by Chris Ryan
Danny sensed the others putting their heads in a similar place as they checked over their weapons and strapped them to their bodies. The Wildcat banked sharply. From the side window, Danny saw the lights of a naval ship glowing below them in the night. He felt a little surge in his stomach. He might be hundreds of miles from his baby daughter, the unit might be at each other’s throats – but there was a buzz of excitement that preceded every op, and it was almost impossible to stamp it out. It was why you did the job in the first place.
The chopper lost height. A minute later, it was setting down on the landing deck of the ship. Proximity to the LZ made Danny realise how hard the wind was blowing – the helicopter was shaking badly as the landing gear connected with the ship. As soon as they had the thumbs-up from the co-pilot, however, the unit jumped out on to the deck and ran, shoulders bowed, away from the fierce downdraught of the rotors. Danny’s ears were filled with the roar of the sea and the vast hum of the ship’s engines. He felt salty spray stinging his face. The rough seas weren’t a problem for the Enterprise, but anyone out there on a smaller vessel would be having a difficult time of it.
There was a greeting party waiting for them. The ship’s captain was immediately identifiable. He had an aquiline nose and pinched lips, and was accompanied by a young leading rating. To his side there was a group of ten Royal Marines in camouflage gear and black boots, each sporting the distinctive commando and dagger flashes on their arms. Danny knew that they would be permanently stationed on the ship to support the crew should any of their encounters with the migrant boats turn ugly. A boat full of hundreds of exhausted refugees would definitely get nervous at the sight of a Royal Navy ship approaching, whatever its intentions. But tonight, they had a new remit: special forces support. The two guys the unit were intending to lift sure as hell wouldn’t come quietly. And it wouldn’t take much aggro for a boatload of edgy, frightened migrants to turn nasty. The support of the Marines could be crucial.
The captain cast his eye over the unit, and seemed to identify Danny as being the leader. He offered his hand, but Tony was there in an instant. He took the captain’s hand, shook it cursorily and interrupted as the captain started to introduce himself. ‘Do you have a fix on the migrant boat?’
The captain’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘We picked it up on radar about three hours ago. We’re tracking it from the horizon – they don’t know we’re here. We’ve got three rigid inflatables ready to launch. We can intercept as soon as you give the word.’
‘Do it,’ Tony said. ‘You’ve cleared the deck of all non-essential personnel?’
‘Yes,’ the captain said, a definite edge in his voice.
‘Make sure you keep it that way. Take us to our quarters.’
The captain looked like he was going to say something, but decided better of it. He turned to the rating by his side. ‘You heard him,’ he said.
‘Aye Captain,’ the young sailor replied. ‘This way please.’
The rating led them into the ship, down a metal spiral staircase and up to a heavy grey door, which he opened for them. ‘Alright, Popeye,’ Tony told him, ‘we’ll take it from here.’
The unit’s quarters were cramped, but perfectly serviceable. There were three bunks along one wall, and a flickering strip-light embedded in the ceiling. There had been a small attempt made to render the room a little more comfortable than it might otherwise have been; in one corner there was a water cooler – the surface of the water trembled with the vibrations of the ship, and on a table were a few out-of-date magazines and newspapers. Tony strolled over to the table and picked up one of the papers – a military newsletter of some sort. On the front was a picture of a wounded serviceman in a wheelchair. Tony tossed it casually back on to the table, then picked up a copy of the Daily Mirror. ‘Last week’s,’ he said. And then, holding up the front cover: ‘Look at this.’
Danny glanced at the newspaper. The picture on the front showed a young man with slick black hair on a golden beach, wearing shorts and sunglasses, with two bikini-clad women practically draped over him. ‘Look at him,’ Tony said. ‘What a cunt.’
The young man in question was a minor member of the royal family. To an SAS man, the royal family were known not by their names, but their codewords. Charles was Violet 1. Wills and Harry, Violet 2 and 3. The royals further from the throne had different colours and numbers. The lad on the beach was Yellow 7 – Duke of somewhere or other, Danny had forgotten – and a tabloid favourite.
‘Still,’ Tony continued, ‘best job in the fucking world, eh. No chance of ever having to do any real graft, so you can spend your life chasing tail on the beaches of Dubai.’
