Marine D SBS

by Peter Cave

  ‘Lives would be at stake even with our help,’ Mallory said quietly. ‘The lives of your men. If we went ahead, the prototype would have to be field-tested at every stage of development. We’d be progressing by trial and error alone, fine-tuning as we went along. Are you and your men prepared for the risks that would entail?’

  Martin nodded gravely. ‘We are all aware of the dangers. And we know what will happen if we fail. On balance, it has to be worth any risks. We have no real choice.’

  Silence fell again. Martin studied each of the faces in the room in turn, trying to gauge what thoughts were going on behind the bemused expressions. He was looking for hope, but could see only doubt. With a slightly sinking feeling, he realized that he was probably losing them, and wished there was something he could do about it. But there was nothing. His hands were tied. If only he could tell them what was at stake, he thought bitterly. If only they knew how many innocent civilians might die, what sort of a bloodbath might erupt in one of the most volatile flashpoints of the world. It was a pointless thought. His orders had been explicit and unequivocal. Absolute secrecy. Operation Windswept was probably the most sensitive mission he had ever been involved in, and any leak would have disastrous international repercussions. Even his own men were still in the dark about their actual mission, and could not be briefed before the project moved safely into phase two. Everything hung on the decision of four bewildered, dubious and uninformed civilians. Martin could only wait, in the hope that he had managed to convey to them all something of the sense of urgency he himself felt.

  The mood was changing, slowly and very subtly. Glances became less inflexible, more questioning. Instead of mere doubt, the stirrings of curiosity showed themselves, in turn gradually hardening into a renewed sense of enthusiasm. The decision, when it was finally made, was somehow reached by mutual consent without a single word having been spoken. It appeared to be unanimous.

  Mallory appointed himself spokesman. ‘We still think this whole scheme is crazy,’ he pointed out. ‘But we’ll build these contraptions for you.’

  The relief on Martin’s face was obvious. ‘Thank you,’ he said with genuine gratitude in his voice. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements right away to get things prepared for you. Perhaps you could all provide me with a full list of your most immediate requirements, and I’ll get them ordered before the day is out.’

  ‘This isn’t going to happen overnight – you realize that?’ Bright said. ‘I don’t know what sort of time-scale you had in mind, but this could take months.’

  Martin faced him squarely. ‘I told you I can get you anything you need, Mr Bright,’ he said candidly. ‘Everything except time. We have exactly seven weeks to get these craft built, tested and ready for action.’ He paused, waiting for the expected chorus of protest, but it never came.

  ‘Then we’d better get our asses into gear, right?’ said Mallory, breaking the silence.

  12

  At last he could fully brief his men, Martin thought with a great sense of relief. Although many covert operations necessarily proceeded on a ‘need to know’ basis, it was somehow alien to SBS philosophy to keep Marines distanced from their commanding officers by a wall of secrecy – particularly in a tight, almost claustrophobic situation such as this. Not only did it tend to weaken the strong sense of comradeship and trust which was the very essence of the corps, it was not fair to the men themselves.

  Every member of the SBS had proved himself to be a brave, strong and honest man. To deny them the full truth was a betrayal of those very qualities that made them so special. They deserved to know exactly what dangers they faced, and they deserved the right to prepare themselves for those dangers each in his individual way. As Martin so often reminded himself, the SBS were not supermen, and they were not, as some people imagined, beyond fear. The real difference was that they had trained themselves to live with it.

  It was now early afternoon – the time when the majority of the tourists would be packing into the tavernas and the native Greeks enjoying a siesta. Martin took a calculated risk in calling all his men back off perimeter and beach patrol so that he could address them as a team. This fact did not go unnoticed by the men themselves. There was an excited buzz in the briefing room as Martin finally prepared himself to outline their mission.

  ‘Well, I suppose you know why I’ve called you all together,’ Martin began.

  ‘Yeah, you’re going to tell us all a funny story, aren’t you, boss?’ Gareth Williams called out, winning a ripple of laughter from his comrades.

