4. Gray Retribution

by Alan McDermott

  Frederick Rickard had served with the Rhodesian SAS until it had been disbanded in 1980, when the country became Zimbabwe. Prior to that he’d had a secondment to 22 SAS and as a consequence, he regularly attended the annual parties. Gray had been introduced to him at one such event a decade earlier, and they’d hit it off immediately.

  Freddie was a likeable sort. His skin was like a chamois leather that had been hung out to dry, the result of years spent in the African sun. Add to that a facial injury he’d sustained during the Rhodesian Bush War in the late seventies, and Freddie always gave you the impression that he was smiling. Gray had never taken up the offer to go and visit him, but he was sure Freddie wouldn’t hold that against him, especially in his time of need.

  He dialled Rickard and waited for the answer.

  ‘Freddie, it’s Tom Gray.’

  ‘Tom! Good to hear from you. How the devil are you?’

  They reminisced for a couple of minutes before Gray got round to business.

  ‘What are you flying these days?’ he asked.

  ‘Still got the Dakota,’ Rickard told him.

  ‘That old heap?’ Gray joked, though he was glad his friend hadn’t downsized. Short of chartering a small airliner, the ancient turboprop would be ideal for his purposes. He’d seen pictures of Freddie’s Douglas C-47—or Dakota, to use its RAF designation—and it had been an old crate a decade earlier. He didn’t want to imagine what state it was in now. He just hoped it had another half dozen flights left in it.

  ‘She’ll outlast me,’ Rickard assured him, as if reading Gray’s thoughts. ‘What do you need her for?’

  Gray outlined his plan, not bothering to mention that it was subject to change. Both knew how fluid it was on the battlefield, and even the best laid plans could turn to shit in a heartbeat. ‘Obviously I’ll pay well for your time.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I won’t hear of it. For the last twenty years I’ve been playing chauffeur to privileged tourists. The closest I’ve come to danger was the time someone forgot to put ice in my whisky. For the opportunity to see a little excitement, I’ll do it for expenses.’

  ‘There’ll be quite a few of those,’ Gray said, and rattled off a list of items they’d need on arrival.

  ‘The rigs won’t be a problem,’ Rickard assured him, ‘but it’s a bit short notice on the weapons. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’

  ‘No worries. When will you be in country?’

  ‘The flight lands at seven this evening,’ Gray told him.

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you. We can be over Malundi by eleven.’

  That was still fifteen hours away, and he hoped—no, he prayed—that his friends could hold out that long.

  He thanked Rickard and put the phone down, a tinge of guilt clawing at him at the thought of betraying Harvey’s trust. As promised, he had arranged a flight to take the men out, though he’d omitted the fact that he was going along with a dozen seasoned men, armed to the teeth.

  That was a conversation he could put off until he got back, though, and it would be relatively easy to smooth out.

  Explaining his plans to Vick was another matter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday 8 October 2013

  The Volkswagen Passat wasn’t William Hart’s preferred conveyance, though it was still a comfortable ride. One of the useful tips he’d had from Wallace was that his own vehicle was flagged on the police’s automated number-plate recognition system, and every time he passed one of the cameras, his location would be noted along with the date and time. This was one journey he didn’t want anyone knowing about, and so he’d borrowed the car from a local dealer. If stopped, he would claim to be on a test drive, a story the salesman would confirm.

  He approached Oxford services an hour and a half after leaving his home in Sidcup, the ninety-mile journey a pain in the arse, but necessary. He didn’t need Wallace to warn him about the dangers of talking business over the phone, even on a disposable handset and SIM card, so matters this delicate were usually handled in person.

  It could have been worse, he thought. The man he was meeting was travelling down from Manchester, over a hundred and sixty miles to the north, not a particularly nice journey given the traffic that builds up as the M6 hits Birmingham.

  Hart pulled off the M40 and followed the signs for the services, eventually pulling up in a remote spot as far from the entrance to the complex as possible. He turned the engine off, hoping that Paul Ainsworth didn’t keep him waiting long.

  He’d known Paul for a couple of years, ever since being introduced to him by Wallace. The detective’s idea of using other muscle for messy jobs was a sensible precaution, and one that he and Ainsworth had adopted on rare occasions.

  It wasn’t the closest of relationships by any stretch of the imagination, but both men knew that having solid alibis when a hit went down was paramount. Having already been linked to the shop owner Hatcher, Hart needed to distance himself and his family from the upcoming violence. He’d already booked plane tickets for a couple of days away, and it would all be over by the time he and his two sons made the return journey from Gran Canaria.

  Ainsworth arrived twenty minutes late. He pulled into the space next to the Volkswagen and got out, stretching his legs before joining Hart in his car.

  ‘A’right, mate.’

  Not many people got to address Hart in such a way, and fewer still were as young as Ainsworth. At thirty-five, he was twenty years Hart’s junior, and wore designer jeans and a T-shirt which showed off the tattoos on his muscular neck. The rest of his frame was the same, the result of a daily workout in his home gym.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Paul. I hope the journey wasn’t too bad.’

  Ainsworth ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. ‘Worth the pay we discussed, I reckon. Who’s the target?’

