by Chris Ryan
With the ruperts gone, I got the lads to gather round for a minute. 'R.ight,' I said, 'we start training proper tomorrow morning. But we can begin sorting out our priorities now. First things first: wills. Have you all made out a will?' I glanced round the team. Pat, who was married, gave a nod, but the other four looked blank.
'Well, even if you don't think you've got anything to leave, I suggest you get organized. There's no guarantee that all of us will come back. Correction: there's no guarantee that any of us will come back. Jabs the same.
Get your arses up to the doc's office: see the clerk in there, and make sure you're up to date. It's no big deal.
'Now — individual responsibilities. I'll be team medic; I've got the training. Fred, you're in charge of explosives. You'll need to check out these Chinese bar mines, make sure you read the instructi6ns, lkight?'
Fred nodded.
'Whinger, signals, OK? We're getting in some special non-attributable kit, and there's a rep coming up from the Firm to run you through it.'
'Yeah. I know most of that stuff, but a refresher wouldn't do any harm.'
'Good. Pat, how's your Arabic?'
'Shit hot!'
'Say something.'
'Aaaarrght.' he went, and then gave a kind of hiccup.
'What did that mean?'
'Fuck off.'
'Don't piss about.'
'Honest, that's what I said.'
'You did the Arabic course?'
'Yonks ago.'
'It'll come back to you. Get on the tapes in the language lab and you'll make it.'
'Allah karim.'
I turned to Stew Stewart and said, 'You're from Mobility Troop, Stew. Go down and speak to the INTO about the quads. Get a mechanic to take you through anything we might need to know.'
'Fair enough.'
Because Norm Paxford was already a competent signaller, I told him to work with Whinger as his backup on the radios. 'Take all the sets along to the signals technician and make sure the frequencies are in line,' I said. 'The other thing is, we'll use throat-mikes rather than booms, because booms would pick up the noise of the wind and the engines.
'And wait a minute,' I went on. 'A bell's ringing.
Covert Method of Entry. Weren't you posted to the CMOE wing, Norm? Didn't you do the specialist lock- picking course?'
'That's right,' he said. 'All two years of it.'
'Great. You're our CMOE expert, then.'
In a moment of black humour I saw all the members of our team in terms of what they didn't have — the areas where, in military jargon, they'd gone deficient. I'd gone deficient in terms of family; Norm couldn't be bothered to talk; Stew was definitely deficient in the legover stakes; Pat couldn't control his appetite; Fred wasn't overburdened with brains; and Whinger didn't know when to stop cracking jokes. Still, I thought, we've all got our own strengths, and even if we're not fucking perfect we'll make out.
Back in the incident room I found Fraser still in occupation. 'Hey, Geordie,' he said. Tve got news for you.'
'What's that?'
'Farrell's back.'
'Christ, that was quick!'
'Yep. He landed at Lyneham after lunch. Maximum security all the way.'
'Where's he been taken?'
'Winson Green, Birmingham.'
He picked up a sheet of fax paper and studied it. 'The prisoner's wounds are infected, and he's suffering from septicaema. He's running quite a high fever, by the look of it.'
'I'm not surprised,' I said, 'the amount of shit there was in that jungle. Some of it's bound to have been sucked into him with the bullets. Does that mean he's in hospital?'
Again Fraser consulted his notes. 'Yep, he's in a single cell in the hospital wing. He's on fifteen-minute watch. That means one of the screws takes a look at him every quarter of an hour.'
'What about visitors?'
'He hasn't had any yet. One guy tried to see him, and a search revealed that he was carrying an escape kit inside a transistor radio. So that was the end of that.
Now the Home Secretary's imposed a ban on visitors until further notice.'
'How long can that be maintained?'
'Only a few days. You can bet that a fellow like Farrell will know his rights down to the last letter.'
'And if the ban's lifted?'
'He'll be able to have one fifteen-minute visit a day, but only in a closed environment with prison officers present. That is, if he's graded Category A — which I've no doubt he will be.'
