by Chris Ryan
The third building was square-shaped and set sixty metres further to the north of the maintenance hangars.
Lyden pointed to it.
‘This is where the fire crew is based,’ he said. ‘According to the plans, there’s a fire tender inside with a three-man crew to operate it. We’ll overrun the crew, grab their uniforms and the tender and move it into position here.’ Lyden traced his finger over to the eastern edge of the tarmac stand. ‘This area is a dead spot. No lights. That should allow us to OP the jet, get eyes on the target and slot the Russians when they rock up.’
Bald walked the plan through in his head. They’d practised something similar on a training exercise at Hereford once. Every airport had to have a crash tender in position whenever a plane came in to land. Something to do with safety regulations. The bigger the airport, the larger the fire-fighting capacity. A small airfield like the one at Békés would have perhaps one or two dedicated fire-fighting units on hand to deal with any emergencies in the event of an accident or crash. The unit would follow standard procedure and sit on the tarmac stand near to the parked jet while the pilots waited for their passengers to arrive. No one would bat an eyelid at the fire crew. The perfect OP.
It was a good plan, Bald had to admit. He almost wished he’d thought of it himself. But he didn’t share that thought with Lyden. The guy was already full of himself, walking around like he was God’s gift. He wasn’t about to massage the kid’s fucking ego.
‘How many workers are we dealing with at the airfield?’ he asked.
‘Skeleton staff,’ said Lyden. ‘Six has sent through the data on all that. The control tower only operates part-time, at the weekends, when you’ve got the flight training school and all the big jets coming in. Monday to Thursday is pilot discretion. Which means there’s no one in the tower, no police or patrols, nothing like that. We’re looking at a couple of maintenance guys to operate the runway lights, a guard at the main gate.’
‘That int had better be spot-on. Because if it ain’t, we’ll alert every fucker at the airport as soon as we rush them firemen.’
‘It’s solid,’ Lyden reassured him. ‘Trust us. This is going to work.’
‘Any other planes due to come in?’
‘Six is checking that now. But it’s a small-time airfield. Not much activity, especially during the weekdays. Maybe a light Cessna or two coming in, but that’s about it.’
Porter said, ‘What about police?’
‘There’s no airport security presence. Just the guard at the front gate.’
‘Armed?’
Lyden shook his head. ‘He’s just there to open and close the gate. If they need help they have to call in to the local station.’
‘Response time?’
‘Anything between nine and twelve minutes.’
‘We won’t have much time when this thing gets noisy, then.’
‘We’ll be taking the Russians by surprise,’ Lyden said. ‘That should give us the upper hand. The plan is to slot them and bug out before anyone can put a call in to the Hungarian plod.’
‘And if it goes south?’
‘Then we’ll have to blast our way out of there.’
‘What’s the deal once we’ve nabbed Volkov?’ asked Bald. ‘Back on the heli?’
‘Can’t,’ Lyden said. ‘We’re going in at top speed. Pilots reckon they’ve burned through a shit-ton of fuel just to get us to the RV. They’ll have to go technical and fuck off as soon as they’ve dropped us off.’
Bald grunted in acknowledgement. The Dauphin had a ferry range of four-hundred-plus nautical miles, he knew. At maximum speed, the heli would be eating through its fuel reserves much faster than at cruising speed. A hundred and fifty miles from Austria to the RV, plus another hundred miles to the airfield. There would be enough juice left in the tank for the pilots to turn around and fly back to Graz. But they wouldn’t be able to hang around near the airfield, turning and burning, waiting for the guys to do the job.
‘If the heli has to go, how are we supposed to bug out?’
‘We’ve already thought of that.’ Lyden grinned wickedly. ‘We’ll steal the jet. Make the pilot an offer he can’t refuse and tell him to fly us to Northolt. Six will have a car waiting there for us. We’ll transport Volkov on to London for a debrief.’
‘Assuming the plane has got enough fuel to get us back.’