  ‘Whoever’s in this house,’ Hart said, handing Ainsworth the address of a property in the capital. He studied it for a moment and passed it back, and Hart was glad to see there were no concerns about whether the occupants included women or children. If there had been, Hart would have had serious doubts about Ainsworth’s ability to see the job through, but it seemed both men were cut from the same moral cloth.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A fire,’ Hart said. ‘I understand you have someone who specialises.’

  ‘He’s not one of mine, but he’s good. It’ll cost you, though.’

  Hart pulled an envelope from his jacket and passed it across. ‘There’s ten grand. That should cover it.’

  ‘If you want a couple of crackheads to toss a petrol can through the window, yeah, that’ll cover it. If you want guaranteed results, it’ll be double.’

  The cost wasn’t an issue, but Hart was accustomed to getting what he wanted at the price he specified. He knew that Ainsworth was going to take a huge cut for himself, just as he himself had done on their other joint ventures, so he couldn’t complain on that score. Still, it rankled, but in order to get the job done and preserve their relationship, Hart agreed to have another ten thousand pounds delivered once the house and occupants had been torched.

  ‘When do you need it?’

  ‘Any time over the weekend,’ Hart said. ‘I’m taking the boys away for a few days and want it done before we get back.’

  Ainsworth assured him the timescale wasn’t an issue, and they shook hands.

  ‘See you next time, Paul.’

  Ainsworth returned to his own car to start the journey north, while Hart lit a cigarette, glad that the matter had been solved. Someone else would take over the shop lease once Hatcher was gone, and he hoped they were more receptive to his offer. In the meantime, he would be losing out on twelve hundred pounds a month, a fact that irked the hell out of him as he started the car.

  The fact that people would be hurt or killed didn’t faze him at all.

  Tom Gray sat towards the back of the Boeing 747-400, flicking
through the channels on the miniature TV screen in an effort to find something that would take his mind off the conversation with his wife.

  As expected, Vick hadn’t been enamoured with the idea of him gallivanting off to take part in a civil war. It had quickly turned into their first ever fight, and gone downhill from there.

  He was a very attentive husband, always letting her know if he was going to be late, and he didn’t go out drinking with his buddies every night. His whole world revolved around his wife and daughter, and so when he saw Vick flare up for the first time, it had come as a shock.

  No objects were thrown, but she’d made it quite clear how angry she was at the idea. He’d promised her that his role would be purely observational, given his current condition, but that hadn’t mollified her. Instead, she’d come out with the remark that stung the most.

  ‘You think more of your mates than you do your own family.’

  He hadn’t known how to handle that. It had come across like a slap in the mouth, his face the epitome of shock.

  ‘Vick, these aren’t some drinking buddies! It’s Sonny and Len, the people who saved our lives!’

  ‘Then send someone else!’ Vick had screamed. ‘Why do you have to go?’

  Vick had stormed off to the bathroom, locking the door and refusing to come out until he’d left the house. He’d briefly wondered if he could coordinate the operation from home, but dismissed the idea. He couldn’t get a proper feel for the situation if he were sitting on the end of a phone two thousand miles from the action.

  And besides, he owed them.

  They’d risked their lives extracting him from the Philippine jungle, and hadn’t batted an eyelid when asked to go back in and rescue Vick, too. That kind of altruistic bond didn’t warrant sending in less experienced men in his stead.

  The team he’d hastily assembled were all seasoned veterans of the Regiment, but none had made senior NCO or led a team in battle. The majority, however, had at least seen their fair share of action. While he knew they would all do their job, he had to be there to ensure they did it right. Which, sadly, left him winging his way to the middle of Africa while his wife stewed at home.

  He hoped that her reaction had been due to the short notice he’d given her, and that once he got back, she’d have had time to reflect on his words and realise how much they owed Sonny and Smart.

  If not, then he was going to have a few difficult weeks ahead.

  The flight attendants came round to collect the remnants of the in-flight meal, signalling their imminent arrival. Forty-five minutes later, the aircraft juddered as they touched down, the engines howling as the thrust reversers were deployed to arrest their speed. Another few minutes saw them park and the steps were wheeled up to the side of the plane.

  The temperature was in the mid-twenties centigrade as they made their way across the tarmac, with heavy, charcoal-coloured cloud cover promising a downpour within the hour. The terminal building looked like it could do with a coat of paint at the very least, and Gray mentally marked the country off his holiday destination list as he wiped the sweat from his face.

  Customs was cleared without hassle, and as they had no checked luggage, they hit the arrivals area less than thirty minutes after landing.

  Suits mingled with the colourful local garb, and in the melee Gray saw Rickard waiting for them.

  ‘Christ, Tom! Been bad-mouthing the wife again?’

  Gray put his hand to the shiner surrounding his eye and forced a smile. ‘Not far off. I’ll explain later.’

  Rickard led them through the terminal and down a corridor leading to the charter area.

  ‘I’ll skip the intros, if that’s okay.’

  ‘No problem,’ Rickard assured him.

  ‘Did you manage to get everything?’ Gray asked.

  ‘I borrowed the rigs from a local diving school, so bring them back if you can. As for the rifles, all I could get on such short notice was eight AKs and some M4s.’

