter and comms device rolled into one. You could use it to flag your location, send imagery or videos, or have securely encrypted conversations with the command centre.

  Whatever the plan is, thought Bald, these lads have come prepared.

  Then he saw the dog crates.

  There were two of them on the floor next to Rowe. Heavy-duty metal cages with a pair of bolt latches on each door. Inside the cages were a pair of Belgian Malinoises. Medium-sized dogs, similar to German shepherds, lean and muscular, with short mahogany-coloured coats and wire-basket muzzles over their mouths. Both dogs had tactical assault suits wrapped around their bodies, allowing them to fast-rope or parachute-jump into hostile environments with their trainers. Their collared leads were looped around the iron grilles on the cages.

  The Malinoises eyed Bald and Porter intently, their tails wagging.

  Porter said, ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’

  ‘Strickland told us to expect heavy resistance at the airfield,’ Lyden yelled above the drone of the heli.

  ‘Six guys,’ Bald cut in. ‘Packing Kalashnikov compacts. Could be more waiting for us on the tarmac.’

  Lyden nodded at the dogs. ‘The K9s will level things up.’

  ‘As long as them fuckers don’t turn on us,’ Porter growled.

  Lyden let out a laugh. ‘They won’t, mate. Don’t worry about that. But they’ll rip the throats out of anyone who gets in our way. Didn’t have these in your day, I bet.’

  Bald grunted and looked back towards the cages. He’d heard stories about the Malinoises from some of the guys doing ops in Syria and Afghanistan. The K9s were increasingly used by the Regiment and had saved the lives of SAS operators on more than one occasion, tearing enemy combatants to pieces and taking down threats with no concern for their own safety. They were fearless animals, intelligent and ferociously loyal. The perfect military dog.

  We’re going up against six heavily armed Russian operators.

  Maybe more.

  We’re going to need all the help we can get.

  Rowe yanked the door shut, gave the all-clear to the two pilots. Neither of the pilots acknowledged Bald or Porter. They were busy running through their take-off procedures, checking the bank of glowing lights in front of them in the cockpit, communicating in short bursts. The pilots would be from 658 Squadron Army Air Corps, Bald knew. The unit that provided helicopter support to the SAS. They would be shit hot. The best in the business, skilled at extreme low-level flying to avoid radar detection or anti-aircraft fire. Some of the pilots Bald had flown with in the past thought nothing of flying underneath bridges or power lines.

  Rowe ducked into the aft cargo hold to the rear of the main cabin bulkhead. He returned a few moments later, handed Bald and Porter a couple of ballistic plate carriers, similar to the ones the two younger operators were wearing. Bulky vests with ceramic plate armour inserts on the front and back. Lighter than steel armour, but heavier than a regular bulletproof vest. Good for stopping a medium-calibre round at close range. But the carriers also weighed the operator down, restricting their movement and making it difficult to manoeuvre freely.

  ‘Here,’ Rowe boomed above the whine of the twin turboshaft engine. ‘Wear these.’

  Bald stared at the plate carrier and made a face. ‘I ain’t wearing that shit. It’s like moving through quicksand with one of them on.’

  Rowe stared back at him. Giving him the silent treatment.

  ‘It’s not optional,’ Lyden shouted. ‘Put the fucking thing on.’

  Bald cursed through his teeth as he took off his jacket, grabbed the plate carrier and slipped it on over his shirt. He fastened the shoulder straps and waistband until it was snug against his chest.

  Once they had strapped on their plate carriers Rowe reached back into the cargo hold and brought out a pair of longs. Compact rifles, black with tan-coloured buttstocks and grips. He handed one to Porter, the other to Bald.

  ‘This is an L119A2 rifle,’ he explained to Bald. ‘Upgrade on the old L119A1. Same basic design, with a few modifications. Brought it in a few years back.’

  Bald took the rifle, eyebrows narrowed, teeth clenched. ‘I know what this fucking tool is. I didn’t retire from the Regiment that long ago.’

  Rowe gave a who-gives-a-shit shrug and disappeared back into the rear compartment while Bald familiarised himself with the long. There wasn’t much difference between the L119A2 and the earlier model he’d used in the SAS. Both were modified versions of the Colt C8 carbine. The shoulder weapon of choice for the guys in the Regiment. Bald was holding a compact version of the A2, with a ten-inch barrel, Trijicon ACOG x4 scope and red-dot laser sight mounted on the receiver.

