Aggressor (7 page)

‘Oh yes,' Jarrett said. ‘I remember.'

‘Well, we had to divert to RAF Machrihanish with a technical problem.'

‘Did you now,' Jarrett said. Girling could almost hear the alarm bells ringing in the press office at Whitehall. ‘I suppose we're going to see this splashed over your lead page this week.'

‘The Tornado is not the reason I'm ringing.'

‘Go on,' Jarrett said warily.

‘While I was on the ground at Machrihanish I saw a Soviet transport aircraft - an 11-76 Candid. Do you know the thing I mean? A big four-engined bugger.'

‘Yes, I know the type. It looks a bit like a British Aerospace 146. I bet that was what you saw. The Queen's flight has 146s, you know.'

‘Come on, Pete, you know me better than that. This was a Candid. I've got pictures.'

‘There's bound to be a very good reason for this, Tom. I doubt very much whether there's a story in it for you,'

‘I'll be the judge of that,' Girling said. He hated to be fed that line by press officers.

‘The Soviets come into the UK on a regular basis these days,' Jarrett continued, getting into his stride. ‘It's all to do with verification. CFE treaty and all that. We allow them to check our equipment levels, make sure they adhere to treaty rules, and they let us see theirs.' Jarrett chuckled. ‘It's bloody daft if you ask me, but you'd better not quote me on that.'

‘I'd appreciate if you'd check all the same,' Girling said.

His eyes started to roam around the room. The chat-show host was staring straight at him, laughing.

‘Perhaps this is a question for another department. I could try another desk tomorrow if you prefer.'

Jarrett coughed. ‘No, that won't be necessary. I'll ask the right people, but I think I know what the answer will be. As I said- '

‘Verification,' Girling cut in. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘Precisely, Tom. When do you close for press?'

‘Tomorrow night.'

Girling was about to thank him and hang up, but Jarrett wanted to keep on talking. ‘How are things on the journal? I notice you've got a new staffer. Can't remember the chap's name, but he's been keeping us damned busy today over this Concorde business.'

‘Kieran Mallon,' Girling said distantly. ‘Yes, he's good.'

Girling's attention was riveted to the TV screen. The picture had changed from the chat-show to a shaky view of bright lights against an inky backdrop. Girling caught a glimpse of an aircraft on the ground. It took him a second to realize it was the jumbo.

‘Tom, are you still there?'

‘I'm sorry, I've got to go,' Girling said firmly. ‘Something's going down in Beirut.'

He hung up and sprinted across the newsroom, turning the volume up as soon as he reached the set. Cornelius's expression of irritation changed the moment he saw the reason for the intrusion.

The TV picture was still veering about the screen. There was the sharp crack of gunfire, followed by a burst of excited voices. The BBC's Middle East correspondent, James Cramer, whom Girling knew well from the old days in Cairo, was doing his best to describe what was happening. But it sounded as if his view of events wasn't any better than theirs. The cameraman focused shakily on the cockpit of the airliner. Girling could just make out a shadow on the flight deck.

‘... there were several shots, we heard them quite distinctly, one of the bullets ricocheted off the building behind me. I can see a hijacker in the cockpit. He's pointing a machine-gun out of the window...' There was another crack and the picture went haywire again. ‘That was extremely close. The gunmen appear to be firing indiscriminately around the airport.'

The voice cracked. ‘Someone has been hit. I can see one of the newsmen to my right on the ground... his colleagues are dragging him across the tarmac to cover.' There was a brief shot of a body being carted along the ground. Then more firing. The screen was filled with a blurred picture of sandbags five inches from the camera lens. The correspondent's rapid breathing pounded over the TV's loudspeaker.

Despite the intensity of the drama, Girling sensed Kelso moving across the floor from his office to join him and Cornelius.

The jumbo lurched into view again, its great white body irradiated by the glare of the arc lights. The intensity of the lights left ghostly traces across the video picture with each oscillation of the camera.

The picture steadied as the cameraman appeared to find a niche from which it was safe to film.

