by Matt Lynn
“Easy, boys,” snapped Lothar.
The firing stopped. Alex levered himself back into the seat, tapping on the brakes to bring the vehicle to a gentle stop. It shuddered, but gradually slowed. He gripped his Browning in his right hand, and gently pushed open the door. The jeep had skidded off the road and was lying on its side. Two corpses had been deposited on the ground, and three more were inside the vehicle. The van had taken a terrible beating. The glass was shattered, all the tyres burst, and the side panels had been ripped to shreds. Water and oil was leaking from a crack in the engine. But the vehicle had held together. I’ll never knock a Renault again, reflected Alex. I might even buy myself a Twingo.
“You alright boys,” he asked as he swung open the back door.
Jack, Lothar and Paul climbed out. Their guns were slotted into their hands, ready to fire, but the battle was already over. Up ahead, the remaining motorbike was skidding over the horizon. That’s the Libyans for you, reflected Alex. They don’t fight to the last man.
Twenty yards back, the driver of the Land Rover was stumbling out of the machine. He walked towards them with his hands up. Paul frisked him, took his knife and handgun, and snapped a pair of plasti-cuffs over his fists to make sure he couldn’t cause any trouble. Alex started to haul the first of the shaken hostages out of the Land Rover. He looked up. The Black Hawk was circling above readying itself to land a few yards away. “We’re going home, lads,” he said, shaking one of British engineers by the hand. “And I think all of us will be bloody glad never to see Libya again.”
Chapter Two
“That was an excellent job, well done.”
Helen Greenway delivered the sentence crisply, with a half a smile on her lips, but without a trace of warmth or emotion. She was a cold women, possibly the coldest I’ve ever met, Alex reflected each time he took a briefing - or debriefing - from her. Then again, running Unit Five is enough to turn any person, man or women, to ice. You recruit men whose lives are effectively over, and you send them out on missions where the death was likely to be real as well as metaphorical. That’s the kind of work that takes a toll on a person. Maybe she was okay at home with her husband and kids, if she had them. Out here, in the office, she made a Japanese factory robot seem human in comparison.
“Maybe we could have a few days R&R out here in the Med,” said Jack.
“Just run us up to Ibiza and give us a few hundred euros to spend in the bars,” chipped in Paul.
Alex smiled. All four of them were wired up, and joking around was one way to deal with the tension. They’d landed back on HMS Stanley twenty minutes ago. The hostages had been rushed down to the medical room to be checked over, but from the time he’d spent with them on the flight back Alex could tell they were all okay. They were strong oilmen, used to working in some of the most hostile environments in the world, and although they had had less to eat than usual for the past few days, they hadn’t been mistreated. Alex had a few cuts to his face, but he’d cleaned those up himself on the chopper. A coffee, a meal, and a good night’s sleep, and the unit would be as good as new.
“I’d like to be able to offer you some time out,” said Greenway. “Paul and Lothar can stand down. But Alex and Jack are going straight back in.”
“No damned way,” growled Jack.
Alex glanced across at the American. He’d only just joined Unit Five, he knew that much, whereas Alex had been on the team for a year now. Maybe no one had told him the rules yet. You didn’t question orders, no matter how stupid. And you didn’t turn down a job, no matter how dangerous. It was that simple. Challenge them, and they’d throw you straight back into whatever hell hole they found you.
“I mean, we’ve…” he continued.
“We’ve given each of you men a second chance,” said Greenway. Her tone had dropped from cold to freezing. “Which means…”
“Which means we’re going back in,” interrupted Alex. He looked back towards Greenway. “What’s the job?”
“Briefing in thirty minutes,” said Greenway. “Get some food.”
The meal was simple, but hearty. Alex felt drained by the battle they’d just been through, but he knew he needed to get some calories inside him. A private room had been sectioned off from the canteen – Unit Five men weren’t meant to mix with the regular Navy guys – and their plates were piled high with grilled chicken and pasta washed down with a jug of orange juice. It wasn’t the best meal Alex had ever had. But there was plenty of protein in it, and it would get him through the next twenty-four hours. Whatever they might hold.
