After a few seconds Angeli had recovered sufficiently to realise what was going on. He quickly shook Simos by the hand and kissed him on both cheeks, then did the same with Shepherd and the others, treating each of them to a blast of second-hand garlic, ouzo and Metaxa fumes before disappearing into the dusk and heading up the mountainside like an inebriated mountain goat. Any remaining enthusiasm the police had for pursuing him was ended by the hostile stares that the villagers and the SAS men were directing at them. The police jumped into their cars and, with sirens wailing, disappeared back down the track towards civilisation, taking the taxmen with them.
After sharing a few celebratory toasts in beer, retsina and ouzo, Shepherd and the others eventually managed to extricate themselves from the boozy embraces of the villagers, who now seemed to have adopted them as honorary Cretans. Waving their farewells, they jumped into their car and followed the dust of the police convoy back down the mountain. When they arrived back at Simos’s place, they shared a last nightcap with Simos and the two Snowdrops, and then crashed out on chairs and settees around the house.
CHAPTER 17
The tourist coach pulled up at the bottom of the short incline leading to the entrance of the Parthenon. It was early and the coach was one of the first of the day’s arrivals, but the heat was already rising in shimmering waves from the ancient stones. Tourists poured off the coach, the Koreans, Chinese and Japanese photographing everything that moved, the clicking of their camera shutters a mechanical echo of the dry choruses of the cicadas in the dusty trees at the foot of the slope.
An elderly American couple, Hank and Leanne, were the last to climb down from the coach. Hank was fussing over Leanne, who was visibly exhausted and limping slightly from an attack of sciatica. By contrast, even though there were also lines of fatigue around his eyes, her husband kept his back rigidly upright – the posture of a veteran military man. An ammunition technical expert, he had served more years than he cared to remember, first in uniform and then, after retiring from the military, with the Department of Defense until it became obvious to everyone, even Hank, that he finally had to go.
During his long and distinguished career, he had watched many thousands of pieces of ordnance being fired, detonated or sent into orbit, and in fact had probably witnessed more gunfire and explosions than the most hard-bitten combat veteran. And yet, too young for Vietnam, too old for the Gulf War, he had never once heard a shot fired in anger. Indeed, it was his proud boast that he had never – till now – even left the continental United States. It was his job to monitor and assess the effectiveness of weapons and ammunition and, where necessary, to order the destruction or recycling of items that had reached the end of their shelf life. Consequently, he was able to identify every piece of ordnance equipment and ammunition used by the US military since the end of the Second World War.
A lifelong bachelor, on retirement he had moved to Florida and bought a condo close to Tarpon Springs – ‘Sponge Capital of the World’. To his and everyone else’s amazement he then met, fell in love with and married a local widow – Leanne – to whom he became devoted. With extra time on his hands after his retirement, he was able to indulge his hobby of attending military parades. It was a hobby that had started in November 1963, when he had been taken by his father to the funeral parade of John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. Too young to have been more than dimly aware of JFK as president, the raw atmosphere of grief and shock, just three days after Kennedy’s assassination, made less impact on Hank than the pageantry of the funeral procession. The horse-drawn gun carriage carrying the coffin, the riding boots placed backwards in the stirrups of the President’s riderless charger, the troops and sailors with their rifles reversed, the muffled rumble of drums, the rhythmic tread of slow-marching feet, all were to leave an indelible impression upon him. Ever since then, even the sound of a military bugle would stir his blood.
His last posting, at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, had given him access to innumerable graduation and passing-out parades, always accompanied by a fly-past of naval jets and helicopters, with ground troops carrying the chevrons and unit flags and shouting out the cadences so loved by the American military. However, he had also read and seen so much about the different military traditions in Europe that he became determined to break the habit of a lifetime and travel outside the United States to see as many parades as possible. He persuaded his new wife to take a tour of European capitals with him; he would indulge his hobby while she could either tag along or shop to her heart’s content while he was doing so. The tour they booked was for London and Paris, but they insisted on adding Athens to the itinerary, mainly so they could talk about it afterwards with their Greek neighbours in Tarpon Springs.
