Assassin (John Stratton)

by Falconer, Duncan

  Also by Duncan Falconer

  The Hostage

  The Hijack

  The Operative

  The Protector

  Undersea Prison

  Mercenary

  Traitor

  Pirate

  Non-fiction

  First Into Action

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9780748122240

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Duncan Falconer 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  To my dearest Francesca

  Contents

  Also by Duncan Falconer

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  1

  Stratton lay on a sleeping bag on a bunk bed in full desert combat fatigues. A windproof jacket covered him like a blanket, with only his boots sticking out at the bottom.

  It was dark. Cold. His breath was turning to vapour as he exhaled easily before the dry and flaking mud walls of the hut.

  His face was coated in broad dark-green, brown and black stripes. He held his grubby hands intertwined across his abdomen, inside soiled, thin black leather gloves from which he had removed the fingertips. His bright-green eyes stared at the stars through the gaps in the mud and straw roof.

  A camouflaged Colt assault rifle was leaning against the wall by Stratton’s head. It had a sophisticated scope attached to the top. A full magazine loaded into it and bits of dark, frayed cloth tied on in places to break up its shape. Beside it lay a bulky, nylon harness system with pouches full of munitions and combat equipment.

  A low, hissing noise filled the small room, slightly louder than the sound of the chilly air whistling through the cracks in the walls. It was the carrier wave from a military radio sitting upright on the floor within arm’s reach. A distant voice occasionally broke through, speaking English. Soldiers somewhere, passing information. Questions and replies. Nothing frantic. All was calm and controlled in his world at that point.

  Stratton was taking a moment to relax before heading out into the night. The task was scheduled to last into the morning, depending on how successful it was. Rest when you can. The SF soldier’s mantra.

  He closed his eyes and tried to switch off. He hadn’t heard from London in almost ten months. Military intelligence could usually be depended on for rescuing him from the mundane, repetitive tasks on offer in special forces. He hoped something would come along soon that had some real meat to it, and not in Afghanistan like his present operation.

  He exhaled slowly and focused on letting his limbs grow heavy, reducing his heart rate and blood pressure. He was usually good at relaxing in hostile environments. Soon his breathing grew deeper and his mind emptied. And then, as if in a dream, he heard his name. Someone calling him faintly. Summoning him from a faraway place.

  He crawled back to consciousness as he realised it was coming from the radio.

  ‘Stratton, this is Ops,’ a voice repeated.

  He reached for the device and brought it to his mouth. ‘Stratton.’

  ‘Can you come to Ops?’ the voice said.

  ‘On my way.’

  He sat up and stretched his back. Typical, he thought. Just as he was nodding off. They call.

  He got to his feet. Lifted his heavy webbing onto a shoulder, picked up the assault rifle and went to the hut entrance. The door had long lost its hinges and leaned against the opening. He moved it to one side and walked outside.

  The mud hut was one of a dozen in a dark, abandoned village. Situated on the side of a steep hill, it was surrounded by a thick, high wall that the rain and wind had attacked over the years until it was crumbling away in places. The village had been evacuated during the Russian invasion some twenty-five years earlier. It hadn’t been repopulated, for whatever reason, after the Soviets had been ousted, and Stratton’s squadron had made it their temporary HQ, once it had been declared free of booby-traps or mines by the advance reconnaissance team. Thirty SBS operatives, along with an HQ element, had moved in a couple of days ago. They would be gone soon.

  Stratton walked between the ugly mud structures that housed the other teams. There were no lights anywhere. Everything was shades of grey to black. The enemy was miles away, but it was possible they might conduct a night patrol in the area. Although the village was on a route to nowhere in particular, military target-wise, as far as the Taliban were concerned. But there was no point in taking the risk. The lads could manage without lights anyway. They could warm their food in the huts. The smell would dissipate in the mountain winds long before any enemy would notice it.

  Stratton stepped through a gap in the perimeter wall and headed towards the operations HQ tent, wondering why he’d been summoned. Perhaps there’d been a change in plan.

  As he neared the camouflaged tent, which was specially designed to prevent any light escaping from within it, he could hear the barely perceptible hum from an otherwise silent generator tucked among the rocks metres away.

  He saw three men standing outside the tent’s airlock entrance. One was Captain Burns, the squadron commander and leader of the operation. Stratton had never seen the other two before. They were dressed in American-style combat fatigues. On the ground beside them sat a couple of small packs, with an assault rifle leaning against each. The strangers hadn’t been at the site earlier in the day and had evidently just arrived. Even though it was so remote, no helicopters were permitted at the forward location and only a couple of vehicles had been allowed up to bring the heavier equipment and they would remain in situ until the camp was dismantled the following day. That meant the two men had yomped in on the rocky track. It was seven miles to the last permitted point for operational vehicles, at least in the past twenty-four hours. And they’d done it in darkness. They must be keen, he thought.

