by Chris Ryan
They waited. A crackling noise came over the loudspeaker. Someone had picked it up, but they were declining to speak.
‘Please open the door, Miss Corbett,’ Bland replied. ‘Immediately.’
A pause. He spoke again. ‘We have somebody at the back entrance, Miss Corbett. I suggest you cooperate.’ Beside him, he was aware of Toby handling his firearm.
A buzz from the door. Toby went in first. Bland followed closely.
Clare Corbett stood framed in the entrance to her flat. Her face was white and Bland noticed her hand trembling. ‘May we come in?’ he asked.
‘Do I have much choice?’ she asked weakly.
He looked her in the eye. ‘We all have choices, Miss Corbett.’ She stepped aside and allowed them to enter. ‘I’m hoping that you’ve been making the right ones.’
In the kitchen, Bland indicated to the terrified woman that she should sit down. He remained standing, as did Toby Brookes who hovered threateningly by the kitchen door, making no attempt to hide his firearm.
‘I had hoped,’ he said smoothly, ‘not to have to burden you with our presence again, Miss Corbett.’
‘Yeah,’ she replied, avoiding his eye. ‘Me too.’
Bland sniffed. He waited a moment, then took the direct approach. ‘Tell me everything you know about Sam Redman.’
He watched her carefully, looking for the signs. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she said, but he could immediately tell she was lying. The lack of eye contact. The way she stiffly touched her hand to her right ear.
A thick silence fell on the room. The woman’s face began to redden. He looked over at Brookes and nodded shortly. Brookes didn’t hesitate. He stepped over to where she was sitting and, with his free hand, grabbed a clump of her hair, twisting it tight so that she gasped with the sudden pain of it. With his other hand he pressed the butt of his firearm deeply into the soft flesh of her cheek. She looked faintly ridiculous, her eyes wide and short breaths of fear escaping from the O of her mouth. Ridiculous, but terrified.
Bland took a seat at the table opposite her. He placed his hands palm downwards on the top and looked straight at her. She wasn’t avoiding his stare any more.
‘He came here,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t know how he found me. I didn’t tell him anything.’
Bland glanced up at Toby; the younger man yanked her hair suddenly and pressed the gun further into her face.
‘Oh God!’ Clare breathed. ‘Please, don’t! I’ll tell you. Please, don’t hurt me!’
Bland nodded at Toby, who immediately let go of the woman. Her body seemed to crumple as she hid her face in her hands. For a moment the room was filled with the desolate sound of her heavy, petrified sobs.
‘He just turned up,’ she wailed. Her words started to tumble out, as though if she said it all quickly it wouldn’t make it so bad. ‘He knew about the article. He had a copy – it was all, you know, blacked out, censored. But he made me tell him. He said he was special forces, I don’t know which one. And that he was being sent to a training camp…’
At this point she removed the hands from her face. Her eyes were red and what little make-up she had been wearing was now streaked over her cheeks.
‘Carry on,’ Bland said.
‘He said his brother was there. And that he wasn’t going to let anyone kill him.’
Clare Corbett stared, wide-eyed. She appeared horrified that she had blurted out all these things. Bland barely noticed. He had pushed his chair back and was standing up. ‘Make the call,’ he told Brookes, his mind suddenly racing. ‘Tell them to pull the mission.’
Brookes hesitated, blinking at his boss.
‘NOW!’ Bland roared.
The man scurried away, leaving Bland and Clare in the room. Not a word was spoken. He didn’t even look at her. The only sound was of Brookes in the corridor, talking urgently into his mobile phone. When he reappeared, his expression was dark.
‘What?’ Bland demanded.
Brooke shook his head. ‘The unit’s been inserted,’ he replied. ‘They’ve already gone in. I’m sorry, sir. It’s too late.’
