Soldier M: Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan

by Peter Cave

  But there was not much to be seen from inside the belly of a modified Iluyshin 28 bomber, and not much chance to study the scenery below when one was free-falling from 38,000 feet and concentrating on getting one’s canopy timing right. So Hailsham had requested a personal inspection flight closer to the actual target area and, surprisingly, General Chang had agreed without the slightest hesitation.

  They were clear of the Tien Shan range now, flying along the line of the long valley plain between the Tarbagaty range to port and the Altai Mountains to starboard. Ahead in the distance, Hailsham could just make out the towering 15,000-foot peak of Mount Belukha beyond the Kazakhstan border, and knew that they were rapidly running out of airspace which could be considered fully ‘safe’ in broad daylight. It took just one overzealous rebel with a SAM-7 at his disposal to make a slight miscalculation of distance, and there would be two more statistics on the list of secret casualties. Hailsham leaned forward, tapping the Chinese pilot lightly on the shoulder and making a circular motion in the air with his forefinger. Nodding, the pilot banked the Shenyang into a long, raking curve and settled the fighter into a straight course which would take them back to Tacheng.

  So everything appeared to check out, Hailsham mused to himself. There seemed to be no point in hanging on any longer than necessary. They would go in tonight, an hour or two before dawn. That would give them time to establish a hide and observation post for the following day. Such an OP would give them a vantage point from which they could recce the immediate area and perhaps establish enemy positions from the glow of camp-fires by night. In the early morning light, Hailsham planned to send out the first patrol, led by Sergeant Winston, to set up the first RV point before moving on into the lower foothills. It was normal practice for SAS patrols to move only by night, but they had a lot of ground to cover and they were not officially in a combat situation. Hailsham was counting on any guerrilla groups conducting a basically unsophisticated technique of ambush and sneak attack on their already known enemies. They would already have those established positions, and would hardly be expecting a new force to be literally dropping into their laps. In addition, the small size of the operation, and the high degree of natural cover they could expect once they got into the mountains, gave them an excellent chance of making daylight progress without being spotted. There was also one other factor in their favour. Their main brief was to evade other forces, not to stalk them. And although it was not a normal SAS tactic, running and hiding was an easier option than going in on the attack. As in chess, the defensive player tends to control the play – at least until the endgame.

  It was not, perhaps, the most satisfying of strategies, but Hailsham felt confident that it would foot the bill. It had to, since there was no longer any time to come up with any better plan of action.

  Just let it be clean, he thought to himself. They were good men who had all risked their lives fighting against their country’s real enemies. They most certainly did not deserve to die in a hastily conceived and half-baked operation such as this one. Hailsham’s silent plea was something just short of an actual prayer. He had been a professional soldier for too long to retain much belief in a wise and benevolent God.

  In Hereford, it was eight-thirty in the morning as Barney Davies tapped out the Foreign Secretary’s private, ‘hot’ number. The call went directly through, bypassing the ears of the whole entourage of personal assistants and secretarial staff, although it was probably monitored by one or other of the British security services.

  Davies’s message was brief and to the point. ‘They’re going in tonight,’ he said simply. ‘At 03.00 hours, local time.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenent-Colonel Davies,’ the Foreign Secretary said quietly. ‘You will of course keep me informed as to developments.’ He hung up without waiting for an answer.

  * * *

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we already done this once today?’ Cyclops asked as they filed into the converted bomb bay of the Iluyshin 28.

  ‘Nah, you must have been having one of your recurring wet dreams,’ Tweedledee told him. Turning to the rest of the men, he warmed to his theme. ‘Did Cyclops ever tell you he gets a hard-on from heights? That’s why he can’t go up ladders. Every time he gets near the top, his old man pops out and pushes him off again.’

  ‘He’d have to be fucking close to the wall,’ Jimmy threw in. ‘What he’s got’s only good enough for diddling sparrows.’

  ‘Should suit you down to the ground, then,’ Tweedledum ventured. ‘We all know that the Scots have notoriously tight arses.’