‘It will,’ Lyden reassured him. ‘It’s got to have enough to return to Moscow. That’s a thousand-mile trip. Northolt is about the same distance. Or we can land in France or the Channel Islands. Take your pick.’
Porter said, ‘If this goes Pete Tong, we’re gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no clear route to safety, with half the Hungarian police to deal with.’
‘It’s the best chance we’ve got. Either we do this, or we let the Russians sail off into the sunset with Volkov.’ Lyden smiled at the two Blades. ‘Think you two crusties can handle it?’
Bald stared the kid down. ‘We’ve still got it. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Is that what you fellas tell yourselves before you take out your false teeth?’
‘Do us a favour, mate.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Take your lame jokes and fuck off.’
Lyden grinned. The confidence of youth.
They carried on east.
Towards the airfield.
Towards Volkov, and his Russian minders.
The Dauphin screamed across the blackened landscape. Rowe and Bald were huddled around the laptop, doing visual recces of the airfield and surrounding area from the imagery being sent across from Vauxhall. They were studying the entrance points to the airfield, the outlying buildings and the tarmac stand, looking for the most likely area for the jet to park while they waited for the Russians to show up. On the iPad, Porter studied a PDF file: the operating manual for the model of fire tender in use at the airfield. Lyden was on the encrypted comms link to Vauxhall, getting up-to-the-minute weather reports, using the data to build up as clear a picture of the ground as possible. As soon as they scrambled off the chopper, they were going to be against the clock. They wouldn’t have time to familiarise themselves with the environment. They would have to go in hard and fast. Take out the fire crew, nobble the Russians and escape on the jet before the police could show up and surround the airport.
We’re flying by the seat of our pants here, thought Bald. Just like the old days in the Regiment.
Do or fucking die.
Lyden got off the comms unit and turned to Bald. ‘That was the ops room. They’ve been monitoring air-traffic control in the area. There’s only one flight due to land at Békés tonight, a Phenom 300 business jet. En route direct from Moscow Vnukovo airport.’
‘That’s the one coming in for the Russians. Has to be.’
‘Is Volkov on the manifest?’ asked Porter.
The manifest listed the names of all passengers and crew on a particular flight. Information that had to be submitted electronically to the aviation authorities, at least sixty minutes prior to departure. If Volkov was getting on that plane, his name would have been added to the list.
Lyden shook his head. ‘Vauxhall has already checked. The manifest is showing seven names, all Hungarian nationals. None of them known to the authorities.’
‘Then how do we know it’s them?’
‘Six checked the passport numbers. They’re in sequence. One after another.’
‘Which means they’re fakes,’ Bald said. ‘They must be using them to sneak out of the country.’
‘That’s what Strickland reckons too. She says the Russians used the same passports to smuggle Volkov out of the country a week ago, after they lifted him from the safe house. It’s got to be them.’
Porter said, ‘When does the jet get in?’
‘Twenty-one fifty-five hours. According to the manifest, the crew are expecting a quick turnaround. Plane is due to depart again at 22.20 hours.’
‘Bound for?’
Bald glanced down at his G-Shock: 21.29 hours.
Twenty-six minutes until the jet touched down. Maybe another minute or two before the Russians pulled up on the tarmac stand to board the plane.
He said, ‘How long until we reach the airfield?’
‘We’re sixty miles away. Looking at an ETA of twenty minutes.’
Which means we’ll get in at 22.49 hours, thought Bald.
Six minutes before the jet was due to land.
‘As long as the fire crew don’t put up a fight,’ Bald said. ‘We’re only gonna have a couple of minutes to suppress those bastards, nick their uniforms and get the tender in position before the jet flies in.’
‘That’s what the dogs are for,’ Lyden replied confidently. ‘They’ll take care of business.’
‘They’d better. Because if we fuck this one up, Volkov gets to stand in front of the hacks in Moscow and give them the story of the century.’
Lyden said, ‘One more thing.’
Bald looked at him for a moment. ‘What’s that?’
