Crisis Four ns-2

by Andy McNab

  I switched on the Bosch, put my hand over the backlit display and waited. I gave it a minute, keeping my eyes on the house. The toilet light had gone out now, but the first-floor one was still on. I made a tunnel over the display with my hand, pressed one of the buttons and the backlight came on again. The display showed that I had three signal bars out of a maximum four, and that was good enough for me. I turned it off again.

  I sat there for another five minutes, tuning in. Somebody crossed behind the gap in the curtain. I couldn't tell if they were male or female.

  The temperature had dropped a few degrees and it was starting to feel a little bit nippy now that I'd stopped moving. Not freezing, but it felt cold where sweat had trickled down my spine and where the hair on my head was wet around the edges. My jeans were still damp and felt uncomfortable, but they would dry. I stood up slowly, feeling wet clothing make contact with skin. I turned and started to move in a line directly away from the house, and as soon as I found myself in a decent dip of dead ground, I changed direction and headed straight down to the lake.

  I retrieved the bergen and bow, checked that everything was done up, and carefully ran my hand around on the ground to make sure I hadn't left anything. Then I retraced my route to the OP. By now it was just before f 1^ U t 1TI 1; 1^ M U

  midnight, which left me plenty of time. First light wasn't until about five o'clock in the morning.

  I dropped the bergen directly behind the bush. Nothing and no one goes forward of an OP from this point on, because that's what the enemy can see.

  I opened the side pocket and pulled out the pruning shears and string, hunkered down at the rear of the bush and started to cut. I felt like James pruning his roses. What I was trying to do was make a hole in the bush, as small as possible, but through which I could crawl. It's pointless just pushing a bush apart and charging inside; you'll distort the shape, make noise getting in and, once inside, make yet more noise and movement, because the bush is pressing on you. If you're going to do it, do it properly. As the first branches were cut, I tied them together with one end of the string, like a bunch of flowers. I ran out a spare couple of meters of string, cut it and put the bundle to one side.

  There was no need for my nice yellow gloves after all, because it wasn't a prickly bush. But I was still glad I'd brought them. I'd never believed in being macho about building hides with my bare hands. Why scratch or cut yourself when even a minor injury can slow you down? If you've got a pair of gloves and you need them, use them. The object is to get into the bush, not to show how hard you are.

  I was still mincing away, making progress into the bush, cutting slowly and deliberately so as to reduce noise and not fuck up. I didn't need to create too big a space; all I wanted was to be able to crawl inside, get up to the front of the bush, make an aperture and observe the target. I was edging my way in, pruning it piece by piece. Anything that could just be moved out of the way and not cut, I would leave, sometimes using string to hold it back; it all added to the density of foliage around me.

  It Utook the best part of an hour to tunnel my way in, and I had about six inches of movement area around me and about a foot of bush in front.

  Now it was a matter of rigging up the rest of the OP.

  I wriggled back out, unloaded some stuff from the bergen and pushed them into the hide. First out was the digital camera, with its small tripod and cable release. I crawled inside and rigged it up.

  Next was the hunter's individual camouflage net that I'd got at Wars R Us. I got on my back, put the camouflage over the front of my chest, and tthen started to shuffle into the hide. Once in, I pushed the net gently against the bush so it snagged, tying it with string where necessary. By the time I'd finished I had created a snug little tunnel. The aim of the cam net was to give the bush more density; without it, if direct sunlight came into the bush the gap would be glaringly evident. If I hadn't found a cam net, a dark green blanket would have done just as well.