  ‘Hope it’s better than one of yours then, Taff,’ Andy Donnelly put in. ‘All your dirty jokes have sheep and Wellington boots in ’em.’

  This unashamedly racist dig was quickly followed by a chorus of further comments on the sexual orientation of Welshmen in general and Gareth in particular. Martin let it go, knowing that there was a slightly nervous edge behind the laughter and absolutely no malice in the mickey-taking. The good-natured banter was their way of releasing tensions before a major briefing. He waited until the men eventually settled down before continuing.

  ‘You men were all hand-picked for this mission,’ he went on. ‘In case you hadn’t figure it out for yourselves, the common link between you all is that each of you has had extensive experience of flying hang-gliders or microlight aircraft in addition to your training on all forms of water-borne craft. Basically, this mission will rely very heavily on that experience.’

  ‘So that’s where the civvies come in, is it, boss?’ Sooty put in. ‘They’re here to build us all one of those nice little James Bond chopper’s that fit into a suitcase.’

  Martin smiled. ‘As it happens, trooper, you’re closer to the truth than you think. As a matter of fact, they are designing a very special sort of flying machine for you men – but it’s also a lot more.’

  There were no further interruptions. Martin could see from the look on the Marines’ faces that they were keen to get down to brass tacks.

  ‘Anyway, the first thing I wanted to do was to apologize to you all for keeping this mission under wraps for so long,’ he went on. ‘The plain truth is that, owing to the extreme delicacy of the operation, it was impossible to release any details until I was sure we had secured the full cooperation of our civilian friends. I’m pleased to say that that hurdle is now cleared, and we have official approval to go ahead.’ He paused briefly before going on. ‘Some of you have probably wondered what you were doing playing nursemaids to a bunch of hippie types. Well don’t let appearances fool you. Between them, our four guests represent possibly the finest and most innovative young designers in the West today. Their brief is to design and build a new kind of experimental multi-purpose craft which will be like nothing you have ever come across before. In that respect, gentlemen, you will all be guinea-pigs.’

  ‘So we’re going to be test pilots, eh, boss?’ Willerbey asked. ‘Up there with the brilliantine and glory boys?’

  Martin allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Not quite, trooper. If I told you that Wilbur and Orville Wright would probably have turned this one down flat, you might have an idea of the risks involved. The nitty-gritty is that this machine will be the product of little more than a wild, perhaps even desperate, idea. It was conceived for this mission alone, although it is possible that it might, in the future, be developed into a completely new form of amphibious assault craft. For the moment, let me just tell you that it is basically a powered hang-glider which will convert into a seagoing sailing vessel. We’ll get on to the specifics of design and application later. For the moment, I’d like to give you some of the background leading up to the mission itself.’

  Martin broke off, striding across the room towards the display board mounted on one wall. He pulled down a rolled-up map and locked it into position. As he turned back to his men his face was set in a stony mask.

  ‘From this moment on, gentlemen, may I remind you that this entire mission is of absolutely top-secret classification, priority one. Our
code-name is Operation Windswept. Not a whisper of what I am about to tell you must be allowed to get outside the confines of this base – either before or after the actual operation.’

  Under normal circumstances, the security of a mission briefing was taken for granted as an integral part of the job. The fact that the boss had seen fit to make special mention of it could only suggest that it was a matter of extreme and particular delicacy. This put many of the men on edge and provoked a buzz of speculation throughout the room.

  Martin waited until everyone had settled down again before continuing. Ignoring the map for the moment, he concentrated on the basics of the situation.

  ‘For some years now, the Russians have been supplying Syria – and we suspect Iraq too – with their SS21 missiles. With a range in excess of 9000 kilometres, multiple warheads and the capability to be launched from mobile stations, they represent the sharp end of current Soviet hardware and NATO have long considered them to be a particularly nasty threat in the already volatile Middle East. The only saving grace, to date, has been the fact that they were still operating on the traditional Soviet ‘fly-by-wire’ system originally developed for the earlier SS series back in the seventies. It had been generally held that the Western Alliance held the threat in check with the deployment of the American Patriot tactical air-defence system – which theoretically can outmanoeuvre, outfly and effectively neutralize just about anything else in the air.’

