by Chris Ryan
There in the heart of the building the noise of the air conditioners was much reduced, and it was quiet enough for me to hear my heart pounding. This was it.
This was the spot we'd come 4,000 miles to reach. All we had to do now was creep forward about twelve metres, open the door and drop the target where he sat.
Suddenly we heard a noise below: a chair had been pushed back or the drawer of a filing-cabinet slid shut.
Then door-hinges squeaked, and soft footsteps came towards us along the ground-floor corridor.
In a second we were both round the corner, into the upper passage, backs to the wall, in full view of anyone who came out of the target's room but shielded from the stairs. The footsteps started up the first flight. In ten seconds they'd be level with us.
Without a sound Tony pressed his Browning into my left hand and drew his Commando knife from its sheath on his belt. As the newcomer reached the top step Tony struck so fast round the corner that I saw nothing but a flurry of movement. The man made hardly a sound — just one gargling grunt as the blade drove into the side of his neck. If you rip out a guy's jugular and windpipe with one thrust, he doesn't start shouting. Tony caught him by the shoulder as he crumpled, turning the torso away from himself so that the spurting blood flew wide. The limp body slid bumping down the steps and came to rest on the half landing.
I could feel Tony quivering as I handed him back his pistol. Now, I thought: move, move.
Before I'd taken a step the passage lights went off. A second later they flickered back on, pinking and clicking, then went off, came on again, and finally died.
With them went the air-conditioning, and the background drone sank away into total silence.
Jesus! A power-cut. The extreme tension made me connect the shut-down with the corpse on the stairs.
Had we somehow caused the breakdown? Had the fall of that body triggered some switch? Impossible, surely.
It must be a coincidence. Whatever the cause, maybe the blackout would work to our advantage. Maybe it would flush Khadduri out and send him straight towards us.
I felt for my torch, down a slim pocket on my left, thigh. 'Get ready, I breathed. 'This'll bring him out.'
For a moment-nothing happened. I was stricken by a fleeting panic that Khadduri wasn't in his lair after all.
Then we heard movements inside his room, and I tensed myself for the door to open.
Another wait. What the hell was he doing? Maybe he was frantically trying to save whatever he had in his computer. But then, after another few seconds, came back the power: the fluorescent strips clicked and popped back into life; the air-conditioning units started up again.
With the background noise restored I ducked back on to the staircase, jabbed my pressel switch and said softly, 'Pat, what the fuck's happening to the power?'
'Dunno,' came the instant answer. 'The whole system went down for a few seconds. The entire camp was dark. Back on now.'
'OK. Nobody moving?'
'Not a soul.'
I felt my boot slip on the second step down, and realised the stairs were running with blood. Now I'd be leaving footprints. Too bad. Even our boots were Soviet-made.
I gave Tony a nudge and pointed down the corridor, breathing, 'Let's go.' But we'd taken only a couple of steps when the power went down yet again.
We stood still in the pitch-black corridor. I had the Browning in my right hand, torch in the left. Now he'll come out, I told myself. I reached back, hooked the torch round Tony's elbow and drew him forward with me. We crept on, one step, two, three, until I reckoned we were no more than six or seven feet from the target's door.
Noises came from inside the room: somebody stumbling over furniture. We heard the handle turn, then the hinges squeaked as the door came open. Torch on. There in the beam was al-Khadduri — heavier, greyer than I remembered, hair ruffled up on end, but without the slightest doubt the same man — in an open-necked white shirt, carrying a bufffile-holder in his right hand.
His eyes had a startled look and he opened his mouth to say something, but before any word came out my 9mm bullet smacked him in the centre of the forehead.
The impact knocked him backwards bodily, and he slumped to the floor. On the deck his head turned sideways, and in an instant I was on top of him, putting a second round through his skull just above the ear. At the second shot the body twitched and jerked as if it had had an electric current shot through it, and the feet, which were encased in some kind of soft shoes, went slap, slap, slap against the wall as the dead man's knees doubled up and straightened violently, up, down, up, down. I saw now there'd been no need for the second round, because the first bullet had blown offthe back of his skull and a mess of brains was hanging out. The papers had cascaded out of his file and scattered along the floor. There was blood on his face, his shirt, the floor, the door.