  At least all of his men would be armed, Gray thought, even though he would have preferred them all to be using the same ammunition. The AK-47s used 7.62 mm rounds as opposed to the 5.56 mm carbine, so they wouldn’t be interchangeable.

  ‘They’re in the hold, along with a hundred and fifty rounds apiece and some cleaning kits.’

  ‘Thanks a million,’ said Gray. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done without you. Have we got time to check everything over before we take off?’ he asked, as they reached the end of the hallway, where a bored-looking security guard checked Rickard’s paperwork and verified the number of passengers before waving them through the gate.

  ‘I’ve got a slot booked for twenty minutes from now, but you’re going to have to do your equipment checks on board, for obvious reasons.’

  They rounded a corner, and the men saw their transport for the first time.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell, Tom!’ one of Gray’s men laughed. ‘When you said it was old, I didn’t know you meant as old as time itself! Who built this? Methuselah’s granddad?’

  ‘I bet the flight manual’s written in Latin,’ another quipped.

  Gray put up a hand for silence, but Rickard took it all in with a smile. ‘I’m used to it, Tom,’ he said, turning to the rest of the team, ‘and I think I’ve found the two volunteers I need to stoke the boiler during the flight.’

  ‘The pilot would only fly this if it was safe, or he had a death wish,’ Gray said, ‘and Freddie’s about the least suicidal fellow I know. Let’s move it, people, the clock’s ticking.’

  They climbed aboard through the rear door and took in the spartan interior. The aircraft had originally boasted twenty-one seats in seven rows of three, but the centre column had long since been removed, leaving a fairly wide centre aisle by modern passenger plane standards.

  The interior stank, with the body odour of a thousand baked tourists mingling with oil and jet fuel, though Gray knew his men had put up with much worse in their time. The smell would prove nothing more than a minor distraction.

  Once the last man had boarded, Rickard secured the door and removed a metal floor panel to reveal a storage area filled with everything they needed for the mission, even down to the disruptive-pattern camouflage combat gear. One of the men began handing out knives, rifles and munition boxes and they broke into fours, with one squad cleaning, another loading the magazines and the last repacking the parachutes Rickard had brought along: there was no way any of them were going to trust someone else to do that crucial job properly.

  While the men readied their kit, Gray powered up the satellite phone and hit the number for Smart’s handset.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Len, glad you’re still with us.’

  ‘Only just. We’ve had a dozen contacts today, and everyone’s shagged.’

  ‘What’s your location?’

  Gray waited while Smart extracted his GPS and read off the coordinates, then entered them into his phone. He also marked the position on a map and showed it to Rickard, who was completing his pre-flight checks. The pilot told him they could be over the area in three hours, and Gray passed the message on.

  ‘How far do you think you can travel in that time?’ Gray asked, looking to establish a rendezvous point.

  ‘About twenty-five yards. We’ve reached a plateau and we’re gonna hold the high ground until you get here. We’ve been on the go for nearly thirty-six hours, and the locals have been running on empty since midday.’

  Smart explained how their pursuers had been engaging on and off for the last twelve hours, harrying them every time they stopped for a rest, though never sending more than a handful of men into the fight.

  ‘It’s like they’re trying to run us into the ground, or they’re pushing us towards another unit waiting up ahead.’

  ‘It could be both,’ Gray agreed. ‘I agree, form a perimeter and wait for us. What’s the area like?’

  ‘Full canopy overhead, dense on the ground, a gentle slope leading up to the plateau. I’ve got S
onny scoping out the land beyond that.’

  That ruled out jumping straight to their location. HALO jumps—High Altitude, Low Opening—were tricky at the best of times, but attempting them at night and landing amongst tall trees was a clusterfuck waiting to happen.

  ‘In that case, we stick to Plan A. We’ll take the airport, then move south to join up with you. We’ll be there as soon as we can.’

  Gray signed off and pulled out his mobile phone as he considered dialling Harvey’s number, but thought better of it. Getting the latest intel from the Africa desk would be nice, but having to explain why he was about to violate Malundi airspace with an armed team suddenly made the information seem less urgent. He turned the phone off and slipped it into his pocket, knowing it would be useless once they got to their destination.

  Gray’s team went about their business for another five minutes, rotating their duties until each man had everything they needed for the mission ahead.

  ‘Guys,’ Gray said, ‘hand over your passports. You know the drill: we don’t want any ID falling into the wrong hands. You’ll get them back on the return trip.’

  His team complied, and Gray asked Rickard to stow the documents safely.

  A couple of minutes later, the engines caught with a splutter, followed by a deafening roar as the Pratt and Whitney R-2000 engines came to life. Rickard was granted clearance by the tower, and they taxied down the runway, the aircraft almost shaking itself to pieces before the forward momentum finally allowed it to climb into the dark, rain-filled night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday 8 October 2013

  Len Smart’s eyes shifted constantly in an effort to stave off sleep, but it was a losing battle. Being awake for almost forty hours was the major factor, but coupled with the ebb and flow of adrenaline from numerous exchanges with the enemy, his body was pleading with him to shut down, if only for a few minutes.