‘Thought you Pom boys did it all for Queen and country,’ Caitlin said in her Aussie drawl.
‘Queen and country my arse,’ Tony said.
Danny dumped his bergen on the floor. ‘He’s alright by me,’ Danny said, more to contradict Tony than for any other reason. ‘At least he had the balls to go out to the Stan with Harry, get his hands dirty.’
‘Oh yeah, and how many SF guys did it take to make sure their lily-white arses got home without a scratch?’ Tony tossed the newspaper back on to the table, then joined the others in getting ready.
As Danny fitted his radio gear and attached a Surefire torch to the frame of his rifle, he noticed Tony taking a smaller black rucksack from his bergen and slinging it over his back.
‘What’s that?’ Danny demanded.
‘Packed lunch,’ Tony replied. He looked around the room. ‘Everyone ready?’
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the room. ‘Your boyfriend’s on good form,’ Spud muttered to Caitlin as they approached the spiral staircase.
‘Got a problem, Spud?’ she said.
Spud shrugged.
‘Good.’ Caitlin clattered up the staircase after Tony.
Danny was on the point of following, but Spud grabbed him by the arm.
‘You alright, mucker?’ Danny asked.
Spud glanced around. He looked very shifty.
‘Tony’s just marking out his territory,’ Danny said. ‘Ignore him.’
‘Maybe,’ Spud said. He glanced at his shoes. ‘Just watch my back, alright? When Tony’s around, watch my back.’
He turned to climb up the stairs, but now it was Danny’s turn to hold him back. ‘What are you talking about?’
Tony looked up the staircase, clearly checking that they weren’t overheard. ‘Tony’s missus,’ he said quietly.
‘Frances?’
Spud nodded.
‘Mate, tell me you didn’t—’
‘Tony was out of town. One thing led to another.’ He flashed Danny a quick grin. ‘She’s only human, after all.’
‘Fuck’s sake, Spud. There’s a thousand squaddie mattresses in Hereford queuing up to put a Regiment notch on their bedstead. Why choose her of all people? Tony’s a psycho. Do you think he knows?’
Spud’s grin had disappeared. ‘You’ve seen the state of Frances’s face. I’m guessing she didn’t get those bruises for not cleaning the toilet pan properly.’ A shadow fell across his face. ‘I should have a word with him about that. I bumped into her a couple of days ago. She couldn’t get away fast enough. Started sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish factory . . .’
Danny swore under his breath. This should be a simple job, but there was already something going on that he didn’t understand, too much tension among the team – and now this. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he said. ‘Get the op over and done with and get back to the UK. We can sort this shit out then.’
Spud nodded a bit sheepishly. He started to climb, but then looked back over his shoulder. ‘Just watch my back, mucker,’ he said quietly. And without waiting for an answer, he started clattering up the stairs.
Two
The Marines were waiting for them up on deck. One of them – cropped hair and a flat nose – approached. ‘Intercept in fifteen minutes,’ he said.
Tony nodded curtly. ‘I want tw
o RIBs in the water, three-man Marine units in each. Any migrants try to jump ship, scoop them up and throw them straight back on. Once you’ve surrounded the Ocean Star, the four of us will board, subdue the passengers and manoeuvre the boat alongside the Enterprise so we can cross-deck them.’ He turned to Danny and Caitlin. ‘Get to the bridge,’ he said. ‘Tell the captain to lay down warning fire as we approach. I want the migrants to know we’re not fucking around. Then get whatever joker’s i/c of the Ocean Star to kill the engines and drop anchor. Spud, you stay with me.’
Spud and Danny exchanged a glance, but nobody argued. Danny and Caitlin turned their backs on the others and headed towards another metal staircase that Danny knew would take them to the bridge. Over his shoulder, he was aware of the two RIBs, each one manned by three Marines, being winched from the deck and lowered on to the rough sea.
‘What’s Tony got in his backpack?’ Danny asked Caitlin as they hurried up the staircase.
‘What am I?’ Caitlin asked, her Aussie drawl very pronounced. ‘His fucking mum?’
‘No,’ Danny shot back. ‘Just his favourite sheila.’