  Martin stopped to take a deep breath. ‘However, recent intelligence reports now indicate that we may have lost this very important tactical advantage, and I probably don’t have to spell out what the possible repercussions could be.’

  ‘You mean the Russkis have come up with a new missile we can’t touch?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Martin told him. ‘And anyway, the sheer cost of replacing their existing SS21 systems would be far beyond the financial capabilities of most of their Middle Eastern customers. So basically the Soviets have come up with a compromise.’

  Sooty let out a short, cynical laugh. ‘The bastards are getting more like us every day, aren’t they?’ he said.

  ‘More than you know,’ Martin agreed, with a nod. ‘Not the least aspect of which is their increasing preoccupation with world trade. The Russians may well be muttering about détente, but it hasn’t slowed down their increasing grip on international arms dealing. The SS21 has been the showpiece of their catalogue up to now, and they obviously can’t afford to have it shown up. We now know that Soviet scientists have developed a new and highly sophisticated computer guidance system which can be fitted to existing SS21 installations.’

  ‘You mean upgrade them?’ Williams said.

  ‘Worse than that,’ Martin said, shaking his head gravely. ‘If this new system is only half as good as our Intelligence boffins seem to think it is, then NATO forces have virtually no effective defence against it. It means that Syria and Iraq will shortly be able to put those bloody missiles just about any place they want to – and that places Israel right in the firing-line.’

  Martin broke off to sigh heavily. ‘Gentlemen, I don’t have to spell out for you the possible consequences of a missile attack on that country. If, as we suspect, the Israelis already have some sort of limited nuclear capacity, nobody doubts that they would use it if their backs were really against the wall. A major Arab–Israeli war in the Middle East could have disastrous consequences for the Western powers – not the least of which would be total and possible long-term disruption of oil supplies.’

  A ripple of excitement ran around the room. This was big-league stuff, and nobody present could fail to be totally awed by the implications.

  ‘So where the hell do we fit into the big picture?’ Sooty asked, speaking for them all.

  It was a direct question, and it deserved a direct answer. Martin cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Our mission is to steal one of these new guidance systems so that British and American scientists can come up with a workable countermeasure.’

  There was a long, thoughtful silence before Bryan Bailey let out a slightly nervous giggle. ‘Well, that’s all right, then. Something nice and simple. We thought it might be a bit more complicated that that.’

  The rest of the men took the opportunity to milk the situation for a little more tension-relieving humour.

  ‘So what’s the plan, boss?’ Sooty asked. ‘Do we paraglide into Red Square during one of the big parades and nick one off the back of a lorry?’

  Willerbey had another suggestion. ‘Perhaps we could just help ourselves to a complete missile and fly it home.’

  Martin allowed himself a fleeting smile. ‘Good ideas, gentlemen – but I think we’ll stick with the original plan.’ He was completely serious again. ‘We have learned that the first consignment of these new guidance systems is due to be delivered to Syria in just under two months’ time. They will be dispatched from the Black Sea port of Sebastopol on board a Russian cargo vessel, on a route which will bring it through the Straits of Bosporus and around the Turkish coast into the Mediterranean. Our task will be to intercept that vessel at a suitable point, board it, and steal one of the guidance systems.’

  Colin Graham let out a long, low whistle. ‘Jesus Christ, boss! You mean we’re going to hijack a Russian ship?’

  There was no point in trying to look for euphemisms. Martin nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’

  Graham shook his head from side to side in sheer disbelief. ‘What the hell’s in the minds of those guys at Ops? They want to kick off World War III or something?’

  ‘Preferably not,’ Martin said with massive understatement. ‘Actually, the official view is that if we could get away with it, the Russians would simply be too embarrassed to let it go public. There would probably be a lot of angry muttering at diplomatic level, and then the whole business would die a natural death. They could be right.’

