by A P Bateman
“Do you want us to take a closer look?” Holmwood prompted.
“No, stay put.” He glanced anxiously at his watch. “I am sending someone down to you to assume command. Clear?”
Holmwood hesitated. Then, realising that there was nothing that he could say or do, he conceded. “Yes, sir.”
McCullum replaced the receiver, ending the conversation abruptly. He picked up the internal line and dialed the four-digit number from memory.
40
The helicopter swooped low over the hilltop, then plummeted rapidly into the deep ravine. The engine struggled as the pilot pitched his considerable skill against overwhelming odds to control the speed of their descent. The sound of the rotor blades groaning through the steep turn seemed to drown the noise of the damaged engine and the look on the pilot’s face said it all. They were about to crash.
He looked at the wounded man next to him. Blood pumped from his chest, oozing out in small floods in time with his heartbeat. The man’s eyes were starting to glaze. He had seen the look before and knew that the young intelligence officer had little time left on this earth. He returned his attention to the view in front of him, and the ever nearing landscape. The pilot struggled frantically with the yoke, heaving it backwards, and pressing his left foot as forcefully as he could against the stiff rudder.
He knew that there was little time left. If he did not help the pilot, if he did not put their previous differences behind him, they would both be dead within moments. He dropped the AK47 assault rifle between the two front seats, frantically seeking a position next to the pilot. The pilot glanced at him, then looked ahead as he spoke. “Left rudder, full yoke. I’ve got the cyclic on full!”
He reached down to his right to catch hold of the cyclic, then with his left hand, he aided the pilot on the yoke, at the same time as pressing his left foot flat to the floor on the rudder pedal. The helicopter seemed to react, but their descent was still far too rapid. There were pine trees looming ahead out of the mountainside, getting larger with every passing second.
“There’s very little hydraulic fluid left, we need to slow now or we’re done!” The pilot clenched his teeth with the strain of the vibrating controls. “I'm going to try to auto-rotate!”
He looked at the pilot, and kept his weight fully behind the yoke. There was nothing that he could do now. He felt like closing his eyes as the pilot shut down the engine and relied on physics to slow the falling aircraft. The helicopter slowed slightly, but far too late to avoid the treetops. He kept his grip on the yoke, then braced for the impending crash. Many things seemed to be passing through his mind, uninvited through his panic. Strange, inconsequential things, from his everyday life, only now, they seemed important. Had he wasted his time? No, he was sure he hadn’t, after all, someone had to keep the world in check, perform the tasks that others were unwilling to do. He wished he’d asked Jane to marry him sooner… He suddenly snapped back to reality, back to the very real fate ahead of them. He glanced over his shoulder at the young man.
“Brace yourself, we are going to crash any moment!” There was no response, no flicker of life from the glazed eyes. He turned, realising that the man was already dead. He kept his limbs on the three separate controls ready to pull his body into a ball upon impact, to avoid entanglement with the rudder pedals and the yoke, which would flail around violently until the craft lay still. Then, as their last second in the air passed and the ground became ever closer, he suddenly realised to his horror that he wasn’t strapped into his harness…
King woke with a start, his breathing irregular and the pulse pounding in his ears, as his mind relived the moment. He looked ahead, at the sun scorched earth and the rocky sided slopes of the valley, then breathed steadily, as his racing pulse began to slow.
“Are you all right?” Richard Houndsworth looked at him, his expression one of genuine concern. The man nodded, as if in understanding of King’s mental turmoil. “Nightmare, was it?”
King ignored him, choosing to look out of the tiny craft’s side window instead. Once King had persuaded the pilot that to fly would be in his best interest, they had taken off in under five minutes. The pilot had rushed through the pre-flight checks and they had made good time to their refueling point near the small town of Sivigi, near Diyarbakir. It was a small airfield used mainly by a skydiving school and a training centre where English private pilots came to build up cheap hours on their logbooks. Stopping for no longer than it took to refuel the thirsty tanks and drink a couple of ice cold Cokes, they were soon flying on towards their final destination; a small airstrip outside the town of Hakkari.
