Authors: Chris Ryan
Zero Option (15 page)
If we got compromised, all we could do was to leg it back to the LUP, jump on the quads and scoot away into the desert, having called for immediate helicopter evacuation. But that would be a disaster - the end of the operation.
We waited a couple of minutes. I could feel sweat running down my backbone. Then Pat came up with.
'There are two
herders,
a man and a boy.'
'Have they got a dog?'
'Wait one… Yes. There's one dog, like a big grey lurcher.'
'Shit! How close behind us are they going to pass?'
'Maybe two hundred metres.'
'Keep us informed if they start coming any closer.'
Roger.'
As far as we could tell in our baking hollow, there was no wind at all - not a breath that would carry our scent behind us. Besides, five hours had passed since any of us had crossed the line on which the camels were advancing; I couldn't believe that any dog would pick up any traces from that burning sand.
Presently I heard a shout, then another, from alarmingly close quarters. Over the radio link I asked, 'Pat, for Christ's sake. What are they doing?'
'Chill out,' he replied calmly. 'The lead camels are passing you now. They're just wandering on. Now the leader of
ali's
having the crap of its life. No bother. Sit tight.'
I found I'd unconsciously been holding my breath, so I let it out and inhaled deeply.
'Keeping on,' Pat continued.
'Allah karim.
Halfway across…
Three-quarters.
There must be two hundred altogether.
The end of the column's level with you now.
Look out, though. The dog's turning in your direction.'
'How far from us?'
'Still the two hundred metres.
Stand by… No - it's OK. The dog's OK. He's only having a piss on a tuft of dead grass. That's all he's about. Now he's carrying on.
Herders the same.
One herder pissing… Now they're clear. They're squared away.'
'Thanks, Pat.'
'You're welcome. By the way, what's that godawful noise?'
'That's the local vicar clearing his throat, having a gargle.'
'Are his congregation bloody deaf or something?'
'Yeah, I should say they are by now.'
The parade over, everything went dead again, both in the desert and in the camp. The camels vanished into the heat haze, and inside the wire, after their mass bollocking, the inmates dispersed to hangars or classrooms for their morning instruction. I tried to get my head down, but was bothered by the steadily rising temperature. 'What did they predict for us?' I asked fretfully. 'Wasn't it thirty-six? This feels more like fucking forty.'
All the same, I must have dropped off to sleep, because I came to with Tony shaking my elbow and found that two hours had passed.
'Anything doing?'
'The duty officer's been round - a jerk wearing a red sash and carrying a cane under his arm, sticking his nose in everywhere, throwing his weight about. And now they're lining up for the big event of the day,
prayers.'
From all corners of the camp men were trudging towards the mosque. The wind had got up, blowing into our faces as we watched, and the heat seemed to have eased a fraction. I reckoned that hot air was rising off the desert floor behind us and drawing slightly cooler air down from the north, ultimately from the sea.
At any rate, the breeze had cleared some of the haze, and through our glasses we could see the faithful taking off their boots and socks, which they left neatly set out in a long line before they went in to pray.
'I always wonder how in hell they know whose are which,' said Tony. 'Look at that: three hundred pairs of goddamn boots in a line. Just imagine what a screw-up there'd be if we put a couple of bursts into the tower: they'd be fighting like lunatics to find the right pair.'
But before I could answer another terrible cacophony burst from the loudspeakers as the mullah launched into his chant of'Allah akhbar! Allah
akhbar!',
and the prayers were under way.
At 1230 the personnel fanned out from the mosque and disappeared indoors again, presumably for lunch, and the next we saw of them, an hour later, they were ready for the off, queuing at the guardroom for the duty officer to sign their exit chits.
'They all get searched when they go out,' Tony said.
'Nobody trusts anybody.'
'But what could they possibly nick?'
'Weapons, ammunition.
Anything liftable.'
Tony looked at his watch and added, 'Know what? This is the beginning of their weekend. They're on their way already.'
'What about Shitface? I hope he's not going to thin out as well.'
'He is, though. That's him in the white jeep. Don't worry. He'll be back for that special meeting tomorrow.'
The afternoon slowly dragged itself away. The heat hammered in on us, in spite of the wind, and tiny black biting flies hopped around the sand. We squashed dozens of them as they landed on
Our
bare arms and necks, but every nip from the ones we missed left a red mark and started up an itch. We sweated and drank, sweated and drank, but so great was the rate of evaporation that neither of us wanted a piss all day.