The door immediately aft of the cockpit sprang open. A man in a light-coloured suit appeared, hesitated a fraction too long, and jumped. The figure lay motionless for a moment on the tarmac before commencing a painful crawl towards the scant cover offered by the nose wheel.

A second figure appeared at the doorway. Girling took in the mask, the sleeveless T-shirt and the Kalashnikov pointed purposefully at the ground. There was a ripple of light from the muzzle, the passenger writhed for a moment, then lay still. Before the cameraman pulled back the shot, Girling saw a suit dotted with weeping black holes.

Cramer, off-camera, swore, then asked the cameraman if he got the shot. Somehow, he managed not to make it sound offensive.

‘Christ, why doesn't someone help these bastards?' Cornelius pleaded. ‘Why doesn't the militia move in? Where's the fucking Delta Force?'

Girling was too horrified to answer, but somewhere at the back of his mind the questions registered one by one.

For the Amal militiamen, weaned on the law of the Kalashnikov, this was one battle they would want to sit out. This wasn't their fight. As for Delta, or whoever the Americans had out there, they probably couldn't get near the beach, let alone the aircraft. This massacre had taken everyone by surprise.

A violent explosion tore the picture in half. The entire tail section of the jumbo fell to the ground.

‘This is terrible,' Cramer said, his voice breaking under the strain. ‘The whole of the rear of the aircraft is in flames. I can see people jumping to the ground, their clothes on fire... now there's movement at the front, by the cockpit...' The camera adjusted to capture the nose of the jumbo. Girling moved closer to the screen. A group of people were sliding down an escape chute. At first he thought they were just passengers, but then he noticed some of them carried guns.

About twenty of them gathered around the front of the plane before wheeling away from the burning airliner, away from the glare of the arc and camera-lights. Girling was reminded of a flock of sheep worried by dogs.

Cramer's voice broke over the speaker. ‘I can see Franklin, the Ambassador. He's in the middle of that group by the front of the plane.'

Three shadows passed across the front of the lens, one of them distinguishable as Cramer, the other two carrying film and sound equipment. There was a brief interruption as the transmission switched to the new camera.

Girling dropped his eyes to the floor. ‘Cramer, you always were a stupid arsehole,' he whispered.

Kelso looked at him questioningly.

‘He's going after them,' Girling said. ‘James Cramer wants to be a bloody hero.'

The picture jumped from the pot-holed concrete of the taxi-way to the sand dunes of the beach beyond. Behind them, there was a huge explosion from the airfield as another set of fuel tanks exploded inside the jumbo. The fireball that rose into the sky illuminated the waves, a hundred yards distant, as surely as a star-shell from a Very pistol.

It was clear the terrorists had no idea they were being followed. From the shaky picture, Girling built up an image of Cramer and his camera crew bobbing in and out of the dunes after their quarry. After several minutes, the camera motion stopped and the picture settled. A little way off, it was just possible to see the terrorists and their captives squatting in a hollow between the dunes.

In the background, Girling heard the distant screams of burning passengers and the crackle of flames.

Cramer's voice came over the speaker as a hoarse whisper. ‘They're signalling to someone or something out there. Wait. I can see a boat.'

They all felt the tension in his voice.

A forty-foot fishing smack bobbed on the waves just beyond the gentle breakers, its deck windows reflecting the flames from the airport.

The terrorists herded them down to the water's edge. Flanked on all sides by their captors, the prisoners formed a single file and headed gingerly towards the boat.

‘Can't they do something?' Cornelius croaked.

‘With these pictures the Americans should be able to pick them up,' Girling said. He sounded dis-passionate, but it was the last emotion he felt.

Cornelius's eyes never left the screen. ‘But it'll be black as pitch out to sea.'

‘Not to a radar or FLIR operator, it won't.'

Girling hadn't finished the sentence when the picture died and the screen went blank.

‘Oh, Jesus,' Cornelius said.

Cramer and his crew had just bought the farm.