  ‘Yeah, and they could be bloody wrong, too,’ Sooty put in. ‘We are talking about an act of piracy on the high seas, aren’t we? Correct me if I’m wrong, boss, but isn’t there some kind of international law about that?’

  ‘Now you understand why this mission is so sensitive,’ replied Martin.

  It was another wild understatement, evoking a fresh wave of sarcasm from Sooty. ‘So’s the end of my prick,’ he snorted. ‘But I wouldn’t use it to test the temperature of boiling water.’ He fixed the CO with his eyes. ‘Seriously, boss, do the boys in the back room really think we could get away with this caper? I mean, even if we managed to board this ship without getting bumped, how are we going to know where to go?’

  Martin had an answer ready. ‘That’s where our Russian friend Pavlaski comes in,’ he said quietly. ‘Or rather, his intimate knowledge of the layout of Soviet commercial vessels. It will be his job to brief you all until you know the ins and outs of that ship like the back of your own hand. He will also be able to advise you on crew movements, watch patterns and the best places to run for cover if you have to. Once you get on board that vessel, you should have more than a fighting chance of grabbing one of those systems and getting clean away.’

  ‘So how do we get to use this little magic carpet our civvy friends are cooking up for us?’ asked Williams.

  Martin picked up a pointer and turned to the map on the board, tracing it down the western coast of Turkey and around the south-western tip outside the Greek island of Rhodes. ‘This, according to Pavlaski, will be the route the ship follows,’ he explained. ‘Once in the Med, she’ll come inshore again and hug the southern coast of Turkey all the way across to the Gulf of Iskenderun, where she’ll drop down the Syrian coast to the port of Latakia. Our ideal attack point will be as she’s about to pass between the Turkish coast and the north-eastern tip of Cyprus – around 320 nautical miles from this point. It’s tricky water there and shipping usually slows down to a crawl, especially at night, which is when we’ll be going in.’

  Bailey had a question. ‘Excuse me, boss, but why don’t we inte
rcept her closer to home? I mean, why not go in while she’s still in the Aegean?’

  ‘Good point, trooper,’ Martin said. ‘But there’s one particularly good reason for that which will be explained later. For the moment, let’s just say that there are certain . . . complications. On top of which, we have to pull you out again when it’s all over – and that’s going to be easiest and surest from a nice safe base like Cyprus.’

  Martin moved the pointer back to the island of Samos. ‘So, you will fly from here in the specially modified microlights to a point some fifty miles off the north-eastern tip of Cyprus,’ he went on. ‘Our designer friends suggest that this will be about the maximum range we can expect from this craft, and you’ll still have somewhere safe to run in the event of the mission being aborted at the last minute or individual failure of any one of the craft. After landing on the water, the engine and much of the superstructure of the microlights will be jettisoned in the sea, and what remains converted into a crude but quite serviceable windsurfer. You will then sail to within interception point of the freighter under cover of dark, using passive night goggles, de-rig the sails and use the hulls as belly-boards to paddle in to the sides of the target. Comrade Pavlaski assures us that the stern of the vessel will be the most vulnerable. At that point you will attach yourselves and your boards to the hull with magnetic clamps, which will also serve as climbing aids so that one man can board the freighter and put over a rope for the rest.’ Martin broke off, looking out over his men expectantly. ‘Well, any more questions at this point?’

  Sooty nodded. ‘Just one,’ he muttered. ‘Why all this business with microlights and surfboards? Why can’t we go in using conventional craft. Even a mini-submersible?’

  Martin nodded thoughtfully. ‘That brings me to the little complication I mentioned earlier,’ he said. ‘Our own intelligence – which is confirmed by Pavlaski’s information – suggests that the Russians almost invariably protect sensitive cargoes like this with a naval military escort. It will be discreet, of course, operating under the pretence of legitimate military exercises, but it is almost certain that the freighter will be shadowed throughout its voyage by at least three patrol ships, fully equipped with state-of-the-art tracking and surveillance equipment. Going in silently, at night, under wind-power alone, represents our best chance of making a surprise raid. With luck, you can be off that freighter again before the shadowing naval patrol knows what’s going on.’