During my stag Tony dropped off again with his shamag spread over his face, and I had a struggle to keep alert. Looking down at his peaceful form, I felt glad that he was with me, yet at the same time wondered if I'd boobed in making legal arrangements for him to become Tim's guardian. If both of us got written off now, my affairs would be in chaos.
At 1530 we heard another call to prayer, but this meeting was poorly attended compared with the morning effort, because most of the faithful had departed in that exodus after lunch. Aside from that there was practically no movement inside the camp, nothing to engage my interest. What kept me awake was the saccession of disturbing thoughts that chased each other through my mind.
The idea of killing someone in cold blood isn't a pleasant one. It is true that I had a personal grudge against our target, for the way he had treated me and Tony, and for his callous, cynical attitude in general.
Yet that alone didn't justify murdering him. To weight the scales against him I mentally threw in the fact that he was financing and supplying the IRA on a massive scale. It was his support - or, at any rate, the support of people like him - that had led indirectly to Kath's death and, now, to the kidnapping of Tim. The flow of money and weapons from overseas was what kept the IP going.
And in any case, I told myself, this isn't a personal matter. The fact that I happen to have a personal involvement is coincidental. The operation is one that the R.egiment has been tasked to carry out, and fate - or luck, or whatever it is - has decreed that I'm the guy in charge. That's all it is: a job to be done.
Trouble was
,
I had a far more difficult job to do back in the UK. Now we'd got as far as the OP, the topping of Khadduri seemed relatively simple. I felt sure that Tony and I would hack it, no bother. Infinitely more complex was the problem of recovering my family.
As I wrestled with this prospect, my mind kept harking back to the scheme I'd proposed to Pat - that a gang of our lads should take the law into our own hands, spring Farrell from police custody and hand him back to his mates in Belfast. Once again I heard Pat saying, 'You must be fucking mad!' and I realised the plan was probably quite unworkable. Nevertheless, I couldn't banish it from my head - and gradually, as the baking afternoon wore on, it evolved into a new version.
What if I kept the basic idea, but instead of trying to do something unilaterally, I brought the Regiment and the police on side, and got their backing? “
gith
the cooperation of the police we'd snatch Farrell while he was being moved between gaols, hold him in some safe house, tell the PIIA he was free, and exchange him for Tim and Tracy. But we'd arrange things so he could be immediately recaptured, possibly by putting a bug into his clothes or the heel of one of his shoes, and having a chopper airborne to follow whatever car he got into.
The scheme seemed so brilliant I felt quite lit up, and ceased to worry about the heat or the sand flies. But would the Regiment wear it?
Impossible to say.
In fact, I supposed, even if the head-shed agreed, authorisation for any such operation would have to come right from the top, from the Home Orifice, the Home Secretary or the Prime Minister. As in Operation Ostrich, permission would have to be completely unattributable, and deniable. Yet why shouldn't it be? Here I was, stewing deep inside Libya, about to .murder a senior army officer with the direct connivance of the British Government. If Whitehall sanctioned the elimination of dangerous foreigners, why should it baulk at a plan that merely ran rings round the
II:
(A?
I was so chuffed with my idea that I wanted to discuss it with someone immediately. But it didn't seem fair to wake Tony, who was sleeping quietly. I could hardly start honking about the plan over the radio to Pat.
So for the time being I had to bottle it up inside me.
I was still on stag when Khadduri reappeared. It was after six, the sun hanging low over the desert, and the heat had at last started to abate. Tony was getting some food down his neck when I saw the clean, white land- cruiser hurrying down the approach road towards the main entrance. Instead of detaining it, as they had every other vehicle, the guards whipped up the barrier and saluted it-past.
'Watch this,' I said. 'It looks like the VIP visitor. I thought the bastard was supposed to come tomorrow.
Looks like he's a day early - or our intelligence was
Out
.'
The jeep drove straight through the camp to our corner and pulled up outside the front door of the accommodation block. Out stepped Khadduri with one other guy, both went indoors, and the vehicle drove away.
The sight prompted me to a quick decision. 'Listen, Tony,' I said, 'we're going in tonight. There's nothing to be gained by waiting.
Quite the reverse.