TEN
When you’re waiting to perform a HALO jump, two hours seem like two minutes. As the Hercules cruised northwards, Sam and the rest of the unit checked and rechecked their rigs more times than they could count, ensuring everything was packed correctly, nothing was frayed and the oxygen gear had been properly serviced. There was occasional banter above the noise of the engines. When Craven tugged at the straps of his pack for what must have been the twentieth time, Tyler was quick to pounce. ‘What’s wrong, Jack? Ain’t learned to fall stable yet?’
Craven looked up, one eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I fall stable on your missus every Friday night.’
The company laughed, but soon they all went back to checking and rechecking their gear. Nobody wanted to leave anything to chance.
The loadmaster approached them. ‘Ten minutes!’ he shouted over the noise of the engines, holding up the gloved fingers of both hands so that there was no confusion.
The men started to get ready. Sam’s chute and weapon were already firmly strapped to his body, as was his GPS unit, but the rucksack was on the floor in front of him. He hooked his legs over it, then scraped it towards him so that it was under the bench. Once it was in position, he clipped the bag to the back of his legs and wound the straps round to his front, pulling them so they were firmly tightened. It would make walking to the tailgate difficult when the time came, but the bag needed to be attached to the back of his legs to balance his weight properly. He then turned his attention to the digital screen of his automatic opening device. Four thousand feet. If all went well they would open the chutes at four thousand five hundred; but if there was a problem the AOD would save his life.
‘Five minutes!’
Sam fitted the oxygen mask and helmet to his face. Up until now they had been breathing the oxygen from the aircraft’s mainframe, but now they needed to make sure their breathing apparatus was fully operational. As soon as he attached his oxygen mask, Sam’s breathing sounded much louder in his ears. It heightened his senses somewhat, even though the toughened black plastic of his mask had plunged the area around the tailgate into a deeper shade of darkness. The men around him looked more like cosmonauts now than soldiers. He breathed steadily and deeply. Everything was as it should be. The air was coming through. He got to his feet, as did the other seven members of his troop. The loadmaster approached to help them to the back of the plane.
Steve Davenport and Matt Andrews went first. Behind them were Tyler and Craven, then Webb and Cullen. Sam and Mac took the rear. In front of them a red light shone in the gloom of the Hercules’s belly. When it turned green, that would be the signal for the off.
A sudden rush of noise and with it a judder of turbulence. The tailgate was opening.
Sam was running on pure adrenaline now. Everything else that had been preoccupying him – Jacob, Mac and what the hell was going to happen when they hit land – took second place. Every cell in his brain was concentrating on the jump. Outside it was pitch black: from where he was standing he had the impression that he was about to dive into nothingness.
The loadmaster touched one hand to his headphones then held up a single finger. One minute. Sam and Mac looked at each other, but through their equipment the expressions on their faces were unknowable. They both faced forward again.
Green light.
There was no order. No hesitation. Davenport and Andrews jumped to the edge of the tailgate and fell out, their bodies arched and their arms spread out as though they were about to embrace the empty air. Tyler and Craven followed immediately.
A pause. Webb and Cullen waited for perhaps thirty seconds before they jumped. An eight-man unit freefalling in close proximity to each other could cause a splash on a radar; two four-man units were less likely to. Once Webb and Cullen had disappeared, Sam and Mac shuffled behind them. And then, the moment they reached the edge of the tailgate, th
ey toppled forwards.
The wind hit Sam immediately, roaring in his ears and lashing against his body as if a powerful wave had just crashed over him. He fell belly downwards, his body arched and his palms outstretched. He was vaguely aware of the Hercules roaring away into the distance above him, but he didn’t concentrate on that. Instead he looked around to check the position of the others. They manoeuvred themselves so that they fell in a circular formation. It was possible to see them all perfectly clearly: the half moon provided plenty of light – it even glowed slightly on the helmets of the unit as they fell. Thirty thousand feet down, he could make out the twinkling of sparsely separated settlements. In a corner of his brain he wondered if any of these would be their target. It was impossible to tell from this height. They would have to wait until they were closer to the ground.
