‘This patch is out of bounds while we’re in it,’ Granger said. ‘They can’t be friendlies.’
The rumble continued to move around them.
‘There,’ Gunnymede said. ‘Orion’s Belt.’
Granger found the constellation. ‘Seen. Two fighters.’
They watched the planes continue to circle.
‘They’re hunting,’ Granger said.
Half a minute later the gentle roar grew quieter. Seconds later the only sound was the wind playing with the sand.
The men sat back into their scrapes.
‘Russians having a sniff about I expect,’ Granger said checking his watch. ‘Three and a half hours till first light.’
‘More coffee?’
‘Why not.’ Granger produced a packet of cigarettes while Gunnymede opened the flask. Granger lit his fag using a tactical lighter and blew out the smoke, savouring it.
‘Can I have one of those?’ Gunnymede asked.
‘Didn’t know you smoked.’
‘Only on special occasions. And when I’m pissed.’
Granger offered him one and they sat back and enjoyed the moment.
‘Your first time in the sand box?’ Granger asked.
‘In the field, yeah.’
‘More adept at five star hotels and long legged spies I expect.’
Gunnymede glanced at him, realising the man had no idea about his recent past. ‘I wish.’
‘I trained some of your lot down the Fort last year. Pistol and SMG work.’
‘I haven’t been there in a while.’ Gunnymede had a thought. ‘Do you know a 22 lad called Charlie Gibson? Former I should say. G squadron. He used to do some training for us at the Fort.’
‘Gibbo? Yeah, I know Charlie. He’s been out a few years now. Bit of a wide boy but a good enough lad.’
‘I bumped into him in London the other day. We didn’t have time for much of a chat. Do you know what he’s up to these days?’
‘No idea what Charlie does these days.’
Gunnymede drew on the cigarette. ‘What about Jack Henderson?’
‘Former Sergeant Major, G Squadron. Knew him well enough to say hello. I heard something happened to his daughter. She was attacked or something.’
Granger noticed Gunnymede pondering. ‘You knew her?’
‘Yeah. I went to visit her in hospital.’
‘She alright?’
‘No.’
Granger sensed something in Gunnymede’s tone. ‘Knew her well then, did you?’
‘Yeah. Charlie was there.’
‘At the hospital?’
‘I can’t imagine why though.’
Granger took a draw of his fag and blew the smoke out after holding it in for a while. ‘Was Charlie there to see her or you?’
‘Me, I think.’
‘How’d you leave it with him?’
‘I wasn’t in the mood to talk.’
Granger studied Gunnymede for a moment. ‘All I’d say is tread carefully with that one.’
‘Why?’
‘It might be your cup of tea or maybe it ain’t.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Gunnymede wanted to know what he meant. ‘He said the police have a suspect. But the police say they haven’t.’
Granger drew on his cigarette while he mulled over something.
‘Why would he say such a thing?’ Gunnymede asked. ‘That’s why I asked what he was up to. Would he say such a thing if it wasn’t true?’
‘What was she to you?’ Granger asked.
‘Megan was my girlfriend.’
‘Seriously?’
‘We were engaged.’
Granger let out a deep sigh and tossed the butt of his cigarette. ‘I see. Daughter of a SAS man would do it. Girlfriend of a field spy would back it up.’
‘Do what?’
‘Ah. It’s just a rumour.’
‘Come on Granger. Don’t play about.’
Granger took a moment to consider his next words. ‘You ever heard of the Becket Approval?’
Gunnymede looked at him. ‘I heard the phrase some years ago. I don't know what it means though.’
‘Ask Charlie. He’d know.’ Granger sat up and put his hand out for quiet.
‘What would Charlie know?’
‘Shhhh!,’ Granger urged. ‘Here we go!’
The rumble of vehicle engines drifted to them on the wind. Granger scanned the darkness with his thermal imager and found the source a kilometre away. The heat from the wheels and engines outlined the vehicles. All lights were off, driving by starlight.
‘Two vehicles,’ Granger reported getting to his feet. ‘Looks like the little bastard’s arrived. Get the drone up.’
