Motorbike Men

by Duncan James

  As Clayton had said, “If they had been any damned good at all, they would have been working for Section 11, and not MI5”.

  ***

  Miller was taking care to keep in touch with the Ops Room in Clerkenwell, so that they knew what was happening and what his plans were in relation to Lloyd. There had been no further news about Makienko or his whereabouts, although MI5 thought they had identified the ‘mole’. A junior clerical assistant in the Cabinet Office had been trying to make a few extra bob selling low-level information. The problem was that he didn’t know what was ‘low-level’ and what wasn’t. The other problem was that the man was still there. They didn’t have enough direct evidence yet to arrest him or sack him, or even suspend him. They were working on it.

  Miller let them know, in no uncertain terms, that he was not happy about Makienko being on the loose, not least because he was in Switzerland on his own. Bill Clayton tried to reassure him.

  “We have no idea whether he’s heading your way or not, so relax. He’s probably going to Russia the long way round.”

  “But I thought MI5 was keeping tracks on him?”

  “Frankly, we did too, but they seem to have lost him for the time being.”

  “It’s OK for them – they’re in London in the warm, and I’m out here freezing to death on my own.”

  “I know, Dusty. They should never have taken their eyes off the man. Frankly, if they had been any damned good at all, they would have been working for Section 11, and not MI5,”

  “That’s all very well, but until we’re sure, a bit of support would be useful out here, even just to give me a meal break.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” said Clayton. “But you’re well armed, if you need to be,” Head of ‘S’ reminded him. “Gladys was apoplectic when you demanded the HK53 Heckler and Koch assault carbide with two magazines of ammo. And as for taking it abroad …”

  They both laughed.

  “I shall never forget the paperwork,” said Miller, “but she worked things OK and I got through customs at both ends without a murmur from anyone. If all goes well, I shall be home with it in a few days, once Lloyd has settled in, but I feel a bit exposed at the moment.”

  “Until we know where Makienko is for sure, just keep on your toes, and look out for strangers.”

  “They’re all bloody strangers here, Colonel!”

  Having checked all the snow reports and weather forecasts, Dusty Miller and Roger Lloyd decided to head for Rochers-de-Naye that weekend, where, at 2,045 meters, there was already enough snow for some decent skiing, and more was forecast during the next few days. They booked overnight bed and breakfast in Montreux, near the station, and caught the first train in the morning up to the summit. After that, they would spend a couple of nights at the tiny resort of Paccots, which boasted a station on the same rack-and-pinion rail line, but not much else.

  ***

  It was about that time that Clerkenwell heard that Makienko had booked a flight to Zurich.

  They immediately told Miller, who swore.

  “That’s a long way from where we are,” Miller said, “but I don’t like the smell of this.”

  “Neither do I, to be honest,” admitted Clayton. “And,” he continued, “I’m sorry to say that Zurich is not really all that far from where you are. If he changes trains at Lausanne, he can be in Montreux in just over three hours. And he bought a Swiss Railways travel card before he left, when he got his airline ticket.”

  Miller swore again.

  “Is he looking for us, do you think?”

  “Who knows. He was at the funeral, but if he wasn’t convinced, he might just be taking an interest in Lloyd, to be doubly sure.”

  “He might just be even better than we thought, too.”

  “Give me co-ordinates of where you are,” commanded Clayton. “Make sure you keep in touch, and tell us your every move. I’ll do my best to get some back-up to you as soon as I can.”

  Miller had enough problems already, without HQ adding to them, but the S.11 organisation went into overdrive to get immediate support out to him.

  Even the standby RAF Hercules crew thought a weekend in Switzerland might be a better idea than some sort of emergency relief flight to Afghanistan. The weather didn’t look too brilliant, though, especially not for a low-level drop of special forces paratroops in those mountains. Snow was forecast, and there was nearly always mist or fog at about 2000 meters at this time of the year. Could be a bit dodgy.

  “Channel 19 on your radio,” Clayton told Miller, “for direct contact with your support. The Swiss Army will be listening out, so don’t hesitate to use it as an emergency frequency. They’re used to working in that terrain.”

  “So I should hope,” said Miller. “They bloody well live here.”

  ***

  Miller and Lloyd had enjoyed a good morning on the slopes, in spite of the fact that Miller was a bit edgy. He had told Lloyd that he was using his binoculars looking for wild life and birds. Wild Russians, actually, although he didn’t say so. They had an excellent schnapps, and an even better lunch with yet another warming schnapps, at the Restaurant Alpin on the summit. They had decided to try some cross-country skiing that afternoon. Miller could not make up his mind whether they were safer among the crowds on the piste, or whether heading off on their own might be a better bet. He certainly stood a better chance of spotting Makienko out in the country, but on the other hand, the Russian would have a clearer shot out in the open - if he was there. What the hell!

