Seeing his jolly to Akrotiri disappearing before his eyes, the Wingco vehemently objected, but was overruled and when he persisted in his complaints, the CO fixed him with a cold eye. ‘Are you refusing to transport these men, Wing Commander? If so, I can arrange for someone else to make the flight and transfer you to a Chinook Squadron which is flying hazardous re-supply and casevac missions to the up-country Fire Bases. No? Then you have your orders. Carry them out.’
Subdued but inwardly seething, the Wingco had left in a sulk and then taken his bad temper out on his hapless co-pilot and loadmaster. The occupant of the right-hand seat in the cockpit was no happier. The co-pilot was a superbly qualified RAF pilot, having passed out from Cranwell near the top of his class. He had then flown several thousand hours on fast jets before transferring onto the HS 125 fleet so that he could spend more time at home with his new family. However, instead of the glamorous and exciting working life he had envisaged, he now found himself doing mundane taxi runs while being abused by the Wingco.
While scanning the aircraft dials and looking for any passing traffic out of the cockpit windows, the co-pilot was mentally going through his options, drafting his letter of resignation from the RAF and his application to one of the several executive jet companies based at Luton airport. All of them flew variations of the 125 and he was confident that when they received his application he would not be short of offers. ‘If I have to work with divas,’ he thought, ‘I might as well work with the real thing and at least get well paid for it.’ He knew he had to keep his head down in the meantime because the captain was looking for any target he could find.
In the back of the plane, Aimee was also furious, but with herself as much as the pilot. She was in a rubbish job but knew she only had herself to blame. She had started her career in the RAF as a junior entrant when she was a teenager, qualifying first as a physical training instructor and from there, desperate to become part of the aircrew fraternity, she had trained as a parachute jumping instructor. She was fortunate that she was able to take part in several mass parachute drops before the Ministry of Defence took a machete to the Army’s airborne forces. Even now her blood tingled when she remembered the sight of a couple of squadrons of Hercules transports flying in V-formation, line astern, and the air full of parachutes. She felt protective towards the jumpers, because those supposed hard cases had invariably treated her as an equal and always with the utmost respect. She knew they relied on her expertise to get them safely out of the aircraft and she reciprocated by being meticulously professional.
After a few years when the number of parachute drops had dwindled to a trickle, she was transferred to the Special Forces Hercules Squadron at RAF Lyneham. There she first came into contact with the guys from the SAS Regiment, often despatching them from the aircraft to minute DZ’s in the remotest regions, where only the pilot and co-pilot knew the location. Although the size of the patrols were small, seldom exceeding four men, they would decide for themselves how they would exit the aircraft, some preferring to go through the door, others from the tailgate, sometimes using static line, often with free-fall chutes.
She was particularly drawn to those guys, as they sat quietly in the aircraft, waiting for the signal to jump, and either pretending to sleep or communicating with each other by facial expressions or hand signals over the deafening noise of the Hercules engines. Occasionally she would notice one of their hands making an involuntary move to squeeze something in a pocket or a pouch as if to seek assurance from the contents. Her past experience told her that the four guys in the cabin now were also SAS but she didn’t know what they had done to be in their current situation.
The two RAF policemen, known universally throughout the armed services as “Snowdrops” because of the white peaked caps they wore on duty, sat lower in their seats. The outward leg of this trip had been a doddle, looking after five ammo boxes, but the return journey was a nightmare. At first the skipper had demanded that the Snowdrops should physically restrain the four prisoners using either handcuffs or cable ties, but he was overruled by Aimee on safety grounds in case there was a flight emergency. He had also insisted that the toilet door was kept open for the duration of the flight, regardless of who needed to use it. Although both of the policemen were big burly guys, well over six feet in height, if push came to shove neither of them felt confident that the four men in their charge would not walk all over them. The prisoners said little or nothing to them, but exuded an air of quiet competence and menace. The Snowdrops normally relied on the threat of punishment and Queens Regulations to get others to do what they wanted but they had an uneasy feeling that none of that would count with these four. The Snowdrops knew they were on their own and they did not like it.
Meanwhile the cavalry officer, Rupert, surveyed the backs of the four heads in front of him and sighed deeply. He knew he had been rumbled. He had decided to join the SAS to improve his standing with the hunting, shooting and debutant circles in which he moved. By a mixture of luck and influence he passed the Selection course and thought that his problems were over. In fact they were just beginning. Before he knew what was happening, he had been posted to Afghanistan on a six month tour with the Active Service Squadron.
The thought of going into action with the insolent troopers he was supposed to be leading had gripped him with terror, so much so that prior to deploying to a Fire Base up country, when they were all zeroing their weapons on the range at Bagram, he put a pistol round through his left forearm. He swore it was an accident but the opinions of the spectators on the range was equally split between those who thought it might have been a genuine accident and those who insisted he had shot himself on purpose. Those who did that in the First World War found themselves in front of a firing squad pour encourager les autres but, patched up by the medics in country, he was casevaced back to the UK instead. There he used his contacts inside and outside the SAS to wangle a post as a liaison officer at the Permanent Joint Headquarters in Northwood.
