by Mick Bose
Maggie smiled at him. “It was my pleasure.”
“I… uh,” he wiped his lips with his fingers. “I think you, uh, you, you are… uh, amazing.” He stopped, and he took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that. I think you are amazing.”
“Thank you, Major Tunney. You were pretty good yourself.”
He said wryly, “Believe me, after the amount of grief I got from the generals for leaving it so late, any notion of me being good doesn’t count.”
“But regardless,” Maggie persisted. “You tracked him down in the end.”
“Yes,” he said, a smile hovering at the corner of his lips. He looked down at his new boots, then back up to her again. “Miss Myers, uh, would you, uh, like to, you know, go for dinner tomorrow evening?”
Maggie opened her eyes wide. She paused for a while before replying, enjoying the moment. “Why yes, Major. I would like that very much.”
THE END
AUTHOR`S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. But some figures in this book are based on real historical figures. Field Marshall Hindenburg, his Deputy Erich Ludendorff and Colonel Walter Nicolai- all belonged to the Imperial German Army in the First World War. As did their US counterparts – Chief of Staff General March, Rear Admiral Sims, and the Secretary of State Robert Lansing.
Thomas J Tunney was a pioneering Captain of the NYPD, who led the formation of the NYPD Bomb Disposal Squad. This book bears an entirely fictitious account of Tunney, but history bears testament to his pivotal role in protecting New York during a volatile period in its history.
The Black Tom Island explosions of 1916 did happen. They were devastating, and many historical accounts of it exist.
Sadly, Maggie Myers exists only in fiction. She is tough and pragmatic, yet very feminine, very passionate. She is similar to many women of the time, whose roles in society changed drastically after the first world war. In many ways, Maggie is as important a protagonist in this book as Tunney is. I liked Maggie a lot. I hope you did too.
Enjoyed this book?
Then please try out an extract of Mick Bose`s contemporary thriller novel, and the start of a new series…
HIDDEN AGENDA
PROLOGUE
Jalalabad Air Base
FOB (Forward Operating Base) Fenty
Afghanistan
May 2012
In the dead heat of the Afghan afternoon, Dan picked up his suppressed Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle and looked down the ten-inch barrel.
The weapon had an EO tech optical red dot sight with a 3x magnifier mounted on top. He slid back the bolt and chambered a round, made sure the safety was on, and used the laser beam to light a pin-point at the far end of his tent. It was dark inside, a respite from the blinding yellow heat and relentless dust outside. That was one thing Dan never got used in the ‘Stan. The constant dust, powdery and floating around in huge clouds. It got into his eyes, clotted up the valves of weapons, made his skin itch.
The laser pointer was invisible to the naked eye. He put his night vision goggles on and looked. It was all working. He checked the side pockets of his camouflage pants. In one he had his leather gloves for abseiling down ropes from whichever copter they would be flying in. Chances are it would be a Black Hawk Mi-17 or an Apache. In another pocket he had extra batteries. In the lower cargo pants he kept his digital camera to take photos of kill targets and for intel. Wrapped round his left ankle he kept a small snub-nosed, suppressed Beretta 35mm for emergencies. The butt was thicker due to a rubber grip, and came easily into the hand. It had saved his life in the past. The pistol wasn’t standard Special Forces gear, but men on the 22nd SAS regiment often owned personal weapons.
He stood up and put his vest on. The ceramic armour plates weighed it down and the rest of his gear made it up to a full sixty pounds. On either side of his chest he had a radio. He tested the headphones to make sure he could hear the buzz of static, and the tiny digital microphone embedded in his right ear. Between the two radios he kept four extra magazines for the rifle, and a fragmentation grenade. Below that, on either side of the vest, he kept flash-bangs, plastic lights, wire cutters and plastic handcuffs. He reached behind his back to make sure he could get the C4 explosive fixed to the vest. It came off with a pull. The detonators were in a small pocket on his sleeve.
Then his hands slipped down to the curved eleven-inch knife strapped to the belt line on his back. His kukri. Dan was a Gurkha, and no Gurkha was complete without the ceremonial, kukri dagger. Dan took the kukri out and touched it to his forehead once, muttering the two-line prayer his father taught him. He hefted the kukri in his hand without taking it out of its black scabbard. Its long edge had been used with spectacular effect on a Taliban chieftain’s neck. The head had separated from the body.
