Lies and Retribution (Alex King Book 2)

by A P Bateman

  The three bundles, although heavier than the men, fell at the same speed. They were automatically calibrated to open at five hundred feet to avoid colliding with them.

  Sergeant Peters checked his altimeter. It indicated four thousand feet. He released his grip on the man next to him and gave the signal to break. The group of six broke free to give themselves room. MacPherson’s group did the same simultaneously. Seconds later the canopies trailed and reached full canopy at eleven hundred feet.

  Peters braced for the shuddering, gut-wrenching jolt as terminal velocity was broken from one hundred and sixty miles per hour to approximately eighteen miles per hour in a second. He looked around him and counted eleven canopies. Less than three seconds later, he detached and dropped the last twenty feet into the icy water.

  The swell was two metres. Peters pulled off his helmet and mask, detached the personal air supply system and unfastened the rest of the parachute harness. He inflated his life vest a little using the manual fill mouthpiece. He chose to fill it only half way so he could swim faster. He shuddered with cold, the emersion was a shock to his system, the rubber dry suit kept him warm, but some water had leaked through the cuffs, neck and ankles, and the cold on his face was painful. He could see a flashing beacon and swam towards it. Head down, front crawl, kicking hard. Hampered by the dry suit, equipment and swell, he still made the twenty metre swim in less than a minute. When he got to the bundle and flashing beacon, he manoeuvred it until he could reach the pull tab and pulled back with all his might. The carbon dioxide canister inflated the Gemini rubber boat in less than three seconds. The boat was the right way up and Peters used the loops that ran all alongside the craft to pull himself out of the water. Once inside he took out his PNVGs and strapped them to his head. The passive infra-red night vision goggles turned everything green, but had a range of only two-hundred and fifty metres. He scanned three-hundred and sixty degrees searching for the other boats.

  Men were at the boat now and getting inside. There were more than there should have been, but they would pull the crafts together, headcount and even out the numbers before they moved out. Peters started the virtually silent four-stroke engine and headed for the nearest boat. He could see two more inflated and taking on men. The night was lit by a quarter moon and starlight. The cloud cover around fifty percent. It allowed reasonable visibility to one hundred metres unaided vision. The swell was considerable, but it was slow and there was a distinct rhythm to it and a distance of fifty metres or so between the troughs. A directional swell coming from the north. The wind was light. White water was at a minimum. Peters rubbed up against the nearest boat. The men tied on, and before long all three craft were a bound flotilla rising and falling in the swell.

  The men spread out and started to piece their kit together. They were using Heckler & Koch .45 calibre UMP machine carbines. Chosen for their compact dimensions and heavy-hitting round. The .45 had tremendous stopping power at close range but did not over-penetrate human targets or walls. A useful trait for a hostage rescue weapon. It was also deemed a one-shot-stop calibre. Not many people remained standing and fighting after being hit. All of the UMP’s were fitted with a suppressor making them virtually inaudible from fifty metres away. Each man checked their pistols, ejecting the magazine, tipping out water and reloading. They made them ready and holstered them. They were well-oiled and would work fine. It wasn’t the best way to treat a weapon, exposing it to salt water, but MacPherson had insisted they all jumped with them. If anything had happened to the dry weapon canisters inside the boats, or indeed if one or more of the boats were lost or damaged, he reasoned they would at least have a pistol and a knife and take on the task regardless.

  “I didn’t think the swell would be as big as this,” Peters said. “Going to be tough boarding.”

  MacPherson nodded. “It is what it is.” He took his night vision goggles off and used a large thermal imager to scan the horizon. It looked like a stubby telescope but allowed the operator to see everything in a dull red hue. It picked out heat sources and showed both distance to the target and a digital compass reading overlaid the image. “Got her. Two-thousand metres south-east. Almost on a direct course with us.”

  “The RAF boys did well,” Peters commented. “So we wait-out and they should sail right past us.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Get the ladders assembled!” Peters barked. “Same as the briefing. Mac’s boat takes starboard-side. Chubs’ boat takes the stern and my boat takes port-side. That’s left, dickheads!”