His job was to carry hard copy dispatches to and from Bagram and he was able to use his frequent journeys to the Middle East, coupled with his connection to the SAS, to enhance his standing. The added bonus for him was that he hoped to be able to qualify for the Afghanistan campaign medals by accumulated service, without having to go within miles of any actual combat. His few days here and a few days there would eventually add up to sufficient days for him to be awarded the medal, unlike the combat troops who had to qualify by being in country in one continuous stretch. Although his skin was as thick as rhinoceros hide, he had mentally cringed when he first met the four guys now sitting in front of him and their contemptuous looks had chilled him to the core.
CHAPTER 16
In the cloudless, late-afternoon sky, the small jet began descending from its cruise altitude. ‘Where are we landing?’ Jimbo asked, squinting out of the window at the island they were circling. ‘I don’t recognise it.’
Aimee overheard him as she bustled about making everything safe for the landing. ‘It’s Heraklion in Crete.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Geordie said, ‘talk about taking the scenic route. We’ll be a week in transit at this rate.’
Jock nodded. ‘And that’s no coincidence. There’ll be a shitstorm raging in Hereford about this, with the Head Shed and sycophants versus the rest of the Regiment. Therefore we’re not going to be shipped back there anytime soon, because whoever gets there first gets in the first blow and controls the narrative. I’ve seen it before.’
Before anyone could reply, the noise in the cabin increased as the pilots engaged the air brakes and flaps to slow the aircraft, making conversation difficult. As they prepared themselves for the landing, tightening their seat belts and pushing further back into their seats, the intercom light went on. Shepherd could see Aimee’s lips moving but not hear what she was saying, though her face was showing increasing irritation. As she replaced the telephone in its cradle, she gave it a fierce V-sign to vent her frustration. She made her way
back towards the passengers, automatically tidying up as she went. ‘A problem?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Only for you. Him Upfront has arranged for you and your team to be held in detention cells overnight. He says that in Bagram he was ordered to transport you back to the UK securely, and that is what he intends to do. Technically, I am in charge of the passengers and cargo and he is in charge of me, so he has ordered me to make sure that you are held securely overnight, while he and the co-pilot are ensconced in a suite at one of the airport hotels, wining and dining at the taxpayers’ expense. Oh, and he emphasised that I was responsible for the security arrangements and you must have no chance of escape. As if!’
She focused her wrath on the two Snowdrops, who were vainly attempting to avoid her gaze. ‘And don’t think you two are getting away with it. I may know nothing about security arrangements but I do know about delegating, so when we leave the aircraft you’re coming with us and you can do the guarding throughout the night while I go off and get some much-needed sleep, like the rest of the crew.’
She turned back to Shepherd. ‘By the way, I have some spare food boxes I’ll let you have, just in case there’s nothing to eat where you’re going.’
‘I was wondering why there was no hot food on the flight,’ Shepherd said. ‘’You've got the galley, an oven and a microwave, and I would have thought at least the crew would be eating proper meals.’
She smiled. ‘The arsehole up front wanted hot food, but only for the crew, so I ordered cold food boxes all round. On my flights we all eat hot or we all eat cold. He went berserk when he found out, so with a little bit of luck he’ll have a coronary.’
She disappeared into the galley and brought back a stack of white boxes filled with picnic-type food. ‘These should keep you going overnight if there’s nothing else available.’
To her astonishment, after thanking her they immediately tore open the boxes and devoured the contents. ‘We’ll eat now and drink now,’ Jock said, intercepting her puzzled look, ‘because we never know what’s around the corner, but whatever it is, at least we’ll have full bellies when we encounter it.’
The heat of the day had caused thermals to ascend from the mountains in the centre of the island, causing a steady offshore wind to blow around the airfield. There was an increase in tension on board the aircraft as it circled close to the high ground surrounding the runway, buffeted by the turbulence, before landing in a puff of blue smoke from the tyres.
At that time of day the airport was quiet, with a lull between the morning flocks of tourist aircraft and the equally large number of evening arrivals. The 125 taxied on its small, nitrogen-filled wheels over to the general aviation area of the airfield, where, on disembarkation, a clearly disinterested customs and immigration official gave their passports a cursory glance and then waved them through.
While the captain, the co-pilot and the cavalry officer headed straight to the hotel in the crew bus, the SAS men, Aimee and the Snowdrops were hustled on to an airport minibus driven by a local policeman. Unshaven and bulging out of his uniform, he was clearly disgruntled at having his extended lunch interrupted. He drove them at top speed to a decrepit, isolated cinder-block building near the perimeter of the airfield and deposited them outside the only door, which was broken and dangling from one hinge. He was about to drive away when Aimee stopped him by standing in front of the vehicle. ‘You were supposed to take us to the detention centre, so what is this place?’
‘It is detention centre,’ the policeman said, his English as broken as the door.
She kept her temper with an effort. ‘It can’t be the detention centre. You wouldn’t keep pigs in a place like this.’
‘Is old detention centre, new detention centre is in port – new building, very busy place, full with immigrants.’
