The radio by de Salis’s side crackled briefly, interrupting him, but it was nothing more than a burst of static and he resumed his story.
‘The rot had to be stopped somehow, and some genius devised a way to do it in the event of diplomatic channels breaking down. The idea was to infiltrate highly-trained military personnel into the Gulf states by various means, to keep an eye on developments, cultivate pro-Western elements and act if necessary when things began to get out of hand.’
‘But why couldn’t our government simply have attached personnel to the threatened countries as advisers?’ Yeoman asked. ‘It’s been done in the past, and it works pretty well in some areas.’
De Salis nodded in agreement. ‘It does indeed. But some states flatly refused to have British advisers on their territory in an official capacity. They wanted to work things out for themselves, to be fully independent. At the same time, their rulers were shrewd enough to know that their embryo armed forces needed expertise — and so they were quite prepared to recruit mercenaries.’
‘I see,’ Yeoman said. ‘So a lot of our chaps suddenly left the Army and managed to get themselves hired by various Middle East countries.’
De Salis gave a thin smile. ‘No, George, it wasn’t quite as easy as that. It had to appear plausible; we couldn’t have a whole bunch of chaps suddenly turning their backs on army life for no good reason. The opposition keeps a close eye on the careers of Service officers, details of which as you know are fully available in the pages of the London Gazette and other publications, so somebody would have been sure to have smelled a rat.’
‘So how did you all contrive it?’
De Salis shrugged. ‘I can only speak for myself. I was cashiered, George. Chucked out. Disgraced in the eyes of the world. Misappropriation of Government Property was the official excuse. I flogged an army Land Rover to a spiv in London.’
‘Good God’ Yeoman exclaimed, aghast. ‘And it was all a put-up job?’
‘Yes. A small price to pay for a spot of adventure, don’t you think? And my credentials for embarking on a mercenary career were now impeccable.’
‘So you came to Khorat.’
‘So I came to Khorat,’ de Salis agreed. ‘The Sultan — the one who was deposed by Orabi — took me on like a shot. I was commissioned into the Khorati Army, and with my background promotion came pretty quickly. From second lieutenant to lieutenant-colonel in five years — not bad going, George, eh?’
Yeoman was forced to agree. De Salis continued: ‘By the time the coup came — a nasty, bloody business, that — I was a major, training the newly-formed Khorati Parachute Regiment. The paras played no part in the Sultan’s demise, so when Orabi took over we just carried on as usual. I managed to keep the paras somewhat aloof from the rest of the army, without giving the impression that they were too much of a power in their own right, but the fact is that most of them owe their loyalty to me, rather than to Orabi.’
‘But they — and you — took part in the invasion of Muramshir,’ Yeoman objected. ‘A lot of people were killed.’
‘Not by my paras, they weren’t,’ de Salis pointed out. ‘Using them to seize the oilfield was my idea, although Brigadier Hamad, Orabi’s second in command, thinks it was his. Hamad is okay, incidentally; he can’t stand the Russians Orabi has started to let in. He was opposed to the invasion, too, but Orabi forced him to go along with the idea. Hamad, although he may not know it yet, is part of a grander design; so is the fact that my paratroops have been sitting tight here for the past few days, guarding the oilfield and its civilian employees.’ He chuckled. ‘They couldn’t have been in safer hands, although explaining that to our friend John T. Sanderson has proved far from easy. He’s an awkward bastard.’
Yeoman sighed. ‘This is all very fascinating, Peter, but I still have no real clue what’s going on. All I know is that I’ve been trying to fight a war on a shoestring for the best part of a week, and that the reinforcements I was promised to kick out your Khorati friends haven’t arrived.’
De Salis looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘But they won’t arrive, George. Hasn’t anybody told you?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The mills of Whitehall grind in very mysterious ways. Look, George, the sole purpose of your arrival in Muramshir was to help draw a little rat out into the open. A rat who is hell-bent on turning his country over to the Russians.’
Yeoman leaned forward in his seat. ‘Who?’ he asked sharply. ‘You mean you really don’t know?’