Caitlin grabbed him by the arm. Her eyes were fiery, and for a moment Danny thought she was going to go for him. But a couple of seconds later she let go, made a noise of disgust and turned her back on him.
‘Hey,’ Danny said.
‘What?’
‘I don’t care about you and Tony. Just so long as you keep your mind on the job.’
‘Keep giving out orders like that, you’re going to make yourself as popular as a rattlesnake in a lucky dip. Let’s get to the bridge.’
Caitlin strode away. Danny followed.
The bridge was occupied by four naval personnel, plus the captain. They gave Danny and Caitlin a respectful nod as they approached. ‘How long till we make contact?’ Danny asked.
‘Approximately nine minutes. We’ll have a visual in two. We’ve got an open line to the MoD operations room. Sounds like quite a party there. Reps from the Home Office, Five, Six, Hereford.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Someone really wants to get their hands on your targets – whoever they are.’
Danny was well used to non-SF personnel trying to get information out of him. He quickly diverted the course of the conversation. ‘You need to get the migrant ship’s captain on the radio, tell them to drop anchor, then lay down warning fire.’
‘Threat of force won’t be necessary,’ said the captain. ‘Migrant boats in these waters know that a British naval vessel is a help to them . . .’
Danny’s earpiece crackled and Tony’s voice came over his personal radio. ‘You sorted things with Captain Haddock yet?’
Danny forced himself to keep cool. If Tony had his way, the relationship of mutual respect between the SAS unit and the naval crew would soon break down. ‘Roger that,’ he replied. He turned back to the captain. ‘We need the option of that covering fire, Captain,’ he insisted.
The captain hesitated for a moment, but then walked over to his crew to give them the orders. Danny’s sense of unease grew stronger. Thanks to Tony, there was now bad blood between the unit and the naval crew. He glanced through the bridge window down on to the deck. Tony was directing the remaining Marines with aggressive hand gestures, while Spud stood quietly a couple of metres away, his hands on his assault rifle as if he’d like nothing better than to make sudden, unexpected use of it.
‘We have a visual!’ one of the naval crew called out. ‘Two nautical miles.’ Danny quickly altered his line of sight. He just caught sight of lights on the horizon to the ship’s twelve o’clock. If that was the migrant boat, they were heading straight for it.
The ship’s radio operator was a young lad with a bad dose of acne. At a short instruction from the captain, he started broadcasting. ‘This is HMS Enterprise, broadcasting to Ocean Star. Do you copy, Ocean Star?’
A blast of white noise came over the radio. The operator repeated his message. ‘This is HMS Enterprise, broadcasting to Ocean Star. Do you copy, Ocean Star?’
White noise again. Then, suddenly, an unnaturally loud voice burst over the airways. It was thickly accented, and spoke fragmented English. ‘Yes, sir, Ocean Star sir. Boat in big trouble, sir. Sink very soon, sir.’
The captain looked over his shoulder at Danny. ‘They always say that. They know we’ll offer aid to a vessel in distress.’
They were gaining very quickly on what was obviously a small boat. Distance, maybe 300 metres. ‘Lay down warning fire,’ Danny said.
The captain frowned. ‘It’s really not necessary. They won’t—’
‘Look, mate,’ Danny interrupted him. ‘You’ve got your orders, I’ve got my orders. Lay down warning fire, and instruct them to drop anchor.’
The captain considered it for a moment, then nodded to one of his crew. Twenty seconds later, a crack of gunfire echoed out over the noisy ocean.
There was a moment of silence. Then the radio burst into life. The radio operator was speaking much faster, and suddenly his English was a load better. He sounded panicked. ‘This is Ocean Star, this is Ocean Star, hold your fire, we are dropping anchor now, repeat, we are dropping anchor now . . .’
Through the window of the bridge, Danny could see the wake of the two RIBs containing the Marines, curling away from the Enterprise. Tony’s voice crackled over Danny’s earpiece. ‘Get down here.’