  Rowe emerged again from the hold clutching eight clips of ammo. He distributed four to Porter and four to Bald. The mags were joined together in pairs with a polymer magazine coupler, with a small gap between them, so that the operator could more quickly reload a fresh clip after emptying the first one. The L119A2 mags carried a standard thirty rounds of 5.56 x 45mm NATO brass, which gave them each a hundred and twenty rounds to expend. Throw in whatever Lyden and Rowe were carrying, and they were looking at around five hundred rounds total. More than a match for the Kalashnikov MA rifles the six Russian agents would be armed with.

  Finally. We’re in fucking business.

  Bald and Porter both inserted one of the coupler mags, into the feeds located on the underside of the receiver. They tucked the spares into the mag pouches on the front of their plate carriers.

  A moment later, the pilots finished their checks.

  Lyden handed Porter and Bald each a noise-cancelling headset with a boom mic attached. Easier to communicate with one another over the heli’s internal comms rather than shouting above the roar of the engine.

  The blades whumped. The engine boomed.

  There was a shudder, and Bald felt the cabin lurch as the Dauphin left solid ground. The heli banked slightly to the left before levelling out, and then they gradually climbed into the night sky, rising above the clearing and the surrounding woodland. Once they were far above the treeline the pilots pitched the nose down at an angle and the Dauphin glided forward, and soon they were surging across the darkened plain.

  As soon as they were airborne, Bald caught Lyden’s attention and said into the mic, ‘What’s the plan?’

  Lyden reached for the military-grade laptop, which was basically a Windows portable computer housed in a rugged aluminium shell. He flipped open the screen and tilted it towards Bald and Porter. The main window showed a hi-resolution satellite view of a small airfield surrounded by a patchwork of green and brown fields.

  Békés.

  An asphalt runway ran east to west across the airfield. It looked to be about two kilometres long, Bald guessed. The minimum length necessary for a mid-sized private jet. There were painted white numbers at either end of the runway: ‘09’ painted on the western edge, ‘27’ on the eastern. Like points on a compass, but in reverse. The numbers corresponded to the dire
ction the runway was facing, Bald knew. ‘09’ faced east, ’27’ faced west. Something to do with prevailing winds. Three taxiways led down from the runway, spaced out at intervals across the length of the tarmac.

  Bald and Porter leaned in for a closer look as Lyden pointed to the markings.

  ‘Vauxhall is monitoring the weather around Békés. At the moment they’re telling us the wind direction is running east to west. Which means the jet will be coming in from the west, here.’

  Lyden finger-tapped the side of the runway marked with the white-painted numbers ‘09’. Then he pointed to the other end of the runway, marked with the west-facing numbers ‘27’. Another taxiway led down from this end of the runway towards a wide tarmacked stand, three hundred metres to the south. Three roads led away from the tarmac stand. Four hundred metres to the east stood a pair of large hangars. South led towards a control tower and a car park, with a long single road running down to the gate at the entrance to the airport. A third road led west from the stand towards a complex of maintenance buildings, four hundred metres away.

  Lyden tapped the tarmac apron.

  ‘This is the only stand at the airfield,’ he explained. ‘The jet is gonna land and come in here while the pilots wait for the Russians to show up. That’s where we’ll hit them. We’ll get into position before the jet comes in, whack the fuckers before they get aboard.’

  Porter studied the map and said, ‘How are we going to get close enough without raising any alarms? Even at night, there’s going to be security lights all over the fucking place.’

  ‘Porter’s right,’ said Bald. ‘We can’t hang around the tarmac waiting for the jet to come in. We’d stand out like tits on a bull.’

  ‘We’ll be in disguise,’ Lyden said.

  He traced his index finger across the laptop screen, pointed to the buildings to the east of the tarmac stand. There were three of them, set side by side, like chips on a circuit board. There was a fire dump to the south of the buildings and what appeared to be an abandoned parking lot behind them. Two of the structures were long and narrow and set apart from the third building. Not aircraft hangars. Maintenance hangars, Bald assumed.