CHAPTER 5

Barely one hour after the flames had been extinguished at Beirut International, the US Government's Counter-Terrorism Committee, TERCOM, convened in the situation room on the third floor of a discreet government building on Connecticut Avenue, Washington, DC.

Joel Jacobson got to his feet. If his four colleagues across the tables were waiting impatiently for his situation report, they did not show it. There was not much Jacobson could tell them that they did not know already or that they had not seen via the live TV coverage from Beirut.

Except for the Soviet development. But Jacobson wanted to hold that back a while.

The dim overhead lighting accentuated Jacobson's pallid complexion and pockmarked cheeks. At forty-five years old, Jacobson was the youngest member of TERCOM. It was a job he relished because it gave him unlimited access to everything the USA had ever gleaned about the Middle East - everything. But it still wasn't enough. Take the Al-Hasakah gas pipeline explosion the previous month in Syria. Through their satellites they had seen the conflagration, but it was information on the ground they lacked. Jacobson often wondered what had really happened to Soviet Minister Koltsov. The region was a place that consumed him utterly, for the simple reason it was an insoluble mess and therefore a teasing conundrum. He had made its study his whole professional life.

He had spent the last two hours staring into a terminal linked to the National Security Agency's Magnum Sigint/Comint satellite, which was scouring for the merest whiff of the terrorists who had absconded from the beach at Beirut. Thanks to the British Secret Intelligence Service, they knew what kind of radio equipment the boat carried. It was a useful clue that enabled the NSA to narrow its search of the airwaves, but so far it had picked up nothing. Had there been any information, it would have been passed to the Navy, which was conducting a more upfront search for the boat in the Eastern Med.

Jacobson's monologue began with a status report on known casualties at Beirut. More than a hundred US citizens were feared dead. The terrorists had achieved their break-out from the airliner by planting bombs throughout the cabin and detonating them, either by remote control, through preset timing mechanisms, or infra-red triggers.

The effect had been devastating. In the ensuing confusion, the terrorists had rounded up Ambassador Franklin and his staff and shepherded them away from the airliner to the beach. It had been confirmed that there were up to sixteen terrorists on the 747 at the time of the break-out. They were calculated to be super-fit and highly trained.

Jacobson looked up for a reaction, but his audience remained impassive.

He moved on to the more sensitive issue of why the US had been surprised by the break-out.

Although there had been a Delta Force detachment waiting offshore in one of the ships of the Navy task force, they had not been moved into position. As he spoke, someone was roasting for that mistake, but Jacobson conceded - for the politicians at least - it had been a tough choice. If US forces had been caught on the ground without Lebanese government approval, there would have been hell to pay. Lebanon's allies the Iranians were making noises about belligerent US behaviour again. No one wanted to pre-empt a new Middle East conflict so soon after the last one. Things were tricky enough in the Gulf as it was.

TERCOM's recommendations had always been clear cut: dispatch half a wing of F-15Es to the United Kingdom and send Delta Force into Beirut. The rescue completed, the F-15Es would have gone on a little retaliatory raid to teach the terrorists' sponsor a lesson - Israeli style. It would have been quick, clinical, and a clear signal that the United States would not tolerate terrorist acts.

But it wasn't to be. The doves in the Security Council had blocked any such move on the grounds it was highly provocative. And now, to make matters worse, they still knew nothing about the terrorists. It was not the first time he had felt so utterly at a loss. The trouble with their intelligence machine it was so damned... patchy. They had made the Libyan connection in 1986, but it had been close. This one was shaping up to be a bitch.

He continued reading aloud. Terrorists and captives were met by boat, a local fishing smack, and removed from the beach. Within minutes they had sailed into the night.

‘Which brings me to current events,' Jacobson said. ‘We're still looking for that boat. The Navy does not believe it can get very far. And as soon as it is located, there is a detachment of SEALs on stand-by to go in and get them.'

There were a few curt nods. TERCOM was man-aging to maintain an even strain. Its present mood was in keeping with its tough reputation in the White House.