  The most annoying thing about building an OP at night is that you can't check it, so it's all down to practice and experience. After my check at first light, I wouldn't be able to move from the hide, and if it hadn't been done right, there wouldn't be a second chance. I'd been doing this shit since 1976 when I first joined the infantry, so I'd got it down to a fine art by now. All you've got to do is have patience and know the techniques and have the aptitude to lie there for days, sometimes weeks, on end, just waiting for five seconds of exposure of a target. Some people defined this aptitude as self-discipline; me, I saw it as being just too idle to do anything else.

  lery slowly and deliberately, trying not to take labored breaths and i make noise, I started to lift the rest of the stuff I'd be needing out of the bergen. I would normally keep everything there, but being so close to the target, I wanted to cut down movement. I placed the pizzas and the rest of the food into the side of the bush and covered them with the sandy soil to try and hide the smell from animals and insects, and to prevent the plastic wrap from reflecting shine--not that there was likely to be too much of that tomorrow if this weather continued. The phone, the 3C, the passport and any other essentials would go in my pockets if I had to run; it was just like being a soldier again and keeping belt kit on. Finally, I pushed the bergen inside the OP.

  I carefully put on the Gore-Tex, then got on my knees and felt around on the ground with my hands, both to check there was nothing left lying exposed, and to smooth out any sign I had made. The final check was that my pockets were done up and the kit was secure inside them. Only then did I crawl into the hide, and start pulling in behind me the bouquet of branches that made up the bung. I was now sealed in.

  For two or three minutes I lay still, listening and tuning in to my new surroundings. There was no noise from either of the houses, and the light was off in the target house; all I could hear was the lapping of water. The turtles seemed to have gone to bed. I waited for another couple of minutes, and then it was time to sort myself out, to make sure everything was in place, and make minor adjustments. Moving more stones and damp sand from under me, I built it up around my sides, slowly digging a shallow grave to conceal myself even more. Once past the first couple of wet inches, the ground was quite easy to move.

  I got my wrist in front of my face and had a look at Baby-G. It was just after 2 a.m." which meant I had about three hours until first light. Whenever there's a lull in the battle, you should eat or sleep, because you never know when you'll next have a chance for either. I decided to get my head down; the light would wake me up, and so would any movement. After all, I could hear them flush the toilet from here; if I was any closer I'd be able to wipe their asses for them.

  I lay on my front and closed my eyes, but it wasn't working. The only stone I hadn't moved seemed to be against my hip. I shifted it, only for another one to rise to the surface and replace it. I got reasonably snug inside the Gore-Tex, which was acting as a kind of sleeping bag, but the ground at this time of the morning feels like ice and you find yourself thinking, What the fuck am I doing here? And even if the weather isn't bad you still get cold. Total inactivity means your body isn't generating warmth, and you become a lizard who needs sunlight. You brood about the fact that, as well as the cold, it's bound to rain soon, otherwise it wouldn't be an OP.

  Sometimes the wait pays off and you forget about all the discomfort, but I had lain in hides for days on end, wet and freezing, only to find fuck-all.

  I started to laugh to myself, thinking about an operator called Lucas.

  We were tasked to OP a meeting point on the Polish border with Germany.

  It was a farm complex, where weapons-grade plutonium was being traded for heroin by Russians. The plan was to fuck up the meet and get hold of the plutonium. Lucas was a keen diver, and the scheme he came up with was to get into dry bag (military slang for a waterproof diving suit) and bury himself in the mountain of horse manure by the house. He lived there for four days. The meet never took place and it took a week to get the smell off
him--mainly because, instead of telling him to lift off straightaway, we left him simmering in the heap for a bonus forty-eight hours.

  When I woke up it must have been just before 5 a.m." as I could just see first light coming up. As soon as I could see outside properly, it was time for me to move out and check. Not that anyone finding anything was

  going to say, "Oh, look, there's an OP," but if it's an attractive item, someone could come over to pick it up, then they're right on top of you and the chance of compromise is big time. I slowly pushed the bung out with my feet and, lifting myself on my elbows and toes, eased out backward.

  I could see a couple of footprints left from my clean-up in the dark, so I pushed myself out a little bit more and used the bung to brush them away.

  While I was doing that I looked at the bush itself. It was looking all right;

  I was quite proud of my handiwork.

