Call to kill, p.8
Call to Kill, page 8
She saw that Saladin was on his feet again, his coffee finished, the bill paid. He and the other patron had finished their business and were walking to the street. Saladin bowed his head to say farewell and walked away while the other man turned back towards her. He took in the scene in front of him and frowned, clearly disapproving of the sight of thirty women scrabbling around on their hands and knees minutes before curfew. But Red-ford was no longer interested in them, instead her eyes were trained on his face. It was the face of the man she knew well. Mohammed Saladin had been having coffee with Faisal Ahadi, an Islamic Revolutionary Guard, a de facto senior member of the Houthi regime and, crucially, Ruak Shahlai’s right-hand man.
Redford began to run. If Saladin was passing intel to Shahlai then Mason and his team were in danger. Saladin would have known everything about the new mission to rescue Drake from Al Hudaydah. She needed to get back to the British house fast to warn them because it was already getting dark.
Thirteen
Al Hudaydah, Yemen
The corpse was putrefying so quickly that the stench was in danger of giving away their position. The forty-degree heat had rapidly increased the decomposition process so that the purge fluid was leaking out of the lungs. The dark ooze was seeping from the nose and mouth, attracting a swarm of flies jostling with each other for a taste. By tomorrow morning it would be covered in maggots. The heat had catalysed the enzymes inside the body too, so that every few minutes the guts let out a blood-curdling fart that hung in the air with a stink that nobody should ever have to experience. Fuck knows what the guy had eaten before Andy dropped him, but by the smell of it, it wouldn’t have done him any good.
Mason’s team had spent twelve long hours hiding out in the rubble of the bombed-out two-storey house directly opposite where Eli Drake was being held. Nervous hours spent taking turns on watch, observing the comings and goings inside the compound. They had formulated a decent pattern of life for the men who were guarding the enclosure, noting the timings of their patrols, where the dogs were and what time they were fed, when the guards prepared food and what time they ate. By the time the sun began to lower in the sky, Mason was confident that there were only two guards posted at the main gate to the north of the main house, one of whom strictly observed prayer. They had seen nobody else enter or leave, but he guessed one or two guards might also be stationed inside to keep an eye on Drake. Now they waited for the call for evening prayer, when the mosque would be full, the streets empty and they would have the perfect cover to strike.
Masons primary fear was that Manar’s capture could provoke a reaction from General Shahlai. The young man’s weakness in the interrogation room would have been entirely predictable to Shahlai. The Iranian general was experienced enough to know which of his men could sustain pressure and which would crack. Manar had rolled over so easily that Mace suspected Shahlai would be keen to get on with Drake’s execution as soon as possible.
The one advantage that Mason had this time was that he knew the layout of the compound and exactly where his target was being held. He’d decided that the southeastern corner between the perimeter wall and the mosque offered them the most secure access. Once they were over the Wall, the house would shield them from the guards on the front gate, and if they could find a point of access to the house from the rear then they could grab Drake with minimum engagement and extract him to safety.
Should anything go wrong or the situation escalate, they had stationed three helicopters, two Lynxes and a Puma, at the UN base four miles away. Hereford had fed the UN some bogus excuse about securing a diplomatic visit. They’d swallowed it and granted temporary landing clearance. Not that Mason envisioned needing support. This should be a straight in-and-out job and they would be back at the port with Drake within the hour to RV with the extraction team. Insh’allah.
‘Allahu Akbaaaar…’ The tannoy rang out across the town the second the sun hit the horizon.
There it was again. Mason watched the street below swell with people, rushing to the mosque for evening prayer. The muezzin’s words may have been a call to prayer for the faithful, but for the second time in two days, they represented a call to arms for him and his squad. He didn’t have to say anything to the guys, they were already packing up their kit, ready to go.
‘See ya later, sweetheart,’ Andy Roberts whispered, and blew a kiss at the bloated body.
‘More your league than the ones you usually go for,’ said Pommy.
