Hunter Killer (29 page)

Once the holdalls were full, Danny and Spud zipped them up. Hammond handed them each a white sack. The sacks were printed with diplomatic stamps. The guys placed their holdalls in the sacks, then tightened the cords at the top and secured each one with a padlock. From now on, these diplomatic bags couldn’t leave their sides.

Hammond handed each of them their passports. These too included full diplomatic stamps that would get them across the UK and Omani borders with no questions asked. ‘The BA flight to Muscat leaves at 09.00,’ Hammond said. ‘You clear on your movements when you get there?’

The guys nodded.

‘We’ve cleared a flight path with the Saudis along the Saudi-Yemen border. You’ll RV with one of the Sultan’s Chinooks when you get there.’

‘Who’s going to fly it?’ Danny demanded. Because, orders or no orders, if they thought he was going to let some unpractised Omani pilot fly them the length of the Yemen for a covert insertion, they could fuck off.

‘We’ve got an SF flight crew coming in from Iraq,’ Hammond said. ‘You’ll RV with them on the Oman-Yemen border at midnight. They’ll airlift you into Saada.’

Hammond moved over to another of the tables, where several piles of documents were neatly laid out. ‘The main town in the Saada Governate is Ha’dah. Population, about fifty-thousand, but that’s just a guess. There are thousands of IDPs in the area because of the conflict over the past few years. The town itself is situated on a mountain plateau, about 1,800 metres high. Where they drop you depends on how deserted or otherwise the road that leads up to it is. The town itself is occupied by Houthi militia. They’ve pretty much declared independence from the rest of Yemen. Officially there’s a truce between them and the government. In practice, they’re as bad as the fucking Taliban. Funded by the Iranians and Hezbollah. Trigger-happy. Give them a wide berth. Once you reach the town, you’ll have to make contact with a local schoolteacher, name of Hamza. He’s on the Yanks’ payroll and so far as we can tell he’s just about the only guy in the vicinity who speaks English.’

‘Does this Hamza know where the training camp is?’

‘Claims to. The CIA say his credentials are good. He’s been feeding them accurate information for the past three years, and gave them a lead on a Somali terror suspect who was hiding out in the area. SEAL unit went in to nail him, confirmed that his intel was good. But he’s getting greedy now. Wants a cash payment before he spills any more beans about Abu Ra’id. Five hundred US – quite a lot of moolah out there, and if he’s asking for it, chances are he’s confident of his intel.’

‘Either that,’ Spud said, ‘or he’s trying to rake it in while he’s in the Yanks’ good books.’

‘That’s a possibility. I certainly wouldn’t trust him too far. He might be a CIA tout, but he’s still Yemeni, still very devout. So far as we can tell, his motivation for supplying us with this intelligence is complex.’

‘Sounds to me like he just wants a payday,’ Spud said.

‘There’s a bit more to it than that. He’s a Shi’ite muslim, unlike AQAP.’

‘AQAP?’ Danny asked.

‘Al-Qaeda in the Arab Peninsula. Al-Qaeda and Al-Shabaab are Sunni Muslims. The Sunnis and the Shi’ites have major theological and political differences. You’re heading to a principally Shi’ite area. A lot of the population in the north don’t like the idea of AQAP and Al-Shabaab operating in what they see as Shi’ite territory, so they seem happy to screw them over.’

Hammond directed their attention to a sheet of aerial mapping. With his finger he traced a built-up area set on top of a mountain plateau – clearly Ha’dah. He followed a line eastward where the terrain fell down sharply on to a flat desert region. ‘This is the area where the camp is most likely to be situated,’ Hammond said. ‘Very wild, very dangerous – Bedouin, bandits and not much else. Terrible roads. Hardly anyone goes there. Hardly anyone
dares
.’

‘Looking forward to it already,’ Spud muttered.

Hammond handed them each a pale blue armband with the letters UN emblazoned in white. ‘Your cover story, if it comes to it, is that you’re a couple of UN medics and you’ve heard there’s a Western couple in the area who need medical aid. But for fuck’s sake don’t leave those things lying around. If the UN find out you’ve got them, there’ll be hell on earth.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s madness,’ he said. ‘Two guys. The CO’s already appealed to the Director Special Forces. Hit a brick wall. It’s . . .’