Gunnymede jumped up, removed a large plastic box from his pack and opened it to reveal a drone in pieces. He snap-clipped the rotor arms to the body, attached a swivel camera to the underside, unfolded the slender legs and rested it on the sand.
Granger watched the vehicles draw closer, the engines growing louder. They passed a hundred metres across their front. A Land Cruiser and a Hilux. The Hilux came to a stop and the Land Cruiser continued on for another fifty or so metres before stopping.
All engines went dead.
‘Right on station,’ Granger said. ‘Don’t we just love creatures of habit?’
Gunnymede flicked a switch on the drone and the propellers hummed to life. A touch of the joy stick and the drone rose off the ground into the night sky and disappeared amongst the stars, sight and sound.
Granger kept his eyes on the vehicles. ‘Bods climbing out the Hilux. No movement on the Cruiser.’
Gunnymede hit a memory key on his sat phone and plugged his throat mic into it. A moment later a short buzz indicated a connection.
‘Charlie, Charlie. We’re green, green,’ Gunnymede said as he piloted the drone while watching a bird’s eye thermal image of the vehicles on the console monitor.
Eleven hundred and fifty miles south east of their position, the Dubai operations room displayed the drone’s view on a massive screen filling a high wall of a modern military operations room packed with electronics. The image occupied one section of the multi-split screen, the others showing weather fronts, aircraft patterns and an eye in the sky of the operational area pinpointing Gunnymede and Granger’s position using graphics. Half a dozen personnel managed the room, five British and an American female colonel, all wearing military fatigues, most of them busy in front of computers.
There was one other person in the room, at the back, in the shadows, detached, observing; Neve Murray, pretty woman dressed in civvies. She looked up from her coffee as Gunnymede’s voice broke the silence, smiling thinly to herself as she focused on the satellite view of the two operators, pinpricks in a sea of sand.
‘That’s a de-bus,’ Gunnymede said.
A dozen thermal figures climbed out of the rear vehicle. Several moved away to urinate, the warm liquid outlined as it pooled before soaking into the sand. The heads of others suddenly flared as if exploding as they ignited cigarettes. A couple set about making a fire.
‘Do you have the drone?’ Gunnymede asked.
‘Acquired,’ a controller replied.
‘Anything on those aircraft a few minutes ago?’ Granger asked.
‘Russians,’ the British SAS Major who was operations officer said. ‘They’re still in the sector.’
‘We good to continue?’ Granger asked.
‘Affirmative. Let’s do it,’ the ops officer said.
‘The drone’s all yours,’ Gunnymede said.
‘Let’s take a look at the lead vehicle,’ the ops officer said to the drone operator.
The drone operator moved a joystick and the drone’s point of view shifted from the Hilux to the Land Cruiser.
Granger and Gunnymede made cursory checks of pouches and pockets, reminding hands where spare magazine and toys were stowed. Grenades were felt, release catches thumbed. Pistols to
uched.
‘You good to go?’ Granger asked.
‘Yes.’
Granger gave Gunnymede a look.
‘What?’ Gunnymede asked.
‘You up for this? Could get nasty.’
‘I’d rather be buying a drink for a long legged spy in the American Colony in Jerusalem.’
Granger smiled. ‘I’d rather be ’ere,’ he said as he touched his throat mic. ‘Green green is foxtrot.’
‘Roger that,’ the Ops Officer replied.
Granger moved off at an easy pace, Gunnymede behind and to one side. The surface of the higher ground they occupied had a hard, wind-packed crust with softer sand beneath it. Some parts were thick enough to support a man’s weight while others gave way, their feet breaking through to the soft sand below up to their knees.
By the time they dropped down onto hard packed ground between the dunes the vehicles had gone out of sight. They slowed as they closed on the edge of a rise. The Land Cruiser came into view. The wind continued to be the only sound as they stepped into the open. The Hilux was in view further away, the men standing around the fire focused on making a brew. None would be able to see Gunnymede and Granger even if they looked straight at them, their night vision blanked by the fire.
