McKenzie said, ‘I suppose if he can sneak out tonight, being slowed by this stretcher case he’d still make it in about three nights, wouldn’t he?’
Hislop was thinking that if there’d been thirty Syrian soldiers and one Hind gunship there before this firefight, there’d damn soon be a hell of a lot more. And sneaking in through the mountains had been one thing, sneaking away again after stirring up the hornets’ nest would be quite another.
Three nights’ yomping, say. Or four. OK, more bimbling than yomping. And allowing for hold-ups, the fact they’d be hunted now and might have to detour or lie-up for longer periods, and so on… Further Harrier visits would be necessary, to maintain contact and arrange the pick-up. He looked round at the Harrier pilot: still in his flying gear, helmet dangling from one hand.
‘Certain you had no radar on you at any time?’
‘Positive. Not a flicker.’
‘You wouldn’t be worried about doing it again, then. Could you drop food to them?’
‘Easy.’ Worrall glanced at his seniors. ‘Containers of some kind, one each side under the wing pylons.’
Where in different circumstances you’d have a 1000-lb bomb each side. The wing commander nodded. ‘Something could be improvised.’
Rations and ammunition, Ben had mentioned. Battalion headquarters at Dhekelia might have some 4.85-mm, he supposed. The SA80 family of weapons was still new, by no means all Army units would have switched over to it yet.
‘Comes down to this.’ Holding McKenzie’s calm analytical stare, and thinking aloud. ‘In normal circumstances, Ockley’d know (a) where he is now, (b) more or less where he’s got to get to — and there aren’t so many routes to choose from — and he’s got wounded men to carry with him… Well, the odds change, rather.’
‘Quite.’
Cold fish, Hislop thought. Cold eyes, detached manner. Doing his best to help, but… Anyway he was only bouncing thoughts off him, trawling for inspiration.
‘If they were trapped there, we’re back to square one, it might’ve been better if we hadn’t reacted to the threat in the first place. But — well, some very senior generals decided yesterday, this is spilt milk, they are in there, and we’ve got to accept whatever risks may be entailed in getting them out.’
McKenzie frowned. ‘I wish I knew what to suggest.’
‘I’ve one suggestion. Logic says that if he can’t get to the coast, he’s got to be extracted from where he is now. And the only helicopter that could do it, in terms of capacity and range, is the Super Stallion. The Cousins have offered to lift them out of Syrian waters — that was a step forward, now I’d say we might try to persuade them to take another, pull them out of Syria.’
‘Your logic’s sound enough, and I’m sure they’d want to help us out. After all, it’s common cause, basically. But I’m sorry to have to tell you — I really am, the last thing I want to do is pour cold water — that you don’t stand a hope in hell. In plain physical terms, they couldn’t do it.’
‘If I call London — by Satcom, right away — I’d like to, if I may — do it from your Communications Centre?’
‘More conveniently from this.’ He nodded towards a green telephone. ‘But of course if you’d prefer—’
‘From here would be marvellous. Thank you… The point is, I’ve reason to believe that the Chief of the Defence Staff himself—’
‘Oh, yes.’ A nod… ‘The CDS would talk persuasively to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, you were going to say.’ The group captain’s hands separated, joined again as if they’d decided there was nowhere better to go: a small gesture of helplessness, from a man not given to gestures… ‘I know. He might not even risk impasse at that level, the Minister might persuade Mrs Thatcher to speak to the President. I’d guess she wouldn’t need much persuading, and I’m certain the President and the National Command Centre would react favourably, the fleet would be told to cooperate to the maximum extent, etc. But that’s where you’d hit the brick wall, Hislop. I don’t want to bore you with avionics, but — frankly, I was astonished to hear they’d agreed to send a CH-53E into Syrian waters. It’s the US Navy Air Force version of the machine first used in Vietnam, popularly known as the “jolly Green Giant”. They still use that nickname for the CH-53C — C as distinct from E — which is the US Air Force, not Navy Air Force, combat search and rescue helicopter. Operated by US Air Force Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadrons. Those could and would be used in the kind of mission we’re talking about. The Super Stallions on board the Saratoga, however, the aircraft that picked your boats out of the sea, are CH-53Es, used exclusively in the role the Yanks call VOD — “vertical onboard delivery”, meaning transporting supplies to the carrier battle groups. They’re unsuited to combat missions — that’s to say any task in which they might come under attack.’ McKenzie paused, shook his head. ‘Sorry to be such a wet blanket. But nobody in his right mind would dream of sending one of those into hostile territory.’