‘No. I’ve no idea. Who is it?’
‘Why, the Sultan, of course. The little bastard’s been a Red for years. Liaising with the Russians all the time, waiting for his moment. Orabi’s invasion was just what was needed to make him show his colours — but it was the arrival of British forces that really forced his hand. He must have been as sick as a pig at the thought of your chaps saving a country he didn’t want to be saved by anyone but the Soviets. There are a couple of ships crammed with Russian troops cruising offshore, and at any moment I’m expecting a radio signal to say that, as a preliminary to a Russian landing, elements of the Muramshiri Army are attacking “foreign interventionists” in Faraz. That’s your lot, George.’
Yeoman was almost too amazed by the intrigue of it all to speak. Finally, he forced out a question. ‘But what if we hadn’t come? Who would have halted the Khorati offensive?’
It was de Salis’s turn to look surprised, as though by his friend’s lack of perception.
‘Why, the Russians themselves, George. They had no intention of letting it ever go this far. Their idea was to bring pressure to bear on Orabi to halt the armoured drive after it had inflicted substantial losses on those Muramshiri forces which would undoubtedly have fought any invader, Russian or Khorati or otherwise. You cocked the whole thing up by knocking hell out of the Khorati armoured columns; Orabi had to go on then, even against Soviet advice, to try and snatch some sort of victory out of what was rapidly turning into a defeat. He’d begun to realize, too late, that the Russians were pulling all the strings. Orabi’s about to come a cropper, George; there might already be another coup under way in Khorat.’
Yeoman rubbed his eyes. The steam-hammer was pounding his head again.
‘I find all this very hard to take,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s a bit much to assimilate all at one go. But if what you say is true — and I see no reason to doubt it — I can draw only one conclusion.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’ve been had, Peter. We’ve all been had. And several of our chaps — mine and the SAS — have died for sod all.’
De Salis shook his head. ‘Not for sod all, George. I know how you must feel, but there’s a lot at stake here. A hell of a lot.’
‘The bastards,’ Yeoman murmured, half to himself. He was no longer very sure who the bastards really were. A sudden thought came to him, and he looked at de Salis.
‘You said that our forces at Faraz are about to come under attack,’ he said. ‘What’s going to happen to them? There’s damn all left to beat off any assault.’ He was glad, now, that he had taken precautions to strengthen the airfield perimeter. ‘Our chaps will need help, urgently. Where’s it going to come from?’
‘From us, George.’ It was a simple statement of fact. ‘The moment I have word that the Sultan has made his move, I’ll take the paras into Faraz on the Dakotas you see out there. We’ll be more than a match for the Muramshiris, have no fear about that.’ He smiled. ‘That’s the reason I’m pleased to see you. You can talk to your chaps over the radio and tell them not to open fire at us when we go in. It’ll make matters a little less awkward.’
‘And what about the Khorati armour?’ Yeoman asked. ‘I’m still worried about a breakthrough. The SAS are a bit thin on the ground, you know.’
‘From the radio messages I’ve picked up, George, I don’t think there’s much Khorati armour left.’ De Salis laughed. ‘Your chaps seem to have done a pretty thorough job of work. In any case, if events inside Khorat are taking their course, the
Khoratis inside Muramshir will shortly be ordered to abandon their offensive.’
Yeoman was about to speak when suddenly, as though on cue, the radio burst into life. De Salis grabbed a set of headphones, put them on and said a few words into the microphone. A few moments later, he tossed the headphones aside again and sprang to his feet.
‘It’s on, George,’ he said. ‘The Sultan’s Muramshiris are attacking Faraz Airport. I have to get going. You’d better stay here; Sanderson will look after you.’
‘To hell with that,’ Yeoman shouted. ‘Those are my chaps down there. I’m coming with you’
De Salis knew that it was pointless to argue.
