Marine I SBS

by David Monnery

  ‘The moral of this story seems to be that we keep our feet wet,’ Finn observed.

  ‘It’s safe at sea,’ Noonan agreed.

  ‘Exactly,’ Colhoun agreed. ‘Raisa, have you got anything to add? Any British assumptions to argue against?’

  She thought for a moment. It had been strange hearing her country, and those around it, discussed – dismissed, really – so dispassionately, but she had no argument with any of the judgements Colhoun had made. ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, that’s about it then,’ Colhoun concluded. ‘I’ll come and wave you all goodbye tomorrow.’ He got up to leave, noticing McClure’s stony face as he did so. As far as Colhoun could recall, the team leader hadn’t uttered a single word during the meeting, which suggested either enormous confidence in team and plan or, less acceptably, a grim impatience to be gone.

  * * *

  That evening Raisa spoke to David Constantine on the phone. ‘I don’t know if I can talk to you about this,’ she began, ‘but maybe you tell me who is best for talking?’

  ‘About what?’ he asked.

  ‘About after,’ she told him. ‘When we come back. I have no money, no work. It is . . .’

  ‘Scary, I should think,’ he suggested.

  ‘Scary, yes. I cannot go home, and there is nothing for me here.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, wondering why no one had had the decency or the sense to reassure the woman. They had probably all assumed it was someone else’s job. ‘I will be happy to look into it for you, if you like. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be reimbursed – paid – for your time . . .’

  ‘I do not want money for this . . .’

  ‘Everyone else is getting paid,’ Constantine said, ‘and you are right – you cannot live on nothing. But I will also do what I can about finding you work of some sort. Maybe not in your field at first, but we’ll see. I don’t think you should worry about it now,’ he added. ‘We’ll get something worked out.’

  She thanked him, and promised to call him the moment she returned. After hanging up she opened the window of her small room and smelt the salty tang of the English sea on the breeze. It was all one planet, as she and colleagues were fond of reminding the dinosaurs in the economic ministries.

  McClure had phoned Annie late that afternoon to ask her out for the evening. They could drive out into the country, he said, and find a pub that served a decent meal. It had not been a very prosperous week for her, but she agreed anyway – his mood sounded too good to waste.

  Having obtained her acquiescence he walked down Poole’s High Street to the local W H Smith’s and, after a considerable time spent searching, finally found what he had come for. He handed over a fiver, took his purchase into the first pub he came to, and found a secluded table to read through the instructions and fill out the form. After finishing his pint he walked down the street to the police station, where he persuaded the desk sergeant and a colleague to witness his signature.

  When the idea had first come to him during Colhoun’s political speech, he had dismissed it as tempting fate. But the more he’d thought about it the more the opposite seemed the case, and now, walking back to his room at the base, he felt good about what he had done. He’d never tell her, but if the worst came to the worst he wanted her to know that he had appreciated her. Liked her. Loved her even, whatever that meant.

  Noonan and Julie drove into Bournemouth, where a film she wanted to see was showing at the big multiplex. He was used to the kind of films that showed in the bigger rooms, and it felt strange sharing one with not much more than twenty people. It was a foreign film too, starring some hippie-looking Frenchman. Much to his surprise, Noonan found himself getting involved in the story.

  Afterwards they managed a quick pint and drove back to Poole.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said, pulling the car up outside her parents’ house.

  She turned to face him, her face thrown into beautiful relief by the street light. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow. Out of the country.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, apparently more interested than upset.

  He hesitated. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Cyprus.’

  ‘I’d like to go there. What are you going for?’

  ‘That I definitely can’t tell you.’

  She examined his face. ‘You’re nervous, aren’t you?’

  ‘No . . . yeah, I guess I am. It’s sort of like playing your first game for the school football team – you really look forward to it but you’re scared stiff at the same time.’

  ‘Is it going to be dangerous?’ she asked, and now he thought he could hear concern in her voice.

  ‘No, I don’t expect so,’ he lied.

  She took his hand in hers. ‘I’ve got some news too,’ she said, and grinned.

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Mum and Dad have gone away for the weekend.’

  He hoped she meant what he thought she did. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’

  Ten minutes later they were removing the last items of each other’s clothing, and standing naked in each other’s arms beside her bed. He couldn’t remember his body ever feeling more excited.

  ‘You know what I said about playing the first time . . .’

  She took him gently in her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll get more than one game to show what you can do.’

  * * *

  On the other side of Poole Finn was lying on his bed reading a book about turn-of-the-century spies and soldier-adventurers in western and central Asia. It was all fascinating stuff, not to mention grist for any quiz addict’s mill, but he was having trouble concentrating. That evening he had taken Marie Colhoun out for a drink, and if he was any judge of eighteen-year-old girls – and he had rather specialized in that area – she had been flashing him green lights all evening.

  He liked her – she had a lovely body, she was clever, she was funny. But she was also the boss’s daughter, and he wasn’t sure he liked her enough to risk enraging Colhoun. The Scot might be a wonderfully liberal father, happy to let his daughter go her own way. Then again, he might take violent objection to one of his own men fucking her in the back seat of a borrowed car in a seaside car park. Some parents were like that with their teenage daughters – Finn had heard them say so.