‘Strickland told us that there’s some sort of transaction going down at the airfield. Before the target gets on the plane.’
Bald nodded. The reward waiting for Volkov at the airfield. The one Lansbury had mentioned. He seemed excited. He was adamant he wouldn’t be getting on that plane before he got his reward.
‘Strickland thinks someone might be meeting Volkov at the airport,’ Lyden went on.
‘Who?’ asked Porter.
‘They’re not sure. But there’s three people listed on the manifest for the outward leg of the flight. Two men and a woman.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Six has done a background check. There’s no records for any of the names.’
‘Which means they’re flying on fake passports too,’ Bald said.
Lyden nodded. ‘Strickland wants eyes on them before she’ll give the green light to attack. She wants to know who is so important that the Russians are flying them out to meet Volkov.’
‘Fine,’ Bald said. ‘Whatever it takes. But one way or another, those Russian bastards are going down tonight.’
He settled back into his seat and stared out of the window. They raced on at a frightening speed, the pilots sticking close to the ground, the scattered lights of the towns and roads below glowing like fireflies amid the black void of the Hungarian plain.
Almost there.
Not far to go now.
Nineteen minutes later, they reached the airfield.
THIRTY-THREE
The runway slithered out of the dark mass of the horizon, a grey tongue streaked with black and illuminated by a series of bright edge lights. Bald sat facing forward, watching their approach through the cockpit window. From his position he could see the tarmac stand situated to the south of the runway. Security lights beamed down on the stand, like floodlights at a football stadium. Further to the south he spied the control tower and aircraft hangars. To the west, four hundred metres away, he glimpsed three poorly lit shapes: the fire station building and maintenance hangars. A narrow road connected the three buildings to the main tarmac stand.
As the Dauphin drew closer, the guys made their final preparations for the assault. Lyden snatched up the rubberised digital camera and tucked it into the spare pouch on the front of his plate armour vest. Bald and Porter pulled the charging bolts on their L119A2s, chambering the first rounds from their clips. Rowe adjusted the straps on his vest and checked on the dogs.
The Dauphin descended towards a bare patch of grass, situated eighty metres west of the fire department. Bald peered out of the side window, ran his eyes over the station. A six-wheeled fire tender, painted the same bright red as a regular fire truck, was parked up in the garage entrance on the left side of the station building. To the right of the garage Bald could see the staff door, stickered with the usual exclamation-marked signs warning off unauthorised personnel.
‘No sign of the crew,’ Porter observed.
Bald said, ‘They’ll be inside, getting the tender ready for the jet.’
Lyden said, ‘We’ll go in through the door on the right-hand side. Let the dogs get in there first, then we’ll follow.’
Rowe said nothing. He just stared ahead and looked rock hard.
The Dauphin’s rotor blades beat down relentlessly, whipping up a swirl of grass blades and loose dirt as the landing gears touched down. There was a jarring shudder, and then the voice of one of the pilots squawked over the internal comms system, giving the Blades the signal to debus. Porter was nearest to the exit. He removed his headset, wrenched open the sliding door on the side of the main cabin, grabbed his rifle and jumped down from the chopper. Boots thudding against the ground, his suit flapping madly about him, the downwash stirring his grey-flecked hair.
Bald followed.
Behind him, Lyden and Rowe were crouching down beside the dog crates, sliding open the bolt latches.
They untethered the leashes from the iron frames, removed the muzzles and guided the dogs over to the cabin door. Lyden dropped down with the first Malinois, one hand gripping his rifle, the other holding on to the lead.
Rowe was last out of the Dauphin. The second Malinois scampered ahead of him and leaped down to the bare ground, straining at its leash. Bald eyed the dogs for a beat. Their powerful muscles were tensed, dark brown eyes scanning for threats. Calm, obedient, but ready to pounce as soon as Rowe and Lyden gave the word. Their teeth were so sharp they looked like they could tear through metal.
Rowe wrenched the cabin door shut, secured it and nodded to Lyden. The latter turned to Bald and Porter and said, ‘Let’s go! Move!’
