Hijack

by Chris Ryan

  3

  Fish and Chips

  The sun was setting as the whale-watching boat returned to harbour. Max fist-bumped the kid he’d prevented from going overboard. ‘Take it easy, Marcus,’ he said.

  Marcus nodded. Ever since the ship’s captain had told them about the Falklands War and the Belgrano, he’d seemed shy of Max and his friends, Max thought. It was obvious that Marcus had understood on some level that they weren’t quite who they said they were. The adults on the boat, of course, had paid them no attention. Sometimes, youngsters could be far more perceptive than grown-ups.

  Which was why the Special Forces Cadets existed in the first place.

  Max, Lukas, Abby, Lili and Sami made a special effort to thank the ship’s crew for the whale-watching tour as they disembarked. It wasn’t just that they wanted to be polite. Today’s trip was part of their cover. They wanted their presence to be remembered, maybe even commented upon. Perhaps tonight, over a pint in the pub, the skipper would mention that he’d had five teenagers on his boat. The more people were aware of them doing ordinary tourist activities, the more easily they would accept that they were ordinary tourists.

  Which they were not.

  It was a short walk from the harbour at Stanley, the capital of the Falkland Islands, to the guest house where they were staying. In the forty-eight hours since they had arrived on a military aircraft from RAF Brize Norton, the airbase in Oxfordshire, the cadets had taken pains to ensure that they were seen around the town. They had soon become familiar with the geography of this small, quaint capital. Here, thousands of miles from home, they had been surprised to find British supermarkets and cosy pubs. There were red telephone boxes and union flags flying from several houses. It felt to Max like a tiny seaside resort.

  ‘Fish and chips?’ he suggested as they approached one of the main streets.

  ‘What?’ said Lukas, Sami and Lili in unison. Max had forgotten that, as they came from America, Syria and China respectively, fish and chips weren’t really on their radar.

  ‘You haven’t lived,’ Abby said, ‘till you’ve had fish and chips.’ She led them into the shop where a red-faced man stood behind the counter. ‘Cod and chips, five times,’ she said.

  The man nodded and started scooping chips from the fryer. ‘Been out on the boat, have you?’ he said.

  That was good, Max thought. It meant he knew who they were, and had accepted their cover story.

  ‘Yep. Birdwatching tomorrow,’ Abby said. ‘Up on the moors. We’re hoping to see some penguins while we’re here as well. Er, do you think I could have a gherkin too?’

  ‘One gherkin coming up.’

  ‘And a pickled egg.’ She turned to the others and saw their faces. ‘What?’ she said. ‘I’m hungry!’

  Outside the chip shop, the cadets sat on a low stone wall and unwrapped their parcels of food. ‘Eat up,’ Max said quietly. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

  ‘A cold one too,’ Lili said, ‘by the feel of it.’ And it was true. The temperature had suddenly dropped and there was a biting wind.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being Woody and Angel right now,’ Abby said. ‘Comfortable bed, nice warm ship.’ She nodded out to sea as she popped a chip into her mouth. Woody and Angel were the cadets’ Watchers: the adults who, along with their leader Hector, had selected and trained them and who were currently stationed on a British naval patrol vessel in the waters surrounding the islands. With a bit of luck, that’s where they would stay.

  But luck, the cadets had been taught, was not something to be relied upon. Sharp skills and a clear head were likely to keep you alive longer.

  ‘Do you really think having Woody and Angel here would make people suspect us?’ Lukas said, frowning.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Max said. ‘But the five of us being here by ourselves means that any Argentine spies in the vicinity are going to actively discount us if they’re searching for anybody suspicious. And it could be anyone. The captain of that ship we were on today. The chip guy.’

  ‘Hope it’s not the chip guy,’ Abby said, her mouth full. ‘I liked him. He pickles a mean egg.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ said Max, ‘we can’t trust anyone. We need to make sure that everybody we meet thinks we’re just here for the wildlife.’