Granger paused to study the Cruiser through his imager. ‘Two occupants. Driver plus one in back,’ he reported.
‘Red for Charlie,’ a voice came over Gunnymede’s earpiece from the Dubai operations room. ‘They’re on comms now.’
‘You want me to take out the driver?’ Granger asked Gunnymede.
‘I’ll manage.’
‘And if Saleem doesn’t want to come?’
‘He’ll come.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘I’ll whack him and grab the gear.’
‘Don’t get into a conversation with him.’
‘We had this discussion back in Dubai,’ Gunnymede complained.
‘Just making sure. You ready?’
‘Yes.’
They brought their rifles into their shoulders, placed their fingers on the triggers and walked towards the Cruiser. The wind picked up a little. The cab light was on. The driver was turned in his seat to face the man in the rear.
As Gunnymede reached for the door a voice came over his earplugs stopping him dead.
‘Red, red! Aircraft! Standby!’ It was one of the controllers in Dubai, her voice betraying her concern.
Granger and Gunnymede looked at each other and then skyward.
‘Two birds,’ the ops controller continued. ‘Turning towards your location.’
Their ears picked up the sound of the jets above the wind. Getting louder. The Land Cruiser’s doors opened and the two men scrambled out to look skyward. Daesh fighters were very sensitive to threats from the air. The sound of aircraft was the herald of death to them.
The one who’d climbed out of the back suddenly realised someone was nearby. He turned to look directly at Gunnymede. It was Saleem. Their eyes met above Gunnymede’s rifle barrel.
A thunderous explosion wiped out the Hilux in a massive fireball. The Cruiser was next. Everyone ran for their very lives.
There was no cover in any direction. Just sand. Distance was Gunnymede’s only hope. The vehicle was the bomb magnet. The further he could run from it the greater his chance of survival. Every metre counted. But each pace felt like slow motion. As if he was running through molasses. He pulled his knees up and slammed his toes down, one step after the other, thrusting as hard as he could. But it all seemed too damned slow.
The missile struck the Cruiser, penetrating the roof and detonating inside. The explosion ripped it apart like paper, sending it somersaulting into the air in a fireball. The shockwave followed, radiating in a widening circle towards the fleeing men.
The tip of the wave caught Gunnymede and flicked him up off the ground like an insect. He somersaulted several times before landing hard, bouncing and rolling until he came to a stop. Shrapnel zinged past, ricocheting off the ground around him. Debris followed, landing in chunks.
He lay on his back, breathing hard. He wondered how badly he was hurt. He couldn’t be certain his head was still attached to his body. He felt no pain. Just disconnected from life and hanging by a thread of consciousness. He could see the stars. Not clearly. A blur. His eyes blinked against the flecks of sand blowing into them. And then, as if a dimmer switch to his mind was slowly turned down, everything darkened. The last thing was a high-pitched ringing in his ears before it all went dark.
Neve got to her feet, horrified as the screen flashed where the Land Cruiser had been, figures moving away from it in different directions. When the screen recovered from the burst of light there were heat signatures dotted around the large one which was the cruiser. It was impossible to say which was Gunnymede. One thing they all had in common. None was moving.
Chapter 6
Gunnymede jolted back to consciousness as hands harshly gripped the length of his body. He was being carried. His bearers were in a hurry. Laboured breathing came from above as he was ferried over rugged terrain. A leg was dropped, his heel dragging along the ground before being picked up. He tried to open his eyes but the sun directly above was too bright. His body felt like a lifeless hulk attached to his brain. His backside hit a bump as they went up a rise. A voice barked in Arabic and Gunnymede was jolted higher, the voice as urgent as the pace.
The sun disappeared as they went into shadow. He could see the faces of those carrying him. Dark-skinned, bearded males. Children amongst them were trying to help. The men shuffled along, out of breath but undeterred. Intermittent structures broke up the light. Mud walls. Corrugated metal roofs. Reed fences. It suddenly went much darker and cooler as he was taken inside and lowered onto a rug on the earth floor.