“Yo dude!” The voice came from outside the open door of his bunker. A tall, wiry soldier dressed in his camouflage pants and tee-shirt came in. Dan looked up at the blond-haired, grey-eyed man, who stood near the door, hands on his waist.
“Hey, Rusty. Is it time yet?”
Rusty Malone stood at six feet four, four inches taller than Dan. At six feet, Dan still weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, a similar weight to Rusty. It was Dan’s width that made the difference. His shoulders were broad, and his hips needed specially-ordered combat pants.
Rusty’s head was bent, touching the top of the door frame. He stepped inside the room and ignored the question. “You still playing with your knife, Dan with an H?”
Dan had conducted five ops with Rusty Malone, Delta Forces Sergeant, US Army. In Iraq and the Stan. The complex and mixed intelligence in their op reports sometimes required a combination of the Allied Special Forces. Combining American and British forces wasn’t standard procedure, but then again, they never worked in standard conditions.
“If you could pronounce it, Mississippi boy, it would actually be Dhan. It means wealth.”
Rusty’s face split into a grin. Coming from the deep south, Rusty’s accent was as much a focal point as Dan’s name.
“Ok, D-man, go meditate. Time to debrief ten minutes. In HQ. See you there.”
“You bet.”
Dan’s real name was Dhan Roy. Since childhood, he was known as Dan. He came from a village in remote eastern Nepal called Birgunj, in the foothills of the Himalayas almost 30,000 feet above sea level.
Dan came out of his bunker, locked it, and walked across the dusty courtyard. The flat expanse of the silver hangars loomed in the backyard. He could hear the whine from the rotors of a large Chinook 47 as maintenance guys tested the machine. People in uniform moved in and out of squat buildings around him. There was a cafeteria and, adjacent to it, the military hospital. FOB Fenty was an annex to Jalalabad Airport, and much smaller than the larger camps in Afghanistan such as Camp Bastion. It was easy to spot people here, and as Dan came out he caught sight of a man in civilian clothes.
The man wore a tan-coloured suit, creased from air travel and the dust. He was medium height, with brown hair. Dan watched as the man opened the door of the HQ, opposite the giant hangars. The man in the suit crossed the courtyard and stopped in the shadow of a building next to the cafeteria. An Afghan man, wearing the blue uniform of the Afghan National Police appeared next to him. They were between two buildings and not easily visible. Dan frowned. Civilian contractors did appear on the larger bases, such as Bagram and Camp Bastion, but it was the first time he had seen a man dressed in civvies at FOB Fenty.
Dan opened the glass door of HQ and heard the suck of rubber gaskets as the doors shut. He was in an air conditioned space with carpets and a hallway opening up to an office reception. The reception desk was empty. He turned down the hallway and knocked twice on the first door. A man wearing cams and a two-month growth of beard opened it. Jonty was another member of the SFOD-D, as the Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, was known. He grinned at Dan and waved him inside. Ten men sat around a large table in the middle of the room. Two officers stood on
either side of a large screen showing a satellite image.
One of them caught Dan’s eye and nodded. Dan nodded back. Salutes and standing to attention weren’t needed. Major John Guptill was the Commanding Officer of the SAS Squadron A and had been present at Dan’s selection into the regiment six years ago. In his late fifties, Major Guptill was more fit and trim than men half his age. His hair was going white at the sides, and his eyes were steely blue.
Unofficially, and informally, he had become Dan’s mentor. The other man, older and with salt and pepper hair, Dan had never seen before.
“Come in, chaps,” Major Guptill’s voice was gentle, but always obeyed instantly. Dan saw the grid reference map as he sat down. Everyone would have a smaller copy of the GRM when they were deployed, tucked into the sleeve pocket of their uniform. The same map would be used by the support guys at base, hunched over screens showing live images from drone feeds and satellite images.