  The big Glaswegian growled, shaking a ham-like fist in the younger man’s direction. ‘I’ll see you, Jimmy,’ he threatened good-naturedly, parodying his own stereotype.

  A high-pitched bleeping cut through the bullshit, indicating that the side hatch was about to close. With a faint metallic squeal, the heavy steel door swung into position, then drew in and locked tight. The aircraft began to throb as the Chinese pilot throttled up the twin Soloviev D-30KP engines, which had previously been purring at idling speed.

  ‘Well, looks like we’re off on our hols, lads,’ the Thinker said drily. The observation met with a less than rapturous reception.

  Hailsham, sitting alone on the far side on the bomb bay, consulted his watch, squinting slightly in the dull-yellowish light from the plane’s rudimentary lighting system. It was 01.00 hours. Two hours to the drop zone and teatime at home. He found himself wondering what his ex-wife had given the kids for their evening meal as the Iluyshin began to lumber up the runway, gathering speed as the engines roared ever louder.

  It was at times like these that Andrew liked to compose poetry in his head, or at least draft out the bones of an idea which could be fine-tuned and committed to paper at a later stage. It was something to do with body chemistry, he had always vaguely understood – this in-between time, this hiatus just before a mission when every nerve and fibre was tingling with adrenalin yet the brain was somehow idling, numbed with the delay between thought and deed.

  Yet not one original thought would come clear in his head. Instead, snatches and phrases from other poets buzzed around, with varying degrees of relevance or meaning. The opening lines from one of Walt Whitman’s poems – one of Andrew’s personal heroes – seemed particularly apt, given the circumstances.

  Come my tan-faced children,

  Follow well in order, get your weapons ready,

  Have you your pistols, have you your sharp-edged axes?

  Pioneers! O pioneers!

  With these words running around in his brain, Andrew found himself covertly studying the faces of the men around him, analysing and trying to understand what their expressions betrayed. He caught the Thinker’s eyes directly, and it was like suddenly coming across a mirror in a darkened room. He felt inexplicably embarrassed, almost guilty, and smiled sheepishly.

  The big Mancunian smiled back, but it was a gesture of reassurance, of a secret shared and understood. Andrew felt relieved, instinctively sensing what the man was communicating to him. A man’s thoughts were private, personal – and precious. Especially at a time like this.

  They were off the runway now, and climbing steadily. Barry Naughton felt the familiar tingle running through his body. Born partly of a fear of flying and partly of personal pride at having largely conquered it, it was like a little power surge from which he could draw inner reserves. This, and the knowledge that he was about to go into a battle situation, recharged and changed him. He was an equal among equals now. As valued, and as valuable, as any one of his peers.

  That was the young trooper’s secret – the factor which had led him to seek the Army as a career in the first place, and had steered him towards the SAS in particular. And, in no small measure, it had also been the one thing which had got him through the harsh basic training which had beaten many tougher men.

  Out in Civvy Street, even in the barracks, Barry knew that his fellow troopers often saw him as the natural butt of
a joke, of a bit of piss-taking. A regular Clark Kent, in fact. But the SAS was his secret telephone box. A set of olive-greens became his Superman costume. It was a good feeling, even if psychologically dubious. It sustained him.

  ‘Well, I reckon it’s time to open the beauty parlour,’ Jimmy said, pulling out his pair of camouflage sticks. He rolled spittle and phlegm around in his mouth, spat it into the palm of his hand and began to work his base foundation into a sticky, creamy consistency before smearing it over his face and neck with the other hand.

  Taking his lead, the rest of the men set about applying the ‘cam’ cream, taking care to cover all exposed areas, such as ears, chin, throats and the backs of their hands and wrists. With the base coat dulling down the natural sheen of their skin and contours of their faces, they proceeded to compound the effect by stroking wide, diagonal smears of black stick to their faces and foreheads to break up the broad outline of their features. Finally, they each smeared the black make-up thickly over more prominent features such as noses, chins and cheekbones, leaving the natural hollows a much lighter shade.

