Chris Ryan - Killing for the Company

He could hear voices now. And suddenly, perhaps fifteen metres ahead, he could see a light. He whispered a few words of profound thanks and finally allowed himself a little more speed. A minute later he was standing underneath a trapdoor in the cellar of the house, carefully passing the box up into an outstretched pair of hands. Once the box was dealt with, he allowed himself to be pulled up into the cellar.

It was tiny and cramped, with a low ceiling and barely enough room for the three others who were waiting for him.

‘How did it go?’ one of them asked.

The young man shrugged. ‘Fine. No problem.’

‘Any trouble with the Egyptians?’

‘Only when I told them their mothers were stinking whores.’

The others laughed.

‘You’ve done well. That little box…’ He pointed to where it was lying on the ground. ‘That little box has a big job to do.’

The young man looked at it. Down in the tunnel it had seemed huge and ungainly. Up here, it appeared much smaller. He had questions. He reached out and brushed his thumb over the ‘G’ on the box. ‘Where do we get this from?’ he asked. ‘Normally we have to make do with Mother of Satan. Who’s sending us this stuff?’

‘Ah,’ his comrade waved one hand in the air. ‘Who cares, so long as we have it. Come on. Shut the trapdoor. We have to get it out of here. There isn’t much time.’

The young man did as he was told. The trapdoor echoed slightly as it shut. He followed his friends as they left the cellar, then the house, and stashed the box of C4 plastic explosive among some blankets in the boot of a very old, very rusty car. They drove away from the separation barrier with Egypt and further north, into the young man’s tiny, war-torn homeland.

The convoy containing Stratton’s Merc, the police outriders and the Regiment’s Land Cruiser came to a halt.

Jerusalem was three hours behind them. Its urban bustle and ancient beauty felt a million miles away. So, too, did the Garden of Gethsemane. They found themselves in a flat, desolate wasteland. A sturdy wire fence, about four metres high, ran north to south for as far as Luke could see. On this side of the fence was Israel; on the other side, Gaza. The Israeli side was littered with enormous bulldozers and military vehicles — tanks, Jeeps, the works. The Gazan side was empty for several hundred metres, but in the far distance Luke could see the telltale signs of a city above the horizon. The summer sun had baked the ground on either side of the fence hard, and the winter rains had failed to soften it much. Here and there, Luke could see craters of varying width and depth. He’d been in enough theatres of war to recognise the pockmarks of artillery fire on the skin of the land.

The convoy had stopped at the front of a large cargo checkpoint. From photographs shown in briefing Luke recognised it as the Karni crossing. It was a vast jumble of steel and concrete buildings, barriers and warehouses. It had the air of a place which, when it was operational, would be very busy. But there was no civilian activity here today. No goods vehicles crossing to or from Gaza. The only presence was military. Five IDF vehicles waited for them, and Luke counted eleven Israeli soldiers positioned at various points around the crossing, armed with assault rifles and wearing Kevlar helmets and body armour. He knew there were probably more they couldn’t see. All of the soldiers were facing towards Gaza, their hands resting on their guns, clearly on high alert.

They had good reason to be. The Karni crossing had been closed by the Israelis since a network of tunnels had been discovered directly underneath it two years previously. There hadn’t been much doubt that the purpose of these tunnels was to pack them full of explosives and bring the crossing down. The Palestinians had also smuggled a number of suicide bombers through the Karni crossing, while the Israelis had used it to move tanks, personnel and artillery into Gaza. Look carefully on the ground and you could still see the markings of the tank tracks embedded in the earth.

‘Fucking lovely,’ Fozzie announced as he drew the Land Cruiser up alongside Stratton’s Merc. He filled his lungs with air. ‘Reckon I’ll come here for my holidays again next year.’

Luke peered out of his side window. Up above, he could see a chopper. It was hovering low — maybe a hundred feet — with its nose slightly dipped, but staying resolutely on the Israeli side of the fence. It looked like it had eyes on, but on what?

Luke exited the Land Cruiser and opened up the back. This was where all their additional equipment was stashed. He removed a small hand-held scope and used it to scan beyond the border fence. The buffer zone between the two states was about 500 metres wide, and there, making no attempt to stay hidden, was an open-topped technical. A Palestinian man stood on the back in desert fatigues and a black and white keffiyeh. On his shoulder he was carrying what looked to Luke like an old Blowpipe anti-aircraft rocket launcher. The Blowpipe was a pile of shit, almost impossible to fire accurately — the British Army had covertly offloaded all theirs to the Mujahideen in Afghanistan back in the 1980s when the Javelin came into service. Next to the THOR launcher that Luke had been training with on the Brecon Beacons it was prehistoric.

He lowered the scope, returned to the 4 x 4 and reported his finding.

‘Nothing like a warm welcome,’ Finn muttered as they disembarked from the vehicle, 53s slung round their necks.

‘I’d rather have a potato gun than a Blowpipe,’ said Fozzie.

Luke wasn’t so sure. The Blowpipe might be old, but because it was neither heat-seeking nor laser-guided, it wasn’t susceptible to modern countermeasures. The chances of the raghead on the other side of the fence bringing down the heli if it infringed Hamas airspace were small. But he might get lucky and no doubt there were plenty more of his type waiting to do the mopping up should the first line of Palestinian defence fail. He remembered someone telling him once that the Muj in Afghanistan had taken to using them not as anti-aircraft weapons, but anti-vehicle. It wasn’t lost on him that they’d soon be driving within its range.

The chopper was the only thing that made a noise out here. Otherwise this crossing was silent. Like the personnel on both sides of the border were holding their breath. Luke opened the back door of the Merc and leaned in to look at Stratton. ‘We’ll transfer you to the Land Cruiser now, sir,’ he said.

Stratton didn’t answer for a moment. He was staring out of the other window, lost in thought. Suddenly he snapped out of it.

‘What?’

‘Get out. It’s time to cross.’

Stratton nodded and shuffled awkwardly along the back seat of the Merc. Once he was out of the car, he looked around, but Luke immediately grabbed him by the right arm and manoeuvred him towards the armoured vehicle. Stratton looked like he was going to protest, but a harsh glance from Luke ensured he kept quiet.

As Luke was leading Stratton into the back of the Land Cruiser, one of the Israeli military guys approached. He had a shaved head, tanned skin and deep, dark bags under his eyes. ‘You ready?’ he asked.

Luke nodded.

The man pointed to the chopper. ‘The pilot’s reported some kind of presence on the other side of the buffer zone. Three vehicles. Armed. Be careful over there.’

Luke looked over at the anti-aircraft gunner on the other side. ‘Seems pretty tense,’ he said.

The soldier shrugged. ‘Half the citizens of Gaza would be happy to live side by side with us. Same goes for the Israelis. But it’s not the moderate ones you have to worry about. It’s the extremists, and there’s plenty of those. And those Hamas mamzer. Wouldn’t surprise me if they tried to pick you off the moment you get over there.’