“How the hell did they get you into this outfit?” asked Jack, spooning a huge chunk of chicken into his mouth.
Alex hesitated before replying. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to open up to Jack. He didn’t know whether he liked the man, or even trusted him. “The usual…”
“There’s nothing usual about this outfit, that’s for damned sure.”
“Afghanistan,” said Alex. “There was a fire fight in Helmand. A couple of kids got caught in the cross-fire. It wasn’t my fault, but I took the blame. I got two years in a military jail. These guys arranged for me to be let out and told me that if I finished the sentence in the Unit it would be erased from my record. I’d get an honourable rather than a dishonourable discharge.”
He paused. It didn’t matter how many times he told the story, or how simply he put it, the bitterness never went away. “And you?”
“Desertion,” said Jack.
“Jesus, why the hell would you do that?”
“It’s a long story,” said Jack. “I’ll tell you one day.”
Before Alex could say anything, both men were summoned back to the briefing room. Greenway had been joined by Major Tim Harford. Unit Five’s head of intelligence. A slim, tall man with blonde hair, his manner was gentler than Greenway’s. He joke around and buy you a beer off-duty. But even less trustworthy, reckoned Alex. Intelligence guys always were. They spent so much of their lives double and triple- crossing people they didn’t know when to stop.
“Colonel Zayed is about to fall,” said Harford.
He was pointing at a map of Libya on a screen behind him. It showed Tripoli, and the advances made by the alliance of rebels backed by NATO. “The front line is getting closer to Tripoli all the time, and the rebels are preparing for a final push. Obviously, there is nothing we’d like more than to see the back of the mad bastard. There’s just one problem, however. There are documents stored in the Presidential compound which for reasons of national security must never see the light of day. Documents that detail some of the past dealings between Zayed’s regime and the British and American governments.”
Harford coughed, and took a sip of water. Alex had noticed that tic before. He wasn’t a nervous man. No one could work in intelligence for Unit Five without nerves of steel. It was because he was embarrassed about the danger he was about to send the men under his command into. As well he should be, thought Alex.
“Through some trusted intermediaries within the President’s inner circle, we’ve made contact with him, and we’ve come to an understanding,” said Harford. “He knows he can’t hold on much longer. The last of his reliable military units are starting to flake away. It’s only a matter of time before he’s defeated, and the rebels will put him up against a wall and shoot him. If they do, they’ll get hold of those documents and make them available to the world. And if that happens, the governments of both Britain the US will fall.”
Greenway took a step forward. “We’ve agreed we’ll bring him out, and help him escape to Zimbabwe, where he’ll be given a safe haven. Your job is to go in there, and help him out.”
“We’ve been bombing the hell out of them for the last six months,” said Alex. “If we didn’t want to see him defeated, why the hell were we doing that?”
“This is politics and war,” said Harford. “Nothing is ever straightforward.”
“But, Jesus, man, we’ve been trying to kill him…” interrupted Ja
ck.
“And we still are,” snapped Harford.
Greenway glanced across at her colleague. Alex had never seen her rattled before, but she looked right on the edge now. “We’ve told the Libyan leader we’re going to bring him out, but the truth is we can’t allow the Colonel to spend his retirement playing golf in Harare. He’s too dangerous, and he knows too much. We’ve told him you are being sent in there to help him escape, because that way you’ll be given access to the compound. You’re real job is to get hold of that document, and then to assassinate him.”
“To…” started Alex.
“That’s right,” interrupted Harford, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “To eliminate the Colonel.”