  For Andrew, of course, the procedure was slightly different. Jimmy grinned at him as he drew a white make-up stick across his ebony skin.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sarge. You look like a fucking zebra,’ he pointed out.

  Suddenly they all had a target.

  ‘Come on, boss, give us a chorus of Swannee Ribber’ Tweedledum suggested.

  Not to be outdone, Tweedledee joined in the banter. ‘Or how about an impression of Larry Parkes?’ He waggled his hands in the air while opening and closing his mouth silently.

  Andrew grinned good-naturedly. He had heard it all a hundred times before. ‘When are you honky bastards going to come up with something original?’ he said wearily. ‘Anyway, now all you ladies have your warpaint on, how about getting ready to rig up? Or are you planning to float down on your petticoats like a bunch of overweight fairies?’

  It was a good point. Watched by their sergeant and Major Hailsham, the men moved naturally into a practice routine, forming themselves into two lines, facing each other. From the carefully stacked bundles of bergens and equipment at one end of the Iluyshin’s belly, the primary and reserve ’chutes were retrieved, then passed carefully from hand to hand along the two rows. Each man chose the partner immediately facing him, watching each other as they slipped into their thermal suits, zipped them up to the neck and then began to shrug on their ’chutes. With everything in position, it became a question of checking each other’s rig, checking straps for tension and making sure every buckle and ringclip was firmly locked in position.

  Finally, it was time for each partner to help the other pull on his heavy bergen, and tuck them up just below the small of the back beneath the main parachute packs.

  Andrew finished putting the final touches to his make-up and inspected all six men, making his own final check. Then, turning to Major Hailsham, they set about rigging each other up.

  ‘Now we’re ready to party,’ Andrew finally announced. With Hailsham’s assistance, he busied himself checking the ’chutes for the Controlled Air Delivery System (CADS) which would take down the heavier equipment, guided by radio-control devices in the hands of himself and Hailsham.

  The whole make-ready procedure had taken just over an hour. Hailsham checked his watch again, satisfied that they were well ahead of schedule. The converted bomber was still well inside safe airspace, the pilot keeping it in steady and level flight at 15,000 feet. Another half an hour and he would start to climb as they approached the Mongolian border area. Then it would be time for them all to hook into the onboard oxygen supply, before switching to their personal canisters for the actual drop. But for now, there was nothing more to do except wait and try to relax.

  In fact, the aircraft began to climb almost immediately, much to Hailsham’s surprise. He cast a questioning, sideways glance at Andrew, whose face bore a similar puzzled expression. The sergeant shrugged, having no answer.

  The interior temperature began to cool quite markedly. The Thinker flexed his body, stretching his muscles as best he could under the restriction of the enclosing parachute harness and the weight of his equipment. What the hell was going on? he wondered to himself. He had caught the brief and silent exchange between Andrew and Hailsham, and it had been enough to tell him that something was not quite as it should be. None of the others seemed to have noticed, and he figured it was not his place to point it out. He trusted Hailsham implicitly, as they all did. No doubt the CO would keep them all fully informed as and when he saw fit.

  The rest of the men had begun to react to the drop in temperature now, despite their thermal suits. As with any ordeal of shared discomfort, it triggered off another little exchange of bullshit.

  ‘Christ, it’s colder than a witch’s tit,’ Barry said, shivering.

  Cyclops grinned at him. ‘You just wait until you get outside,’ he answered. ‘Just imagine being bare-arsed naked on a glacier and you’ll get a rough idea.’

  Barry shivered again. ‘I hope for your sake that you remembered to wear a fur-lined jockstrap,’ Jimmy told him. ‘I’ve heard of guys on these night drops whose cocks got so stiff with cold on the way down that they just broke off with the shock of landing.’

  But Barry was not taking the bait. ‘Fuck off!’ he said simply, grinning at the big Scot.