  ‘Good job we’ve got Max to remind us of this stuff, hey, guys?’ Abby said.

  Max gave a rueful smile. Maybe he had been a little patronising. But it did no harm to remind themselves of why they were here, even if the Watchers had briefed them all thoroughly about the curious rumour that had reached British intelligence just under a week ago …

  It had started, by all accounts, with an old farmer called Banfield. The cadets had seen a photo of him. His face looked pinched by the weather and reddened by his fondness for the bottle. He had bumped into the governor of the Falkland Islands late one evening, plainly the worse for wear. Slurring his words, and with one arm around the governor’s shoulder, he said that he’d seen figures emerging from the sea into a secluded cove late the previous night. The governor hadn’t taken him seriously. The farmer had a reputation as a drunk and he couldn’t sensibly answer any of the governor’s follow-up questions.

  — How many figures did you see?

  — Five, said Banfield. No … fifteen … no …

  — Did they reach the shore by boat?

  — No, no, there were no boats. No boats at all.

  — What did these figures do after they came ashore?

  — Ah, that’s the strange thing, said Banfield. They completely disappeared.

  — Had you, by any chance, had a drink?

  — Absolutely not! Well, maybe a little something to keep the cold at bay, Governor …

  The governor had reported the conversation back to London. Two days later, Hector was briefing the cadets in his usual surly, no-nonsense style.

  ‘There has been intelligence chatter in the South Atlantic for several months now,’ he told them as they sat in the first-floor briefing room at Valley House, their home and headquarters in the wilds of Scotland. ‘Argentina is showing a renewed interest in the Falkland Islands. But there’s been no direct evidence of a second attack.’

  ‘Until now,’ Lili had said.

  ‘Maybe. The uncorroborated word of a drunk sheep farmer is hardly convincing. We can’t trust him. There’s no way the British government would make accusations against Argentina, or deploy a task force to the region, on such a flimsy pretext. At the same time, we can’t ignore this information completely. We need independent verification that this farmer really saw what he thinks he saw.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Lukas. ‘That’s where we come in?’

  ‘Right,’ Hector said. ‘Ordinarily we would deploy an SAS team to put in surveillance on the island. But there’s a problem. We’ve reliable intelligence that the Argentines have agents embedded in the Falklands. We’re fairly sure they have regular islanders on their payroll, probably living in Stanley. But there’s also some evidence to suggest that there’s a mole at the local RAF base at Mount Pleasant. We can’t guarantee that an SAS deployment to the Falklands would remain a secret.’

  ‘Why does it need to remain a secret?’ Max asked. ‘The Falklands are British, aren’t they? Surely we can send whoever we want there.’

  ‘True,’ Hector said. ‘But if we arouse the Argentines’ suspicion, they may well change their tactics. Sometimes, the best course of action is to let the enemy continue, unaware that you know what they’re doing. That way, you can make an informed decision about how best to stop them. The Falklands has a tiny population and newcomers are easily noticed. But if five teenagers turn up on, say, a wildlife-watching holiday, not even the most suspicious Argentine agent is going to think they’re there to put in military surveillance.’

  ‘One of these days,’ Abby said, ‘you’ll let us go on a real holiday.’

  ‘You think?’ Hector said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good. For a minute ther
e, I thought you were going soft on me. There’s a weekly RAF flight to the Falklands. It also transports civilians. It leaves Brize Norton at midday tomorrow. You’ll be on it. When you arrive in Stanley you’ll check in to the Atlantic View guest house in the centre of town. Woody and Angel will be stationed on a Royal Navy patrol ship that regularly sails the waters around the Falklands. They’ll have a Special Boat Service unit with them – they’re like the SAS, but on water. Ostensibly they’ll be on exercises, which is perfectly normal. But if you get into trouble, or you need backup, they’ll be there. Meanwhile, by day you’ll be straightforward nature tourists: whale-watching, birdwatching, rambling – you get the picture. By night, you’re to put in covert surveillance on the cove where this farmer claims to have seen the figures coming ashore. If there’s a repeat performance, you’re to find out what their objective is.’