That wouldn’t be long.
They hurtled towards the earth, deafened by the rush, their senses keen with adrenaline. Terminal velocity, the maximum speed they could achieve. Thirty seconds passed.
A minute.
A minute and a half.
Everything was as it should be. Despite himself, Sam felt a surge of wild excitement. A thrill. As his altitude decreased, his view of the landscape below became less extensive; but those bits he could see became clearer. They were freefalling into a widely deserted area. In the distance he thought he saw the headlamps of a vehicle. But it was the only one. From what he could tell at this height, there were very few people around who might possibly notice the unit HALOing in.
The freefall suits of his troop ruffled in the fast-moving air, like a banner being whipped in a gale. Below and in the distance, Sam saw the chutes of the four men who had preceded him burst open. The others were under canopy. They intuitively adjusted the direction of their freefall to get closer to them. Any second now it would be their turn to open.
Four thousand five hundred feet. Cullen was the first to open his chute; the rest of them followed suit immediately. Sam tugged on his rip cord and felt the chute erupt into the air. There was a sharp jolt through his body as his velocity suddenly reduced; the rushing sound eased off and the unit started to float gently towards the earth.
Under canopy, it didn’t take long for them to see the band of forested area towards which they were headed. Currently they were a little too far east, so almost with a single mind they changed their course to bring them down safely in the area beyond the trees. Perhaps a mile to the north, Sam saw buildings. Three of them, set in a horseshoe shape.
The training camp.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed at it through the dark visor of his helmet. All thoughts of the thrill of the HALO jump dissolved away. He could think of nothing now but getting back down to earth.
The camp disappeared from his field of vision. All he could see below him now were the trees and the area of flat ground behind them where they were to land – and where the others already had. Unclipping the straps that bound his rucksack to his legs, he allowed the pack to fall to the ground, still attached to him by virtue of a long, tough lanyard rope. As the pack fell to earth, he prepared his body for the impact of landing.
Ten seconds.
Five.
He hit the ground running with that strange sense of regret that always follows a jump. Behind him the chute wafted silently to the ground. He quickly unstrapped the cords of the rucksack from around his legs, then unclipped the whole thing. Pulling off his helmet and removing the mask, he started tugging the chute towards him, bundling it up into a crumpled ball. All around him, the others were doing the same thing. They made hardly any sound.
Sam checked out his surroundings. The moon that had illuminated them in freefall now cast shadows on the ground and gave him surprisingly good vision. He was standing about thirty metres from the tree line in a field of stubble. South of him there appeared to be another field with a crop a good two metres high. Hemp, he reckoned. A lot of it. An acre of that would earn him more than a Regiment salary. Sam turned his back on it as the others started to congregate around him.
‘Get into the cover of the trees,’ Mac hissed. ‘We’ll dump our gear there, out of sight.’
The unit hauled their rucksacks onto their backs and ran towards the forest.
It was much darker under the canopy of the trees. No moonlight for them to see by. They removed their freefall rigs and piled them by a tree. Only then did Mac speak again. ‘All right, guys. Listen up. Two units. Jack, Luke, Cullen – you’re with Sam. Matt, Steve, Hill – you’re with me.’
Craven, Tyler and Cullen moved towards Sam. Mac addressed them as a group. ‘Head north through the forest,’ he told them. ‘Approach the camp from the west. We’ll hit it from the south. Let us know on comms when you’re in position.’ He shot Sam a sharp look.
They all nodded briefly, absorbing their instructions.
It took a minute or two for everyone to engage their comms kit and attach their NV. The moment he brought his goggles over his eyes, Sam felt that the whole forest had been illuminated in the familiar, hazy green. Gnarled tree branches spread out before him like witches’ fingers. It was eerily silent, apart from the sound of the men around him preparing themselves. He unclipped his Diemaco from the side of his body, then looked round. Everyone was ready. Sam gestured at Tyler, Craven and Cullen then pointed sharply in a northward direction before starting to run through the forest.