  There was a well laid out cross-country trail starting from near the restaurant. By now, it was snowing hard, but they had nevertheless decided to turn off the loipe for some real cross-country on virgin snow. Miller had been impressed by Lloyd’s skill on skis, so he had no concerns about his ability to cope. This was what cross-country skiing was all about! Away from the busy downhill slope, enjoying the tranquillity of the mountains, cutting a swathe through fresh snow. They had decided to make their way along the top of a ledge once they had crossed the ridge, to a narrow valley which would lead them through the woods to more open snow, and a clear run back to Paccots. They crested the ridge near La Perche, where the rail line cut through yet another tunnel under the mountains on its way to Rochers de Naye. It was a good run on fresh snow, although it was now falling harder than it had been when they had set out. They had a couple of hours before it started getting dark, but once over the ridge, it was more or less downhill all the way.

  Since he didn’t fancy skiing in them, Lloyd had decided to leave his built-up shoes in St. Genis.

  Makienko had noticed. No stick, no limp, and no spectacles, either. He lowered his binoculars, fastened his skis, and took the Kalashnikov from his back-pack.

  Miller and Lloyd were making good progress, in spite of not wearing special cross-country skis, and were now well away from the main pistes. Miller had been keeping a good look out for other skiers, so was taken quite by surprise when a single shot rang out.

  Lloyd fell with a shout of pain, and clasped his left shoulder. Miller threw himself on top of the sprawling figure, turning his head in time to see the gunman fire another round, before setting off at speed along the ridge. The bullet grazed Miller’s leg, before splintering bark from the pine tree behind him.

  There was blood oozing through Lloyd’s fingers. Miller tore off his scarf, stuffed it with snow, and clamped it to Lloyd’s shoulder.

  “Hold that there, and don’t move, whatever you do,” said Miller. “I’ll be back.”

  With that, he took off after the disappearing man, while desperately trying to extricate his Heckler and Koch automatic from his back-pack. It was only a flesh wound to his leg, thank heaven, but painful just the same.

  The man had taken the open snow across the ridge, but he would soon have to turn downhill into the longer valley towards Paccots. Miller decided to risk all, and cut him off by heading diagonally through the trees. He judged that there was just enough snow under the tree canopy, but
it was a risky technique which he hadn’t practiced since Norway.

  He threaded his way through the trees, doing his best to avoid the lower branches. Thank the Lord he was not wearing cross-country skis. He was gaining ground on the gunman, no doubt about it, but he had been spotted. In spite of the speed at which they were now both travelling, the man loosed off a shot at Miller, splintering a tree nearby as he swerved passed. He knew what he was doing, all right, thought Miller. It had to be Makienko. Miller was gaining ground, and risked a shot himself. He missed, and the man returned fire. He missed, as well. Miller could see there was open ground ahead, which meant he would lose the advantage of cover, although he had the benefit of being behind his assailant.

  He took aim as carefully as he could at that speed and fired again, a short burst this time. The gunman fell, wounded, sending up a cloud of snow as he slithered across the slope. He came to a halt at the foot of a tree, and as Miller closed in on him, Makienko somehow managed to let off another round from his sniper’s rifle. Miller felt the bullet tear the flesh from his right arm. He dropped the HK53 as he skidded towards the prone figure, slamming in to a tree and coming to a shattering halt some fifty meters from the man.

  Now Miller was in real trouble. He took stock of his situation as best he could, in spite of his great pain.

  He had felt, and heard, his left leg shatter as he hit the tree, which had shed its load of snow from its upper branches on top of him. As he fell back, gasping for breath, there was a sharp and excruciating stab of pain from his ribs. His right arm was hanging virtually useless. He could not move it.

  Miller struggled to reach his Browning pistol, but the weapon was at his left side, ready to be easily drawn and used by his right hand. Not now. There was blood everywhere, an ever-increasing red patch in the freshly fallen snow, and Miller could already feel himself getting weaker.

  “Comrade Makienko,” he shouted. It was a huge effort to do anything.

  “Who are you?”

  Makienko was also loosing strength, and Miller was gratified to notice that he had hit the Russian in the chest.

  Makienko coughed, and spat blood.

  “We’ve met before, Dmitry.”

  Miller was fast losing blood and consciousness. It was a huge effort to focus on the Russian.

  Makienko also struggled to see his adversary, wiping blood from his mouth.

  “I took those photos of you in the coffee bar,” bellowed Miller as best he could. “And I took the pocket from your coat.”

  “Bastard!” yelled the Russian, struggling to take aim for one last shot at Miller.

  Miller fell back exhausted by his effort, and noticed the ever-widening stain of blood in the snow around him. He knew he was going to die. He did not have the strength to reach his pistol, or to struggle to safety in the trees. He was a sitting duck for Makienko, if the man lived long enough.

  He shouted once more at the Russian, defiantly.

  “You know rule twenty, Makienko?” This time, it was Miller who had to wipe blood from his mouth.

  “What’s that?”

  Miller was finding it difficult to breathe, let alone shout, and waves of pain and dizziness swept over him.

  “Failure isn’t an option in our business. And you’re a failure. You’re going to die.”

  Miller sank back into the snow, which was now beginning to blanket him as it fell ever more heavily and thickly. Through the red mist of pain, saw the furious FSB man let fly another round without taking proper aim. Miller felt it hit, but it was only a flesh wound this time he thought. Not that it made any real difference. He was a goner anyway. A wave of excruciating pain swept over Miller again, and he mercifully began to lose consciousness as he watched the Russian, through unfocussed eyes, unsteadily but deliberately take aim again, perhaps for the last time.