  MacPherson smiled. Peters was a good sergeant. An officer’s trusted right-hand man, but also one of the men. He was never afraid to call MacPherson on his decisions and the SAS captain respected him all the more for it. MacPherson was a rare breed. He had completed his four-year term; the maximum any officer could serve in the SAS. However, occasionally an officer would be invited back with a permanent posting. MacPherson had served in the SAS for almost ten years.

  Peters had showed his concern for this mission. There was no stand-down. No communication with Hereford. Once they left the plane they either succeeded or failed. They needed to secure the ship’s radio to communicate with control, and they needed the ship to get home again. There was only ten miles range in the silent engines’ internal fuel tanks and they were two hundred miles from land. A navy rescue operation would be called in after a zero-hour deadline, but the nearest frigate was over a hundred miles away. Until then, the men were on their own. Bloody suicide mission, Peter’s had remarked. I want double time for this! he had smirked.

  “Remember,” MacPherson said, looking at the men in turn. “Twelve confirmed hostages. Intelligence has confirmed four x-rays, but the number of crew remains unconfirmed. We do not jeopardise the hostages or each other by taking prisoners.”

  “So we shoot everyone and hope we don’t need Lawyers 4 You later on,” Peters commented flatly.

  The men chuckled and MacPherson looked at them all in turn. “It’s your call. You know how it works. But this is a tight mission and anything going tits-up means we may not get back home.”

  “We’ll do what needs to be done, Boss,” said Peters.

  MacPherson looked through the thermal imager again. “Okay lads, she’s eight-hundred metres and closing fast.” He looked at the trooper at the tiller of the outboard. “Get us out there and into position.”

  The men unlashed the boats and they broke away from one another as soon as the next swell hit them. MacPherson’s boat shot out across the path of the Ebony and carried on for another two hundred metres. The swell met them broadside, and the helmsman played with the revs and direction to put the prow of the rubber boat into the trough. He turned a wide circle and dropped the revs. The fishing boat sailed onwards. The SAS soldiers ducked down under the sides of the boat keeping their silhouette profiles to a minimum.

  MacPherson stowed the thermal imager and put on his own night vision goggles. He stared in the direction of the Ebony and breathed deeply, steadying his nerves. The boat came into view somewhat mystically as she broached the two-hundred and fifty metres limitation of the night vision goggles. The men remained silent. Noise could carry easily on the wind, even with the monotonous drum of the boat’s slow turning prop shaft and noisy diesel engines. She lolled slightly in the swells, but her prow rose high out of the water and crashed down the back of each trough. Boarding the craft in these swells was going to be difficult.

  When the boat was one-hundred metres clear, MacPherson ordered the helmsman to go and the other boats followed suit. MacPherson could see the red spot of a glowing cigarette as his boat drew near. Soon the silhouette of a man appeared leaning on the railing. He smoked, looking at the white water which broke along the Ebony and trailed off as wake. MacPherson raised his UMP and sighted on the centre of the man’s chest. He felt the Gemini ride high on the swell then drop down the trough. He breathed out, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The weapon had been set on its two-shot burst. Bot
h rounds struck less than an inch apart. The man fell and MacPherson kept the sight on the railing to see if he got back up. He didn’t.

  Chubs was a big man. He came from Fiji and was as black as coal. He was also extremely fit and a semi-professional bodybuilder. He was obsessed with fitness and maintaining a low body fat percentage, and ate egg white omelettes and grilled salmon for breakfast. Naturally his SAS colleagues called him Chubs because it annoyed him so much. He positioned himself at the prow, ready with the ladder. It had two large hooks on one end which could find purchase on the edge of most boats and ships. The ladders had been built according to what intelligence they had. The intelligence was wrong as usual and as Chubs hooked his ladder over the stern it was evident the men would have to pull themselves hand over hand for four or five rungs until their feet would find a rung. Chubs heaved himself up and those extra hours in the gym paid off as he scaled the twelve feet or so to the deck in seconds. He unslung his weapon and did not look back. He was on board and the rest of his team were left to their own devices. He eased himself around the crane fitted on the stern and saw MacPherson pulling himself over the rail and the body lying face down on the deck. MacPherson saw him and moved closer.