The military spectacles they saw far exceeded his expectations, with the Queen’s Guards in London and the Republican Guards in Paris particularly delighting him. Although tired and fed up with living out of suitcases, he knew he would not be disappointed by their visit to the Greek capital either. Before arriving at the Parthenon, they had visited Syntagma Square to watch the changing of the guard there. Hank was tickled pink and could not wait to get back to Florida to have some gentle fun with his neighbours about the Greek Army uniform of tasselled fez, white skirt and ladies’ stockings, and shoes with pompoms on.
By the time they had struggled down from the coach at the Parthenon, the tour guide had already set off, leading the rest of the party up the slope. Hank cast around anxiously for a moment before spotting them, but was puzzled to see that five or six strange individuals, dressed in steel-grey, loose-fitting, pyjama-like clothing, were now mingling with the tourists. ‘Where did those guys come from?’ he said to Leanne. ‘They sure as heck weren’t on the coach with us.’
The next moment, he felt a vicious blow to his kidneys and crashed to the floor. His wife fell next to him. He heard a volley of small-arms fire ring out and from his prone position, with the ingrained habits of a lifetime and even as he saw several people fall to the ground, he thought to himself: Small arms, probably 9mm, but not US manufacture. A shadow fell across his face and he looked up, squinting in the harsh sunlight. One of the strangely dressed individuals was standing over him, pointing a pistol at his head. Still not getting it, his last-ever conscious thought was, Why is this guy wearing gloves on such a hot day? And why would he be wearing a det-cord necklace?
CHAPTER 18
After an early breakfast, Simos had the SAS men and their Snowdrop guards back at the temporary jail by the time Aimee arrived to pick them up. ‘I feel a bit guilty guys,’ she said. ‘Did you have a terrible night?’
‘We’ve had worse,’ Jock said, giving Shepherd the ghost of a wink.
After another cursory customs and immigration check at the plane steps, they climbed back on board the 125 and settled themselves for the next long sector, from Heraklion to the aircraft’s home base at Northolt. Wing Commander Norman Chamberlain still appeared smug and condescending to his passengers, but seemed to be in a better mood, his outlook possibly enhanced by Aimee’s report of the conditions in their makeshift jail. With all checks completed, the aircraft was taxiing for take-off when a call came from the airfield tower, ordering it back to its stand and demanding that Shepherd be put on the radio. The caller proved to be Simos, who was shouting incoherently down the line.
‘For God’s sake, Simos,’ Shepherd said. ‘Calm down. Your cousin’s not back on the anti-aircraft gun again, is he?’
‘No Spider, it’s worse – much worse – than that. There’s a terrorist situation in Athens. I’m going straight away, can you come with me? I think they will need our help.’
Laid-back and dozing just seconds before, Shepherd at once switched into action mode. ‘Right, we’ll go there on the 125, so get yourself out here as quickly as you can, and I’ll have things sorted out by the time you get here.’
Only Shepherd’s patrol mates showed no surprise at the transformation with him in the space of that
brief call. In a tone that brooked no argument, he began giving orders to Chamberlain. ‘Right, go to the crew room now and get on the radio to Northwood, the MOD or whichever HQ you prefer, and inform them that this aircraft and everyone aboard is now diverting to Athens. Explain that there is a terrorist incident there, and tell them that we are going there under the Protocol of International Observers. For your information, that means that if there is a terrorist situation, observers from other nations can attend without prior invitation. In other words, we can just turn up. If you can get through to Northwood headquarters, they will give you the go-ahead immediately. But don’t pay any attention to anything that Northolt Ops says, because if they object, they’ll be overruled. While you’re doing that, get your co-pilot to file a flight plan for Athens with an immediate take-off time. We have stacks of fuel, so we can go as soon as Simos gets here. If there are any problems, he can get us priority take-off and landing slots.’
