Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  HOTEL ST KILDA

  CATALYST

  MICHAEL KNAGGS

  Copyright © 2014 Michael Knaggs

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 9781783067619

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Carol

  ‘The wicked draw the sword and bend their bows

  to bring down the poor and needy,

  to kill those who walk uprightly;

  their sword shall enter their own heart,

  and their bows shall be broken.

  The righteous shall be kept safe for ever,

  but the children of the wicked shall be cut off.

  The righteous shall inherit the land,

  and live in it for ever.’

  Psalms, 37

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  The rocks were exceptionally hot to the touch as the eight men dropped down onto their stomachs and squirmed forward towards the edge of the escarpment which overlooked the focus of their mission. Like stepping into a hot bath, it took several seconds for their bodies to adapt to the new environment before they could relax without being conscious of the discomfort.

  Three heads pushed up slowly over the edge and looked down in silence for a full minute, taking in the scene before them. The ridge to the left of where they lay curved round in a tight arc through ninety degrees then straightened again to continue directly away from them for as far as they could see. The ground fell away steeply along the whole length of the ridge to the flat rock-strewn bed of a dried-up prehistoric lake.

  Some distance away and about 100 feet below them on the flat ground, they could make out two dozen or so men in military kit milling around beside a couple of tents pitched, like sentinels, at either side of the entrance to a large cave in the basin side. The men were chatting and smoking, and occasionally looking into the distance directly away from the three observers.

  Captain Malcolm Randall, commander of the small operational unit, spoke to the man on his right. “This close enough, Major? I don’t think we can get any nearer.”

  The man didn’t answer immediately but took his time looking round the site. He was tall and slim, with square shoulders and a narrow waist, but without the highly developed muscular frame of each of the rest of the group. He was also the senior by ten years of the next oldest there. His intense dark eyes set in a sharp-featured, handsome face took in all the factors of terrain, light, target angle, range and position that would contribute towards or detract from their chances of success.

  “This should be fine,” he said, eventually, turning to the third man.

  “Right?”

  “Sure. You’re the man, sir,” said the young soldier, grinning.

  “Okay,” said the Major. “Range check.”

  The Captain slid back the few yards to the other five members of the team.

  “This is it,” he said. “We wait.”

  On the ridge, the two men dropped down below the sight line and the Major unslung the two rifles he was carrying, a signal for the other man to do the same. They each rested one against the rock beside them and slowly pulled the other up over the parapet, shouldering them into position.

  “Guy closest to the first tent,” said the Major.

  He steadied his weapon and peered through the rifle scope. The two lines of mil dots at right-angles to each other, intersecting in the centre of the reticle, formed the cross-hairs and provided the means of estimating the range. He focused on the man nearest the tent. Assuming his height to be six feet and noting that his image through the scope covered four-and-a-half spaces between the dots, he was able to convert this information quickly into a range of 445 yards.

  He turned to his partner.

  “Have you got your dress on?”

  Corporal Mike Hanson smiled. “I prefer to pronounce it ‘drez’, sir.”

  “Tell me again what it stands for.”

  Mike sighed.

  “‘Digital range estimation system’ and I admit, before you say anything, it’s nowhere near as accurate as you.”

  “Just as long as you realise that. What do you make it?”

  Mike focused on the same man through the rifle scope, and then held down a button which changed the image to a small screen showing the estimated range in both metres and yards.

  “Four-o-six metres – four-forty yards,” said the Corporal. “Drop of five inches, adjusted for altitude.”

  “What?”

  “Takes into account height above sea level; bullet travels faster where the air’s thinner.”

  The Major shook his head in disbelief.

  “Jesus! In other words, a rifle with a built-in barometer. What next, for Christ’s sake? No wonder the old skills are dying out.”

  The young soldier looked across at him and grinned.

  “So, did I get it right, sir? Based on your ancient skills?”

  “You always were a precocious little shit, Hanson, right from the first training session. You were five yards out, if you must know.”

  ‘Little’ shit was hardly an appropriate description. Mike was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and with a ruggedly attractive face that gave him an air of authority and toughness. That is when it wasn’t smirking, which it usually was.

  They adjusted their scope elevation to account for the drop and the young Corporal slid below the level of the ridge and turned onto his back, closing his eyes against the sun. The Major continued to survey the scene around him.