Richard Houndsworth had insisted on talking for much of the way, mainly about chess and his other passion for collecting classic model vehicles. Everything from steam trains and vintage cars, to airplanes and steamships. King suspected that Houndsworth had been single for most of his adult life.
King looked up suddenly as the helicopter lost speed. For a second, he found himself gripping the edge of his seat and his heartbeat started to race. The pilot turned round, avoiding eye contact with King, and nodded to Houndsworth.
King relaxed, aware that they were in fact nearing their final destination and the pilot was slowing down accordingly. He looked ahead, through the front of the cockpit and watched as the helicopter seemed to aim itself at a large aircraft hangar, then slowed considerably before starting its descent, at a more moderate pace, steadily towards the dusty ground.
“That’s the pilot over there.” Houndsworth pointed out of his own side window towards the hangar, which seemed semi derelict close up. “He’s a Turk, but works for us all the same.”
King looked at the young liaison officer and realised that the man knew nothing of his own orders to kill the Turk. He glanced towards the hangar and took in his first target. He was of average height, but carried a little weight. Broad shouldered and barrel chested. And he looked more like a Mexican bandit than a Turkish pilot, with his black hair slicked back and long moustache, which hung down to either side of a cruel-looking mouth. The ‘bandito’ as King now mentally referred to him, stood next to a young woman, with a mane of sun-bleached hair, which had tinged to a reddish blonde. The Turk muttered something to the woman and she disappeared back inside the building. King looked back at the young Englishman and wondered just how much he knew of the mission. On the face of it, he seriously doubted that the young operative knew anything more than that he had to escort a man from Istanbul to Hakkari.
The pilot turned in his seat and nonchalantly signaled for them to disembark from the aircraft. The engine shut down, slowly losing its revs, but the din of the whirling rotor blades still flooded the cabin as King opened his door. The dust flew up from the ground in miniature whirlwinds and the chill of the night air blasted into the cabin, suddenly reminding King that he was only a few miles from the border with Iraq.
The two men adopted the ‘helicopter run’, crouched over and jogging away from the whirling rotor blades. King stood erect when he was just a few feet clear of the danger, but Houndsworth kept running in a crouch for another ten to twelve metres or so, which seemed comical to King. As they neared the derelict looking hangar the Turk nodded a greeting and stepped back inside the smaller of the two doors, out of the dust storm.
“It is good to see you again so soon!” he greeted Houndsworth with a smile, as the two men entered the cool, dark building.
“And you, Ozzy,” Houndsworth paused, then motioned breezily in King’s general direction. “This is Alex King, from our London office,” he smiled, turning back towards the British agent. “And this is our man in these parts, Osman Emre… Or Ozzy for short.”
King held out his right hand and stared into the man’s eyes, as he returned King’s gesture and shook his hand firmly. The grip was firm, if a little exaggerated for a handshake, indicating that the man not only possessed ample strength, but wanted others to know it. As Ozzy turned around and led the way through the hangar, King caught sight the m
an’s muscular neck, which was temporarily displayed by his ill-fitting crew-necked sweater. Maybe Osman worked out in a gym, or with his own weights. Maybe he was strong from formative years doing manual labour. Those muscles were stronger and lasted over anything gained from the gym. At just under six foot tall and approximately two hundred pounds King had both a height and weight advantage over the man, but was pleased to have noted Osman’s potential strength. He had gained some valuable insight into the target. It was simply a matter of increasing the odds in his favour, of discovering the target’s strengths and weaknesses before he made his move.
Osman lived in a small house at the back of the hangar. It was a simple affair of concrete blocks, unpainted or plastered, with a tiled roof. There was a small patio area with a vented grill for outside cooking and what looked like a small herb garden and vegetable patch. A few chickens pecked around in the dry earth for insects, grubs and seeds.