'And who was the guy who tried to visit?'
Fraser checked his notes and said, 'He identified himself with a driving licence in the name of Peter Smithies — but of course it turned out the licence had been stolen.'
'So the PIPA know where Farrell is anyway?'
'Oh yes. They know.'
That evening, for a change, I ran home. It was a good distance — about my usual eight miles — and I'd sussed out a route through the lanes that was almost entirely free of traffic. But again I had trouble with my rhythm.
Even more now I was feeling the pressure, and I was so needled by the contradictory thoughts chasing through my head that I couldn't settle to a steady pace.
I was pleased now that Operation Ostrich was going down, as it promised genuine action to distract me, and the chance of doing a hard job well. Besides, I positively looked forward to topping al-Khadduri. At the same time, I was apprehensive about leaving the UK with my own affairs in such a mess. On the one hand it seemed there was nothing to be gained by hanging around at Hereford. If or when the PIRA came on the air there would be plenty of trained negotiators on hand to deal with them; in any case, I was fairly sure that if I did demur about going, the legiment would order me to.
Yorky Pose had admitted as much. On the other hand, Hereford was the last place I'd seen Tim and Tracy, and my natural inclination was to cling to any trace of them that I had. iF i went overseas and someone made a cock- up in my absence, I might never see them again; my whole life would go to ratshit. Similarly, if I went under in a foreign country, Tim would never remember his father, we would never get to know each other properly. What sort of a person would he grow up to be without me to guide him? What would Tracy do, left without support?
Trying to think everything through, I realised that although I'd already made a will I might need to make some adjustments. As things stood I'd arranged to leave a small amount of money for Tim, who'd get it when he was eighteen, and the house to Tracy. She and I had talked all this through before, and she'd agreed that if I died she would adopt the boy. But now — to face the worst — there was a chance that she might not outlive me. I decided that in the morning I'd better go into town to visit my solicitor, the owlish Mr Higgins.
As for Farrell — I couldn't help feeling nervous about the situation. At least the bastard hadn't escaped. I'd half expected the Colombians to let him out, through corruption or sheer incompetence. Now he was behind bars in Birmingham, and it sounded as if he was too ill to cause trouble for the time being.
But sooner or later he'd start to agitate, and when he did he'd stir more trouble than all the turds in China.
FOUR
I was at the solicitor's office by nine o'clock. 'Thos C.
Higgins & Partners' said the highly-polished brass plate beside the door. I had no appointment, but I knew Higgins kept the first half-hour of the morning free and was confident he'd see me. In fact he walked up to the front door at the same moment as I did, and greeted me like an old pal, spectacles flashing.
His office smelt of lavender furniture polish, and the handsome grandfather clock was ticking away as steadily as ever in a corner. Since he knew my affairs well, there wasn't much explaining to do, and I soon put him in the *picture.
'I don't know if it makes any difference,' I said, 'but Tracy's pregnant.'
'Is she?' he exclaimed. 'Congratulations!'
'Well, it's only two months so far.'
'You mean you would like to make the child a ben
eficiary of your will?'
'That's what I was wondering.'
'I think it's hardly possible. I mean, if she were, God forbid, to be killed during the next few weeks, the child could not survive.' He paused for a moment, then said, 'Is there no one else you could name as a residuary legatee?'
I shook my head. 'As you know, I'm an orphan. I don't have anybody.' Then suddenly an idea came to me, and I said, 'I know. Yes. I'd like to nominate a colleague: Tony Lopez.'
'Is that his full name? Tony?'
'No, it's Antonio. He's American, Puerto Rican by origin. If Tracy and I are both written off, I'd like him to get everything. But the most important thing is that I'd like him to be the guardian for Tim.'
'Very well,' replied Mr Higgins cautiously. 'I'm sure that can be arranged. I shall need Mr Lopez to complete certain documents, of course.'
'Sergeant Lopez,' I said.