  “Four-forty yards,” he said, to himself. “That’s good. All in range, and a walk in the park for old faithful.” He tapped the barrel of his rifle affectionately; an Accuracy International L96A1, generally accepted as the best sniping rifle in the world. Certainly the Major thought so and, as a consequence, so did Corporal Hanson.

  “Absolutely no wind for a change. One thing less to worry about.”

  Looking across to the right where the ridge continued, rising gradually upwards, he noted a distinctive and familiar protrusion of rock sticking out from it, looking a bit like a private box set slightly forw
ard from the Circle in a theatre or concert hall.

  “I’ve been here before, you know,” he called down to Mike.

  “When? What for?”

  “Twelve years ago: it was over there.” He pointed to the rocky outcrop. “Doing the same job as today.”

  “Successful trip, was it?”

  The Major shook his head.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You probably didn’t allow for altitude,” said Mike, with his hallmark grin.

  The Major smiled, although the memory was not a pleasant one. Right now, however, he fixed his eyes again on the direction their present target would arrive from. There was no sign yet. He glanced down at the young man by his side who now seemed to be sleeping peacefully without a care in the world. He hoped that was true, and that it would remain that way.

  The waiting continued. Eventually, Captain Randall appeared anxiously by his side, looking at his watch. The Captain was half a head shorter than the two marksmen, stocky and broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and eyebrows, and a round face which seemed to be set in a permanent frown of concentration.

  “We need him to get a move on; he’s two hours behind schedule already,” he said. “Apart from anything else, we’re going to get some snow in the next hour or so and I don’t fancy being far from the transport when that comes down. I expected we’d be done here by now. I hope to God he hasn’t been tipped off,” he added as an afterthought, “in which case I guess we should be looking behind us.”

  Almost as he finished speaking, the welcome cloud of dust appeared in the middle distance.

  “Someone’s on his way,” said the Major, nudging the somnolent Corporal. “Care to join us?”

  The three men lay flat and still, watching the dust cloud get closer. The Captain steadied his binoculars.

  “Three vehicles – Defenders. Short wheel-base at the front – just two men – driver and one passenger in the front seat beside him. Guess that’s our man. Two long wheel-base pick-ups behind; one driver and looks like about six men in the back of each.”

  He lowered his bins.

  “What do you think?”

  “Suggest we get the guys in place right now,” said the Major. “Don’t want any movements on their sky-line when they get close. We’ll try to take him in the car as he arrives – but no promises. Depends on position of the vehicle when he stops. Target won’t normally move from his seat until the driver opens the door for him. He usually goes round the back of the vehicle to do that. We could have ten seconds at best. Be ready to start countdown from when he puts the handbrake on. Mike, find your position – now!”

  He could feel his excitement rising and surfacing in the way he snapped out the last word to his co-marksman.

  The Captain turned and waved the men forward.

  “Positions!”

  They fanned out along the ridge on either side of the three already there, slipping their assault rifles from their shoulders and settling themselves in readiness. The dust cloud moved closer – now less than half a mile from its destination below them.

  The Captain went through the briefing with his men.

  “We’ll try to take him inside the car as he arrives, so Major will initiate countdown. Count of six. Mike fires on three, Major on two; all fire on zero. Check?”

  “Check!” All seven responded as one.

  “Only Major to stop count if necessary. If count stops hold positions perfectly still. Check?”

  “Check!”

  “Okay. Still from now.”

  It was standard practice when firing through a window or windshield. Two shots, one second apart. The first would take out the glass, removing any risk of deflection for the second.

  Captain Randall watched the final stages of the approach through his binoculars as safeties came off and fingers gently touched the sensitive triggers ready for action. The leading vehicle stopped as it drew level with the cave, about twenty yards away from it. The first pick-up eased alongside, between the car and the cave, and the second one pulled slowly round to stop at the other side.

  Luck was with the patrol; the leading car was facing directly towards them. The two occupants were clearly not intending to get out until their escort was in position, with the vehicles parked on either side.

  “Okay, Mike?” asked the Major.

  “Okay.”

  “Count!”

  The Captain called out the seconds.

  “Six…five…four…three…”

  Mike fired.

  “…two…”

  The Major fired.

  “…one…zero”

  Seven rifles opened up on the shocked group below them.

  Mike’s shot destroyed the windscreen of the Defender half a second before the bullet left the Major’s rifle. The victim was thrown backwards in his seat in a double jerk as both shots found their mark. The insurgents, some of whom were still climbing down from the pick-ups, scattered from the point of the attack, running into the cave, dropping behind rocks or rolling underneath the vehicles.