Following a presidential decree, the Committee was set up in total secrecy in August 1990 to co-ordinate the counter-terrorism activities of US Special Operations Command, USSOCOM, and Washington's diverse intelligence agencies.

The catalyst that propelled TERCOM into being was Iraq's invasion of Kuwait and the bleak promise of decades of terrorism ahead once hostilities were concluded. Thankfully, a promise unfulfilled, but at the time the President had not wanted to take any chances. None the less, Operation ‘Desert Storm' provided an amazing opportunity for TERCOM to test the ample resources at its disposal.

Until the Gulf crisis, there had been much duplicated effort amongst the USA's intelligence and anti-terrorism assets, resulting in wasted resources and, worse still, missed opportunities in the war against terrorism.

From the start there were difficulties. One of the main ones was the antipathy between TERCOM and certain members of the National Security Council, the President's inner sanctum of political advisers, who saw TERCOM as a threat to their collective status as crisis manager.

However, within informed military circles, TERCOM's creation was hailed as a turning point, the seal on American military resolve to fight the new enemy.

In a crisis situation, the President and the NSC injected political reality into TERCOM's decision process. Once the necessary political approval had been given, TERCOM passed its directives to USSOCOM, controllerate of almost forty thousand active-duty and reserve troops who were ready, twenty-four hours a day, to wage low-intensity warfare against America's unconventional enemies.

Jacobson flipped a page on his clipboard.

‘I should advise you that I have had to take precipitate action over the matter of the F-15Es that were due to have been dispatched to the UK. Owing to the investigative efforts of a British magazine, I took it upon myself to inform the
Washington Post
of our activities in this area.'

There was a light ripple of discord from across the table.

‘According to my information, this British publication was to have listed a damaging exposé of our vacillation in the days leading up to our present situation. By giving selected aspects of this story to the
Post
, I believe I have been able to take the sting out of the British revelations. Let's hope I am right, gentlemen.'

The restlessness across the table ceased. His eyes accustomed to the dimmed lighting now, Jacobson glanced at each of the four faces opposite him. There was no more dissent.

TERCOM was chaired by Ryan Newhouse, former Congressman and founder of the Crown Corporation, a Washington-based think-tank built upon a few meagre DOD contracts, which by the early eighties Newhouse had sculpted into a megalith.

As for the three others, whether by coincidence or design, they had been drawn from the rich vein of professional Cold Warriors who would otherwise have been forced into early retirement by the fall of the Berlin Wall.

General Carl Copeland had been forty years with the US Army Rangers. Francis Triola Jr. had headed the National Security Agency's East German section, while John Wegner had left behind a directorship at the Defense Intelligence Agency.

Jacobson himself had been a senior analyst in Middle Eastern affairs with the Central Intelligence Agency. Disillusioned with the way things had been drifting in his department at Langley, he had been only too glad to step on board at TERCOM after Newhouse had explained its mandate.

It amused Jacobson that TERCOM had been left to administer the Romeo Protocol. This secret agreement, signed between the presidents of the United States and the Soviet Union in Moscow in July 1991, allowed for the co-operation of US and Soviet special forces in times of mutual crisis.

In the late 1980s, with the Soviet Union's ‘peace offensive' at its height, the US Government's military posture had already started to undergo a dramatic change. Combating terrorism, insurgency, regional warfare, and violence engendered by narcotics trafficking were predicted as the chief military priorities of the 1990s.

‘Lick', or Low Intensity Conflict, became the buzzword of the government's chief military advisers, as the Soviet Union shifted from Evil Empire to the Administration's flavour of the month.

TERCOM had implemented its own unique solution to the Romeo Protocol. Instead of fighting the President and the NSC on the issue - a battle it could only lose - it linked the Soviets' elite Spetsnaz antiterror force with one of the USA's most singularly lacklustre special operations units - a USAF outfit that supposedly specialized in antiterror operations.