They moved silently downstairs and through what had been the front door of the house before a Saudi jet plane had taken out its front wall. The street that had been bustling with people only a few minutes before was now eerily silent. Only the donkeys tied up outside of the mosque saw the six shadows scurry over the road and around to the back of the compound. One by one they disappeared up and over the perimeter wall.
Briggs and Pommy, as usual, were first over, immediately scuttling along the rear wall towards their position on the southwestern corner of the house. Briggs paused halfway, noticing a small letterbox window on the ground floor that had been left ajar. He waved to Mason, who nodded to acknowledge that he had seen it. That would be their way in. Mason gave Briggs a thumbs up and he followed after Pommy to the corner of the house, crouching low, weapons drawn, ready to engage anything that may come at them from the west side of the building.
Jack and Craig took matching positions on the opposite corner allowing them to give cover along the east side. Peeking around the corner, Mason could see a single guard at the front gate watching videos on his phone. He figured the second guard must be praying. They had picked the optimal time. He and Andy crept along the south wall until they reached the open window Mason dropped on to one knee and boosted the younger man up so he could reach the underside of the frame. With Mason taking his weight, the Liverpudlian moved delicately, silently, slowly lifting the windowpane so he could slide his head inside.
‘Fuck,’ was all he said.
Mason felt the force of the blast like he was being hit by a car. There was no noise at first, simply the feeling of the wall breaking apart, pieces of it smashing him across the face and thumping him in the guts. The sound came afterwards. It was the sound of the air sucking back in towards the house, roaring through his bones like a thunderclap. He tried to hold himself in position, but his body was no competition for the weight of it. As he flew to the ground, rubble cascaded down on top of him and his last conscious thought was that he could taste burnt metal and flesh.
Steve Briggs was the first to react. The blast had also thrown him to the ground, but he quickly picked himself back up and ran along the wall towards the blast site. His ears were ringing, and the sky had taken on a strange purple glow that made him suspect that he’d sustained a concussion. He tried to take in the extent of the damage but the whole back of the house was now missing, replaced by a pile of bricks and a cloud of dust. What he could see, sticking out from the debris, was a human arm. From the thumb, he could see that it was a left arm, detached at the shoulder, inanimate, no longer alive, no longer of use. Still, Briggs’ gut told him to pick it up. The Saudi uniform it was wrapped in meant that it had to belong to either Andy or Mace; either way, they were going to need immediate medical assistance. But before Briggs could move, the sound of gunfire stopped him. He looked back to Pommy returning fire along the western wall where a group of Houthis had piled in through the front gate to the compound. They’d been set up. The house had been booby-trapped and the explosion had been the sign for them to attack. He ran back to the corner, slotted in behind Pom, lifted his rifle and began to return fire.
On the opposite corner of the building, Jack was firing rapidly, dropping Houthis left and right. Behind him, Craig Bell remained calm, setting up the radio to call for support. He had reached the same conclusion as Pommy, that they had fallen into a trap and now they had no choice but to withdraw. He got on the radio, screaming over the gunfire all around him.
‘All call signs. Priority One. Hot extraction. Now. At Decon Alpha Landing Site. Over.’
Once he had confirmation that the helicopters were deployed, Craig put down the radio and sprinted along the wall of the house. He found what was left of Andy Roberts among the debris. His left arm was missing and his torso was riddled with shrapnel holes. Craig crouched to his knees and lowered his head sideways until his cheek was directly over Andy’s mouth, listening for signs of life. He felt a faint breath on his cheek. Andy was alive. The hard bastard was alive.
He saw Briggs climbing over the rubble towards him.
‘Where’s the others?’ he asked.
Before Briggs could answer, there was another loud explosion, and moments later Pommy appeared.
‘Go!’ he yelled.
Together they lifted Andy and carried him back to where Jack was holding off the remaining Houthis. They lay Andy on the ground and took up positions from which they could return fire at the advancing Houthi soldiers. Meanwhile, Craig got back on the radio.
‘All call signs. Man down. Repeat man down. Confirm Landing Site Decon Alpha at grid 3QRF26971873.’
