Sharp Shot

by Jack Higgins

  SHARP SHOT

  JACK HIGGINS WITH JUSTIN RICHARDS

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About The Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  1990. Southern Iraq.

  John Chance raised his powerful binoculars and focused on the low building on the other side of the sand dune. It was an Iraqi nuclear lab, and according to British Intelligence, it was close to producing a viable bomb. According to Saddam Hussein, on the other hand, Iraq had no nuclear weapons programme —and this secret lab in the desert simply didn’t exist.

  It was John Chance’s job to make sure that by the end of the day, it really didn’t.

  “You think they’ve got nukes in there?” asked Dex Halford. He was Chance’s number two on this mission, a wiry but powerful man with dark hair. At that moment his hair was covered by a brown headscarf. Like the long cloak he wore over his uniform, it was designed to blend in with the sand of the desert, and to give the impression at a distance that he was a local tribesman.

  “Too soon,” said Chance. “The assessment from MI6 says they’ve only just got the place up and running. They may have some raw material, but it’s unlikely they’ll have anything weapons-grade yet.”

  “Not impossible, though. Six have been wrong before,” said Ferdy McCain. He was the shortest of the team, stocky and heavy set. A thin, dark moustache made him look more like an Italian gangster than an elite British Special Forces operative.

  “There was a rumour they got stuff out of the Al-Maan facility before Mossad, the Israeli counter terrorism unit, paid it a visit,” said Halford. “If they did, they’ll have brought it here.”

  Any further discussion was interrupted by the fourth member of the team. “We’ve got company,” called Mark Darrow from the other side of the shallow dip where they were hiding.

  Chance signalled for McCain and Halford to stay where they were, and crawled over to have a look. Darrow was on the other side of the Jeep—a camouflage net had been spread over the vehicle and staked with tent pegs to keep it in place. The back of the Jeep was stacked with equipment, including several boxes of high explosives.

  “What is it?” asked Chance, lying flat beside Darrow so that only his scarf-wrapped head poked above the rise of the dune.

  Darrow pointed into the distance, and Chance raised his binoculars. A long way off, but heading towards them, he could see a line of camels. The image shimmered in the heat, but even at this distance Chance could see the Bedouin tribes people walking alongside. He smiled grimly as he saw that one of the camels had a baby camel strapped to its back—so the infant wouldn’t slow them down.

  “They might go right past,” said Darrow. “But evening will be drawing in soon, and they’ll want to set up camp before it gets cold. They must know the plant is there, I reckon they’ll use the buildings for shelter from the night wind. They’ll know the weather’s due to break any time.”

  “And if they do pitch camp close to the nuclear facility…”

  “It’ll keep some of the Republican Guards busy watching them, and maybe they’ll take the blame,” Darrow finished for him. “Good diversion.”

  But that wasn’t what Chance had in mind. “If they camp too close, they’ll be caught in the blast. That place will go with one hell of a bang.”

  “We’ll make sure of it.” Darrow grinned. “And if they find a few Bedouin bodies in the wreckage, all the better.”

  Chance looked at him coldly. “We’ve got an hour before we need to get ready. You stay here with Halford.” He turned and called across to the other two men. “Dex, stay here with Darrow. Ferdy— you’re with me.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Ferdy McCain as he hurried over to join Chance.

  “We’re going to warn those Bedouin that they need to camp somewhere else.”

  “You’re crazy,” Darrow told him. “They don’t owe us anything—what if they chop you down where you stand?”

  Chance fixed him with a piercing stare. “We’re surgeons not butchers,” he said quietly. “We’re here to save lives, not to take them. Yes, there will be some casualties, but no more than necessary. Our target is that nuclear facility and whatever they have there. Not the guards, though we’ll take them out if we have to. Not the scientists, who are probably working under duress anyway, but again, we’ll take them out if we must. But there is no excuse—no excuse—for putting innocent lives in danger unless we absolutely have to. Got that?”

  Darrow turned away.

  Chance grabbed his shoulder and turned him back. “You got that?” he repeated.

  “I got that,” Darrow told him, eyes hard and expression set. “And I have to tell you, sir, if that’s your attitude, you’ll never get far in this job.”

  “If that’s your attitude,” Chance replied calmly, “then you’re in the wrong job.” He turned to McCain. “You fit?”

  “Ready when you are, boss.”

  “Then let’s save some lives.” Chance glanced at Darrow before adding: “Because ultimately, that’s our job.”

  The temperature fell sharply at night, but John Chance didn’t feel the cold. His entire focus was on the job in hand. Halford and Darrow had set up a mass of squibs and explosives on the far side of the Iraqi installation. The explosives would go off like grenades, while the squibs simulated gunfire.

  “All set?” asked Chance, as Halford returned.

  They had left their cloaks in the Jeep, though they still wore their headscarves. The wind was getting up and sand whipped at their faces. The promised sandstorm wouldn’t be long in coming.

  Halford was nodding. “Going to be a hell of a fireworks show.”

  “Just so long as it draws out the Republican Guards so we can get inside and mine the building.”