He might clear off before tomorrow evening, after all.
D'you agree?'
'Fine by me.
Provided the bird stays on the nest.'
'Right, then.' I held in my pressel switch and called, 'You there, Whinger?'
'Roger. How 'you doing?'
'Fine. Onpass to head-shed that the bird's on the nest and the operation can go down tonight. Get them to clear that, OK? And ask if there's any update from their end.'
’Roger. I'll call you presently.'
I imagined Whinger going through on the Satcom a direct, one-to-one call to the comms centre in Hereford: 'Zero Alpha, Zero Alpha, this is Delta Four.
Over.'
At the other end I could see Yorky and Mac, and probably the CO, sitting round in the ops room while the duty signaller kept an eye on the set. 'This is Zero Alpha,' Mac would answer, 'go ahead.' Whereupon Whinger would pass on what I'd said and ask for permission to proceed. There'd be a slight dday after each person had spoken, but the voices would be crystal clear. There was no question of anyone eavesdropping on the exchanges because speech was automatically encrypted; the snag was that a satellite transmission created a much bigger electronic splash than high- frequency radio, and so was easier for a direction-finder to pick up. Exchanges were therefore kept as short as possible.
I also imagined the Prime Minister taking the closest possible interest in the operation. By my calculation the time in London was
, and probably the PM was in the House of Commons, fielding questions and giving stick to the Opposition. But at the back of his mind, I told myself, I bet he's thinking of us. I bet he's wondering how we're doing.
In the baking, sandy confines of the OP we waited for an answer, and presently Whinger came back on the air. 'OK,' he said, 'I've been through. I told the head- shed that two guys have eyeballed the bird, and that he's definitely on the nest. They just want to be sure you've seen enough and are confident about going in.'
'Tell 'em we're fine. No problem. We've seen everything we need to. We'll aim to go in at
, when the rest of the personnel have thinned out. If all goes according to plan, we'll want the chopper on ERV Six by 0200. Check that with them too. And ask if there's any news on the personal front, please.'
'Will do.'
Again we waited, and soon Whinger relayed confirmation through: no personal news, but the operation was on.
'In that case,' I said, 'we need you three guys up here by 2200. That'll give us plenty of time to brief you on details before we move up to the wire. Make sure Norm has his lock-picking kit. Bring both lPGs and the Dragunov. Don't forget - plenty of Semtex, and a can of fuel for a distraction charge.'
We saw them before we heard them: dark figures moving lowly towards us through the moonlight.
When they were thirty metres offI said quietly over the radio, 'OK, lads, we have eyes on you. We're right in front.'
We stood up and let the three come to meet us.
Then we led them round the front of the dune to give them a view of our objective.
'There's the building,' I began. 'And there's the lighted window.
As in the script.
The main entrance is the one facing us, but there's a back door round the corner to the left, in the shadow. Look at the fence. See where the first missing floodlight is? Up that side, fourth from the left-hand corner, more or less behind the building. We aim to cut the wire at that point, in that pool of darkness. Once we're through, Norm - you'll accompany me and Tony to the building, to pick the lock on that back door. When we go in, you'll stay in place to cover the door.
All right?'
'Aye.'
Norm nodded.
'Whinger, you stay on the fence to secure the gap.
You'll have the Dragunov as well as your AK-47. If any Libyan threatens our withdrawal, you can drop him from there with the sniper rifle. OK?
'Pat, 1
want
you to range right-handed along the front fence.' I swung a hand across. 'Get down as far as the gate beside the tower there and get ready to crack
offa
distraction charge. If we can, we'll keep everything quiet. But if things go noisy, set a time-fuse and pull back this way. When the charge goes, put a rocket into the satellite dish where those red lights are showing.
From the gate, the range should be about three-fifty metres. Is all that clear?'
'What if it doesn't go noisy?' Pat asked.
'We'll call you as soon as we're back through the wire. Once we're together again, you may still get a go at the dish. Then we'll tab off in orderly fashion to the OP. There we pick up our kit, leg it for the LUP, and away. Any more questions?'
'What if you can't find the target?' asked Whinger.
'We'll find him. We know the bastard's in the building. Ten to one he's sitting in that room right now. But if anything goes wrong we'll have to play it by ear. If he gets out of the building, by any mischance, one or other of you fence guys will probably have to drop him.'