Chapter Twelve
Squadron leader Ernie Wells ducked as a mortar bomb exploded just short of the control tower, spattering dirt and stones over the adjacent buildings. He was coordinating the airfield’s defence as best he could from the operations room, where field telephone links had been set up with the various defensive posts around the perimeter. The messages that came through told of heavy pressure on all sides, particularly along the road that led from Faraz itself. So far, the RAF Regiment and a handful of trustworthy Muramshiris had managed to beat off several assaults, but their ammunition would not last for ever.
It was very fortunate, Wells thought, that the badly wounded Colonel Al-Saleh had managed to regain the airfield in time to warn them of the impending attack. The medical staff had patched him up as best they could, and there was a sixty-forty chance that he would recover — assuming any of them survived the present onslaught. Had it not been for Al-Saleh, they would almost certainly have been caught with their pants down.
He wondered how Yeoman would have handled the situation, then decided that it was futile to speculate. Yeoman was probably dead, or at best a prisoner. At least, Wells thought wryly, his wing commander would not have to worry about a court martial now.
Something had to be done urgently to strengthen the airfield defences. Wells had been racking his brains for half an hour to try and think of a way, without success; it was his thoughts of Yeoman that caused a possible solution to flash through his mind.
Some time ago, in the course of a discussion about fighter tactics, Yeoman had told him the story of how the German Luftwaffe had captured Fornebu Airport near Oslo in the first hours of the Nazi invasion of Norway in April 1940. Flying ahead of the German troop-carrying transports, a squadron of Messerschmitt 110 fighters had strafed the Norwegian defences and had then gone down to land; after touching down, each pilot had taxied off the runway and his gunner, in the rear cockpit, had continued to hammer effectively at the Norwegians, keeping their heads down while the vulnerable transports landed.
It was worth a try. Quickly, Wells turned to Don Sutherland, who was assisting him.
‘Don, the Venoms have enough fuel left to taxi. I want every aircraft, cannon armed, to be taxied out to the perimeter and parked where it can use its guns to support the defensive positions. The idea might not be very effective, but it’ll help to keep the enemy’s heads down and maybe buy a little more time. God only knows how we’re going to get out of this little lot, but I’ve no intention of giving in without a fight.’
Sutherland went off to round up some pilots and get them to carry out Wells’s instructions. There were some pilots to spare, and Sutherland enlisted their help to act as ground crew, for a 24-volt ground starter battery had to be plugged in to each aircraft as a preliminary to the engine start procedure. They set to work with a will, ignoring the occasional mortar bomb that arced over from the enemy positions to explode on the field, and soon the first turbojets were whining into life.
There was no time for the niceties of carrying out the appropriate checks after starting up. Sutherland applied power and took the Venom rolling over the uneven ground, heading straight for the spot where the road from Faraz cut through the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the airfield. Here, at the gate, the RAF Regiment had set up a sandbagged strongpoint. Sutherland rolled to a stop a few yards to one side, the nose of his aircraft pointing straight down the road, and shut down the engine.
A hundred yards in front of the gate, the road was strewn with bodies, cut down by the RAF Regiment’s Bren guns during two successive assaults.
A corporal jumped on to the Venom’s wing and pointed down the road. ‘See those houses there, sir? The enemy’s using them as cover. It gets them to within a hundred yards or so, then they have to attack over open ground. We’ve beaten them off so far, but we might have a problem now. Look!’
Round the angle of the road, past the low white houses, an armoured car trundled. A small knot of troops followed it, using it as cover. It was only a small vehicle, but it would easily be able to withstand the .303 bullets of the defenders’ light machine-guns. If it got close enough to allow the accompanying infantry to make a swift frontal assault, the gate position might be overwhelmed.
‘Let it come on,’ Sutherland shouted. ‘I’m going to let it get to within fifty yards before I open fire — my shells should penetrate its armour at that range. Hold your fire until I cut loose.’
The armoured car came slowly on up the road. As it drew closer, the heavy machine-gun in its turret spat fire at the gate position, but the defenders kept their heads down and there were no casualties. The gunner in the vehicle completely ignored the stationary aircraft, and Sutherland suddenly realized that the Muramshiri did not consider it a threat. Despite the danger, he smiled; to the unseen Arab, an aircraft was something that dropped bombs or launched rockets. He would never dream that it might be used as an artillery piece.
