In the event, everything worked as planned. As soon as the jet had landed, Chamberlain was ordered to stop on the main runway and a Chinook helicopter landed beside it. A group of medical personnel, dressed in green operating theatre overalls, flooded into the cabin of the 125 and after a very short examination, Jock was transferred on a stretcher into the Chinook. One of the newcomers asked who had been looking after Jock.
‘I have,’ Aimee said.
‘We need to know everything that happened from when he sustained the injury until now.’
Once Aimee had updated them on Jock’s injury and treatment, the Chinook took off in a storm of dust and the 125 then taxied to its stand, where it was met by a party of RAF policemen wearing their customary white peaked caps. One of them, obviously a senior NCO, stuck his head into the cabin and barked ‘Right you lot, which ones are the prisoners?’
Shepherd looked at Jimbo and Geordie and gave a weary smile. ‘What do you know? Here we go again …’
While Jock was on his way to the Centre for Defence Medicine, the departure of the rest of this patrol mates from Northolt was almost comical. They were driven to the station helipad escorted by the posse of RAF policemen and the Snowdrops, clearly nervous, kept eyeing the SAS guys as if expecting them to erupt at any second, while Geordie eyed them up in return and did not try to hide his contempt.
A Lynx helicopter was sitting on the pad, with the engines already idling and blades slowly circling. A crewman standing in the open door gestured to Shepherd. ‘Right mate, get yourself and your oppos aboard.’
‘How many more seats have you got?’ the senior Snowdrop said, preparing to clamber in after them.
‘None mate, we’ve only got room for three.’
‘But they’re on close arrest. They can’t go without a police escort.’
The only reply was ‘Mind your fingers, mate,’ as the crewman slid the door shut.
They were soon flying low and fast, west across the Cotswolds, bypassing RAF Fairford and Brize Norton and swooping over the escarpment above Gloucester. From there they could see the whole of the plain spread out westwards towards the Welsh mountains. Looking between the shoulders of the two pilots, in the far distance Shepherd could just make out the array of satellite dishes and towering aerials located at the training base known to everyone in the Regiment as “PATA”.
Dotted around the training area and dug into the side of the small hill at the centre of the area were a number of massive, bombproof bunkers that had been used to store cordite blocks that were manufactured during the Second World War at an ammunition factory on the outskirts of Hereford. Cordite was stored on the site into the 1960s, but when that came to an end, the area was offered to the Regiment. The unused cordite blocks were burned by the thousands of tons, and as the bunkers became vacant, they were converted into a wide variety of uses. These uses were never referred to by name but by the bunker number, so that even within the Regiment, if you hadn’t been invited inside a bunker, you would have no way of knowing what activities went on there. The one exception was Bunker 10, which was used for the interrogation training that every badged SAS trooper had to go through as part of the Regiment’s brutal Selection process.
PATA was included in the MOD’s list of training areas and in theory was available for any army unit to use, but if any other unit tried to book it, PATA was never available. Although it was a secret base, the aerials couldn’t be disguised even though they advertised its location and its importance, but they were indispensable if the Regiment was to be able to communicate worldwide at a moment’s notice.
As the chopper went into the hover prior to landing, Shepherd was able to see the area across the hill from the bunkers. To the untrained eye, it looked like any other rural scene in England, with fields and copses of trees surrounding a small village nestled in the bowl of the hills. Only an expert eye like Shepherd’s would have identified the sophisticated open air range, complete with sniper positions, and the newly built village used to simulate hostage situations, in which live rounds could be fired in a 360 degree arc, the only range of its type in Europe.
They landed on the grass outside Bunker 8, scattering geese and sheep as they landed. The geese were better guards than humans and the sheep kept the grass short, so that human maintenance was kept to a minimum. After they’d disembarked, the helicopter took off again while an escort in camouflaged uniform led them into the bunker. Shepherd and the others had been inside many times and knew that it was designated the Anti-Terrorist Cell, where all intelligence relating to past, present and possible future operations worldwide, was collated and pored over by a small, select staff, not all of them from the SF and not all of them British.
They were taken to a small room and were unsurprised to find the General who was Director, Special Forces, and a sharply dressed, middle-aged man with a rather patrician air were sitting behind desks, waiting for them. They shuffled into a semblance of standing to attention and said ‘Morning, sir’.
‘Morning boys,’ was the affable reply. ‘I’ll let my guest introduce himself.’
‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ the other man said. ‘Make yourself comfortable, this may take a little while. You probably know who I am.’
‘No, can’t say I do,’ Geordie said.
The man sat back sharply as if he’d been slapped. It was obvious that he was not used to being spoken to like this.
‘Rein yourself in Mitchell,’ the Director said. ‘Remember His Lordship is my guest.’
His Lordship tried again. ‘I apologise for dragging you all this way but it is almost impossible to have a meeting in London without it being leaked all over the bloody Daily Telegraph, whereas at least here everything is below the radar. I’m here as part of a Parliamentary delegation, so it was an easy matter to arrange to have you brought along. We have been able to keep your existence out of the press and I wished to meet you in person, firstly to thank you and secondly to ask for your further support. There is no need for names but I am a government minister and I sit in the House of Lords, not in the Commons. There is a reason for this …’
He hesitated and Shepherd finished his sentence for him. ‘Yeah, it’s so you are not subject to too much detailed questioning.’