Danny turned to Caitlin. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
By the time they had rejoined Tony and Spud, the ship’s crew was preparing a third RIB. ‘Get a fucking move on,’ Tony shouted at Danny as the unit jogged towards it. Another Marine was boarding the RIB and taking charge of the outboard motor, which was already turning over. The unit climbed in and the crane immediately winched them up over the side of the Enterprise, then lowered them seaward. As they passed over the railings of the ship, Tony shouted some last-minute instructions.
‘I don’t think our targets will risk doing anything to identify themselves once we board that boat. Most of the migrants fucking hate IS – it’s them they’re running from, and if they suspect they’ve got a couple among them, they’ll most likely send them for a swim. But if our guys do make a move, we shoot to wound. You got that, Black?’
Danny gave him a dark look, then a curt nod. Tony liked to put it around that Danny was a loose cannon, but now wasn’t the time to bite back . . .
There was a noisy slap and a jolt as the RIB hit the water. They were hit with a cloud of spray, and the boat lurched forward immediately as the Marine lowered the outboard.
The rough sea state had barely affected the Enterprise, but the tiny RIB was immediately showered by the crest of a wave, before falling several feet into a valley of seawater. They were drenched in seconds. Danny gripped the side firmly, trusting that the Marine at the helm was well used to manoeuvring vessels in these conditions. He was right. The RIB didn’t veer from its course. Each time the horizon bobbed into view, the lights of the migrant boat grew closer. In just a couple of minutes, it was fifty metres distant. The two RIBs with the Marine support unit were circling it.
‘Approach the rear of the boat,’ Tony shouted over the crashing of the waves. The Marine at the helm nodded, and they ploughed relentlessly through the rough seas towards the migrant ship.
Moments later, they were alongside it. It was being badly tossed and jolted by the waves, but Danny could see that it was massively overcrowded. At a glance, he estimated ninety to 100 migrants on an old tug that was no more than twenty metres in length. Its wheelhouse, painted in blue and white, seemed unnaturally tall and narrow. The name Ocean Star had been painted on the side, but most of the letters had eroded away. There was a boarding ladder at the rear, and the Marine manoeuvred the RIB towards it.
Spud grabbed the slats of the ladder. As he pulled himself out of the RIB and started to scramble up it, Danny engaged his weapon to offer covering fire if it turned out to be necessary. It didn’t. Spud disappeared over the side of the migrant vessel, and over the noise of the
sea Danny could hear him barking instructions, though he couldn’t make out the individual words. Moments later, Tony was halfway up the ladder, followed closely by Caitlin. Only when they had safely boarded did Danny leave the RIB. The slats of the ladder were wet and slippery. The boat yawed with the movement of the sea. But his grip was firm. Seconds later he had boarded.
Narrow beams of light shone across the deck from the torches fitted to each unit member’s rifle, illuminating the pelting rain, which had doubled in intensity in the last couple of minutes. By the light of those torches, Danny could see that in the few seconds they had been on the boat, Spud, Tony and Caitlin had been busy. Almost all the migrants on board had hit the deck. They were now lying on their fronts with their hands on the backs of their heads. They were all very poorly dressed in old shorts and tracksuit bottoms. A few lucky ones had hooded tops to keep them warm, but every garment was soaked by the rain. Many of the passengers had no shoes. The sea air was failing to blow away a nasty stench of unwashed bodies.
Three men on the steps that led up to the wheelhouse were still standing, but that was only because there was no room on deck for them to lie down. Tony was stalking towards them, weapon engaged, barking at them to get on their knees. They obviously didn’t understand him, and looked confused and frightened. Towards the foredeck, fifteen metres from Danny’s position, were five more migrants, also standing. To Danny’s eye, they were more of a problem. They were talking quickly and looking out to sea, as though discussing whether or not to jump.
Danny surged forward. It was impossible not to step on the arms and legs of some of the crouching migrants, but none of them complained. As he moved, he saw that the central section of the boat, behind the wheelhouse, was not covered with bodies. There was a large rectangular hole cut out of the deck, leading down into the hull. Danny scanned the faces of the five men still standing. He didn’t recognise any of them from the photos of the IS targets, but that wasn’t a reason not to suspect them. ‘Get to the ground!’ he shouted at them, keeping the barrel of his weapon firmly fixed in their direction. ‘Get on the ground – now!’