Hislop glanced round; but the Harrier pilot had left, after a murmured exchange with Cox, the wingco. He looked back at McKenzie. ‘What if we — you — gave it an escort of two Harriers? To sneak in and straight out again, in the dark?’
‘Not a chance. No matter what Downing Street and the White House might say to each other… Just as you don’t want to leave your Marines there, they’d be averse to losing a Super Stallion and its crew. Remember what happened to some helicopters in the Iranian rescue mission?’
‘I take the point…’
The bottom line being that the only guy who could do anything about this situation was still Ben Ockley.
*
The helicopter had landed in the road beside the refugee camp, disgorged soldiers in DPMs, then flown back to the village and brought down another load. This time it had put itself down above the camp, close to the stone cabin. Ray Wilkinson had counted twenty-six uniformed men in the two shuttles.
Teal and Hall had taken half a dozen empty water-bottles down to the river. Wilkinson was holed up on the lower side of the plateau, and Chalky was on the plateau itself, simultaneously keeping an eye on the approaches and acting communications link with Ray. Kelso was prowling the qal’at’s perimeter.
Doc Laker was cleaning and disinfecting the hole in Geoff’s left hip. Leo had been swivelling as he’d fired that burst, and the shots had slanted across the middle part of Geoff’s body, hitting him in that hip then missing more vital parts but smashing the right leg above the knee. He was in pain, but without morphine it would have been a hell of a lot worse.
Ben squatted beside the Russian. Charlie Swale was beyond him, unconscious, propped against the wall. He’d passed out on arrival, after the exertion of the last steep climb, and Laker had attended to him first, having fixed Geoff up in a preliminary way down at the camp. Charlie had lost too much blood, he’d said: he and Geoff both needed specialist attention in a hospital as soon as possible.
That was all…
They were in the shelter of the section of crumbling wall where at some time or other a load of bottles and other rubbish had been dumped.
‘He didn’t say what kind of troops he’d borrowed? Trainees, commandos, or what?’
‘Only that they were supposed to be here on exercises. Their unit commander was in on it, but not the higher command.’
‘Rank of the unit commander?’
‘I don’t know.’
Those troops hadn’t deployed until Hafiz had got to the village. They would have, presumably, if he’d given them the signal on his headlights; Leo had remembered that much. But the civilian, Hafiz, was effectively in command, it seemed.
‘Jesus!’
‘Sorry, Geoff…’
The military unit had just sat there, waiting to be told what to do, and this suggested that its officer/s and/or NCOs weren’t briefed on the Swale plot. Otherwise surely they’d have moved on their own initiative when things began going wrong. According to this Russian with his Scots-flavoured standard Eng
lish, refugees were to have been massacred, Swale was to have been left alive to go on trial and swear that the murderers had been Royal Marines. The scheme had been hatched in Moscow and launched in collaboration with an anti-Assad Syrian faction in which Hafiz figured prominently. But the troops had been provided only to witness the atrocity and arrest Swale: so they might be trainees, cooks, drivers, clerks, any rag-bag collection from the local barracks.
‘You and Hafiz had no idea we might be around?’
‘None at all. I still don’t see how—’
‘You don’t have to see. Just answer my questions.’