  So he had done the noble thing, and probably left her thinking that he was impotent, diseased or gay. Or all three.

  He did like her though. Maybe when he came back . . .

  He sighed and went back to the book. At least they wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the Caspian, like some of the poor fuckers he was reading about.

  The following morning Colhoun and Galloway had time for a few words on the airfield tarmac. The SBS boss had woken up worrying in the middle of the night – something he hadn’t done for years. He was hoping it wasn’t a premonition. ‘How’s it looking to you?’ he asked Galloway. ‘Any doubts?’

  ‘There are always doubts. But it looks good. They’ve turned themselves into a good team. The woman has exceeded all my expectations, and probably a few of her own. McClure’s his usual efficient self. Noonan’s nervous, but it’s his first big show. I’d be worried if he wasn’t. Finn’s just Finn. I like the chemistry.’

  ‘Finn’s been going out with my older daughter.’ Colhoun grunted. ‘Doesn’t know I know though.’

  Galloway laughed. ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Colhoun sighed. ‘There’s something about this one that worries me. Nothing specific – the plan looks as fail-proof as a plan can be in these sort of circumstances. It’s just a feeling.’

  ‘Sink or swim,’ Galloway murmured, as the fully laden team emerged from the building behind them.

  It was not an auspicious comment. According to the report Colhoun had read the previous week the Caspian was not as salty as other se
as. Which made it easier to sink and harder to swim.

  11

  Cyprus was hot and bright. They arrived at the Akrotiri base early in the afternoon, and were escorted to rooms which offered views of the blue Mediterranean and what looked like the perfect beach.

  Not that there would be much time for sunbathing in the week that followed. From the first morning Galloway kept them on their toes, with a training programme aimed at both increasing their overall physical fitness and honing the technical skills which would be needed on the team’s thirty-six-hour trip into enemy territory. Early mornings were devoted to running and swimming, the rest of the daylight hours to take-offs in the Hercules and splashdowns in the sea. The HAHO novices, Raisa and Finn, were introduced to the oxygen equipment and thermal suits, and given instruction in the techniques needed for guiding the GQ360 chutes during the long descent. In the meantime the more experienced McClure and Noonan worked to improve their landing of the remote-controlled parachutes which would be carrying the heavy equipment.

  Climbing aboard the C-130 for the third time on one particular day Noonan suddenly had a picture of himself clambering up the slide in the park near his childhood home in Liverpool. Up you went, down you came, and up you went again.

  For all the demands that the days made on their minds and bodies, none of the team waited eagerly for the hours of darkness. Galloway had decreed from the start that they should stay on-base for the duration, which rather limited the possibilities for entertainment, and the fact that they were unable to divulge the reasons for their presence hardly endeared them to the normal squaddies. Restricted to their own or one another’s company, each of the four found him or herself with rather more time to think than they would otherwise have chosen. Even Finn, normally stoical almost to a fault, found himself prone to anxieties about their upcoming jaunt. In particular, he found himself worrying about how McClure would react to the jettisoning of Galloway’s restraining influence.

  For his part, McClure was reminded again of life on the rigs. He and Noonan watched films in the rec room, read badly researched military thrillers and worked out in the gym. Unknown to each other, both spent most of an evening searching for something to say on postcards to their respective better halves, with equally unsatisfying results.

  Given this general state of mind, it was with some relief that they heard, on the eighth day of their stay on the island, Galloway’s announcement of their imminent departure. ‘You’ll be leaving tomorrow at 19.45 hours,’ he told them. ‘Which should put you at the jump point around three and a quarter hours later – midnight local time. You should be in the water an hour after that. Which will give you about four and a half hours of darkness to reach the rig and set up your OP. The Sea King will pick you up from Narghin Island at 03.00 the following night.’ He looked round at the four faces, each with its different mix of emotions. ‘So let’s go into Limassol and get a decent meal this evening, and then you can start building up a decent backlog of sleep. You’re going to be needing it.’

  Tamarlan Shadmanov rubbed his eyes and strained to catch more of the conversation which was taking place several tables away in the otherwise empty canteen. It was a little after dawn, and he had been up all night trying to solve one of those problems which, despite himself, he still found almost unbearably interesting, and he was in no hurry to return to the claustrophobic quarters he shared with his wife.

  The Azeris at the other table – three ambitious young physicists whom he had known and avoided at the university – were talking about an escape. One of the Iraqi scientists had apparently grabbed one of the supply boats at gunpoint soon after dark the previous evening, and sped off in the direction of Iran, some four hundred kilometres to the south, presumably with defection in mind. The physicists were unanimous in doubting that the speedboat carried enough fuel to cover even half that distance.

  Shadmanov tended to agree with them, but it was still comforting to know that he was not the only person on the platform who would have preferred to be somewhere else.

  At that moment Azad Vezirov came in through the heavy doors. He was looking tired, Shadmanov thought.

  ‘Has someone really escaped?’ he asked the head of security as he walked past.

  ‘One of the Iraqis has tried,’ Vezirov said without stopping.