Subconsciously I knew that even the silenced pistol had made two heavy thuds, enough to have alerted anyone on the upper storey, but our immediate need was to snap some pictures of the dead man so that Western intelligence chiefs got absolute proof he'd been eliminated.
For a couple of seconds I sat on Khadduri's legs to stop that mad thrashing. Then, as the nerve-responses faded, I stood up, and in a pre-arranged move Tony bolstered his pistol and grabbed the body under the armpits. The hands and arms were still twitching as he dragged it a couple of steps backwards and propped it against the door. By the time he had it in position I'd got my Instamatic camera lined up, the torch beam giving enough light to aim the lens, and I knew the automatic flash vOould do the rest.
'For Pete's sake get a move on,' Tony gasped. 'The bastard's bleeding all over me. I hope to hell he hasn't got AIDS.'
'Tip his head back a bit,' I hissed. 'Up! Up! Get him by the hair… That's it. Wipe the blood off his nose.
There — hold him there. Now turn his head sideways for a profile.'
I fired off six frames, three full-face, three profile, then pouched the camera and turned to go. In a couple of seconds we were at the top of the stairs, but shouts and a rush of feet in the lower corridor halted us on the top landing.
Men were yelling 'Misabeeh! Misabeeh!'
'Lights,' whispered Tony, 'they're shouting for lights.' Then, voicing my own thoughts, he said, 'They'll find the body on the stairs. That'll stop them.
Use the window. It's only a ten or twelve foot drop.'
We ran back to Khadduri's door, stepped over his huddled body, turned the handle and went in. On impulse I reached back, felt for a soft, still warm hand, grabbed it, dragged the body into the room and shut the door behind it.
The room was slightly less dark than the corridor, lit by enough moonlight to make out the pieces of furniture. As Tony picked his way through them to the window I felt for the key and turned it in the lock.
Then he hissed, 'Shit!'
'What's the matter?'
'Can't shift the window. Must be locked.'
I knew from our observation during the day that the casements were made of heavy-duty metal. I came up beside Tony, grabbed the lever-handle and heaved downwards. No movement whatever. Bringing out my Browning, I slammed the butt against the glass — but although the pane buckled it didn't break. Against the moonlight I peered closely and saw that it was reinforced with wire mesh.
I whipped back to the door and opened it slightly to listen. They'd found the body on the stairs and were jabbering like monkeys. There was no way we'd get down past them. We were trapped on the upper storey.
I locked the door again and got on the radio. 'All stations. The bird is down. P,epeat, the bird is down.
But we've been compromised. We need immediate distractions. Pat, are you hearing me?'
'Loud and clear.'
'Get an IPG into the right-hand end of our building. Upper floor, your right-hand end. Now.
Then fire your distraction charge soonest. After that, if it's still on, have a crack at the satellite dish.
'Whinger?'
'Hel
lo.'
'Once the rocket's gone, get rounds down into the area of the guardroom. Are there any lights on in the camp? Over.'
'No lights, Geordie. The whole system's gone down.'
'OK. Let me know if anything comes on. We're in the bird's nest itself. We're stuck for the moment. But it's no sweat. When we can, we're coming out through the window that was lit.'
In one of the pouches of my belt-kit I had two small demolition charges, ready made up. It took only a few seconds to mould them on to the window fastening. Tll wait for the RPG to hit,' I told Tony. 'Then I'll blow it. Block your ears.'
We both lay flat on the floor at the base of the outer wall, heads away from the window, thumbs over ears.
Seconds crawled past. I held the clacker between my knees, willing Pat to let drive. Then, without warning, there came a thunderbolt, an immense roar, and a concussion that shook the entire building. In its aftermath, the boom of our little charge was tiny, but still enough to leave our ears ringing.
Tony and I leapt up. The window had swung open.
With my shamag in a bundle I swept the sill back and forth to clear any broken glass and went out feet-first.