Danny could tell he was about to say the word ‘suicide’ but held back at the last minute.

‘The CIA seem pretty keen on this Hamza fella,’ Hammond continued, ‘so you need to make sure he stays intact. We don’t know where he lives, but he’ll meet you outside the central mosque in Ha’dah when the call to prayer starts at dawn tomorrow – which will be just after 05.00. It’ll be up to you to get the information from him.’ A dark, uncomfortable look crossed Hammond’s face. ‘When you locate Abu Ra’id,’ he continued, ‘take him out immediately. As soon as he’s dead, you need to phone in confirmation – before you leave the camp or anything. I’m sorry, lads, but London’s adamant about this. They can’t risk you being taken out before they know for sure that the bastard’s dead.’

‘Good to hear our welfare is the first thing on their minds,’ Spud said.

Hammond pointed at their diplomatic bags. ‘You’ve got GPS beacons fitted to your radios,’ he said. ‘We’ll track you every step of the way. We’ll know where you are at every moment in real time. If you send us a distress signal, we can be in-country from the Gulf of Aden in a few hours, and fuck the fallout. But assuming everything goes to plan, you’ll need to find a secure location to lie up, and we’ll get you picked up as quickly as we can.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’ll need to board any minute.’

As Hammond spoke, Danny’s personal mobile vibrated in his pocket. He took it out: number withheld. He was on the point of dismissing the call when he caught a lairy look from the ops officer – a look that said now’s not the time for taking calls. Danny found himself accepting it just to make his point.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

A pause.

‘Decided to pick up, did you?’

Danny felt himself grow tense. He stormed out of the Portakabin, past the Regiment guard and out onto the tarmac. A passenger aircraft roared overhead as it took off. Danny just caught a flash of Aer Lingus green on its tail.

‘What is it, Kyle?’ he shouted over the noise.

He heard his brother sniffing, then a coarse cough that sounded like he was bringing something up.

‘Kyle?’

‘Saw that bird of yours on Wednesday.’

Now it was Danny’s turn to fall silent. He’d been doing everything he could to keep Clara from his mind. Now he almost felt as if she was standing next to him.

‘Stay the fuck away from her,’ he said. ‘I mean it, Kyle. You lay a fucking finger on her, I’ll . . .’

‘Take it easy, take it easy, nothing happened, we just bumped into each other.’ Danny saw the guard staring at him, and flashed him an aggressive look. Kyle coughed again. His voice changed. ‘I’m in trouble, bro,’ he said. He sounded like he meant it. ‘These Poles, they don’t take no for an answer. I’m in deep.’

‘How deep?’

‘Five large.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Kyle,’ Danny breathed.

‘They’ve done me over once already. Couple of broken teeth. Think my nose might be bust and all.’ He coughed for a third time. ‘I need some help, bro . . .’

Another plane roared overhead. ‘What did you say?’

‘
I said I need some help. They’re not fucking around!
’

Danny wanted to throw the phone to the floor. It was typical of Kyle to put him in a position like this. To beg for money that Danny knew would be spent as soon as it landed in his brother’s wallet. He paced the tarmac for a moment, ignoring the sight of Spud appearing at the door of the Portakabin, watching him carefully. For a moment he felt himself wavering. He thought about their father, who lived alone and disabled in a small Hereford flat, and who would always beg Danny to help his brother. If he was here now, he’d beg the same as usual. But then he remembered how Kyle, drunk and high on a cocktail of drugs, had attacked their father before ending up in prison for a stretch. As it always did, that memory sent every ounce of sympathy he might have had out the window.

‘Forget it, Kyle. You got yourself into this mess, you get yourself out again.’

Silence.

‘You’re a piece of shit, Danny. You know that? Always were, always will be.’

Danny made to hang up. But before he did, he said one more thing. ‘Stay away from Clara, Kyle. If you don’t, trust me, the Poles will be the least of your worries.’

Kyle was snorting contemptuously as Danny hung up. He spun round and looked aggressively at Spud. ‘What?’ he demanded across the seven or eight metres’ distance between them.

‘Nothing, mucker,’ Spud said calmly. ‘We just had word. They want us to board. Let’s get moving, eh?’

Part Three

Desert Warriors

Fifteen

When the Regiment moves, it moves quickly.