  ‘What do you think their objective is?’ Lili asked.

  Hector glanced uncomfortably at Woody and Angel, who were standing at the far end of the room. ‘If pushed,’ he said, ‘I’d say that we’re dealing with Argentine special forces scoping out possible landing sights and making advance preparations for an invasion. If – when – it happens, such an invasion will be swift and well planned.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re too young to remember the Falklands War,’ he said. ‘But I’m not. My own father was part of the task force, and he told me some grisly stories about men dying badly. We have the opportunity to ensure that doesn’t happen again. This might sound like a straightforward surveillance operation, but there’s a hell of a lot riding on it. Don’t let me down.’

  Don’t let me down. Hector’s voice rang in Max’s ears as he sat with his friends. The skipper’s description of the sinking of the Belgrano had spooked him a little. He felt weighed down by the responsibility to ensure that this mission went well. The cadets had found themselves in some scary situations before, but they’d never had to avert a full-blown war. He couldn’t help wondering how many people would die if they failed.

  He became aware of Sami, who was sitting next to him. His Syrian friend was holding up a fat, half-eaten chip, smeared in salt, vinegar and ketchup. His eyes were wide.

  ‘What?’ Max said.

  Sami turned to him. ‘I thought you were my friend,’ he said.

  Max frowned. ‘I … I am.’ He felt genuinely upset at the thought that Sami might think anything else.

  ‘Then why did you never tell me about fish and chips before?’ He looked back at his half-eaten chip. ‘That is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten,’ he said, before cramming the rest of the morsel into his mouth. ‘I can’t believe I had to come all the way to the Falkland Islands to try it!’

  4

  Atlantic View

  The Atlantic View guest house was a simple place. The cadets each had a single room with a lumpy mattress and, as the name suggested, a vista across the ocean, obscured by thin net curtains. The guest house was on the outskirts of Stanley and the cadets were the only guests. It was run by an old woman called Arlene who was proud of her enormous breakfasts. When she wasn’t cooking bacon, she seemed to spend her time in front of the television in a tiny front room with a log burner. When the cadets returned home that evening, there she was, a cup of tea on the occasional table by her armchair. They wouldn’t see her for the rest of the evening.

  They retired separately to their rooms. Max checked the time: 1930 hours. It was dusk. He parted the net curtains and looked out over the Atlantic. A low moon was reflected on the water, disappearing now and then as clouds scudded across it. They would not be able to rely on moonlight tonight.

  Fortunately, that didn’t matter.

  Max’s suitcase was under his bed. He pulled it out and plonked it on top of the mattress, which squeaked under the weight. The main compartment of the suitcase was empty, but there was a second, hidden, compartment underneath, which he unzipped. Here, there was an encrypted satellite phone; a pair of high-resolution night-vision binoculars, with extra battery packs; and a small digital camera with a telescopic lens. Max took the binoculars and turned off the lights in the room. He switched on the binoculars and put them to his eyes. The contents of the room appeared, massively blurred: he could kind of make out the shapes of the bed, the rickety writing table, the tea-making tray with its little packets of biscuits, but only with difficulty at such close range. The NV was working though, and that was the main thing. He went over to the window and parted the net curtain again. He saw a Land Rover moving along the harbour road, and a cat curled up on the roof of an outhouse. A few people hurried along the sea front, wrapped up against the breeze. And there was a ship, very distant, out at sea.

  Satisfied that the binoculars were in full working order, Max switched them off and turned the lights on again. There was a knock on the door. ‘Yeah?’

  It was Sami. ‘Have you checked your optics?’ he said.

  ‘Just now. What is it, mate? You seem worried.’

  Sami shrugged and walked over to the window. ‘It’s going to be a dark night,’ he said.

  ‘Dark nights are good,’ Max said. ‘We won’t be seen.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘What is it, Sami?’

  Sami turned. ‘Do you ever get the feeling that we’re the wrong people for this job?’