  “And the scientists and civilian workers?”

  “Tell them to run for it. Brought your phrasebook?”

  Halford brandished his assault rifle. “I think I can communicate with them. They’ll know to run. You get on all right with those Bedouin, by the way?”

  Chance grinned. “I managed to get the message across. They’ve moved on, so I think they understood.”

  “They might have said thank you,” Halford told him.

  “They did. The head man’s a guy called Kassim. He gave me a baby camel.”

  “You what?!” Halford looked round, as if expecting to see a small camel join them on the mission.

  Chance grinned. “It’s all right. I asked him to look after it for me till I can come back and collect it.”

  After another hour, the wind had picked up and the sand was swirling. Chance decided it was time to make their move. If they waited any longer the sandstorm would be too intense for them to get away.

  On Chance’s signal, Halford set off the diversionary explosions and squibs. The desert erupted with sound and fury. Flashes illuminated frozen images of the swirling sand like photographs. Gunfire seemed to rip through the northern side of the installation.

  Immediately there was answering fire from the Iraqi guards. An armoured car positioned outside the main gates lurched into life and rumbl
ed round to the back of the perimeter wall to engage the apparent attack.

  With the main gates now only guarded by a few nervous soldiers, the SAS team made their move. Silent and swift, shadows in the night, they took down the guards. Chance knocked out two of the soldiers. Halford slammed another into the wall of the guardhouse, where he collapsed unconscious. McCain dealt swiftly with a guard who’d managed to draw his gun, but had no time to fire before McCain’s knife sliced into his leg. Moments later the guard was gagged and bound, his leg strapped up and bandaged to staunch the bleeding.

  Only Darrow had to kill. His automatic rifle, fitted with a silencer, took out three guards on duty on the high perimeter wall. Two dropped where they were standing. The third pitched forwards, falling without making a sound to crunch on the ground at Darrow’s feet. He smiled with cold satisfaction.

  Chance’s whispered instructions were loud and clear in the earphones of his team. “We have access. Time to go to your positions. Ferdy, maintain surveillance and let us know if the guards realise they’ve been conned. Dex, you take the guardhouse and the watch towers. Mark, you’ve got the offices and admin complex as we agreed. I’ll deal with the main lab. Set the charges to blow in twenty minutes from my mark, and make sure you’re back at the Jeep by then. OK?”

  After each of his men had checked in, Chance told them: “Right then. Ten minutes from…Now. Go go go!”

  They moved swiftly and silently through the complex. Like so much of Saddam’s weapons programme, the design for the plant was stolen. Chance had studied the plans of the Russian installation it was based on. He knew exactly where the main lab would be, and the quickest, safest route to get there.

  He didn’t see anyone on his journey through the dimly lit corridors until he was almost at his destination. Then he pressed himself into an alcove to allow a white-coated scientist to pass. The man was carrying something—Chance got only a glimpse, but it was obviously heavy and it seemed to be made of stone. A statue, maybe, about half a metre tall…The scientist looked worried and anxious as he hurried past.

  As soon as the corridor was clear, Chance ran quickly to the security door at the end. There was a numbered keypad beside the heavy, lead-lined door. Chance didn’t waste time trying to work out the code. The door might be strong and the lock might be unbreakable. But the hinges were a weak point.

  Chance took what looked like an oversized tube of toothpaste from his backpack. He squeezed thick grey paste from it, like bathroom sealant, down the edge of the door and over the hinges. Finally, he stuck a small metal pin into the grey paste. The end of the pin glowed red.

  Hurrying back to the alcove, Chance pulled out a small plastic box with a switch on it. He turned away, and pressed the switch.

  The sound of the explosion echoed down the corridor, followed immediately by a cloud of smoke. As the sound and smoke cleared, the high-pitched wail of an alarm kicked in.

  The door was lying sideways on the ground. Chance jumped over it as he ran into the main laboratory. Several technicians and scientists were cowering in a corner in fright. Chance spared them a brief glance.

  “Are you paying attention?” he shouted in the local dialect above the sound of the alarm.

  “Yes,” one of the scientists replied in a quivering voice.

  “Good. Make sure you take the guard trussed up in the gatehouse with you, he’ll have trouble walking on his own. And then you’ve got ten minutes to get the hell out of here before the whole place goes up.” Chance was kneeling on the ground, backpack on the floor in front of him, pulling objects from it. He held one up—you didn’t need to be an expert to guess that the stubby brown cylinder was an explosive.

  “So, what are you waiting for?” said Chance, positioning the first of the high explosive charges against a bank of computer servers. He checked his watch and set the timer.

  When he looked back over his shoulder, the lab was empty.

  Five minutes later, Chance had set explosives at key points around the room. He made sure the vital areas would take the brunt of the blasts: the containment vessels, the centrifuges, the data storage…He took the empty backpack with him—there was no point in leaving behind anything that might identify who had been there. The main reason for using Chance and his team rather than an airstrike was that no one would know for sure who had destroyed the place.