A member of the BA staff – a young guy with a pimply face and clearly no idea who his charges were or what they were carrying – collected Danny and Spud, along with their diplomatic bags, from the Portakabin. He asked no questions as he ushered them through security as members of the diplomatic service. Their security teams barely looked at their bags, let alone screen them. Danny and Spud spent five minutes in a comfortable lounge set aside for their use before a pretty air stewardess with a brown bob, a bit too much make-up and a good tan let them on to a waiting 747. They were the first to board and as they entered the aircraft they turned left to the business-class cabin. Danny and Spud were each given a double booth – one seat for them, one for their bags. As the regular passengers filed on to the plane, a few cast an envious glance at these two guys who seemed to have been afforded special treatment. But once the aircraft was airborne, they were too busy with their menus, glasses of champagne and re-runs of
Top Gear
to pay them any mind.

Danny instructed an air hostess not to disturb him until they were landing, then pulled a blindfold over his face and reclined his seat so it was fully flat. He had long since taught himself to grab some shut-eye whenever and wherever he could, knowing that he couldn’t always be sure when he’d next have the chance. He slept deeply for three hours. When he woke, he looked out of the window. He saw a blood-red sun setting across a mackerel sky. And on the ground, through the half-light, he saw dots of orange – flames, licking from the oil fields of the Middle East. Iraq, he surmised, or Kuwait. He thought how you only ever really got a sense of the vastness of the Arabian peninsular from the sky. He felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach at the thought that he’d slept over Syria. He recalled its war-torn towns. The blood and destruction. He tried to put it from his mind. What had Clara said, about remembering the things he was supposed to forget? He felt a pang at the thought of her, and at the thought that they were heading into very hostile territory. If something happened to him – something terminal – Clara would never know how he really felt about her. She’d probably hate him for the rest of her life. When he reclined again on his seat, his sleep was not so deep.

Wheels down, 20.30 local time. The pretty air hostess ushered Danny and Spud off the aircraft before anyone else had the opportunity even to stand up. They received a few more curious glances this time, as they hauled their heavy diplomatic bags along the aisles. A blast of heat hit them as they alighted on to the waiting stairs, at the bottom of which was a middle-aged man in a lightweight suit who reminded Danny of Buckingham. He stood next to a black Range Rover, passenger doors open. ‘Tim Johnston,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘British Embassy. You’re cleared for security. There’s a welcoming committee from the Omani military at the other side of the airfield. Allow me to escort you.’

Danny and Spud nodded and climbed into the back of the vehicle, still clutching their bags. They drove in the opposite direction from the large, brightly lit modern terminal building. The embassy guy clearly knew better than to ask them what they were doing, so the two-minute journey passed in silence. A couple of hundred metres up ahead, Danny saw a helicopter standing alone on the tarmac – a Puma, with the red and green markings of the Omani military. A three-man flight crew loitered alongside it. They wore standard desert camo, with
shemaghs
covering their heads or wrapped round their necks. As the Range Rover approached, one of them – clearly the pilot – disappeared inside and by the time they pulled up 20 metres from the chopper, its rotors were already starting to spin.

The embassy guy leaned over from the front passenger seat. ‘Best of British, gentlemen,’ he said, and once more Danny was reminded of Buckingham. But he put that from his mind as he and Spud debussed and ran across the tarmac. A few words of greeting with their Omani escorts and the two Regiment men climbed up into the Puma. They’d barely been on the ground ten minutes before they were airborne again. The golden, sprawling lights of Muscat disappeared as they found themselves plunging through the dark night of the southern Arabian peninsular.

It took two and a half hours to cross the length of Oman to its western border, including a 25-minute refuelling stop at a military base somewhere en route, during which time Danny and Spud sat quietly out of view in the shadowy interior of the Puma. They passed the journey in silence, drowned out by the regular thunder of the chopper’s rotors as it slid unobserved through the skies with its secret cargo. Occasionally, through the windows, Danny saw the lights of a settlement far in the distance, or headlamps on a deserted highway, but their flight path was clearly taking them across vast, uninhabited stretches of land. He found he was keeping a lid on a sudden feeling of excitement. It felt good to be abroad again. Good to be on unfamiliar territory. You could get lazy in London. Out here, living by your wits was the only option.