He was about to pay dearly for that mistake. At fifty yards, Sutherland let him have it. The Venom shuddered violently as its four 20-mm Hispano cannon unleashed a burst of shells along the road. Sutherland saw them strike the armoured car in flashes of dull red and knew that they were penetrating, for there were no visible ricochets. He kept his thumb on the firing-button for a second longer, then released it, his head pounding with the racket of the guns.
Along the road, the armoured car suddenly slewed broadside on. There was a dull thud, and smoke poured from its turret. Sutherland saw the upper half of a man emerge, his hands scrabbling wildly at the air. Then he slumped across the turret, with flames licking around him. The RAF Regiments’ Brens chattered, picking off the Muramshiris who now scurried vainly for cover. One soldier almost made it, breaking all records in his sprint for the shelter of the houses, but a burst caught him in the back. He lay kicking for a few moments, then was still.
Sutherland stayed where he was, his ears ringing. He still had ammunition left, and although the immediate threat had been dealt with he knew that it was only a question of time before another one developed. Elsewhere around the perimeter, he could hear the sound of more cannon fire. The other pilots were doing their stuff.
There was a short lull in the fighting as the Muramshiris, startled by the new and unexpected way in which the British were using their aircraft, considered new assault plans. The Sultan, accompanied by Colonel Soropkin and two officers of his own staff, surveyed the general scene from a vantage point on top of the roof of a high building a mile and a half from the airfield. The Sultan was grim-faced, for things were not working out as he had planned. The two British destroyers, now clearly visible as they sailed on a fixed pattern around the Russian freighters in the Gulf, were evidence of that.
He lowered his binoculars and turned to Soropkin.
‘Colonel,’ he said, ‘the British are fighting back hard. I should have known that they would. But they are outnumbered. We have made the mistake, I think, of splitting up our available forces. We must now group them together for one big, final assault.’
He looked through the binoculars again for a moment, then went on:
‘Over there, on the northern side of the field. That is the weakest point. The British have concentrated their defences on the southern side, facing Faraz. We shall therefore attack in the north, and I myself shall lead the as
sault.’
One of the Muramshiri officers stepped forward in protest. ‘Highness, think of the danger. I strongly advise you to remain in a place of safety.’
The Sultan held up a hand to silence him. ‘Enough! My forces are growing demoralized. They need my personal leadership. One swift attack, and the British will be overwhelmed. Then’ — he gave a malicious smile — ‘then we can invite one of their warships to take aboard survivors, if there are any. And afterwards, your troops can land to restore order, Soropkin, without interference. The British will no longer have a pretext to intervene.’
In the Operations Room on the airfield, Squadron Leader Wells was doing his best to follow the Muramshiris’ movements with the help of information that trickled in from the outposts on the perimeter. It was not easy, and the latest news caused him considerable alarm. The Muramshiris appeared to be pulling back from three sides of the field and moving round to the north, which was thinly defended. Quickly, he issued orders for that side of the field to be strengthened; at the same time, he dared not remove too many men from the other sectors, in case the enemy were trying to pull off a feint. It was little more than a stopgap measure, a last despairing attempt to stave off the inevitable, but it was the best he could do.
On the ridge several miles north of Faraz, Major Swalwell was also beginning to despair, although it was very much against his nature and he kept his feelings to himself. His dwindling company of men had been in almost constant action all day, without water, as Khorati infantry launched attack after attack past the burnt-out remains of their armoured spearhead in an effort to dislodge the SAS men from their positions among the rocks.
Swalwell, over the radio, had learned what was happening in Faraz. There was no possibility of further supplies reaching him from that direction, and the Venom squadrons, starved of fuel, were unable to provide the air support he so desperately needed. To make matters worse, his men had only a few rounds of ammunition apiece; another major attack would finish them.
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