  “You will die first,” shouted Makienko.

  Miller heard a volley of shots ring out, but felt nothing this time. Instead, he vaguely saw Makienko thrown back into the snow, no doubt by the recoil.

  Miller was light headed and barely aware of what was going on around him anymore. He was hallucinating, he was sure. He imagined he could vaguely see, through the pain, what he thought were three shadowy figures, dressed in white combat overalls and headgear, and carrying HK53s. They swept down the slope, showering powdery snow from their skis in their wake.

  One made straight for Miller and bent over him.

  Miller struggled to remain awake.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Dusty weakly.

  “Fancied a bit of skiing, that’s all, so me and few chums from the Special Boat Service thought we’d drop in on your weekend off,” replied Nick Marsden, as he leant over Miller to assess his condition, “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Terrible pain,” mumbled Dusty, barely awake.

  Marsden ripped open the first aid kit from his back pack, tore out a syringe, and plunged the morphine deep into Miller’s forearm, exposed by a huge and bloody rip in his parka.

  “You’re in a bad way, sport,” he said. It was immediately obvious that Miller was seriously hurt. He used his hand-held radio.

  “It seems I got here just in the nick of time.”

  The joke was lost on Miller, who had drifted into another coma.

  “Wake up, Miller. Talk to me.”

  “Where’s Lloyd?” whispered Miller

  “He’s OK. Our medics are with him. Your dead friend here,” he nodded towards Makienko, “has given him a dodgy shoulder, but he’ll live.”

  Miller drifted into oblivion again.

  “Stay awake Miller,” Marsden shouted.

  Miller stirred. Already the morphine was having some effect.

  “Get my gun,” he breathed.

  “Got it already,” Marsden assured him.

  “Gladys will kill me if I go back without it.” He passed out again.

  “Wake up Miller. Keep talking to me, man.”

  Miller stirred.

  “The medics are coming down here to look at you next. Any minute now and you’ll be sorted.”

  Miller thought he heard the sound of Yamaha snow-mobiles. Two appeared through the trees and the heavy snow, headlights piercing the blizzard.

  Marsden stepped back to give the medic all the room he needed.

  Roger Lloyd was gingerly helped off the second machine, arm in a sling.

  Looking pale and shocked, he knelt over the prostrate Miller.

  “You saved my life, my friend,” he said.

  “Only just,” whispered Miller, drifting again.

  The Royal Navy Petty Officer medical orderly, dressed in Arctic survival kit like the rest of the team, was quick and efficient. After he had wrapped the prone figure in a thermal blanket as gently as he could, he applied a tourniquet to stop the flow of blood from Miller’s arm, applied a local anaesthetic to his leg, which he expertly straightened out and strapped to his good leg, and examined his chest.

  “Broken ribs and a punctured lung, I think,” he pronounced, wiping more blood from Dusty’s mouth. “You’ll live.”

  “No chance of a helicopter, I suppose?” the orderly asked Marsden.

  “Not in this,” replied Nick, motioning towards the heavy snow. “Even if there was a decent landing site, which there isn’t, it’s almost white-out conditions already, and the rotors would whip up the fresh snow and make it even worse.”

  “This man won’t take too much shaking about, that’s all,” said the medic. “He needs to be handled with care.”

  “We’ll just have to take our time, then. At least the new snow will be reasonably smooth, if we can see our way through this weather. I just hope we make it before dark.”

  The team gently lifted Miller onto a ski-fitted stretcher, which could be pulled behind one of the snow-mobiles.

  Marsden issued instructions.

  “Armstrong,” he shouted to his second-in-command, “take the troop along the ledge and down the valley to Caux. The
re’s a Swiss Army recovery team waiting there for us. I’ll follow with the Yamahas and the casualties. If this blizzard worsens into a real white-out, hole up for the night. We’ll do the same, except that this chap needs specialist attention quickly. Channel 19 is the one to use. Don’t be afraid to ask for help – we’re not behind enemy lines this time.”

  “Aye aye, Commander,” responded Armstrong. “What do we do with him, by the way?” he thumbed towards Makienko.

  “He can rot for a bit,” replied Marsden. “We’ve got enough problems of our own at the moment. The Swiss Army can come and get him tomorrow, if they can find him.”

  One of the team threw a blanket over the dead Russian, although later they all wondered why.

  “When you get half a chance, Armstrong, get on to that RAF Hercules, tell the bird-man in charge we’re going to be a touch late for our rendezvous, but make sure he doesn’t go without us. I don’t want to leave this man behind in a Montreux hospital.”

  Marsden turned to Miller, who already looked a bit more comfortable.

  “Not that there’s anything much wrong with Swiss hospitals, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s just that I want you back home fit and well in time for my wedding. You’re the best man.”

  ***

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Duncan James was an RAF pilot before eventually reaching the higher levels of the British Civil Service, in a career that included top-level posts at home and abroad with the Defence Ministry, and work with the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard.

  ***