His Lordship started to purse his lips in annoyance at another interruption, but then inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Quite so, quite so. Now my remit to the government is the whole field of terrorism, both here and around the world. As you know, largely thanks to your expertise, we in the UK are considered the world leaders in the field. Our friends and allies look to us for guidance and when some new threat crops up, we are expected to be in the vanguard of the response to that threat. However, at the moment we are in something of a quandary. We are close to a lockdown situation in all the UK’s major cities. Every armed policeman is out on the streets, although frankly we don’t have the greatest confidence in their ability to contain major terrorist incidents; too many innocent people have been killed and injured by terrorists for us to be comfortable. Your own Regiment has been deployed as well but this is mainly to give politicians like me the confidence and the backbone to deal with a major terrorist situation if it arises. At the same time, we would like to offer support to our friends and allies wherever and whenever it is needed, and this is where you and your team come in. In short, we would like you gentlemen to be available to respond if or when there is another violent terrorist incident that affects our friends and allies, like the one in Athens that I gather you dealt with so capably. I realise it is a lot to ask when you have already been separated from your families for some time, but we cannot see any other viable solution. We simply do not have the manpower or assets to do it any other way.’
Shepherd glanced at the others. ‘We might be willing to get involved,’ he said, ‘but for one small problem. We’re on open arrest, awaiting court martial.’
His Lordship made a gesture with his hand as if flicking crumbs off his immaculately pressed tr
ousers. ‘I can’t do anything about the court martial, I’m afraid, that is out of my hands.’ He turned to look at the Director who shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair.
‘You have been charged by an officer of General rank’ the Director said, ‘and I can’t interfere with the judicial process. But strictly between us this is only internal MOD politics, someone trying to harm the Regiment. As you know, we have no shortage of friends in high places, so I guarantee it will all be sorted out when your Officer Commanding gets back to the UK from Afghanistan. Meanwhile, your being on open arrest will not be a problem. You can use the same resources that you used in Athens, including the escort.’
‘Do we get to see our families first?’ Geordie said.
‘I’m afraid not. No one is to know that you are here and that includes your families. Is that clear?’
There was a brief hesitation before Geordie gave a reluctant nod.
‘Right,’ Shepherd said. ‘We’ll do it, of course, as you knew we would, but we need a full inventory of kit, weapons and ammo with full support for any other thing we ask for. If that’s agreed, then we’ll go.’
The Director nodded. ‘You can request any support you think you might need through my office and I guarantee you will get it. Meanwhile, the heli is over at Credenhill being loaded as we speak. It will be back in a few minutes and you can then get your arses back to Northolt. In the meantime, you can wait outside.’
After they had filed out, His Lordship gave the Director a doubtful look. ‘Can’t you do anything about this court martial situation? It seems to me to be very unfair, asking them to possibly risk their lives with nothing in return.’
‘Believe me, Your Lordship, it’s just MOD politics, and it will get kicked into the long grass and then quietly forgotten.’
‘But why do they do it, with so little reward?’
‘As to their motivation, I think it’s largely out of loyalty to the Regiment and the SAS hierarchy, including me, of course.’
‘Strange that,’ His Lordship said quietly. ‘I got the distinct impression they thought you were a bit of a shit.’
CHAPTER 20
Shepherd, Geordie and Jimbo had barely landed back at Northolt when they saw Rupert hurrying towards them. The suppressed excitement on his face suggested he had big news for them. ‘We’re getting reports of an incident in Paris,’ he said. ‘Terrorists have forced their way into the Louvre and taken scores of hostages. They’re now holed up in one of the galleries.’
‘Fucking hell, it never rains but it pours,’ Jimbo said. ‘To think a few short weeks ago I was complaining about having nothing to do.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘These incidents have got to be related. It’s too much of a coincidence that two of the world’s most famous tourist sites are hit by terrorists.’
‘So who and what are we dealing with?’ Rupert said.
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
The “heads up” on the incident in Paris had come from the anti-terrorist liaison officer in the British Embassy. The details were sparse, just people being held hostage and casualties in a terrorist incident at the Louvre. But that was enough for Shepherd and the rest to pile onto the 125. The same pilot and co-pilot were flying them and by now, his earlier hostility apparently forgotten, the Wingco was all smiles and greeting them like old friends. ‘I think I preferred it when he hated us,’ Geordie muttered as they took their seats.
They did a “hot take-off” through the crowded skies over London, heading for Le Bourget, and were able to cleave a pathway through the dense air traffic by preceding their call sign with Alpha Sierra, the call sign only allocated to flights of the highest priority. Also on board were the waterproof sports bags containing their equipment, arms and ammo. The bags were all closed with diplomatic seals, while the accompanying diplomatic carnets to get them through any customs without being opened or checked, were safely tucked in Shepherd’s pocket.