‘Well why don’t you take us there then?’
He shrugged. ‘Bus only for airfield. No can go to port. Is not possible.
‘Well how do we get there?’
Another shrug. ‘Taxi maybe.’
‘'We can't take a fucking taxi when we are supposed to be escorting prisoners!’ she snapped. ‘Anyway, you said it was full. So what do we do?’
‘Stay here. Is very quiet and is only few hours.’ With that he revved up and roared off through the heat haze, back towards the airport buildings.
They peered cautiously through the doorway. The building contained a single room and the only furniture was a couple of metal bunk beds without mattresses, but it looked surprisingly clean.
‘We’ve been in worse places,’ Shepherd said, ‘so if you don’t mind, we don’t.’
‘But there’s no lock on the door, what’s to stop them from escaping?’ one of the Snowdrops protested to Aimee.
She spread her hands, palms up. ‘Why ask me? That’s your job, isn’t it? So you’ll have to work that out for yourselves, but I’d say you’ll have to take it in turns to stay awake through the night, just to make sure everyone is still here in the morning.’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Shepherd said to the military cops. ‘Go to the hotel with the rest of the crew if you like and collect us when you’re ready in the morning.’
The Snowdrop’s expression showed he was tempted but overcome with a sense of duty, his mate said sharply, ‘No. If we have to stag it, we will, we’ll find a chair somewhere and prop it against the door and if you try to get out, we’ll be there to stop you.’
Jock gave a broad smile. ‘Look my friend, if we want to go, we’ll go. We outnumber you two to one, but even if we were outnumbered ten to one, we’d still win.’
The Snowdrop suddenly found that his mouth had gone dry.
‘Right, I’m off then,’ Aimee said, hiding a smile. ‘I’ll leave you all to it. But make sure you’re still here in the morning, please, otherwise my already poor career prospects will really be down the pan.’ She winked at Shepherd and walked off towards the airport terminal.
The six guys sat down in the dust, their backs against the crumbling wall of the jail, gazing up at the star-lit evening sky or watching the tourist aircraft taxiing on and departing from the main runway. They kept up a desultory conversation as the Snowdrops tried to make sense of the situation they’d found themselves in.
‘So who is in charge of you lot?’ one of the Snowdrops eventually said.
‘Sergeant Shepherd nominally,’ Jock said, ‘but we work as a team, equal in position and responsibility.’
‘Well what rank are you then?’
‘Actually we have three ranks,’ said Jock. ‘Firstly, we have the rank we hold in our permanent regiment, which we relinquish when we pass the SF selection course. Then we have the rank we hold within the SAS Regiment, though that doesn’t necessarily reflect our position or our role; for instance, a badged SAS corporal outweighs an attached arms warrant officer in position and role, but not in rank. And then there is the rank we assume when dealing with bodies outside of SF, which can vary greatly. If we need to be a commissioned officer to get something done, we will promote ourselves.’
‘But that’s anarchy, it’s against all army rules and regulations.’ Jock grinned. ‘Maybe so, but the requirements of the Regiment are to get things done in a hurry and not be bound by petty rules put in place by bureaucratic officers and civil servants to protect their careers and pensions.’
They were interrupted by the headlights of an approaching minibus. It turned out to be the same bus and police driver that had deposited them a couple of hours before, but his new passenger was a small, wiry, dark-faced man, who got down from the bus and said in good English, ‘Hey, what’s going on here? Who’s in charge?’
One Snowdrop looked around at the rest and said, ‘I suppose it’s me.’
‘Then tell me what’s going on. Why have you put these people in my jail?’
As the Snowdrop tried to stammer out a reply, Shepherd stood up, a big grin on his face. ‘Bloody hell! Hello, Simos, what the hell are you doing in Crete?’
Si
mos spun around, beaming. ‘Spider my friend! I could ask you the same question. What is happening?’ He stepped forward and hugged him, his head barely reaching Shepherd’s shoulders. What is it they say? You are a sight for sore eyes.’
‘Right back at you Simos. We need a friendly face around here. Anyway, you remember Jock, of course, and this is Jimbo and Geordie.’ He turned to his mates. ‘We met at a counter-terrorist seminar in London a few years ago. Simos was the newly elected Athens Police counter-terrorist team leader when Greece was playing catch-up with the rest of the counter-terrorist world and desperate to acquire the latest equipment and techniques available. Every country was keen to give them free equipment: Germany, H&K rifles; the US, automatic pistols; the UK, flash bangs and method-of-entry kit. But only the UK offered them expertise and training as well. Me and Jock were on the training team that travelled to Greece, and we became mates with Simos.’
‘My colleague here,’ Simos said, indicating the driver, ‘told me that there were English soldiers being put into the jail. I could not believe that could be happening, so I had to come and see for myself. And who do I find here – none other than the famous Spider Shepherd.’
‘Like I said, it’s a long story, Simos, so I’ll bring you up to speed later, but you haven’t told me what you’re doing in Crete?’
Moving Targets: An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel (Spider Shepherd: SAS Book 2) Page 13