Chapter Three
The briefing had already lasted for an hour. Harford and Greenway ran through the lay-out of the Presidential compound, and the forces that Zayed had left at his command. A pair of units from the elite Revolutionary Guard still loyal to the President were keeping the rebels at bay on the outskirts of the city, but the compound itself was held by a desperate group of fifty Zimbabwean mercenaries led by Major Regis Maruma. They were hard, tough soldiers, well-paid, and once the compound fell they would all be savagely executed by the rebels unless they could make an escape before then. They were desperate men with their backs against the wall reflected Alex. And that would make them a formidable force.
“Once you get in, you’ll be on your own,” said Harford. “But you’ll be going in as friends, so you shouldn’t have to do any fighting. Make sure the Colonel has the documents with him, then bring him straight back here.”
Alex glanced up at the intelligence officer. There was no point in complaining about the risks. That wasn’t part of his calculations. Someone very high up had decided to terminate the Colonel, and he was simply the chosen instrument. No one was worrying about his chances of coming out alive any more than a solider worried about the fate of the bullets in his gun. “How are we getting in?” he asked crisply.
“We can drop in by chopper,” said Jack. He looked towards Alex. “This guy can even wear his gloves.”
“Too dangerous,” said Greenway. “The rebels control most of the ground between the coast and the Presidential compound. They’ve got plenty of anti-aircraft missiles, and they’re shooting anything that looks suspicious out of the sky.”
“Tell them it’s a NATO helicopter,” said Alex. “We’re meant to be on the same side.”
Harford shook his head. “There can’t be any suspicion that we helped the Colonel out of the country. This is completely off-the-record, one hundred percent deniable...”
“Then, like I said, how the hell are we getting into and out of the country,” growled Jack. There was an edge of anger to his voice. “Walking...”
“I will help you?” said a woman who had just entered the room. Alex turned around. She was about thirty. Slim, with short dark hair. Attractive, even in the dim light of the briefing room. “I’ve done it plenty of times.”
She walked purposefully towards the centre of the room. Outside, Alex could hear the hum of the ship’s heavy engines, and the steady beating of the waves against its hull.
“This is Zena Rubenstein,” said Harford. “She’s taking charge of getting you into and out of Libya?”
Nobody was saying who she was or where she came from, noticed Alex. They didn’t need to. A women who joined a Unit Five mission into Libya could only come from one place. The Mossad. The brutally efficient Israeli secret service.
“There’s an established Mossad route into Libya,” started Zena, glancing between both men. “It has been one of the major sources of arms and equipment to Palestinian terrorists over the years, and we’ve always had agents inside the country we need to get in and out. We take a boat at night. Out at sea, it meets up with a Libyan fishing vessel. The men switch onto the Libyan boat and that takes them into the country.”
“The fishing boat will bring you in at one of the few coastal villages the rebels haven’t take yet,” said Greenway. “Rubenstein will wait for you there. We’ve scheduled a RV with the fisherman for forty-eight hours time. Bring the colonel out with you.”
“And do we bring him here?” said Alex. “Or do we assassinate him on the boat.”
“Dispose of him at sea,” said Greenway. “I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure it’s done.”
An executioner, thought Alex. The Colonel had it coming to him, there was no question about that. But even so. He shook his head. He’d signed up to defend his country, not to be its glorified hangman.
“It’s ten o’clock now,” said Harford, checking his watch. “You’ve got an hour to get yourself ready.” A half-smile creased up his lips. “And good luck to you.”
Chapter Four
Alex looked straight out into the storm but through the darkness of the night and the heaving swells of the waves it was impossible to see very much. He’d always thought of the Mediterranean as calm, easy-going sea, surrounded by lazy holiday resorts, where a man could sit back with a beer in his hand and watch the girls in bikinis walk past. But like any stretch of water it had its violent side, and that was what was in evidence tonight. They’d been sailing for an hour, in a Royal Navy unmarked vessel that wasn’t much more than a lifeboat. Zena had taken the helm, steering the boat with an expert hand, even as the storm gathered in force and tossed the boat around like a splinter of driftwood. Alex and Jack were hunkered down in the back of the boat, a strip of tarpaulin pulled over their heads to keep as much of the spray and the rain off them as possible, but it was impossible to keep themselves dry.