Osman’s wife was called Lorraine and was half French on her mother’s side. She was at least ten years younger than her husband and her sun-bleached red hair was a curious feature, catching various lights it could be brown, red, blonde or almost orange. King found himself staring at it, then looking away fearing he was being too obvious. Fortunately it worked for her, as she was very attractive. She had cooked them a simple, but delicious meal accompanied by a sizable basket of assorted breads. King noted this must have been her French influence as accompanying the pita was classic pan and brioche, the best he’d tasted outside France. The meal had been assorted cuts of lamb marinated in fresh chilies, garlic and coriander before being pan fried in a little clarified butter and the rice had its flavour enhanced by the additions of a touch of saffron and cloves. There were lentils too, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg as well as a large bowl of chopped nuts, apples and figs and as a jug of spiced red wine. Osman also produced a bottle of arrack, the powerful illegal middle-eastern spirit which is supposed to be distilled from pure date juice, but whose origins often include, rice, coco palm sap and other more dubious materials.
King looked at the woman and watched as she hospitably refilled Houndsworth’s glass, with a generous measure of wine, then looked towards him expectantly.
“No thank you,” he picked up his glass of water and smiled. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”
She smiled politely and refilled her husband’s glass. Watching her tend him, King experienced a sudden pang of guilt that she would soon become a widow at his hands. He returned his attention to his meal and speared a small piece of the spicy lamb on his fork.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Richard Houndsworth looked at him, amid chewing a rather ambitious mouthful of the tender meat. He turned to the woman and grinned. “This is absolutely divine. Lorraine, you must give me the recipe before I leave tomorrow morning.”
King agreed that the meal was good, the lamb in particular, but Houndsworth’s compliment was a little camp for his liking. He looked at the man trying to fathom what he was doing in this line of work.
After Lorraine had cleared away the dishes, the three men remained at the dinner table in the couple’s open plan kitchen and the talk had quickly turned to the next day’s mission. Ozzy, as it had turned out, was an extremely likeable fellow and King suffered several more pangs of guilt at the thought of what lay ahead of him in the morning. He kept reminding himself that the man was a double agent, a thought which made the gruesome task a little easier for him to live with, although he was starting to have serious doubts about that story. He knew that the firm was going to extraordinary lengths to keep this mission under wraps.
“As you know Alex, this trip has been planned at the last minute. The plan was put into operation a mere two days ago,” Houndsworth paused, taking a slim cigar tube out of his inside pocket. He unscrewed it, tipped out a panatela and ceremoniously clipped both ends with a small silver cigar clipper, before slipping the cigar between his rather thick lips.
Ozzy, on seeing the cigar, took out a stainless steel Zippo lighter, snapped open the lid and went to flick the wheel.
“No thank you old boy,” Houndsworth said curtly. “I have my own means.” He took out a book of paper matches and carefully tore one off the line, then struck it against the matchbook’s abrasive edge, as he smiled. “Besides, petrol lighters ruin the overall flavour and aroma.” Houndsworth turned back to King and smiled. “As I was saying, it has been planned at the last minute…”
“You mean, rushed.” King interrupted. “I only received my briefing this morning.”
Houndsworth shrugged. “I guess they knew that the job would have to be done, and planned accordingly. Getting someone to do it was left to the very last minute.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a folded slip of paper, which he opened and read silently. He glanced back at King, then turned towards Osman. “These are tomorrow’s co-ordinates, I trust you can get our man to the exact spot?”
The Turk grinned, taking the piece of paper from Houndsworth’s outstretched hand. “To within one metre!” he paused. “Do you want to see the plane now?”
Houndsworth shook his head, as he blew out a thick, pungent plume. “No thank you Ozzy, that will not be necessary.”
Alex King coughed, then turned to the Turk. “If you don’t mind, I would very much like to see the aircraft.” He side glanced Houndsworth. “If you have no objections that is?” He was damned if he was going to have this little upstart answer for him; after all, it was not Houndsworth who would be jumping out of the plane at dawn.
Richard Houndsworth sensed the sarcasm in the other man’s tone, but decided to ignore it. He blew out another plume of smoke and smiled benignly. “No, of course not, old boy.”
The aircraft in question was rather the worse for wear. King ducked under the port wing and looked at the cockpit door. The hinges were loose and looked as if they might part company with the rest of the plane at any moment. He reached out and pulled at the door handle, but there was no joy. He tugged a little harder, then looked blankly at Osman when the handle came off in his hand.