'Sergeant. I'm sorry.'
Mr Lopez! Just thinking about it creased me up.
Tony was so much the professional soldier that the very idea of him being a civilian seemed ridiculous; I knew he'd bust his butt (as he would put it) laughing about it.
The morning's highlight was the arrival of the quads.
Seven brand-new Honda Big Reds — one for each member of the team, one spare — were decanted from a truck into the tender loving care of the MT section, which at once set about destroying their glamour and making them look as nondescript as possible. By the time our lads went down to take delivery of the bikes their appearance had changed completely. Not only had every trace of scarlet paint been scraped, rubbed or grit- blasted off and replaced by a drab sand-colour, but the engine numbers had also been ground.off the crank cases with emery wheels and the serial numbers scraped off the frames. The ignition keys had been stripped of their numbers so that no identification remained, and the engineers had cut different numbers of notches in their rims, one to seven, so that they could still be matched to the right bikes.
As Whinger remarked, such treatment didn't exactly enhance the value of the machines — but then, after the operation had gone down, we weren't planning to auction them off in the main souk in Tripoli.
We'd all ridden quads before, but we got a quick run-down on this latest model from Mike Molloy, the MT officer, a grizzled little terrier of a captain. 'They're fully automatic,' he said, sitting on one to demonstrate.
'No clutch. The gear pedal's this one, by your left foot.
As you move off, just keep coming up with your toe Super Low, One, Two, Three, Four. For reverse, push this red button on the panel between the handlebars, then down with the gear lever. Nothing to it.
'Watch your starts, though. The motor's quite poky,
and if you give it too much throttle it can put you on your back. As you'll see from the manual, wheelies are not recommended.' To demonstrate his point he started the engine, kicked into gear and revved up sharply. For a second I thought he'd overdone it. The bike seemed to leap into the air. It shot forward, but at the same time the front wheels came high offthe ground so that it was almost vertical, and Mike was clinging on like a jockey on the back of a rearing horse. A tiny bit more power and he'd have gone right over backwards, but in fact he came down safely and switched off. 'See what I mean?' he said.
'Another thing to look out for is the tyres. As you realise, they're designed to operate at very low pressures — two point nine p.s.i. - cross-country. If you find you've got to run on tarmac, blow 'em up to at least double that or you'll knacker them.'
We were given basic instruction in maintenance changing wheels, mending punctures, adjusting brakes, fiddling carburettor jets and so on — but Stew Stewart arranged to come back another day and go through the drills for things like ignition faults and fuel blockages.
Most of the guys ignored the manuals that came with the bikes, but a couple of them gave short, satirical readings from the printed instructions. Whinger started honking off in a pseudo-Japanese voice: '“Always check for obstacles before operating in a new area.”' He gave a short, sardonic laugh. 'Thanks, mate. Just send us a load of large-scale maps of eastern Libya, all five thousands sheets! “Always obey local off-road riding laws and regulations.” Phone the Libyan Embassy, Geordie, and ask for a copy of the desert off-highway code. “Never go fast over the top of a hill.” For fuck's sake! If Gadaffi's nasties come after us I'll be going like shit off a shovel, I can tell you, even if I'm right on the summit of the biggest bloody mountain in North Africa.'
That afternoon we loaded into a four-tonner and drove away to the Brecon Beacons for practice over rough terrain — through mud and water, up, down and across steep grass“ slopes. For. me, this was another psycho logical hang-up to be overcome. It was a motorbike accident which had led to my getting captured in Iraq: as the squadron had been moving up to a new location in the desert I'd dropped into a hole and smashed my left arm — and then, as an American casevac team was lifting me out along with other wounded, the chopper had been shot down. Now, once again, I was going to be riding a bike behind the lines in enemy territory.
Admittedly I'd now have four wheels instead of two, and there wasn't a war on, but all the same the idea was a bit of a hurdle. To be nicked by the Libyans wouldn't be much less unpleasant than being nicked by the Iraqis especially as our presence in the country would probably be denied by the British authorities and we could easily be left to rot in one of Gadaffi's penitentiaries.