  “Hit!” yelled the Captain. “Complete! Near certain! And two more, perhaps three! Keep firing!”

  The rest of the rebel group were trying to get into the cave, making darting runs to safety from their temporary cover and firing in the general direction where the shots were coming from. The Captain let the assault continue for another thirty seconds, and then yelled for them to stop.

  “Hold fire! Let them get to cover!”

  The firing stopped and the remaining rebels scrambled for the relative safety of the cave.

  “Okay. Into the entrance – open fire, now!” His voice was calmer now that the level of excitement had reduced in the relative quiet of the last few moments.

  The seven rifles barked again briefly, peppering the opening.

  “Cease fire,” said the Captain. “Just to let them know we’re still here, if they’re thinking of coming out. Okay let’s move it!”

  As they made their rapid descent back from the edge of the escarpment, the euphoria of the mission’s success, in spite of admirable attempts to suppress it, was unmistakable. The grins on the faces of the patrol members were evidence to that and Mike was subjected to a battery of congratulations as they headed home.

  “Anyone can hit a windscreen,” said the Major.

  As they neared the point where they had left their two all-terrain vehicles, the wind and snow came at them together and the light faded. At this altitude and time of the year, the temperature could drop twenty degrees Celsius in a couple of hours. They were within half a mile of their destination, half-walking, half-stumbling along a rough track through a narrow steep-sided gully. The Major was at the head of the group as they approached a blind right turn. Suddenly, he stopped, raising his right arm high to halt the column, and turned to face them.

  “Wait!”

  They all stopped and instinctively slipped their weapons from their shoulders, the Captain and the five soldiers behind him each throwing over the small lever on the 9mm conversion unit which effectively turned the assault rifles into SMGs.

  “What is it?” said the Captain, who was third in line behind the Major and Corporal Hanson.

  “Thought I heard something. Stay!”

  The Major edged forward slowly to the turn in the path and peered round the corner. A few yards ahead the gully widened out into a circular flat basin, the sides still steep and high, before narrowing again into a similar passageway.

  “Wait there.”

  The Major’s instruction was mouthed rather than spoken and reinforced by his hand outstretched towards them, palm vertical and restraining. He was about thirty yards ahead of them as he disappeared from view round the corner. The Captain stepped past the Corporal to the front of the waiting group.

  A minute passed, seeming much longer.

  Mike at the Captain’s shoulder was becoming agitated, and edged forward level with him.

  “Sir, shouldn’t we…”

&n
bsp; “Wait!” The Captain put his arm across the young soldier’s chest and held him back.

  Then came the first explosion, from not far past the turn in the track. The men behind the leading two pressed themselves instinctively against the side of the gully and hands moved to triggers. They looked anxiously towards the turning, and then to their leader for the order for action. The expression on the Captain’s face was of confusion rather than horror.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said, more to himself than to his men.

  “Fucking right it is!” yelled Mike. “The Major!” He pushed past the Captain and ran down the track.

  “Corporal! Mike! Wait! Wait! Stop now!”

  CHAPTER 1

  It was 2.00 am in the morning and Tom Brown was nowhere near completing his preparations for the coming afternoon. He went through to the kitchen.

  Taking a mug from the draining board he scooped a heaped spoonful of instant coffee into it. As he replaced the coffee jar, he caught a second mug with his elbow, knocking it onto the stone-flagged floor. It shattered loudly. He looked bleary-eyed in surprise at how far the half-dozen fragments had scattered across the floor. He was too tired to be angry; he reached for the pan and brush from under the sink to start the clean-up operation.

  The kitchen door, which had been partly open, swung back further with some drama. The tall, slender figure of his wife, Maggie, stood in the doorway, bare-footed and in a short, hastily-donned dressing gown.

  “What the hell is going on?” she said. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

  “I’ve broken a mug and it’s just after two o’clock,” he said, without expression.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” she said.

  “Which?” Tom asked. “The breakage or the time?”

  “Some of us are trying to get some sleep.”

  “Us? I see. Well, whoever it is you’ve got up there with you, thanks for keeping the noise down. You weren’t always so quiet in bed.”

  “I’m amazed you can remember that long ago,” she said, and then saw the shattered fragments in the dustpan in his hand, “Oh, no! That’s the mug Katey got me for Mothers’ Day; the first present she ever went out and bought for me on her own. I’ve had it for seven years. Well, thank you very much for that!”