Hafiz had been on the hill in his car when the action had started. Keeping his own skin safe, of course. Maybe he’d have seen Ducky and Geoff charging down the rock slope: having heard shooting from that side. But he’d have been expecting to hear shooting, mightn’t have seen so much. The flash-hiders on the SA80s were effective, certainly… The point being that Hafiz, the guy who was still running this, most likely didn’t have much idea even now about what had gone wrong, who caused it to go wrong or who was up here now. The shootists plunging down the mountainside could have been the two mercenaries who’d come with Swale, if he had seen them. Those two could have started the rot. He’d probably realize there’d been some “outside” element involved: he had the mercenaries’ bodies down there, and those of the four PLO. The only bodies he did not have were Swale’s and the Russian’s, and he’d hardly believe they’d combined to rat on him.
Except that having such tendencies himself, he might… And one of them could have shot up his Citroën. Unlikely, but he couldn’t know, he’d be guessing.
‘The odds are, Geoff, the sod who’s running this may still not have a bloody clue about us being here.’
Hosegood’s head turned. Bearded, streaked with dirt and cam-cream, hollow-eyed… ‘Seen us on our way up here, won’t he?’
‘I’m not sure he could have, between the time Ray put the fear of God in him and when he got up enough nerve to come back.’
‘Wouldn’t’ve known it was clear for him to come back, otherwise. He’d’ve parked his motor up there, come back on his feet. Must know we’re here.’
‘All right. Let’s accept he knows someone’s here. And he’s lost Swale and this sod, so he knows they’re part of it. But what else he know — well, roughly fuck-all, I’d guess.’
Iaker was resecuring Hosegood’s trousers, having done his best on the hip-wound and plastered it. Ben looked back at Leo.
‘You. What’s-your-name.’
Leo’s eyes opened. Bloodshot, otherwise ice-blue.
‘Your Syrian pal will be trying to cover it all up, won’t he? Now it’s gone off the rails?’
‘I suppose — yes…’
‘So he’ll want us dead, but he won’t be shouting for help. Right?’
‘You mean—’
‘For more troops, helicopters, mortars, whatever.’
‘No. No, he won’t.’
‘The troops he has here now, you said he can’t keep them here for long. That was what he said, you told me. Did he indicate how long?’
‘No, he didn’t. And it could have been only to force me to agree to acting at once instead of waiting for tonight. I don’t know.’
Laker had finished with Geoff; he brought his bag over, dumped it beside Leo. Glancing at Charlie: then stooping to check his pulse and breathing… He told Leo as he came back to him, ‘I’ll have a go at you now… All right, Ben?’
He nodded. ‘Do your worst.’
Hosegood murmured. ‘Hear, hear.’
‘How is it, Geoff, bloody awful?’
‘Dare say I’ll live.’
‘You’ll be in hospital soon enough. We’ll be out of here tonight, don’t worry.’
‘With me and Charlie there deadweights… Taking the shithead, are we?’
Ben shrugged. He wasn’t sure of the answer; there could be advantages in taking the Russian back, but it might not be physically practicable or on balance worth the effort. The guy could be dead by then, anyway… But he wouldn’t have wanted him to hear an answer at this stage, even if he’d had one: he changed the subject, stooping to pick up a wine bottle that had lost its neck but was otherwise intact. ‘Yeah. I wonder…’ He tapped the broken end against the wall until it was down to about jam-jar size, then showed it to Geoff: ‘Just about right. Look…’ Squatting beside him, he reached into his DPMs for a grenade. He was almost sure it would fit… ‘Well, it’ll slip in neatly enough when the pin’s out. See?’
‘Right. Then you’d shoot, and—’
‘You’re still on the ball, Geoff.’ Needing another twenty-three bottles, he began collecting them and knocking them own to size. Laker glanced up at him while he was lining the finished products up on the wall. He muttered, ‘The nerve’s severed in this leg. Couldn’t find a hole at first, but the bullet went in up here and came out there, back of the knee.’
Sticks called, ‘Ben — looks like they’re deploying.’
*
Hislop recognised the voice of Joe Lance, former SBS major in the Ministry of Defence… ‘Glad it’s you has the duty, Joe, my good luck… You’ll have seen the transcript of the Harrier tape?’
He was using the green telephone in McKenzie’s office. Wing Commander Cox had set up the Satcom connection for him, while his boss had gone off to get breakfast.