Was it imagination, or did my arm produce a couple of twinges as I powered off up a rough grass track into the hills? For months it hadn't given the slightest trouble, even when I was on the weights in the gym, but now it seemed to be aching.
I set myself to concentrate on balance, and getting the feel of the quad. With two front wheels the steering seemed much firmer than with one, but it was OK once I'd got used to it. The trick was to sit forward on the long saddle when climbing, back on the way down, and lean uphill on the cross-slopes.
Pretty soon I had got the hang of it and started enjoying myself- and in fact everybody came back well chuffed with the machines, which were comfortable, fast, sure-footed and ideal for the job. Of course, we had been riding them with front and rear racks empty, and we realised they'd be a different proposition when loaded with all the kit and stores we were going to need.
While we were out in the hills, a message had reached camp to say that our American contact had flown in from Langley, Virginia, and would brief us on the camp at Ajdabiya in the morning. With this in mind we stopped work and went home early.
First light next day saw us piling into a Puma and whipping up to RAF Northolt on the western outskirts of London. It frustrated me to think that we were heading into the very area where Tim and Tracy might be held, and during the flight I was seized by the fantastic idea that I'd simply look down and see them being taken along a street — whereupon we'd bin our meeting with the Firm, fast-rope down on top of the prisoners' escorts, overpower them, and recover the captives.
The rest of the journey into town — by road — took so long that we reckoned we could have tabbed it faster, and it was nearly ten o'clock by the time our wagon crossed Vauxhall Bridge, slipped in through twin security gates and pulled up in the basement of the Firm's forbidding new head-shed building on the south bank of the Thames. Our friend Gilbert met us in the basement and escorted us up into the heart of the block, punching in combination numbers to open one locked door after another. Security here was so tight that it felt as if we were in a submarine, passing through a series of watertight compartments. We'd been told that this building got swept electronically at least once a day to make sure no listening bugs had been infiltrated, and we had no difficulty believing it.
We were never told the full name of the CIA agent who briefed us; Gilbert brought him into the lecture- room and introduced him merely as Gus. He was a short, stocky fellow in a navy blazer, with a pointed face, heavy suntan, close-cropped grey hair and shiny brown eyes — a combination that reminded me o
f a squirrel. Before he spoke, Gilbert gave us another dose of warnings about the need for total security — but here, in this alien environment, our guys were on their best behaviour, and Whinger didn't even scratch his ear.
When the American began to talk we were riveted, because the depth of his information was amazing. It took a couple of minutes to get used to his broad southern accent, but soon we were hooked. Not even his habit of saying 'OK?' after every few words could put us off.
Satellite data had been down-loaded'into his laptop, some of it enhanced into three-dimensional computer images, which he fired on to a screen, so that what we got was a series of snapshots taken from a variety of overhead angles. As we sat there watching, all the guys were impressed by the lecturer's high-tech apparatus and approach, but at the same time I couldn't help thinking how typical it was that, although the Yanks could see a fly twiddling its legs on the far side of the world, when they wanted guys to go in and shoot somebody unpleasant, it was the Brits whom they got to do the job.
First Gus showed us the extent of the military camp.
It was roughly rectangular, with the sides extending about two kilometres and the main approach road coming down to it from the north. Using a propelling pencil as a pointer, he picked out points of interest.
'The perimeter fence is weldmesh,' he told us. 'OK?
Ten feet high, with a two-foot extension tilted outwards on top. Four strands of barbed wire — dannart, you call it? — on angle irons I don't know whether you'll want to go through that or over it — through it, I guess. On the whole, we believe that security on the base is fairly primitive. The locals reckon the camp's protected by its location, with nothing but desert to the south. We can't tell from the satellite imagery whether or not the watch-towers are manned, but we think not.'
'Excuse me,' I broke in. 'Is it all right to make notes?'