“The Person Of Interest is holed up in the main building of this compound,” Major Guptill pointed to the cluster of buildings in the middle of the satellite image. “He is a senior foreign fighter, Arab Al Qaeda, but sheltered by the Taliban. Our mission is to surround the compound at these high positions,” he indicated two small hills, “with snipers at the front and back. The rest of the team will breach the main door with charges. Intel thinks about a dozen fighters are in there. Expect a fire-fight. We want the POI dead.”
Major Guptill shifted and continued. “You will be dropped two miles away at 2230 hours. Case evac will be when you call for close air support.” He stared at the men in front of him. “Any questions?”
A few shook their heads. They had been on numerous such missions. One of the men raised some questions about the GRM. Dan stretched and looked around him, seeing the man in civvies leaning against the back wall. He was standing very still, a forefinger over his lips as he looked at the screen. He saw Dan’s stare and glanced at him. Their eyes met briefly before the man looked away.
Dan leaned towards Jonty, sat next to him.
“Who the hell is that guy?” he jerked his thumb.
Jonty glanced behind him and whispered in Dan’s ear. “Some intelligence guy from London, MI6.”
Dan leaned back in his chair. MI6 frequently sent agents, but this guy was new. Dan looked again, but the man had disappeared.
CHAPTER 1
It was a tight fit inside the Black Hawk. The rotor blades spun into a frenzy and the noise drowned out everything. The bird rose vertically, then its nose dipped as it picked up speed and roared through the desert night sky. The Helicopter Landing Site was half an hour’s flight away. Dan was near the door and would be one of the first to rappel down. He could feel Rusty’s knee in his back every time he moved. He checked the safety catch of his rifle. It had happened to some poor bastard once, inside a bird packed with kit and men. Rifle got knocked against wall and a chambered round went off by mistake. It all came down to standard operating procedures.
It was a good hour to the HLS in the Azrow Mountains, south east from Kabul. Dan used the time to close his eyes and doze, the best he could with Rusty’s knee in his spine. His mind drifted back to the cloud-wreathed mountains of his childhood. His father waking him up at five o’clock, putting a doko bag round his head, and setting him off on his five mile run up the goat path. Mother calling him back in the evening, framed against the falling sun at the head of the rice fields. His mum forced him to study in the evenings. It was the only reason he did well in school. As his thoughts turned to his mother, he wondered when he would see her again. It was funny now, thinking of her in their village in Nepal, all those years ago.
The only white woman in the whole district.
His father, Tej Bahadur Roy, sacrificed his life for the Crown in Kosovo. Going the way of many Gurkhas. Fighting to protect a position with meagre supplies, eventually over-run by the enemy. He killed three insurgents with his bare hands, before his kukri broke. He was honoured posthumously with a Military Cross.
Like his father, Dan joined the Royal Gurkha Rifles of the British Army at the age of nineteen, one of three hundred men chosen from over eight thousand applicants. After five years, he had moved to the 16th Air Assault Brigade. The thrill of airborne combat never left him after that. After two years, he applied for the Parachute Regiment, joining the 3 Company. Like many Paras, applying for the six month SAS selection course seemed natural to him. He almost died of dehydration in the first try, but he made it through and earned the sandy beret. It was in his rucksack, and went with him on every mission.
Thoughts turned to a black mist in his head. His chin dropped forward onto his chest.
The pilot leaned back from his cockpit, close to Dan. His barking voice got through Dan’s thin veil of slumber. The pilot lifted up one finger.
“One minute to HLS,” he shouted.
All around Dan, men began checking their gear and adjusting their NVG’s. Dan switched his on and everything became bathed in a green hue. These NVG’s were new with a 150 degree field of vision. It was a vast improvement from the older ones, which did not allow any lateral sight. He adjusted the toggles on the side until the hills around him came into sharper focus. His radio chirped for the comms check. They were losing altitude rapidly. Before he knew it, the ground was rushing up to meet them.