Sam moved quickly but with care. The NV allowed him to see where he was going, but it didn’t completely reveal the smaller possible hazards underfoot. As he ran, he scanned the area all around, his senses acute as he kept an eye out for anything suspicious. Behind him he heard the firm, steady footsteps of the other three. They were keeping close, but not too close so they didn’t present a bunched up target for any unseen enemy.
A patch of open ground – a kind of clearing. Sam upped his pace. He wanted the cover of the trees again. He felt exposed here.
Far too exposed. It was like a sixth sense.
Sam didn’t even hear the shot. The weapon that fired the round must have been suppressed. The first he knew about it was from the sudden, alarmed voice over the comms.
‘Man down!’
SOPs kicked in. He instantly threw himself to the ground, a horrible, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. The comms was suddenly filled with voices, with panic. He heard Tyler ’s voice above it all, hissing, in an urgent whisper.
‘Craven. Craven’s down. Jack, can you hear me? Bollocks! Craven’s fucking down! We’re being dicked!’
Sam crawled round on all fours to look back the way they had run. There was no one standing: Tyler and Cullen had also gone to ground. In the distance, there was a flash of movement. He pulled up his Diemaco so that it was lying on the ground in front of him and aimed into the thick darkness of the trees up ahead.
There was barely any time to think. The figure had taken cover behind a tree, but even now was emerging from its protection and raising his weapon. Sam could see enough to be sure it wasn’t one of his troop, and that was all he needed to know.
He fired.
The suppressed round ripped from his Diemaco and the figure up ahead crumpled to the earth.
‘Sit rep, now.’ Mac’s voice. Angry. A bit panicked. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Enemy down,’ Sam hissed urgently into the comms. ‘ Tyler, do you copy?’
‘Roger that.’ Tyler ’s voice was tense.
‘Cover me. I’m going to make sure I don’t need to finish the job.’
Sam pushed himself to his feet and ran across the open ground to where the body of his target was lying. Bending down, he pulled the corpse back into the trees. Then he examined it.
The guy was dead, there was no doubt about that. It looked like Sam’s round had hit him directly in the left eye; most of one side of his skull seemed to have exploded. Sam wasn’t interested in the hole in his head, however. It was the clothes on his back and the weapon in his fist that caught his attention. The sniper
was carrying some variant of the AK-47; an ops waistcoat contained a large quantity of ammo and other weaponry; but what really stood out was not the Kalashnikov or the other bells and whistles – it was the weapon strapped across the dead man’s back. Sam had only fired a GM-94 grenade launcher once, but once was enough to know that it was perhaps the most effective weapon he was ever likely to use. This wasn’t the kind of toy you expect to come across just anywhere.
In one of the man’s ears there was a comms earpiece, much like the one Sam was wearing. It was slightly bloodied as Sam pulled it out and put it to his own ear.
He listened carefully.
It was difficult to tell, but he thought he could discern three separate voices. They weren’t speaking English, however. Sam was no linguist, but he recognised the language.
Russian.
He looked down at the corpse again. This was no ordinary soldier. He was too well kitted out; his equipment was too good. Possibilities tumbled through his mind. Private security? Someone with cash to splash, enough to kit out a private army? In the darkness, he found himself shaking his head. He didn’t think so. The GM-94 was Russian-made, and standard issue for Russian special forces. The man Sam had just killed was no squaddie. He’d put money on it. But then…
‘What the fuck are Spetsnaz doing here?’ he murmured to himself.
‘Say again.’ Mac’s voice over the comms.
Sam quickly refocused himself.
‘We’ve got more company,’ he said. ‘I’ve nailed the shooter, but he’s got a comms system. I’ve listened in. Estimate three others in the vicinity. How’s Craven looking?’
A silence. And then, his voice strained, Tyler spoke.