  Shadmanov took his coffee outside, where the sun, having climbed clear of the horizon, was now taking the chill out of the air. He leaned against the railing of the walkway, staring out across the open water, listening to the wavelets lapping against the giant legs of the rig. For the first time in several days he thought about Raisa, who had invested so much energy in saving this sea. He wondered again if she had contacted Akhundov and got his message, and if so, whether she had decoded it. Now that several weeks had gone by he rather hoped she hadn’t.

  At the time it had seemed a clever thing to do, but now . . . After all, the only thing she could have done with the knowledge was to get herself into trouble. And for an undeserving cause at that – he had hardly given her a moment’s thought since the first few days here, and when he did their affair felt like something which had happened long ago.

  He felt old here, he realized. He felt as if his past had come back to haunt him with all the unresolved guilts and fears.

  And he missed hiking more than he missed her. Here he could see for nearly fifty kilometres in each direction, but he couldn’t move more than two hundred metres in a straight line.

  He thought about the young Iraqi, and raised his mug of coffee in a token toast of his escape attempt. He was asleep three hours later when the man was brought back, but he saw him in the canteen that evening, eating dinner with the two Iraqi security guards in close attendance, defeat in his eyes.

  That same morning Sir Christopher Hanson and Manny Salewicz met for a stroll through St James’s Park in the spring sunshine. ‘No problems?’ Hanson asked the American, more casually than he felt.

  ‘None. Everything’s arranged. The colonel in charge at Dogubayazit – his name’s Klesko, by the way – he’s been told that a British Sea King will be arriving later today, and that he’s to give them anything they want and ask no questions. As you can imagine, he’s not particularly thrilled by these orders, but he’ll obey them. There’s a Turkish liaison officer attached to the base, but he apparently spends most of his time in the town brothel, so there’s not much chance he’ll notice anything. If by some miracle he does, then they’ll snow him under with stuff about NATO inter-force familiarization exercises, or some such corporate newspeak crap – you know what I mean. Third Worlders just eat up that stuff – makes them think they’ve cracked a code.’

  Hanson smiled in spite of himself.

  ‘Everything OK from your end?’ the American asked, running a hand across the headful of stubble which he probably thought of as hair.

  ‘I think so,’ Hanson admitted, with a reluctance born of thirty years in the job.

  ‘So forty-eight hours from now we should know whether Uncle Saddam really is making bombs in someone else’s backyard.’

  ‘And how long before they’re operational,’ Hanson added.

  ‘And then the crapola will really hit the fan. I don’t envy whoever it is gets the job of trying to sell the Russians on a NATO bombing raid in the Caspian.’

  ‘They’ll probably offer to do it for us,’ the MI6 chief said cynically.

  ‘Yeah, but they’ll want paying for the privilege,’ Salewicz agreed.

  Hanson left it until early evening before notifying the PM that action was imminent, for experience had taught him that it was wiser not to allow politicians too much time for second thoughts. ‘I thought you’d like to know,’ he said informally. ‘The SBS team will be on its way in an hour or so.’

  The PM’s sigh was audible over the phone. ‘I’d completely forgotten it was today,’ he admitted. ‘Well, I wish them luck. Will they be in constant contact with the outside world?’

  ‘I think so, Prime Minister.’ />
  ‘Then please let me know if anything significant happens. Day or night.’

  ‘Certainly . . .’

  ‘I take it the embassy in Ankara has been alerted?’

  ‘Yes, they’re on stand-by.’

  ‘With buckets of water to douse the flames, I suppose,’ the PM said drily. ‘I wouldn’t want to be in the ambassador’s shoes if the Turks get wind of this.’

  ‘Well, at least these days they won’t send him back in pieces as an expression of their displeasure,’ Hanson said.

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ the PM said with feeling, and hung up.

  He’d probably seen his latest poll ratings that morning, Hanson thought sourly as he put on his coat. He was halfway through the door when he remembered Constantine. Returning to his desk he punched out the scientist’s number, and listened to the phone ringing in the Cambridgeshire cottage.

  ‘Constantine,’ a voice said.

  ‘Hanson. Thought you’d like to know, our boys – and girl – will be airborne in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Constantine said. ‘How long’s the flight?’ he asked, more for something to say than because he really wanted to know.

  ‘About three and a half hours, I think.’

  ‘Are their chances good?’

  ‘I hope we wouldn’t be sending them if they weren’t. Suicide squads are not very English, somehow.’

  Constantine laughed, but there wasn’t much good humour in the sound. ‘Thanks for calling,’ he told Hanson, and hung up with an abruptness which both he and his cat found surprising. ‘Sorry,’ he told the cat, and walked across to the window, from which he could see the lights of the nearest village.

  The team sat waiting in the airbase office while Galloway ran through everything one more time. It was hardly necessary, and he could tell that they were not really listening, but that didn’t matter, for in moments like this he preferred the sound of his own voice to silence. His past experience suggested that most groups of men in such situations retreated into semi-hysterical humour, but this team was different. Partly it had to be the presence of a woman – and a foreign one at that – but Galloway suspected it had more to do with the personality of Sergeant McClure. The man was either humourless, unaffected by the tension, or both.