The flight took just under an hour and during it they kept their ears glued to the radio news channels, though very few further details were forthcoming. The French government had imposed a news blackout about the incident and the gendarmerie had already arrested several news reporters, cameramen and photographers and confiscated their cameras. ‘Shame they’re not quite as efficient at arresting terrorists, isn’t it?’ Geordie said.
Whether or not they were connected to the main incident, there were also reports of riots breaking out among the disaffected young residents of Middle Eastern origin or descent in the arrondissements to the south and east of Paris.
So intent were the passengers on what was coming over the headphones that when, on its final approach to Le Bourget, the Wingco threw the aircraft into a sharp turn to the left before leveling out again, they grabbed instinctively at the arms of their seats and looked around perplexed. After landing the Wingco looked back into the cabin. ‘Sorry about that chaps, but the approach here means we have to aim as if we’re landing at Charles de Gaulle airport and then at fairly low-level, we have to do a very quick adjustment to get onto this runway. A bit dramatic but perfectly safe.’
‘Not a problem,’ Shepherd said. ‘Though a little advance warning wouldn’t have hurt. Now, the four of us will head into Paris. ‘You and your co-pilot stay here at Le Bourget and follow the same drill as in Athens, keeping abreast of events and the aircraft fully fuelled and ready to go.’
As they disembarked, Shepherd noticed a small jet with German Luftwaffe markings parked next to them on the apron. ‘Looks like GSG 9 got here before us,’ he said.
Jimbo intercepted Rupert’s questioning look. ‘It stands for Grenzschutzgruppe 9 der Bundezpolizei, the German police unit responsible for dealing with terrorist incidents,’ he said.
‘I expect Delta Force and the FBI won’t be far behind either,’ Geordie said, scanning the skies as if he expected them to appear out of the clouds at any moment.
‘Then let’s get there ahead of them.’
As they walked towards the terminal building, they spotted several helicopters parked around the airfield, used to transfer personnel to the heliport close to the Eiffel Tower or direct to the open areas near the Louvre, thus avoiding the heavy traffic between the airport and city centre. Among the helicopters were a couple of Super Pumas. ‘Presumably they’re keeping those in readiness for a heli assault if it all goes pear-shaped,’ Jimbo said.
They completed their arrival formalities with the minimum of fuss and delay and were then directed to a police people carrier, with a pair of motorcycle outriders waiting alongside it. The four men jumped in to the people carrier and they sped off out of the airport. As the motorcycles, blue lights flashing and sirens going, carved their way expertly through the heavy traffic on the AutoRoute and Le Peripherique, quicker-witted drivers latched on behind the police people carrier, eventually forming a long convoy.
While they were driving, Shepherd was finally able to talk to Jock on the GCHQ secure satellite phone. Having checked that he was okay, Shepherd was about to bring him up to speed on the incident when he discovered that Jock had not been idle at the hospital and was well ahead of them.
Jock’s room in the hospital in Birmingham had been transformed into a makeshift operations centre, complete with maps, computers and communications kit, receiving information from GCHQ at Cheltenham, Hereford, Northwood and the Ministry of Defence. Assisted by a couple of Intelligence Corps collators, Jock was sifting through the intelligence and trying to make sense of it all. He asked Shepherd to send as much information from the incident as he could, ideally anything on CCTV that showed the hostage takers.
The escort delivered Shepherd’s group to a checkpoint in the inner cordon, from where they walked to an imposing building close to the Louvre. They were taken to the Incident Management Centre in a large, high-ceilinged room decorated with frescoes on the walls and ceiling showing scenes from Napoleon’s victories.
A group of Germans from GSG 9 were already there, drinking coff
ee and looking expectantly at any new arrivals. Their lack of weapons and smug expressions suggested that they were regarding this trip as a no risk op. One of the Germans stood up and shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘Now the English have arrived, things will get done,’ he said, beaming. ‘We have been kept here waiting for half an hour, which is not usual. We expect to be treated with more respect by our friends at GIGN.’
‘It’s not like the old days any more,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s too much politicking now. In the past, the bosses of GSG 9, GIGN and the SAS dictated policy and co-operation, but now nothing is done unless the impact has already been calculated in advance by some politician. So don’t expect GIGN to do anything until the French Prime Minister or President has assessed the political gains if the terrorists are taken out, and the political fall-out if the hostages are killed.’
‘GIGN?’ Rupert murmured, looking embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, but who or what are they?’
Jimbo sighed. ‘Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale,’ he said, with exaggerated patience, as if teaching a slow learner the alphabet. ‘Part of the French armed forces.’
‘They were formed in 1973,’ Shepherd said, ‘just after the formation of the SAS counter-terrorist team and GSG 9. Those groups were responsible for some of the first successes in the early days of the fight against terrorism. GSG 9 cleared a hijacked Lufthansa jet at Mogadishu and GIGN did the same on an Air France jet at Marseille. The SAS were at both incidents as supposed observers but helped out with expertise and weaponry, particularly stun grenades. That set the tone for the informal co-operation that has continued up to the present day, though lately things have been less smooth and that’s entirely down to political interference. Politicians do not trust military guys unless they think it will help their careers - think no further than Maggie Thatcher and the Iranian embassy.’
Moving Targets_An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel Page 17