  I started to inch myself very slowly in again, feet first this time, carefully pulling the bung into the entry point. I then rolled some of the cam net around the base of the bung and tucked it in as if I were tucking a child in for the night. Then I got into the center of the little grave I'd dug, curled up and turned myself around, being careful not to create movement in the bush. I didn't know what the targets were doing; they could be up there, standing at the window, taking in the view of dawn over the lake, only to see a bush mysteriously shaking .. .

  The next priority was to check the camera, since the only reason I was in this hole at all was to see if Sarah was here, and then confirm it to London photographically. Lynn and Elizabeth took nothing at face value, and they certainly weren't going to trust me.

  It was now just light enough to see through the viewfinder. I made a small hole in the cam net facing the target. It didn't have to be the same size as the lens; as long as light was getting into the center of the lens it could be as small as a pencil prick. I positioned the lens at the hole this was now the aperture and focused it exactly on the area around the garage and the side door. It looked the natural way in and out. If there was movement, I wouldn't have to fuck about positioning the camera, all I'd have to do was press the cable release. Not only would it cut down on movement, which would mean less noise, but I could look at whoever was moving and ID them, instead of trying to focus a lens.

  Once done, I put sand and stones around the tripod to keep it stable. A final check that the cam net wasn't obstructing the lens, then I made sure that the cable release was on correctly.

  It was time to have something to eat and drink before the fun started. I opened one of the mineral-water bottles and took a few gulps even though I wasn't really thirsty. I wasn't particularly hungry, either, but I munched my way through a slab of luncheon meat, all the time keeping my eyes on the target.

  Once I'd finished with the plastic from the Spam, I wrapped it in a ball and covered it with soil. The last thing I wanted was a swarm of insects hovering over my OP like a big pointing hand. After eating and drinking, there were other bodily functions that might need attending to, but hopefully the Imodium was going to do its stuff.

  I was lying on my stomach with the camera just above my head and to the left, staring at the target with the cable release in one hand. My hands were crossed in front of me and my chin was on my forearms, and that was it: there was nothing else to do except look and listen. I'd always found it mind-numbingly boring, but I knew that sod's law dictated that any exposure of Sarah would last for no more than five seconds, and it would be a pisser to miss it. I had to be switched on and fight the boredom.

  I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty.

  I started to think about her again. If she were here, what was she up to?

  I didn't really understand what was going on, but then again, at a time like this I didn't want to know. Just as I had that thought, another took over and said I was lying. I was dying to know.

  I could see the house quite clearly now. It was white weather boarded and could have done with a lick of paint. Each of the three floors had two or three windows on this side; no shutters, just two window frames that opened from the middle.

  I also saw security lights with motion detectors that I had to assume would be covering all approaches. If they were powered and had covered my location, last night would have been a very bright one indeed. Building my OP would have been piss easy.

  On the first floor some French windows led out onto a small verandah overhanging the garage and facing the lake. Below it, the garage doors were still ajar, with another light and motion detector covering the entrance.

  The boat, a dirty-cream four-seater with the driver's seat in the middle, looked as if it hadn't been moved since I'd bino'd it yesterday. The engine was still facing the doors and the nose of the trailer was still down on the ground at the water's edge.

  The garage walls were made from white trellis work fixed against the stilts, with hardboard backing. Facing me and set into the wall was the side door that seemed to go into the garage. A rotary washing line stood to its left, but there was no washing on it, which wasn't particularly strange, given the weather. There was no condensation on the windows from people asleep inside.

  There weren't even any visible rubbish bins I could take a look at later tonight to see if she was here. A person's eyes may be the windows to their soul, but their dustbins are the windows to a fuck of a lot else. It never ceased to amaze me that even the most switched-on people seem to think that once stuff they have discarded is out of their house, it's safe. Reporters find vast amounts of information by sifting through people's bins.