At first, Chamberlain had bristled at being given orders by someone he outranked. His mouth gaped open and closed, like a fish out of water, as he tried to object. However, Shepherd’s air of absolute confidence and authority persuaded him to do as he was told. The two pilots rushed to do Shepherd’s bidding. A short while later, they returned with Simos in tow.
Right,’ Shepherd said. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But we’re still waiting for clearance from the UK to proceed,’ said Chamberlain.
‘Did you not speak to Northwood operations?’
‘Er … no. I went through Northolt.’
‘I told you how to do it and you still managed to cock it up,’ Shepherd said, ‘but it’s not a problem, because we’re going anyway. Simos, speak to the tower, explain the situation and tell them we’re flying to Athens.’ He turned back to the pilot. ‘And we’ll get your precious authorisation while we’re in transit. Trust me on this, if there’s any comeback, I’ll carry the can.’
The Wingco was still dumbfounded. ‘But you’re only an “other rank”,’ he said. ‘What has your officer got to say about this?’
Rupert opened his mouth to say something, but Shepherd spoke over him, drowning him out. ‘First of all, he’s not our officer.’
‘And secondly,’ Jock said getting in on the act, ‘we’re the SAS, not some half-arsed infantry unit, and in situations like this, it’s not rank that counts but position. There’s a terrorist incident, so we are any rank we need to be to get there and if necessary, get the job done. So if it makes your life any easier, then you can take it that we’re generals, group captains, air commodores or air vice marshals - anything you like, as long as you get this bloody aircraft moving now!’
Chamberlain’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly one more time and then he disappeared into his cockpit. A moment later they heard the whine as the jets began to fire up, the noise rapidly deepening to a roar as the aircraft began to taxi towards the runway.
The flight took a little over an hour and during it, as Shepherd had predicted, the flight authority came through from Northwood for them to proceed. Meanwhile, Simos was constantly on the radio, talking to his colleagues in Athens, then updating the SAS men with as much information as he had gleaned. ‘It appears hostages are being held at the Parthenon,’ he said, after coming off the line, ‘but the situation is confused. At the moment the threat level is Amber, meaning there appears to be no immediate threat to the hostages, but nor have the terrorists made any demands – as far as we know, anyway. So it’s just a standoff.’
‘What happened?’ Geordie said. ‘Was there no security?’
Simos grimaced. ‘There was, but apparently they were distracted by some men in Arab dress acting suspiciously elsewhere on the Acropolis. They turned out to be innocent tourists’
‘Or they were decoys,’ Shepherd interrupted, ‘drawing off the security guards while the terrorists had free rein.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Simos said, ‘but anyway, the terrorists now control a large group of hostages and if they start killing them, it will be disastrous for the country’s reputation and for the economy, which more than ever depends on tourism. The authorities in Athens know what ultimately needs to be done but they have no idea how to do it.’
‘Brilliant,’ Jock said. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’
While Shepherd kept monitoring the comms traffic, the rest of the team put together a list of personal kit and weaponry for transmission to Athens, in the hope that Simos could get it for them from the authorities there.
‘OK, Simos,’ Geordie said, reading from his notepad. ‘We need balaclavas, black, fireproof; coveralls, ditto; combat boots; gas masks; night-vision goggles; stabilised binoculars; British aircrew knives; personal medical kits; magazine waistcoats; cable ties for restraining prisoners; personal comms equipment. Weapons: Remington or Browning 9mm pistols with belt and holster; magazine gauges for the pistols, and either MP5s or MP-56Ks with close body slings and nine-mill ammunition, or HK G36s with 5.56 NATO ammunition.’
‘And see if you can get me some tourist-type clothes as well, Simos,’ Shepherd said. ‘The more tasteless the better.’
Rupert, who had been taking a close interest while the list was being put together, now said: ‘I’m not even going to ask about the tourist clothes but why the body slings?’
‘We use them to clamp our weapons to our chests,’ Geordie said, ‘allowing us to have both hands free which is very useful when you’re trying to gain entry or get over an obstacle.’
When sending the request, Simos had also asked for some time for them on a firing range to allow them to refamiliarise themselves with the weapons and zero them in, but he was told that the only range available was an old chain-mail one in a police barracks.