  Max sat on the edge of his bed. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘They call it imposter syndrome, don’t they?’

  ‘Do they? I just … from what I’ve heard, a lot of people died in the Falklands War, on both sides. It feels like a big deal, leaving it up to us to stop it happening again.’

  ‘I guess,’ Max said. ‘But really it’s up to other people not to start it, right? Soldiers don’t start wars. We just do what we’re told, and we try not to make too many mistakes along the way. I bet that’s what Hector would say, anyway.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Sami said. ‘It’s so quiet here – on the islands, I mean. It feels like – what’s the phrase? – the calm before the storm.’ He headed towards the door. ‘We leave at 2300 hours, right?’

  ‘Roger that,’ Max said. ‘Hey, Sami.’

  Sami stopped and turned.

  ‘We’ve done okay so far. Four missions down and we’re all still alive and pretty much in one piece.’

  Sami nodded, but he still looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said.

  Once Sami had left, Max lay on his bed. It was important that Arlene thought they had all retired for the night, because then she would go to bed and they could sneak out unnoticed. He tried to rest – they had a long night ahead of them – but couldn’t. Truth was, he shared Sami’s worries.

  The hours passed in silence, broken only by the creaking of the old guest house. At half past ten, Max stood up and started to get ready. He had unpacked his clothes into an old wooden wardrobe, and now he selected the gear he wanted for tonight’s surveillance operation. It would be cold and possibly wet. He put on three T-shirts so the layering effect would keep him well insulated. Black waterproof trousers. Breathable woollen socks and sturdy Gore-Tex walking boots. A breathable storm coat. He remembered, back in the children’s home where he had been brought up, reading a book by the old fell-walker Alfred Wainwright. What had he said? There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing. Back then, Max never dared to imagine that one day he would be choosing clothing for a situation like this.

  He packed his NV binoculars and digital camera in his storm-coat pockets and, almost as an afterthought, put his pillows under his blankets to give the impression that someone was sleeping there. At 11 p.m. precisely he exited the room, switching off the light and turning the key in the lock behind him. The others were waiting in the corridor. Nobody spoke. They crept one by one down the stairs, making as little noise as possible. On the ground floor, Lili used the key Arlene had given them to open the front door. They exited quietly and locked the door behind them.

  It had started to rain. Not heavily, but enough to ensure that the street in front of
the guest house was deserted. The cadets headed west, past weather-boarded houses that were closed up for the night. Stanley was such a tiny town that they were beyond its boundary in less than five minutes. A straight road headed along the coast, following the line of the inlet on which the town was situated. The cadets kept a few metres to the left of the road, ready to hit the grass if a vehicle came in either direction. But none did. As the lights of Stanley receded behind them, Max felt an increasing sense of solitude.

  The rain became stronger. It whipped against their faces, and stung. They reached the end of the coastal inlet. Here, both the shoreline and the road turned back in a hairpin. Now the cadets struck off to the north. This direction took them across country, away from the road. Max knew that from here it was about five hundred metres to their destination.

  The steepness of the hill gradually increased, and so did the ferocity of the elements. A strong wind blew directly into their faces, and the cold rain pelted them. But although they were thousands of miles from Valley House, these bitter conditions were entirely familiar to them. They had trained in weather like this and hiked for many miles in the darkness. There was a strange comfort in knowing that they had done this before. Max noticed that the steeper the hill and the worse the weather, the faster they moved. Within a couple of minutes, they were jogging uphill, powering through the elements. The exercise and the layers he wore kept Max warm and, although he sweated, his pulse was low and his breathing even. The Watchers’ high-intensity fitness regime was obviously working.

  It was five minutes past midnight when they reached the top of the hill. Lukas, who was leading, held up one hand. The cadets came to a halt. If Max’s internal compass and detailed study of a map of the islands were correct, they were approaching their destination: the clifftop overlooking the cove where the old farmer, Banfield, claimed to have seen men coming out of the sea.