The barrel of my AK-47 caught on the top of the frame, and I had to wriggle my torso violently to free it. Then I hung down, flexed my knees and let go.
The landing was hard but OK. Just as Tony thumped down beside me, a huge sheet of flame split the night from along by the gate, instantly followed by the boom of another explosion. Good on yet, Pat, I thought.
On the radio I called, 'Norm, we're out front and coming round the corner towards you. Are you there?'
'Roger. Ready and waiting.'
We scuttled to the corner of the building, felt rather than saw Norm in front of us, and all three headed fast for the gap in the wire. By then rounds were going down in every direction. Short bursts were coming in from Pat and Whinger, but from several points inside the wire tracer was flying out into the desert, most of it in the direction of the gate, where the explosion had started a small fire.
As we reached the wire I heard the whoosh of another rocket coming in. Turning, I saw the streak of it heading for the comms dish. Automatically I began counting: one, two, three… By four I kne it had missed.
Fractionally later came a boom as it self-destructed.
Fuck the dish, I thought. We're not risking our lives for that.
We wriggled through the gap in the wire, ran until we were well clear of the fence, and dropped into a hollow. I was panting and sweating in the hot outside air, but on a high, boosted by a mixture of fear and elation. I felt neither tired nor hungry, not even thirsty just great. 'Stew,' I called. 'Have you onpassed to the head-shed that the bird is down?'
'Roger. Message passed and acknowledged. The heli's on its way.'
'Brilliant. Let's go.'
We fell in with Whinger easily enough. 'Fucking missed!' he went.
'No sweat,' I told him. 'Where's the launcher?'
'I binned it.'
'OK, let's leave it. We've got problems enough already.'
Little did I know the validity of what I was saying.
When we reached the OP — our first EP, V — there was no sign of Pat. He should have been there by then.
'Pat,' I called over the radio, 'EP, V One, now.'
No answer. I called again, and waited with anxiety mounting fast. Then at last came an answer.
It was Pat all right, but not the jaunty, cortfident response we were used to hearing. His voice sounded weak and slow. 'Problem,' he slurred, 'I've been hit.
Can't move.'
'Jesus!' I cried. 'Where are you?'
'Main gate. Five o'clock, two hundred metres.'
'Hang on there. We're coming.'
We started running in his direction, parallel with the wire, a couple of hundred metres out. Bursts of automatic fire came cracking out over our heads, with the odd red tracer round looping past to show us it wasn't all that high. Whinger kept yelling 'FUCKIN' AISEHOLES!' like a lunatic. I nearly shouted at him to shut up, but decided he'd pay no attention.
Whether or not the defenders could see us it was impossible to tell, but I guessed not. I reckoned they were just loosing offrounds into the desert to raise their morale. They had plenty to keep them occupied. The blaze started by Pat's distraction charge had died out, but the accommodation block was well alight, with flames spreading along it from the right-hand end. I could see figures running about outside the building, and hear men yelling in high, harsh voices. Vehicles were on the move, headlights sweeping the desert. I tried not to look at the lights or flames because the glare destroyed my night-vision.
The ground was uneven enough to make searching difficult, the hollows containing pools of deeper darkness.
'Spread out,' I called. 'Get a line. It's the only way to find him.'
We fanned out to twenty metres apart in a line end- on to the wire, tripping and falling in the sandy hollows.
Whenever headlights swung in our direction, everyone went down and stayed flat until the beams had passed.
This made progress ercatic, and confused our eyes still more. I was beginning to think we must have gone past Pat when Norm suddenly called, 'Here he is.'
We were round him in a flash. He was lying in a bit' of a dip, on his right side, with his left leg curled up but his right leg straight out beneath it. As we huddled round he didn't speak. With my back to the camp I switched on my torch and immediately saw blood gleaming in the sand.
'Right leg,' I said. 'Turn him over.'
He groaned and blasphemed as we got him on his back. With my knife I cut his trousers and slit upwards.
One look told me that a bullet had gone right through his leg and caught his femur just above the knee. A splinter of bone was protruding from a bloody opening.