  In some Southeast Asian countries, all the rubbish from hotels with international guests is routinely picked through by the intelligence services.

  Sarah wouldn't be that careless, but I knew, for example, that she didn't eat any processed food unless she had to: if there were organic food wrappers in the refuse, it might be a significant indicator.

  The birds were well into their morning chorus. There was a slight wind, causing a bit of rustling in the trees, but that was welcome only if you were hiding in an OP because it hid noise. The main problem was that, where there was wind, rain would surely follow. In the meantime, as long as the rain kept off it would be almost idyllic.

  An hour or so later I heard the first man-made noise of the day, the gentle chug of a small outboard. The big-game fishermen were on the lake, chasing the early fish. I couldn't see anything, but I could just hear it behind me somewhere near the entrance to the creek.

  In the background the putt-putt got louder then stopped, and I heard the splash of an anchor. The fishermen were close by. I could even hear mumbles now and again on the breeze.

  A curtain twitched on the first floor. I guessed they were checking out the fishermen, but if you were up and about and you could hear it, why not just throw them back and have a proper look? This was significant; maybe no trip back to D.C. after all. My finger tensed on the cable release in case a door opened.

  There were shouts from across the lake. Maybe someone had had a bite. But still no one moved the curtains to see what it was all about.

  At about eight o'clock the front door opened and two men came out.

  I had just four or five seconds in which to act. I couldn't wait for perfect poses because they mustn't be allowed time to get acclimatized to the outside environment. In the first few seconds after leaving the house they'd still be tuned in to whatever was going on indoors, maybe the sound of a washing machine or the television, mixed with their own walking and talking. Once they'd been outside for anything more than four or five seconds they would be listening to the noise of the trees rustling and the movement of water on the lake. Before that happened, I had to act, then keep very still again, so the only things that were moving would be my eyes. I squeezed the cable release, taking about five or six pictures.

  Thanks to the digital camera, I didn't have to worry about the noise of the rewind and shutter.

  That done, I had time to study the
two men with my own eyes. It was obvious they hadn't been awake that long. One of them had a pair of leather boots on, laces undone and a rumpled blue sweatshirt that hung out over creased, faded blue denim jeans. It looked as if they were the clothes he'd been sleeping in. His jet-black hair was sticking up, and he had a few days' growth on his face. He was in his thirties and didn't look too much of a threat: he was only about five feet five inches, and very slim. As Josh would have said, he was too slight to fight, too thin to win.

  The most striking thing about him was that his features were distinctly Middle Eastern.

  The other guy had the same skin tone, but was just over six feet and broader in the shoulders. He was wearing trainers, a Men In Black T-shirt under a dark-green fleece jacket and a pair of black tracksuit bottoms.

  He, too, seemed the worse for wear, with a cigarette in his mouth which flopped down the left-hand side of his face. He had a string of prayer beads, which looked very much like a Catholic rosary, looped over the middle and index fingers of his right hand. He was flicking them so that they closed around his fingers, then flicking them again to unwind them.

  They stood by the door looking out at the lake, and there was mumbling between them as the taller one put his right hand down the front of his tracksuit and started to scratch. The inflection and cadence of the mumbling sounded Arabic to me. They sauntered outside, closing the door and walking past the washing line toward me.

  I froze, allowing myself just short, shallow breaths. Their footsteps sounded like Godzilla's.

  They gazed out at the lake as they walked, probably watching the fishermen. They weren't aware, but I had to accept that I could be in the shit. I was sure the fuckers would see me; I looked to my right, where the bow was lying no more than four inches away from my hand. No movement; calm down and wait.

  My body was tensed, ready to react. But how would I get myself out of this? Fight--that was the only answer. I could hardly just smile and claim to be lost. If I was quick enough, and didn't get entangled in the cam net, I could threaten them with the bow. No, that wouldn't work. I would just make a run for it and hope they weren't carrying. I mentally checked that all the important stuff was in my pockets.