The men stood back and watched him. A soft word was spoken here and there as they waited. Gunnymede fought against his weakness and struggled to lean onto an elbow. He squeezed his eyes, trying to get them to focus. They began to improve. About half a dozen men were standing inside the small hut. Arabs. Villagers. Poor, grubby, emaciated people. Curious children squeezed between their legs to look at the stranger. An elder shooed them out.
The men’s demeanour conveyed concern as well as curiosity. Gunnymede could also sense their fear. He took a moment to gather himself. To think. He put himself in Syria, on the operation. The drone. Dubai. The Daesh vehicles. The helicopter flight and drop off. Saleem. The air attack.
The pieces fell into place.
He went through the events that led to the attack. Remembered running before the Land Cruiser exploded. ‘Granger,’ he said out loud.
Gunnymede looked around, behind the men’s legs, hoping to see his partner. ‘Where …?’ he started to ask, but his throat was dry and he struggled to release the words. He swallowed and tried again. ‘Where’s my friend?’ he began again, his voice croaky.
The men simply looked at him. One made a sign to another who went to a corner, filled a mug with water from a plastic container and held it in front of Gunnymede. He gripped the mug in trembling hands and took several gulps.
He lay back, drained by the effort although he could feel life coursing through him. His concern for Granger remained. If they’d gone to all the trouble of bringing him to their village, they would’ve most likely done the same for Granger. That didn’t mean the man was dead of course. Maybe he was on his way with another group. Maybe he was somewhere else.
Gunnymede pushed himself onto an elbow again and another effort sat him up. He shuffled back so that he could lean against the mud wall.
He looked around for his gear. His pack. Rifle. Webbing. No sign of any of it. His hands snapped to his shoulder holster to discover his pistol still in it.
He had to find Granger. He couldn’t lie there a moment longer.
With a supreme effort, he rolled onto his knees, an action that alarmed the men. The elder urged him to stay down. Gunnymede ignored him and, using the wall, rose unstea
dily to his feet. The old man kept talking as if trying to reason with him.
Gunnymede made hand gestures aimed at easing his concerns. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Ana bikhayr.’
He leaned back against the wall, letting it take his weight while he checked his pockets, taking an inventory. He pulled his satellite phone from a thigh pocket. A piece fell off it. The screen was broken. Bits inside moved.
His emergency beacon looked okay. That was the life-saver. But he couldn’t activate it. Not yet. He needed to find Granger. He might be lying somewhere badly wounded.
Gunnymede faced the hut entrance and took a step forward. The men parted. Physically, he felt better. When he got to the opening he looked outside. Half a dozen children hanging around a narrow path between huts stopped what they were doing to look at him.
Gunnymede made his way between huts until he reached open ground in the centre of the village. Several women were caught off guard and wrapped their scarves around their faces as they grabbed children and hurried away. Gunnymede carried on to the edge of the village. The men followed at a distance. He walked beyond the huts to where he could take a look at the surrounding landscape. Everything was parched, the land nothing more than sandy gravel. Goats roamed nearby, nibbling at sparse, brittle vegetation.
He activated his watch compass. The village might be the one they’d seen the evening before. If so the attack was a couple of clicks south east. He couldn’t see anything in that direction. There was nothing more for it. He had to go back to it.
He felt his spare pistol mags in a clip on his belt. Some comfort at least. He was far from fit but confident he would brighten once he got going. Before he could take more than a couple of steps a sound floated to him on the wind. An engine. The villagers took to their heels and scurried into their huts. Within seconds they’d gone.
A pickup truck broke over a rise five hundred metres away. Three more closely followed. The backs were filled with men. Gunnymede knew it was Daesh. It couldn’t be anyone else in this area. He had serious problems and not many options. Hiding in the village was a waste of time. There was nowhere to go outside of it either. Fighting ensured his death. The only sound option was capture. That also meant death of course, but perhaps not immediately. Where there was time, there was hope. Getting caught by these clowns was a subject that had not escaped discussion back in Dubai. The general consensus was to kill as many as possible but to save the last bullet for oneself. The logic was obvious since, based on history, a western soldier wouldn’t survive if captured by Daesh.
The Becket Approval Page 5