“I’ve never fought alongside a woman before,” said Jack. “And I don’t see why I should start now.”
“I thought the American army had plenty of women in it these days,” said Alex.
“Not in the Seals,” said Jack harshly. “Not in my time, and I hope not ever.”
Alex ignored him. There weren’t any women in the SAS either, although there were some in the support units. But Zena looked like a capable fighter. She’d taken command of the boat with an expert hand, and hadn’t flinched in the face of the battering it was taken from the storm. He’d judge anyone by how they performed at their work. Whether they were a man or a women didn’t make any difference.
It was three in the morning when they transferred to the Libyan fishing boat. The storm meant they were running a half hour behind schedule, but the fisherman was waiting for them. Zena led them aboard. She’d worked with the man before, and they acknowledged each other with a brief exchange of kisses on the cheeks. Alex steadied himself, then jumped across to the deck. The fisherman had already been out for half the night, filling the boat with his catch. Sardines mostly. Anything else would create suspicion. He was being paid far more than the fish were worth for dropping them into the country, Alex guessed. But a fishing boat that came in without a catch was going to mean questions were asked. And that was the one thing all of them wanted to avoid.
“How far?” Alex asked, looking up at Zena.
“An hour.”
The storm was still battering the sea, and the vessel was tossing violently. Jack was sick once over the side of the boat, and Alex could feel his stomach heaving but Zena remained calm and composed, scanning the seas ahead of them for enemies. But no one was going to venture out in this weather unless they had to. It was just past four in the morning when they pulled into the relative shelter of the harbour.
A dozen fishermen were unloading their catch as the first rays of dawn broke over the harbour and filled the small village with a fresh, rain-soaked light. There were thirty or forty houses, Alex calculated, grouped around a small bay, with a steep cliff rising up on the left hand side. Behind the harbour, there was a village square, dominated by a statue of the Colonel they had come here to kill. According to Zena, a Toyota Land Cruiser should be waiting for them just off the main square, and they could use that to drive themselves towards the Presidential compound.
“What abo
ut those guys up there?” said Jack.
He had climbed from the boat up onto the quayside and was pointing to the left of the square a hundred yards in front of them. Alex glanced towards them. Five men, sitting on a Ford pick-up truck. There was a machine gun strapped to its back, and each of the men had AK-47’s in their hands. They were wearing jeans and sweatshirts, but that didn’t mean they weren’t military. The rebel forces didn’t wear uniforms, Alex reminded himself. They were a revolutionary force, made up of farmers and factory workers and students, and they fought in the same clothes they’d signed up in.
“They look like trouble to me,” growled Jack.
Zena glanced at them anxiously, then exchanged a few words with the fisherman. There was a flurry of conversation in Arabic. Her face was growing more anxious by the second. “The town has fallen to the rebels overnight,” she said, her tone quiet. “
Try and blend in, and walk straight through the square. Our car is on the other side. We don’t want any trouble if we can avoid it.”
Jack looked like he was about to explode, but Alex reached out and grabbed his arm. “Leave it,” he hissed. “We’ll do what the lady says.”
Alex was wearing jeans and sweatshirt. He was carrying a Browning Hi-Power tucked into a shoulder holster under his shirt, and he had a knife slipped into the side of his walking boots. He had a rucksack, with an SA-80 inside it, plus a spare mag and two hundred rounds of ammo. Into the soles his boot, he’d concealed four gold coins, worth a thousand dollars each: Unit Five men always carried some gold into a mission, and it often proved more useful than any weapon. But that was all the kit he was carrying. Just the basics. They were meant to be coming here to help the Colonel escape. Arriving armed to the teeth would look suspicious.
“We can take them from here,” hissed Jack.
Alex looked straight ahead. It was a fair point. There were five men on the truck and only three of them, but they were amateurs, and they’d be taken by surprise. If they opened up from here, the chances were they could take all five men down before they knew what was happening to them.