The Turk smiled, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly. “Don’t worry, that’s my seat,” he said. “Wait until you see your side…”
King walked around the single propeller and glanced at his own door. At least, the place where there should have been a door. He looked at the gap in the plane’s cockpit, then stepped forward for a closer inspection. The door had been removed and the opening had been crudely enlarged, obviously to allow enough room for him to exit the cabin safely with the addition of a bulky parachute. Beneath the doorway’s ledge, a small kick plate had been roughly fitted, to serve as his launching platform. Exiting the aircraft at such a low altitude would not allow much time for a mishap. The safer and easier the exit, the more time he would have to allow for any problems with his chute, which he would be opening at approximately two hundred feet.
“I thought a sliding door was going to be fitted…” King mused. He tapped at the edges of crudely cut fuselage.
“Couldn’t get it to work,” Ozzy replied. “This is safer to exit anyway. Only finished it this afternoon, so don’t touch it, the resin might not be dry yet.” Ozzy looked at his cobbled modification and shrugged. “What can I say? I didn’t have a lot of time,” he paused and pointed towards a stack of crates near the opening of the hangar. “By the way, that bag arrived for you this morning, along with the parachute. You’d better check it.”
King nodded thankfully and walked over to the crates and picked up the medium sized khaki rucksack and the bulkier parachute, which came in a black nylon pack. He looked around for somewhere to check the contents and Ozzy, who sensed that he might need some privacy, pointed towards a narrow doorway. “Through there. The light switch is just inside the doorway, on the left.” The Turk started towards the door, then turned around. “Do you want some genuine Turkish coffee, my friend?” he asked. “Lorraine may be more French than Turkish, but she makes a mean coffee all the same. How do you like it?”
; King nodded. “Yeah, that would be nice. Strong and sweet, thanks.” He turned around and walked towards the doorway, cursing the man for having to be so pleasant. He stepped into the doorway and reached to the left for the light switch, found it instantly, then looked around the tiny room as the florescent light flickered into life. He was in an office. A tiny, functional office, but one which he knew was set up for more than mere charter flights, skydiving or contract surveying. There was an array of maps and charts on the walls, a large filing cabinet and a desktop computer jacked into a nearby router and telephone socket. Osman Emre either sent and received e-mail or was active on the internet. Standard operating procedure was to bypass wireless routers in favour of direct dial-up. It decreased the chances of email interception tenfold. However, it should never be left plugged in as hacking was easily performed with a constant internet connection. But maybe that was intentional. If there was another way people could glean information, it lessened the chances of proportionate blame. The man could always argue that he’d been hacked due to negligence rather than having intentionally passed on information.
King dropped the small rucksack onto the neatly organised desk and checked the fastenings. A combination padlock had been fitted. This was standard operating procedure and King had three designated passcodes. He tried one, and when that didn’t work he tried another and the lock unclipped. He looked warily inside, a habit formed over years of covert work, lifted the layer of clothing out and placed it on the nearby chair. The clothes were desert pattern camouflage fatigues. They were in his size, and looked to have seen service. King wasn’t entirely sure which nation’s uniform they were, as the lapels had been removed. They looked like French Foreign Legion to him. Maybe the frogs were getting the blame for this one. Who Knew? He reached into the bag and retrieved a small handgun, a new 9mm Glock model 26, or baby Glock, complete with a small, bulbous silencer and two ten-round magazines, already loaded with hollow point ammunition. There was also a webbing shoulder holster and utility vest which was furnished with pockets and webbing loops to attach equipment to. The vest was ballistic rated to .45 and .357 magnum pistol loads as well as completely stab proof. It wasn’t going to stop a rifle round at close quarters, but it was a comforting feature knowing pistol, knives and shrapnel were less of a threat. He set the pistol and the magazines down on the desk, then reached inside and took out another weapon, a KA-Bar knife. Designed exclusively for US marines in World War Two, this was a new version with an all-weather composite handle and plastic sheath. King slipped the knife easily out of the sheath and felt the edge of the blade with his thumb. The blade was razor sharp and the tip was honed to an extremely fine point, perfect for a silent kill. If the knife was positioned just behind the ear, it could be driven upwards, deep into the skull and brain cavity, and the target would be dead instantaneously. Far quicker than any other method.