  “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “Still climbing,” Chubs replied. “Peters and his team are struggling with their ladder. It’s higher than we thought.”

  “Tell me about it,” MacPherson said, panting from the exertion.

  Peters appeared over the guardrail on the port side. He rolled over the top and got his weapon off his shoulder. The three men moved forwards, MacPherson in the lead, the other two behind and to each side like an arrowhead formation. They headed for the wheelhouse. A few feet short, MacPherson crouched low and signalled Peter’s past. The SAS captain kept his weapon covering the area ahead, while his sergeant creeped past him and opened the door. There was a lone man sat in front of the wheel. He was rolling a cigarette.

  Joseph Arnsettle looked up in surprise as he saw the SAS solider step inside - clad in a black dry-suit with a bulletproof vest under his life vest, his pistol low-slung, a diving knife strapped to his calf, ammunition pouches and wearing night-vision goggles, his UMP carbine aimed directly at him, the man dropped his half-rolled cigarette, his mouth agape. He didn’t hear the silenced shot that went straight in his open mouth. It had been an intentional shot, the brain stem nestled right behind the back of the throat. It was the surest way to switch off the lights. The body slumped down in the seat, completely still except for its right foot which shook slightly, quivering as the nervous system shut down.

  Peters crouched low and aimed his weapon at the top of the stairs. MacPherson eased himself up to his sergeant’s shoulder.

  “Good shot Dave,” MacPherson said quietly. “Chubs is on the door. Three of ours are working their way up the front.”

  “The prow.”

  “Fuck off, sergeant. The bloody front,” he grinned. “We’ll take the quarters.”

  “We’re three down then. Three of us here, three going up front. Are the others coming or staying in the bloody boats?”

  “The three short-arses probably can’t reach the bloody first rung, with the swells.”

  “Ah well, bollocks. Let’s do it.” Peters edged forwards and aimed his weapon down the stairwell.

  MacPherson took out a flash-bang, pulled the pin and lobbed it down the stairwell. Both men turned their heads and covered their ears by tucking the right ear into their right shoulder and cupping their left ears with their left hands. This kept their weapon ready and aimed in front of them. The flash was brilliant white; the bang was a hollow thump that shook their insides. Both men were up and moving with well-honed precision. MacPherson saw the man attempting to get out of his bunk. He aimed and fired two single shots. The man dropped back into his bunk. He was still moving, groaning. MacPherson stepped forwards a pace and pressed the muzzle against the man’s head at the same instance he fired, did not bother to check as the head rocked forwards and he continued to move onwards, his weapon up and scanning everything he looked at through the sights.

  Chubs had taken the decision to throttle back the engines and steer the Ebony on a course heading towards the swell. With no one steering, the boat could well change course as it rose and fell in the swells and be left broadside to the two metre waves. Slowing the boat down would also give the other three men tasked with the assault, but still in the Geminis, an opportunity to board and allow the three assault boats to back away as planned. The helmsmen were to protect the boats and provide covering fire if necessary from the belt-fed 5.56mm Minimi support weapons each boat carried. Chubs kept his weapon close to his shoulder and watched the foredeck. He knew that the area behind him was clear and from his vantage point high up at the rear of the boat he could provide fire and tactical support.

  There was gunfire ahead of them as they made their way through the engine room and into a storage hold. MacPherson held up his hand at an open door way and Peters crouched low and eased his weapon’s muzzle through resting it against the door jamb. MacPherson moved through the doorway and ducked as wood and debris splintered just inches from his head. The sound followed, a short burst from an automatic weapon. The SAS captain knew he couldn’t fire back without acquiring a target, but he moved forwards into the unknown to change position. The gunman would swing back and aim at where he had his near miss. MacPherson unpinned another flash-bang and threw it hard at the wall just in front of the door opening opposite. It struck at a forty-five-degree angle and rebounded into the next hold. He turned his eyes away, shielded his ears and waited the terrifyingly long three seconds. The moment it detonated he was up on his feet and charged at the opening. Ahead of him, a mere five metres away, a man stood bent over, his hand still on the grip of a compact AKS 74-U carbine, his other hand shielding his eyes. MacPherson aimed and fired, but his weapon merely clicked.