  ‘Anyway, you could be in a bit of trouble yourself, Jimmy,’ Tweedledum pointed out. ‘You didn’t have your porridge this morning, did you?’

  ‘Talking of that, what do badgers have for breakfast?’ Cyclops asked. He waited for a few seconds of expectant silence before answering his own question. ‘Ready-brock.’

  It was a lousy joke, but they all smiled anyway.

  A sudden loud and insistent bleeping cut through the mood, snapping them all back into alertness. Simultaneously a red warning light began to flash from the ceiling of the bomb bay. They all knew exactly what it signified. The pilot was about to depressurize the interior of the plane.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Hailsham blurted out, his face now registering something more serious than mere surprise. He checked his watch again quickly, his mind racing. There was no way that he could be that much out on his calculations. Even allowing for an unexpected tail-wind, they could not possibly have reached the drop zone so long ahead of schedule. There were only two real possibilities: either the Chinese pilot had made a serious miscalculation or he was deliberately planning to drop them short of the DZ. But either one was purely academic now. The temperature was already plummeting as the thin, freezing air outside the plane began to rush in to replace that which was being evacuated. Hailsham could feel a tightness in his chest. They needed oxygen, and they needed it fast.

  ‘Get your masks on – now,’ he barked. Adjusting his own, he moved into the centre of the converted bomb bay and connected its flexible plastic hose to the central oxygen supply console on the ceiling.

  The flashing red light and warning bleeper went off together as the plane became fully depressurized. In the sudden silence that followed, there was only the faintest residual hiss as the side exit door’s hermetic seals were released. Then, with a brief metallic squeal, the heavy door began to pull out and away, revealing the star-spangled blackness of the night sky.

  There was no longer any time to worry about what might or what might not have gone wrong with the Chinese planning of the operation. It was all automatic now, Hailsham reflected. Training and instinct took over. As if in some ancient and time-honoured tribal ritual, he moved forward with Andrew, the pair of them dragging the CADS into place between them. Behind that, the rest of the men formed themselves into two short rows in preparation for the jump – one to the left, one to the right.

  ‘Switch to personal oxygen,’ Hailsham snapped.

  Moving together like the parts of a well-oiled machine, each man disconnected his mask nozzle from the on-board supply and snapped it into position on the bottle he carried on the side webbing of his parachu
te harness. All eyes lifted to the small red light which glowed like a malevolent eye above the hatch door, which was now fully open. Time seemed to freeze. The men fidgeted nervously as they waited for the red light to wink out. It eventually did, accompanied by a loud buzzing noise. Seconds later, it was replaced by a green one, flashing on and off in a slow, regular cycle.

  Hailsham made a final adjustment to his face mask, pressing it more firmly into position. He pulled his passive night goggles down over his eyes – a gesture immediately copied by the rest of the men. The rhythm of the flashing green light was increasing now, building up until it was a constant pulse. Finally, it ceased flickering altogether and remained on. It was time to go.

  Behind them, the six troopers followed their lead at spaced intervals, throwing themselves out into the icy blackness in the classic free-fall position. Spread-eagled like featherless birds, they began to plummet towards the ground below, the bitter, rushing air tearing at their bodies like an Arctic blizzard.

  Hailsham and Andrew dragged the CADS ’chutes to the lip of the open hatch. Then, with a brief nod at each other, they pulled the heavy equipment container with a concerted effort and launched themselves into space.

  It was that moment, Hailsham’s brain screamed, that breathless, deathless moment of utter commitment. Falling irrevocably, yet strangely suspended between heaven and earth as if in some drug-induced fantasy in which the spaces between time itself had become distorted.

  They were going down.

  But where? Hailsham needed to know. For Christ’s sake, where?

  Chapter 10

  It was a desert, Hailsham thought. He was standing in the middle of a bloody desert! With a conscious effort, he pushed aside his initial sense of rage at the Chinese, trying to concentrate on the more immediate and practical problems.