  ‘That you, Stratton?’ Burns called out.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied as he closed in on the group.

  ‘Sorry to disturb your slumber,’ Burns said in his usual verging-on-sarcastic manner.

  Stratton was used to it. He’d known Burns for several years and liked and respected him. He eyed the two other men, who were looking at him. Or more like examining him.

  ‘I want to introduce you to a couple of visitors who’ll be joining us on the operation,’ Burns said. ‘Jeff Wheeland and Mike Spinter.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Wheeland said, holding out a hand, a smile on his wide face.

  Stratton kept his glove on as he took Wheeland’s hand. The man had a strong grip that matche
d his square jaw. He was American, no doubt about it. Stratton thought he sounded Midwestern. Both men were dressed like soldiers but Burns hadn’t given them ranks. That would have been unusual for military personnel. Which suggested they weren’t. And if they weren’t military and they were attending a special ops task, and they were American, then he figured they had to be Central Intelligence-type animals or spooks of some kind. Any one of a myriad of agencies under the US Homeland Security umbrella.

  ‘Pleasure,’ Spinter said. He sounded West Coast American and looked far more serious than his partner. Neither was he as solidly built, though he looked athletic. Stratton put both men in their early thirties. There was a similar intensity in the way they were looking at him.

  ‘It wasn’t mentioned in the briefing,’ Burns said. ‘But these guys are sponsoring this operation. You’ll personally be babysitting these gentlemen, Stratton. Their focus will be the ops section of the main building. I’ve got a few things to do before we head out so why don’t you get acquainted? We’ve got a little over an hour before we form up. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Captain Burns,’ Wheeland said.

  ‘No problem,’ Burns said, and went inside the tent, leaving them to stand out in the cold.

  Stratton didn’t have much small talk at the best of times, but he felt he ought to say something. ‘If you’d like a cup of tea or coffee I could knock up some inside my hut,’ he said. ‘We’re all on self-catering up here. No mess tent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We’re good, thanks,’ Wheeland said. ‘We just had a cup of coffee in the HQ tent with your squadron commander.’

  Stratton got the feeling that Wheeland was the boss of the two.

  ‘Winter seems to be early this year,’ the American said as he took a cigar wallet from a pocket.

  ‘You spend a lot of time in Afghanistan?’ Stratton asked.

  ‘On and off over the years,’ Wheeland replied, offering a cigar to Stratton, who declined. The American took one out for himself. ‘You a health nut too?’ he said. ‘Spinter here is purer than mountain water.’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve not matured enough for cigars,’ Stratton said.

  Wheeler took a lighter from his pocket and opened his coat to light the cigar. Spinter opened his own coat and added to the protection against the wind. It was an immediate and well-practised act.

  ‘Been looking forward to meeting you, Stratton,’ Wheeland said as he puffed on the cheroot to get it going. ‘I’ve heard a little about you. Quite the tough guy.’

  ‘Must be another Stratton.’

  ‘So you’re not the Stratton who broke into Styx. The underwater prison. And broke out of it as well. That was quite a feat.’

  Stratton wasn’t the boastful type. And since Wheeland apparently knew all about it there was nothing for him to say anyway.

  ‘Your parent unit’s the Special Boat Service but you do a lot of work for the Brit SIS,’ Wheeland said. ‘You could say you’re my opposite number. I started life in the Navy SEALs. Then one day I got the call and went over to the dark side.’

  Stratton wondered if Spinter was going to say anything.

  ‘I said to Burns, “I wanna be in the frontline of the assault,”’ Wheeland said. ‘“Then you wanna be with Stratton,” Burns said. “Would that be John Stratton?” I asked. “That’s the one,” he said.’

  Stratton wanted to impress upon Wheeland how important it was not to get in the way of his team when they moved on the target. But he decided against it. The American would probably resent it. Stratton would leave it until they got on the ground. Maybe Wheeland wouldn’t interfere anyway. Maybe he was all talk and would stay back when the action kicked in. Stratton couldn’t quite make him out.

  He decided he’d served protocol enough by talking as long as he had to them. ‘I’m going to sort out my kit for the task,’ he said, lying. His kit had long since been organised and ready to go. ‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour. You can keep warm in the HQ tent. It’s the only place around here with heating.’