Jock was the first to voice his displeasure. ‘That bloody range is dangerous. We used it when we were training you guys here before. There were ricochets all over the bloody place, so we’re probably better off not using it.’
By now Shepherd was fully in control, with the others apparently happy to be led. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘the final thing before touchdown is the skills inventory of all passengers and crew.’ He called the Wingco through from the cockpit and the co-pilot took over the controls. ‘So, everybody listen up, this is the sitrep: we are going into an unknown, possibly dangerous situation and we don’t know how long it may last, so we need to know about every asset we have.’
He turned to Chamberlain. ‘First up, you and your co-pilot will do what you do best: fly the kite. After landing, you need to ensure it is kept fully fuelled, so that if any of the bastards involved in this try to flee by air, we can follow them wherever they go. So keep an ear on the news channels, speak to the tower to keep abreast of things and don’t go more than ten yards from the cockpit, because if we need to contact you, we will do it through the tower. Eat and sleep on the plane, and if the situation goes mobile we will get back to you ASAP. Understood?’
He waited for the pilot’s nod of assent before turning to the others. ‘Right, everybody else in turn, give me a short summary of any skills you have that may be useful to us. Start with your first name and keep it short.’
The loadmaster spoke up first. ‘I’m Aimee, I’m a trained paramedic, and also trained in disaster management, specifically air crashes with multiple casualties. We carry an enhanced medical pack for the VIP passengers we sometimes have on board. I also have my aircrew knife. I always carry it on duty – force of habit,’ she said with a self-deprecating smile.
‘OK, you’ll come with us. Bring the medical kit and your knife. Next,’ he said, looking at the Snowdrops. ‘I’m a … erm … my name is Charlie,’ the first one said, nervous enough to stumble over his words. ‘I’m a qualified marksmen with the service pistol and I am also qualified in arrest and restraint techniques. I also have a wide-ranging knowledge of Queen’s regulations.’
‘Next.’
‘My name is David,’ the other Snowdrop said, ‘and I have the same skill set as Charlie.’
; ‘Chas and Dave,’ Jimbo said, chuckling, ‘Perfect!’
‘Okay,’ Shepherd said, ‘you two will come with us as well, but you can leave your knowledge of Queen’s regulations behind. Whatever else we use, we won’t be needing those.’
‘Now you,’ he said to the cavalry officer.
‘I have basic British Army officer skills.’
‘Don’t you have any skills carried over from SAS continuation training?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
Jock rolled his eyes heavenwards but managed to restrain himself from saying what was on his mind.
‘Right,’ Shepherd said, ‘you’ll come along too because we might find a use for you, but otherwise keep out of the way. OK, to summarise: everyone but the pilots comes with us, if we can find enough transport, that is. Next, we need call signs and nicknames. Me, Jock, Geordie and Jimbo already have ours. Aimee, you will be Blondie, you three will be Chas, Dave and Sir, Simos will be Ouzo, and the pilots will be Wingco and Junior. Use these nicknames in all conversations, because you don’t know who will be listening, not least the media. If you need to speak about locations use initials only, for Northwood for instance, November Delta, for Northolt, November Tango. Any questions?’
There were none and it became very quiet on the aircraft as everybody tried to prepare themselves for what lay ahead. As they went back to their seats Jock muttered an aside to Aimee. ‘Keep close to Spider with your med kit. He’s the one most likely to need your services, because he’s inclined to be a little reckless.’
‘I heard that,’ Shepherd said. ‘And it’s a bit rich coming from the man whose hot head has already got him busted down to the ranks twice!’
While Shepherd had been briefing them, Simos was up in the cockpit, talking to Athens air traffic control, requesting permission to land at the old Athens International Airport, now decommissioned and slowly falling into disrepair, but much closer to the centre of the city than the new airport. To their surprise permission was granted, with the proviso that it would have to be a visual approach landing onto a runway that, while usable, was far from perfect.
Moving Targets_An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel Page 15