They broke into a run across the downwash-blasted ground. Eighty metres to the fire station building. The fire crew inside the garage would have heard and seen the Dauphin coming in, Bald knew. They would be wondering why a large civilian heli had made an unscheduled landing at the airfield in the middle of the night. Bald imagined the scene inside the building. Heads being scratched, puzzled looks exchanged, one of the crew wondering whether they should check in with the dispatcher.
We’ve got to hit these fuckers hard and fast. Before they phone it in.
Forty metres to the fire station.
Behind them, the chopper began to ascend into the night sky. Bald hurried alongside Porter, his right hand wrapped around the trigger grip on his L119A2 rifle, left clasping the underside of the receiver. Lyden and Rowe were racing a couple of steps ahead of them. The two Malinoises strained at their leashes, their black ears pricked. Bald heard the sound of the helicopter engine roaring behind him, blood rushing in his ears. He glanced quickly around. Runway at his nine o’clock, tarmac stand at his three o’clock, the control tower and car park further to the south. No sign of activity anywhere. No planes on the tarmac stand. The airfield was eerily quiet.
Skeleton staff, Lyden had said. The control tower only operates at the weekends. Monday to Thursday is pilot discretion.
At the weekends, the place was probably crawling with VIPs, security guards, control-tower operators, maintenance staff, flight enthusiasts. But at nearly eleven o’clock on a Thursday night, the airport was dead.
Not for much longer.
A quick glance over his shoulder told Bald that the Dauphin was pulling clear of the airfield now. Lights winking, beak pitched forward as the heli shuttled off towards the west, slowly picking up speed.
The maintenance staff and the security guard at the front gate would have seen the Dauphin make a swift departure too. But Bald was confident that the few other guys at the airfield wouldn’t be concerned by the sudden appearance of the heli. They wouldn’t have access to flight manifests or air-traffic control. No reason for them to think there was anything unusual about a civilian-coloured helicopter coming in. And they would be too far away to get a good look at the Blades, anyway.
He swung his gaze forward again. He reached the station building in
another dozen strides, pressed himself against the brickwork to the right of the door, Porter drawing up on the opposite side. Lyden and Rowe stopped half a metre from the entrance, stooped down beside the two Malinoises and unclipped the leashes from their collars. On the other side of the thick door Bald could hear the muffled chatter of the fire crew. Two guys. He didn’t understand the language but from the tone of their voices they sounded casual, relaxed. Not expecting any trouble.
Lyden looked at Bald and Porter and Rowe. ‘Ready?’ he whispered.
Bald nodded. They couldn’t risk using their weapons to suppress the fire crew. Sounds carried more clearly at night than during the daytime. A rifle discharge would easily travel across the airport, alerting the maintenance guys and the security guards four hundred metres away. They would call for help as soon as they heard the reports. Maybe even warn off the incoming jet. We’ve got a potential security situation on the ground. Turn around.
Which is where the dogs came in.
The two Malinoises dropped into a crouched position, teeth bared, ready to attack. Lyden looked towards Bald and nodded. We’re ready. Open the door.
Bald pulled on the handle and stepped back from the opening.
‘ATTACK!’ Lyden shouted at the dogs, pointing at the door.
The Malinoises sprinted inside.
They were fast. They shot forward with astonishing speed, two snarling brown-black blurs, sweeping into the ground floor of the station and looking to hit anything with a pulse. From inside the building Bald heard shouts of dumb surprise. Then a chorus of manic screams and cries, interspersed with the barks and growls of the Malinoises as they tore into their victims.
‘Go, go!’ Bald shouted. ‘Now!’
In the next instant, the four Blades stormed through the open doorway.
Bald was first into the station. Rifle raised, buttstock flush against his shoulder, index finger tensing on the trigger, eyes peering down the weapon’s iron sights. Porter at his six o’clock, Lyden a step behind him, Rowe pulling up the rear as the tail-end Charlie.