He had barely finished speaking when they heard the sound of helicopters overhead. The two Lynxes were circling around the perimeter. The Houthis had stationed shooters on the rooftops opposite the compound, which the gunners on each side of the choppers began blasting out from their positions. Rebels with their AK-47s were no match for the 50-cal heavy machine guns.
‘He’s gone into arrest,’ Craig called to the others. He worked fast, loosening Andy’s body armour, pushing his fingers between his pale lips to clear his airway before he began to blow into his mouth.
‘Cover!’ bellowed Briggs, throwing himself to the ground as a grenade exploded yards away from them, showering them in yet more rubble and dust.
The gunfire got more intense. There were grossly outnumbered, way too many Houthis for them to hold off any longer. The more they took out, the more that seemed to appear through the gates. The Houthis had decided to throw everything at achieving victory in Hudaydah.
Craig scrambled back to Andy and climbed on top of him, pumping down on to his chest. A rock, thrown from the other side of the wall, struck him in the shoulder and knocked him off balance. Another larger rock followed soon after it and then another. More and more rocks started to rain down on them from behind the wall. People piling out of the mosque and realising what was going on had decided to join the fight, helping in whatever way they could. Cries of ‘Death to America, death to the infidels’ grew louder and louder.
‘This is fucked,’ Jack said under his breath before he launched two grenades at where the Houthis had taken up new positions. ‘Where’s that fucking chopper?’
Suddenly a bullet whistled past his ear. From its trajectory, he realised that it must have been fired from above them, and as he lifted his head, he saw that a shooter had climbed up on to the roof above. The shooter took another pot shot which struck the unconscious Andy in the leg. Pommy took aim and dropped him instantly, dodging to his side to avoid the body as it fell.
Satisfied that the immediate threat had been neutralised, the Lynxes moved aside and the larger Puma advanced on to the landing zone, lowering down until it was directly on top of them. There was no way it was going to land in the middle of a firefight, but there was just enough room between the house and the perimeter wall for it to hover a few feet from the ground.
Jack and Craig launched a blanket of fire in the direction of the Houthis, giving enough cover to Briggs and Pom for them to lift Andy on to the Puma. The medic on board began ripping off the remainder of his clothes to get access to his chest. As he prepared the defibrillator, the two men climbed on and took their turn to cover the position while Jack and Craig climbed on board.
‘All on, all on,’ Craig shouted over the roar of the blades, seeing that the medic was already shocking Andy, trying desperately to resuscitate him, while Briggs applied a field dressing to the gunshot wound in his leg.
The chopper lifted rapidly into the air, climbing to a height where it would be safe from enemy fire. As it did, an RPG screamed past the open door. The men threw themselves backwards more out of instinct than logic. If the grenade had made contact with its target then they’d have been vaporised.
‘Get out of here!’ the medic screamed over his comms.
The pilot banked the chopper as the two more powerful Lynxes took up positions again on either flank, the gunners blasting with everything they could muster in all directions. Seconds later they were clear of the imminent danger, out of range of any more RPGs and heading for the safety of the UN base.
The men looked at each other, speechless, shellshocked, covered head to toe in dust and smoke. Even the unflappable Pommy looked a little traumatised. Jack took a cigarette from his pocket and put it into his mouth. As the most experienced of the group, he was the first to regain his composure. But before he could light his fag, he could tell that something was very wrong. He looked around the chopper, unable to believe his eyes, his face a picture of denial and confusion as his brain struggled to accommodate the terrible reality that had hit him.
‘Where the fuck is Mace?’ he screamed.
Everyone looked around the helicopter for the man who was evidently not there. They looked at each other and then they looked deep into themselves. Every one of them knew in that instant that they had fucked up in the worst possible way. They had made the error that no soldier in any regiment of any army ever wants to make. Their worst nightmare had come true. They had left a man behind and there was nothing they could do about it.