Dan shook off the lanyard fixing him to the safety rail and jumped out. Others around him did the same. The area was deserted, but that didn’t mean some resourceful Taliban watchman hadn’t seen them coming and raised a signal. A direct hit from an RPG would be all it took for the bird to go down. He tried to run, but the rotor wash from the bird flattened him to the ground. He held his weapon ready and lay on his belly. Dust glinted on the rotor blades as the bird hovered inches above the ground, creating fire sparks. This was the most dangerous time. Those sparks were visible from a distance. They had less than a minute to get themselves and all their kit, including the two heavier SCAR-H rifles for the snipers, off the bird and into the ground. Within seconds, it seemed, the helicopter raised itself up in a blaze of dust and reared into the night air. Quickly it was a distant speck in the sky, fading.
Dan lay quietly as silence flooded back around him. The desert ground was hard and the smell of dust was everywhere. The radio came alive in his ears.
“This is Delta One.” That meant Jonty, team leader for the mission. “All present.” All twelve men fed back instantly. “Roger that. Proceed to target.”
They walked almost an hour before the small hills surrounding the compound came into view. The four snipers peeled off, carrying their rifles, kit bag and extra ammunition each between them. Dan dropped to the ground and focused his NVG on the courtyard of the compound. A large two story building, presumably the residence, stood in the middle, flanked by two smaller buildings on either side. The entire compound was roughly fifty square metres in size. As he looked, Dan saw two figures, wearing loose kaftans and headgear typical of the Taliban, stroll out from one of the buildings. He took aim. The snipers were all excellent marksmen, and Dan knew any one of them could take out the figures in the compound, but they would be still getting ready.
He breathed into his radio, “Delta one this is tango 4. Two pax seen. Holding fire to see if more.”
“Roger that tango 4.” It was Jonty’s usual calm voice.
Soon, another figure came out of the main building. The lights were off, and the figures wouldn’t have been visible without their NVG’s. Lights flickered briefly, and Dan realised the guards had come out for a cigarette. Dan waited for a few more seconds, then spoke again on his radio.
“Delta one this is tango 4. Proceeding with two pax on right. Over.”
After a few seconds delay Jonty replied, “Roger. Taking the one straight ahead.”
BOP.
The suppressed H&K jerked in Dan’s hand once as the 5.56mm ordnance smashed into the head of one Taliban fighter. Dan had already aimed fractionally to his right before the figure hit the
ground.
BOP.
The second guard went down. The man in the centre went sprawling as Jonty’s bullet found its mark. Silence came back again. Dan waited. It was all about waiting. Wait for the enemy to show themselves. Wait for them to make the first mistake.
“Proceed to breach.” Jonty said. Dan reached behind his back and detached the C4 explosive. Every man knew his role. Dan and Rusty slithered down the slopes into the flat ground leading up to the compound gates. A three metre high, two metre thick mud wall, typical of Afghani compounds, surrounded the site. From behind them, two others followed. Dan and Rusty went half way up the open road and dropped, weapons trained on the door. The two men behind them went forward, while Dan and Rusty covered them. When the four of them were converged at the door, they quickly set their explosives, making sure to dual-charge them, in case one detonator failed. Then they scrambled back to position.
The explosion lit up the night sky. A giant yellow and gold fireball erupted, flinging the door apart and crumbling a section of the wall. Shouts and screams came from inside. Dan, Rusty and the other two were the first inside the courtyard. They crouched behind the rubble as they heard the whine of the heavier 7.62mm bullets the Taliban fired from their AK-47’s. Some bullets splattered into the rubble in front. Dan lifted his head up briefly and saw muzzle flash up ahead. He ducked his helmet down just in time to hear a bullet pass overhead. The sound of the SCAR-H rifles came from his rear. The guards in front fell and some scattered for cover. Dan took aim and let off some rounds in the direction of a new muzzle flash. He heard a distant scream as his rounds hit target.
The snipers kept up their heavy fire, and under its cover, Dan and Rusty ran to the sides of the compound and the outer buildings. Dan could see Rusty nudging ahead opposite him. Dan took his steps carefully, checking out every shadow in every corner. His senses were on fire. He crouched down and looked at the door. It was locked from the outside. He set a breach charge and moved away, out of range. When the charge breached, he went back in, shining his infra-red torch. The room was empty. He chucked a couple of plastic chemical lights inside, which his team members knew meant the room was clear.