Jacobson couldn't remember its name, but it was led by a man who had disgraced himself during a penetration mission into Panama in December 1989. The guy had been acquitted at the secret tribunal, but only for the lack of evidence, it was said.

The Soviets, TERCOM believed, wouldn't notice the difference. But they would learn nothing of military significance during the exchange visits that had been set up. USSOCOM was happy, because its special ops techniques remained secret. And a select few politicians slept better at night knowing that relations between the super-powers had thawed a little more as a result of their secretive efforts.

The thought coincided neatly with the last item on his sitrep.

‘I should say, gentlemen, that we have received an offer of assistance from the Soviet Union through the channels established by the Romeo Protocol. According to General Aushev, they have specific intelligence on the identity of these terrorists should we agree to accept his offer of help.'

The Chairman leant forward into a pool of light cast by the recessed bulb above the table.

‘How has the White House reacted to this offer?' Newhouse asked.

‘With some gratitude,' Jacobson admitted. ‘The NSC wants our formal response urgently.'

‘I think we already know the answer.'

Jacobson pre-empted him. ‘That any dealings with the Soviets would be premature while our own sea search is under way.'

Newhouse nodded. ‘Premature, yes.'

There were gestures of assent from the others.

‘What if the sea search proves… unfruitful, sir?' Jacobson asked.

‘Impossible,' Copeland interjected. ‘There's enough radar painting the Eastern Med to bring it to the boil.'

Jacobson coughed. ‘I would remind you, General, there has been no sign of anything that fits the description of that boat so far.'

Newhouse sat back and brought his hands together. ‘See that the Soviets are informed of our gratitude, Joel. But tell them there will be no need for any co-operation this time.'

Jacobson closed his clip file. ‘Yes, sir.'

Girling awoke suddenly, his mind filled with images of terrible violence. He switched on the bedside light, noticed the time - past four o'clock - and threw back the bedclothes.

A black and white movie was playing on the TV. He killed the picture as he walked past to the kitchen.

The glare from the kitchen strip-light accentuated his curious existence: remains of a late-night take-out and dregs of an unfinished whisky sat on the table beside Alia's cup, the one emblazoned with the picture of the cartoon pony.

He grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and swigged deeply. When he closed the door he noticed her red gumboots in their niche between the fridge and the wall. He thought he'd remembered to pack her off with everything, but the suddenness of the call from RAF Marham had claimed some casualties after all. Neither Alia nor her grandmother had mentioned their absence during his last phone call, which meant she was being spoiled. Alia hated walks. Whenever they did go out together on the common, Girling usually relented and lifted her to his shoulders. Somehow she knew how to get round him. Not having a mother around had given her a resourcefulness beyond her four years.

Although the flat wasn't big, it seemed to rattle without his daughter there.

At nights, after he had put her to bed, he felt the tempo of her breathing around him; whether he was cooking, working to music in the sitting-room, or talking business on the telephone.

To say evenings gave him a feeling of rapt pleasure was an understatement. They brought out protective instincts in him which were lion-like in their intensity. He supposed that the absence of a woman in the house had contributed to the depth of feeling. He was father and mother to the little girl now, which explained the cocoon he had wrapped around her.

Evenings with Alia were precious. They imbued him with a sense of calm that he found nowhere else in his life.

As for their daily routine, it seemed to teeter constantly on the edge of disaster. He dropped her off at school on his way to work and relied on a neighbour to collect her, give her tea, and look after her until he returned from the office. Then there was a quiet period - comparatively speaking - when he would read to her for an hour, or talk. Sometimes Alia would ask questions about her mother, questions he always answered truthfully. She never pressed him on the subject, seeming to sense his vulnerability.

Soon after his return to England, Girling placed photographs of his wife on the shelves, chests, and tables of the apartment. He felt a need to be surrounded by them. Then, one day, he gathered them into a box and consigned them all save one to a dark corner of the cupboard beneath the stairs. He put the lone photograph in Alia's bedroom so she could be near her mother. The pain was all the reminder he needed.