I whipped out my shamag and twisted it up into a sausage to make a tourniquet above the wound.
'Get on the radio to Stew,' I ordered. 'Tell him we need the trailer forward, as close behind the OP as he can get it.'
I got the tourniquet in position, broke out two thick wound-dressings from my emergency pack and bound them into place with Norm's shamag, one on either hole. When I shone the torch on Pat's face he looked deathly pale, and his eyes moved slowly. I felt round his neck for the sachet of morphia. It was still in place, so I jerked the cord in half, pulled off the cap and banged the needle into his good thigh.
'He's lost a lot of blood,' I said. 'He needs an IV, fast.'
Suddenly a brighter glare blazed out of the camp, and the beam of a searchlight swept over the desert to our right. 'For fuck's sake!' called Whinger. 'Let's get him into a deeper hole.'
He and Norm took Pat by the arms and began dragging him backwards over the sand, ignoring his protests. I picked up his rifle and went after them. Then I saw the beam of the light swinging fast towards us.
'On the deck!' I snapped. 'Down!'
Down we went, but not quick enough. The light beamed on to us, swung past, then checked and came back. The operator had seen us. A second later rounds came flying down the line of the beam. The air all round my head was suddenly full of vicious snapping and crackling. It was a machine-gun, firing long bursts.
We were pinned down fifty metres short of the dunes and good cover. If we'd all been fit we could maybe have rolled into hollows and got away with it.
But Pat couldn't move on his own. To me his body showed up as big as an elephant's, caught in that lethal beam. If anyone had good binos at the other end, they were bound to see it.
There was only one thing to do. I rolled a couple of metres to my left, came up in a firing position and let drive at the light with my AK-47: one, two, three short bursts, raising my point of aim slightly each time. I was aware of someone else firing too, on my right. At my fourth burst the light vanished, but rounds were still snapping close overhead.
'Keep down!' I yelled. 'Give 'em time to lose their point of aim.'
In a few seconds the firing
stopped.
'OK,' I called. 'Let's go.'
Whinger got hold of Pat again, but Norm wasn't with him.
'Norm!' I called. 'Where are you? Norm?'
I scuttled four or five steps to where I'd last seen him, and there he was, flat on his front, slumped face-down over his rifle. Feeling desperately exposed, I knelt with my back to the camp and flicked on my torch. Blood was welling from a hole at the base of his neck. A bullet had gone in on the inner end of the collar bone, killing him instantly. The round must have raked through his chest and-out through his spine.
I found I was shaking. 'Norm's gone,' I said.
'Want me to carry him?' Tony was lying beside me.
Tll manage him. You help drag Pat.'
The volume of incoming fire increased again, green tracer now added to the red. There must have been twenty or thirty guys loosing off from various areas of the camp, and now two machine-guns were firing.
Praise be, the whole lot was going high. Looking back, I saw that the power had been partially restored: a few lights were showing dimly, as though w.orked by emergency generators. More sinister was the fact that vehicles were lining up one behind the other, facing the centre gate, as if a sortie was about to be launched into the desert.
With the air full of lead, everyone's instinct was to stay on the deck and crawl into shelter. But you can't crawl in soft sand dragging a heavy weight. Scary as it was, the only thing to do was to stand up. With Tony's help I got Norm over my shoulder in a fireman's lift, his arms hanging down my back. Even though Tony had taken his Nile, he seemed a hell of a weight. I started taking very short steps, but my feet slid in the sand and I made practically no progress.
Then out of the air came Stew's reassuring voice: 'On the move with the trailer. Can you give me a steer?'
I was panting so hard I could hardly speak. 'Stew,' I gasped, 'we're in the shit. Norm's been topped. Thirty seconds, someone'll be on the back of a dune. Give you two flashes, repeated.'
I struggled on a few more steps. I could feel Norm's warm blood dripping down the backs of my legs. The other two were dragging Pat on, drawing ahead. Tracer was still sailing high over us. Somehow we had to make the back of the first big dune, in dead ground from the camp.