  “Stoppage!” he screamed and in one fluid motion he dropped the weapon to one side and drew his pistol, dropping to one knee as soon as he started to bring the weapon up to aim to present himself as a smaller target. The man started to bring the weapon up to fire, not believing his luck at hearing the click. But MacPherson was faster and fired twice, double-tapping the man twice in the face at the same moment that Peters fired a short burst of automatic fire over his captain’s head and hit the gunman in the centre of his chest.

  MacPherson got to his feet and ignoring the UMP on the floor, moved forwards with the pistol held firmly in both hands, looking at everything through the sights.

  Peters put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got this, Boss.”

  MacPherson let the man move in front, he now had the greater firepower. Standard operating procedure with a misfire was to discard, go to secondary weapon and keep moving. Hostage rescue was not a battlefield scenario, it was something that needed constant and unbroken momentum. Once the first shot is fired and stealth is compromised, the real threat was that hostages could be executed. Speed is of the essence. The stoppage could merely have been a shell casing caught in the ejection port and easy to clear. However, it could also be a damaged firing pin, a weak casing that had expanded and welded itself in the breach or a fault in the spring and blowback mechanism and that would require a repair with tools and a bench. There was no time to look, no time to be caught staring down the wrong end of a weapon and get shot by the enemy.

  “On me! On Me!” An SAS trooper called as he came down a set of stairs and into the hold. “One down at the top of the stairs! Looked like crew!”

  “Three crew, one armed x-ray!” MacPherson replied. “That’s three more x-rays!”

  Peters moved forwards followed by the trooper. MacPherson fell in and covered the rear using his pistol. They made their way through the hold which was packed full with nets, rope, coils of wire, crab pots and lobster pots. Buoys, flags and markers were stacked in wire cages and there were multiple sets of waterproof clothing, boots and life jackets hanging from the walls
, which were merely the steel sides of the inside of the hull. MacPherson was confident that the copper-coated lead bullets of the .45 UMPs and his own 9mm Sig Sauer pistol would not penetrate the hull, but the high velocity rounds of the AKS the dead gunman was using might well have been a different matter. To add to his concern, he could hear a sudden and unmistakable clatter of an AK47 on fully automatic ahead of them. The AK47 was even more powerful than the AKS. In the confines of the hull it was near-deafening.

  “Man Down! Man Down!”

  The words made his heart sink and he could hear a huge retaliation in return fire, the quiet whump of silenced .45s, the clatter of their working parts audible over their silenced gunshots. The UMP was a specialist hostage recovery weapon and the cyclic rate had been lowered considerably to just five-hundred and fifty to six-hundred rounds a minute. Compared to many machine carbines that would spit their bullets out at nine-hundred to a thousand rounds a minute. The result, however, was an extremely controllable and accurate weapon.

  “We need to get up there!” MacPherson shouted.

  Sergeant Peters grunted something as he eased his weapon’s muzzle around the next opening. He was not going to rush in for anyone. He respected and liked Captain MacPherson, and would follow the man anywhere, but he wouldn’t be rushed and the younger captain tended to be a bit cavalier. Old bull, young bull he would often joke. But he felt the adrenaline rising and he desperately wanted to get to the downed trooper. He ducked through a bit quicker than he otherwise might have and heard the zing of bullets past his ear as the gunfire erupted ahead of him. He dropped to one knee and aimed, but there were hostages everywhere. Their hands were bound behind them and they had been forced to stand and act as cover for the terrorists. Some had dropped to the deck upon hearing the gunfire next to them, others were standing confused. All were hooded.

  “British Security Forces!” Peters bellowed in his parade ground voice. “MI5 Hostages! Get down now!”