  With the alarms going, the Republican Guards would be hurrying back from the diversion Halford and Darrow had arranged. Assault rifle at the ready and set to deliver continuous automatic fire, Chance ran from the laboratory.

  He had to assume anyone he saw would be hostile. The civilians should be running for their lives. He knew from the regular location and progress updates in his earpiece exactly where all the members of his own team were. Anyone coming back into the facility had to be the enemy. Chance cut down three soldiers in the corridor—taking them out before they even knew he was there.

  Out into the central compound Chance hurled several smoke canisters. It would slow down the returning troops, and it would mask his own escape. A dark shape passed him in the fog of yellow smoke, and Chance shouted at it:

  “The lab is secure,” he yelled in the local dialect. “The problem is in the admin block.” He smiled grimly as he heard his words repeated by the incoming soldiers.

  A bullet meant for Chance ricocheted off the wall close to the main gate. He turned and fired on instinct and a khaki-clad figure collapsed behind him. Chance didn’t wait to see if any others followed. He was running across the sand, away from the noise and confusion, away from the smoke and the bullets. A quick look at his watch told him there was no time to hang around.

  He reached the sand dune and hurled himself over, rolling down the other side and skidding to a halt close to the Jeep.

  Dex Halford looked down at him from where he was sitting nonchalantly in the driver’s seat. The door was open and he was dangling his legs over the side, swigging from his water bottle.

  “What kept you?” Dex asked with a grin.

  McCain was in the passenger seat. “If you’re late you ride in the back,” he called. Then he frowned. “Isn’t Darrow with you?”

  “He’s cutting it fine,” said Chance, checking his watch. The second hand was sweeping up towards the 12. Just a few seconds. “Five,” he muttered as he counted them off. “Four…three…”

  “Here he comes,” said Halford.

  A dark shape rolled down the dune, just as Chance himself had done. “Sorry I’m late,” said Darrow as he reached the Jeep.

  If he said anything else, it was lost in the sound of the blast. The night sky was turned to sudden daylight. Brilliant yellow washed across the landscape and a ball of smoke and fire mushroomed upwards.

  “Time we were going,” said Chance as the noise died away. “You and I get to ride in the back,” he told Darrow, slapping his comrade on the shoulder.

  “Chauffeur service, I love it.” Darrow swung his backpack off and dragged it up into the Jeep with him.

  Chance watched him, puzzled. The backpack was obviously heavy—very heavy. But it should have been empty.

  The Jeep bumped over the rise and tipped down the other side of the dune, gathering speed. In the distance, the installation was burning. Tiny figures—soldiers, civilians and scientists—were milling round it in confusion.

  “Job done,” McCain called from the front of the Jeep.

  “Nice one, team,” Chance told them. “Just two small loose ends to tie up, then we’re home and dry.”

  “And what are those?” Darrow asked.

  “First,” Chance told him, “there’s the small matter of the team photograph. And second—I want to know what you’ve got in your rucksack.”

  Darrow met Chance’s gaze. For a moment he said nothing. Then he looked away. “Souvenir. I’ll show you when it gets light.”

  The plan was to cross the border into East Araby, a small country to the south east of Iraq, also bordering Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. By daybreak
, Chance’s team was within a hundred and fifty kilometres of the border. In the Jeep, it would take only a few more hours.

  They heard the plane long before they saw it.

  “One of ours?” Darrow wondered.

  “Doubt it,” said Halford. “We need to find some cover.”

  “Camouflage netting?” McCain suggested.

  Chance shook his head. “We have to assume they’re looking for us. We’ll need better cover than that.” He had the map open on his knees. “Head slightly to the left, over that rise. There should be the remains of a village.”

  A small black shape skimmed the horizon over to their right. The plane turned slowly, heading back towards them.

  “Has it seen us?” Darrow wondered.

  “Not yet,” Chance shouted above the roar of the Jeep as Halford accelerated. “Might see the sand we’re kicking up, but we’ll have to risk that.”

  McCain had his binoculars out. “Iraqi air force markings. It’s a Foxbat.”

  Chance swore. The MiG25—codenamed Foxbat by NATO forces—was a powerful aircraft. It was fast enough to outrun an air-to-air missile, but the good news was that it didn’t carry ground-attack weapons. It was used for reconnaissance and interception only. Banking steeply, it disappeared into the distance.

  Ahead of them were the remains of the village. It was more like a small town—derelict stone-built structures disappearing into the distance. Most of the roofs had collapsed, some buildings reduced to just a couple of broken walls.

  “You could get lost in there for a week,” said McCain.

  Halford steered the Jeep rapidly between several low walls, then over a bank of sand and into the enclosed remains of a house. The Jeep jolted to a stop, and immediately Darrow and Chance were unrolling the camouflage netting and dragging it over the vehicle.

  All four of them were out of the building in moments, taking shelter in the shadow of a section of wall thirty metres away. If the Foxbat returned, it was more likely to spot the Jeep. If it did, they wanted to be far away from it.

  “Can’t hear anything,” said McCain. “Maybe we’re OK?”