  Stratton walked off. He thought he could hear a chuckle as he climbed through the gap in the mud wall perimeter. Typical spook arrogance, he thought. He had to wonder what they were doing here and why they wanted to join the operation. It wasn’t entirely unusual. He had carried out entries for intelligence operatives in the past, both Brit and US, usually some boffin, some whiz-kid who needed hand-holding through the most hazardous phase of the mission, or delivering to their objective and sometimes bringing back on completion. But this particular job had been briefed simply as a hit on a Taliban commander and his men who’d been causing a lot of grief in the region, planting roadside bombs, building suicide vehicles and terrorising any local towns and villages whose people showed signs of tolerating coalition forces. That had been the essence of the brief at least. It was not a strange target by far and Stratton and the boys had done several like it on their current tour. Why this bunch of Taliban was of greater priority than any other was not obvious. Not that any of them gave much of a damn. One target was as good as another.

  From experience, Stratton knew the only reason spooks would get personally involved in the actual fight was if they needed immediate access to someone or something on target and didn’t want it delayed or contaminated by post-operational procedures. Or if perhaps there was something they didn’t want to be seen by other personnel or agencies.

  All he cared about was that there be no surprises to put his men at risk.

  He made his way back to his hut and lay down on his bunk. An hour later, after an unsuccessful attempt to sleep, he walked back through the village with his rifle, webbing and backpack, leaving nothing behind. The teams wouldn’t be returning to the village on completion of the assault. They were to be picked up by helicopter on target, after it had been secured, and taken back to Camp Bastion. The HQ tent and everything else would be dismantled and the place evacuated as soon as they moved out.

  Other squadron members were vacating their huts at the same time and making their way towards the ops HQ. There was little banter. The men had been active since the early hours of that morning and, other than any sleep they might have managed to grab in the previous few hours, they would be looking forward to thirty hours straight by the time they got back to base. They were all used to long hours and short naps. They’d spark up once they were walking with their heavy packs and weapons towards the objective.

  Stratton saw Captain Burns in a clearing beyond the HQ tent, tooled up and camouflaged and ready to go. He put his pack down on the spot where he wanted to form up his own team and within a few minutes his men were with him.

  ‘You get some rest?’ he asked Jones, his second in command, a Welsh lad he had known for several years. Jones was a sound operator who he liked working with.

  ‘A bit,’ Jones said, in a lilting Snowdonian accent. He dumped his pack down on the floor. ‘Not quite enough, mind you. But barely enough, if you know what I mean.’

  To those who didn’t know Jones he might sound as if he were a habitual complainer. But that was not the case by far. Like every other badged member of the Service, Jones could put up with an ungodly amount of discomfort. He merely liked to point out the detailed facts as and when he saw them. That included the negative as well as the positive. And he often repeated himself – not necessarily because he thought he’d not been heard. He liked to ensure those he was talking to were fully informed and had not missed anything. What’s more, he couldn’t care less what anyone else thought about his ways.

  The rest of Stratton’s lads arrived, four operators in their early twenties and keen as you like.

  ‘We’ve got a couple of cling-ons,’ Stratton said to Jones.

  ‘Is that right? Who would that be, then?’

  ‘Yank spooks.’

  ‘Spooks?’ Jones said, looking around for them.

  ‘They never said as much but they bear all the hallmarks.’

  ‘Interesting. What are they doing h
ere then?’

  ‘They want first look at the intellectual spoils.’

  ‘Intellectual spoils. Of course. Have you told ’em they’re required to walk ten metres in front of us and look for mines?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re the type,’ Stratton said. ‘Here they are.’

  Wheeland and Spinter made their way through the growing muster point towards Stratton and his team. Both men carried small, light packs on their backs, which clearly indicated they were not equipped for any extended time in the field beyond the operation’s expected termination time early that morning. Stratton wondered what they would do if for some reason the op was postponed and the teams had to wait it out in the hills for a day or so longer. Or if a weather front were to close in unexpectedly, which was not an unusual event in that part of the world. A storm. A torrential downpour. A sudden blizzard even. It was getting cold enough. Anything like that could prevent a helicopter extraction. They would be forced to share the lads’ kit. They were either supremely confident no such event would occur or they were seriously inexperienced field operators. But then Wheeland claimed to have been Stratton’s opposite number. Clearly it was confidence that drove them.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ Wheeland said as he arrived, looking about the whole team. ‘How ya’ll doin’?’

  The younger members of Stratton’s squad, who generally preferred to remain low profile and tight-lipped among superiors, simply nodded a hello and otherwise ignored him.

  Jones was far less shy, having been more exposed to the social side of the business. And he was never intimidated by the variety of mysterious personalities that populated the world he operated in. ‘We’re fine, lads,’ he said. ‘Thanks for asking. Welcome aboard.’

  ‘You guys enjoying everything so far?’ Wheeland asked.

  ‘We are indeed,’ Jones said. ‘I see you’re travelling light. I hope that blizzard warning for later this morning doesn’t happen. Otherwise you’ll be sharing sleeping bags with one of us.’ Then sotto vocce, ‘I’d avoid Tim here if that’s the case. He has a terrible case of bottom-bugle, if you get my meaning.’