Fourteen
The Savoy Hotel, London
Erica Atkins emerged from the ensuite bathroom at the Savoy. Her usual suite, the suite she always requested when she was in town, was the one with floor-to-ceiling views looking west along the Thames to the Houses of Parliament and east to the City. She liked to stay in a hotel that gave you a sense of where you were, and much preferred the Savoy’s mix of Edwardian and Art Deco styles to the old-fashioned, stuffy grandeur of the Ritz.
She rubbed her wet hair with a towel as she reached for the remote control and turned up the volume on the television. For the last twenty-four hours now, Al Jazeera had been showing rolling coverage of the British fiasco in Al Hudaydah, and it was showing no sign of letting up. The story had been picked up on all news agencies, but so far the Brits had been officially denying it. Meanwhile, the Russians and Chinese were making the most of the British discomfort, openly furious and indignant at their flagrant disregard for a UN ceasefire. Even the French were revelling in their old foe s troubles, tabling an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council to discuss whether to publicly censure the UK government. The anchors in the Al Jazeera studio were speculating on whether a minister or two might even face the sack.
Erica hadn’t anticipated that the British would screw up so royally. Poor Dominic Strous. He had seemed so confident before that General Ruak Shahlai would be in custody or dead by now. Neither of which would have been Erica’s preferred option. The old general’s antics in Yemen over the last couple of years had kept the Saudis on their toes, which in turn was good for business. The fallout from his death would be too unpredictable. On one hand, it could force the Iranians to retaliate, but on the other, it could hand the new Democratic administration in Washington leverage to bring Tehran to peace talks. Peace was the last thing she wanted. No, it was safer all round to have Shahlai still out there, at least for now.
As Erica sat down on the bed, a figure stirred next to her. With the remote, she slapped the sole of a bare foot that protruded from under the duvet.
‘Okay hot stuff,’ she said. ‘Time for you to go now.’
She returned her focus to the TV, flicking channels until she settled on a familiar face. Sky News was lining up none other than Dominic Strous to answer questions in the studio. She felt a distinct sense of satisfaction at how uncomfortable he looked in contrast to his usually unshakable confidence.
‘This should be good,’ she said, more to herself than to the young man getting out of bed next to her.
‘What was that?’ the figure next to her asked with a distinct Australian twang to his accent. He was exactly her type. Six two, mid-twenties, strapping chest and shoulders, washboard abs and massive arms. Had he said he was a rugby player?
‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ she said, looking back to the screen, ‘it’s on the side there.’
Without looking, she pointed to the dresser where two white envelopes lay neatly side by side.
‘And…’ she paused, clicking her fingers together over and over as if trying to remember something that she’d forgotten more than once before.
‘Simon, Erica, S-I-M-O-N.’ The voice came from the ensuite bathroom and belonged to another huge, sculpted Adonis, even more chiselled than the one still getting out of bed. Simon swaggered into the bedroom, wrapped only in a bath towel, smiling with a mouthful of flawless teeth.
‘Your envelope is there too, Simon.’
Simon dropped his towel and Erica allowed herself one last admiring look. It had been a fun night. She was rarely disappointed by the service on offer when she was in London. The agency that she liked to use had a steady stream of hard-bodied young men who knew how to fuck. There was really no point in wasting time on a half-soaked tourist you might pick up in the bar. Odds on, he’d have nothing more than a ham-fisted fumble and a semi-hard cock for you. Instead, for the price of a bottle of vintage Krug, you could have two willing and able professionals, who packed up and cleared out the second you were done with them.
‘The PM has spoken with Secretary-General Guterres this morning.’ Strous was flannelling like a true pro, keeping the journalist at bay with the kind of assuredness that only comes from a two-hundred-thousand-dollar education. ‘I’m confident that we will find a solution that all parties can sign up to and then we can get on with what’s really important: the vital humanitarian work that is so desperately needed by the people of Yemen. That is absolutely the right thing to do, and, I’ll remind you, something this government had been proud to have been at the forefront of since we spearheaded the ceasefire agreement two years ago.’