Lance said yes, he had it in front of him at that moment, had just been discussing it with the Duty Operations Director. ‘Not too promising.’
‘Well, it doesn’t seem we can do anything useful from here except lay on a ration drop by Harrier tonight. Otherwise it’s up to Ockley to get his team to the coast, and I’ll take the Sea-Riders in and grab him off some beach. But I agree the outlook’s not good, and an alternative which you might be able to promote — please — could be to persuade the Cousins to go right in there tonight with a Super Stallion.’
‘We could — promote it, sure, but—’
‘Hang on. Technical advice received here is that the carrier-borne Super Stallion—’ he was checking his notes — ‘the CH-53E, that is, is unsuitable for the task and they’d be highly unlikely to agree spontaneously. Unarmed, or only lightly armed, I don’t know, may be a question of armour. But this would be the stumbling block, I’m told, so any instruction for its use would have to stipulate that the risk is to be accepted. Otherwise it won’t wash. You with me?’
‘Makes it twice as unlikely, of course. But we’ll try. It’ll have to go through channels — but with strong backing, maybe—’
‘Make it quick, Joe?’
*
Ben had Sticks, Ray and Chalky with him among the ruins at the edge, above the plateau, watching the Syrians’ rather half-hearted deployment. Ray and Chalky had slipped down among the rocks, crept around placing the grenade traps — eight on a radius of 300 metres, another eight at 250 and the rest at 200. He’d been right that with the pin out the handles held in place. When a bullet from an SA80 smashed the glass, there’d be a pause of four seconds before the blast. It should be a useful deterrent, he hoped.
The Hind was still sitting there, motionless rotor glinting in the sunlight. Two men with binoculars — one of them Hafiz, the other uniformed — were watching their men spreading out and upwards, while about half their number still lounged around the helicopter.
‘My guess is that thing can’t be armed. They’re waiting for these goons to be in position to take potshots at us, then it’ll try to land up here with the rest of them.’ He pointed. ‘There, wouldn’t you expect?’
On the plateau. Apart from the qal’at site, which was cluttered with obstacles, it was the only level ground.
‘Why d’you say it’s not armed?’
‘If you had one with clout, wouldn’t you’ve sent it straight here to mallet us, by this time?’
‘Yeah. Maybe…’
‘Fits the picture. What he told us.‘ He jerked his head towards the wounded, where Doc Laker was sti
ll working on Leo’s wounds. ‘Borrowed troops, borrowed helo, all rear-echelon stuff. That’s Fred Karno’s army down there.’
‘You reckon… Here’s our water.’
Hall and Teal… Teal said, ‘Quick work, eh? We got beets, an’ all. Get up and down that track blindfold, now.’
‘You may have to, Ducky.’ It was one of the things he’d been thinking about. ‘May well be our best way out, tonight.’
Back exit: and across the valley before moonrise for a withdrawal northward. If he hadn’t had the wounded he’d have banked on getting away south and west, sneaking through despite the presence of those Syrians.
He told Teal and Hall about the grenade traps. Some were visible from her even without binoculars or the sights on the SA80s; they’d placed them where they could be seen from this side but not by Syrians climbing up towards them, and at points where the route looked invitingly easy or where they might group in cover.
*
Charlie muttered, summarizing what Leo had told him, ‘So I was to be put on trial. Yeah, I get it… Had me sewn up, didn’t you, you bastard.’
‘It wasn’t my idea, Charlie, and it wasn’t — personal… I was told what the plan was, and tasked with carrying it out. Swale was just a name, I didn’t know you, did I.’
‘’Reluctant, were you, after we’d established our beautiful relationship?’
No answer… Charlie was racked with the shame of having been so easily and thoroughly suckered.
‘How’d you get to pass yourself off as a Brit? Born in the UK or something?’
‘I was born in the USSR. Georgia. I am — have been, should say — what’s called a nyeznakonnii. “Illegal.” I was given an identity — passport, family background, everything — well, it’s a long training, very long and intensive.’
‘And you expect these guys to keep you alive now, do you?’
Special Deception Page 33