Andy McNab - Brute force

'But then, you know how it is, the job started to take over. There were fewer and fewer opportunities for me simply to up sticks and get away. The hours and the pressures continued to build.

'I found myself spending more and more time away, weekend after weekend, when I never got to see Caroline or the kids because of some bloody flap or other – PIRA up to their usual bloody tricks or some Palestinian group or other hell-bent on killing Israelis in London…

'Caroline became seriously depressed. She started drinking. I knew something was wrong, but I thought it was just where we were. Then, suddenly, the kids were grown up. We were in our fifties. Ground down by life. It was the usual cliche; both of us staring at each other across the breakfast table and wondering how we'd pissed our lives away. But I never thought for a minute…'

His voice tailed away.

'The day after I retired, a Saturday, I was tinkering around on the boat when I got a visit from our local bobby. I knew what had happened the moment I saw his face. We'd known him as a family a long time. He didn't dress things up. He just gave me the facts. Miranda was down for the weekend from London. She had found Caroline hanging from a rafter in the attic. She also found the suicide note. Caroline had lost the will to live in my grey, murky, compromised world, which was so different from the gentler, more appealing landscape of ancient ruins, Roman art and architecture, and archaeological digs.' He took a deep breath. 'What made it worse was that she didn't attach any particular blame to me for what happened. It was, she said, just one of those things…'

I thought back over my life, how I'd never spent long enough in one place to think much, let alone meet someone and settle down. As a result, I didn't know whether I pitied Lynn or thought he was a dickhead for having it all – all the things I'd never had, but sometimes half wished for – and sacrificing it for some half-arsed ideological crusade.

The only thing I was sure of was that you could never, ever know what went on behind the closed doors of another man's life.

'I tell you this, Nick, for one reason only. I haven't made a habit of talking about it. There is, in actual fact, no one to speak to.

'My children have not addressed a word to me since the funeral and, needless to say, nor have Caroline's family. What's more, my kids have just told me, through a solicitor if you please, that they never want to see me again.

'Our friends were almost all Caroline's friends; thanks to the job, I never had time, really, to make any or keep those that I'd once had. So, what you saw when you poled up at my house a few days ago was me packing up what's left of my life. I didn't tell you for the same reason I haven't discussed it with anyone – I don't want, have never wanted, your pity, or anyone else's.'

For a long time, neither of us said anything. Then Lynn got to his feet. 'I'm going to go and get my things ready. I'll see you on deck.'

The storm had left the air fresh and still in its wake. Thick clouds moved quickly across the sky, allowing us every now and again to glimpse the thin sliver of the new moon. Lynn prepared the tender for launch while I opened up the hatch that led to the engine compartment. The Predator rocked at anchor with a corkscrew motion that made it difficult at times to maintain my balance, so I sat while I worked on the hatch catches. I was dressed in waterproof overalls – trousers and jacket – that I'd found during a rummage around the crew compartment. I'd grabbed a set for me and a set for Lynn.

The radar told us that there were no boats in the vicinity and the only lights we could see were the lights of Tripoli, which bobbed in and out of view.

With Lynn working on the tender, there was no one at the helm-station to monitor the radar or keep eyes-on the horizon for any approaching traffic. It would be fucking tragic to have come this far only to get caught with our pants down by Gaddafi's tin-pot coast guard. We were right on the edge of Libya's territorial waters – the nav-system said the statutory twelve miles – but I couldn't imagine the Libyans politely arguing the toss if they bounced us. We needed to move quickly.

A strong smell of fuel rose to greet me as the hatch came open.

I passed the torch beam around the engine room. The upper casings of the Predator's powerful twin diesels were about four feet below me. I slid down the ladder.

Before moving to the back of the boat, I'd closed off the cocks that fed seawater into the cooling system.

Standing between the power packs, hunched so my head didn't hit the roof, I swung the torch around till I found what I was looking for: a four-inch-diameter hose that led from the hull into the engine casing. I shouted for Lynn. His face appeared above me a moment later. This was the boaty stuff I did know about.

'You ready?'

He nodded, then handed me a spanner. I gave him the torch. A large jubilee clip connected the hose to the engine casing. It took me about a minute to loosen it; another second or two to pull it free. The hose flapped uselessly and a trickle of brown, oily water dribbled onto the floor.

Lynn shone the torch across the floor until it came to rest on a lever next to the engine mounting.

I leant forward, wrapped my fingers around it and yanked back, hard. The hose straightened then writhed like a snake as water gushed in under pressure. I scrambled up the ladder and hauled myself back onto the deck.

Lynn played the torch around the compartment. The floor rapidly became submerged under several inches of water.

A minute later, I couldn't see the base of the diesels.

Within five minutes, half the compartment was flooded.

The boat began to list to stern.

We went back into the deck saloon and retrieved the plastic bags that contained our possessions – money, credit cards, passports, towels, rucksacks and a change of clothes.

I told Lynn to tie his bag firmly to his belt, checked it was secure, then did the same myself. I took a last look around, allowing the torch to play across the leather sofas and armchairs. The only light on the boat was coming from the instruments at the helm station.

As we made our way towards the stern, water was already coursing over the top of the engine hatch.

Lynn jumped into the tender and I followed. As he readied the outboard, I leant over, untied the ropes and we drifted away as the Predator's arse end began to slip below the waves.

I liked destroying things that cost lots of money. It gave me the same satisfaction as firing, say, a Stinger that cost over a hundred thousand dollars. But over three million pounds? This was a good day out.

After a couple of minutes, I lost sight of the boat, then, when we were about fifty metres away, the clouds parted, giving us a momentary glimpse of the boat, up-ended, her bow pointing towards the stars.

With a rush of air and a gurgling sound, it suddenly slid beneath the water.

Lynn tugged the starter-cord and the outboard coughed into life.

I checked my watch. With the sun rising a little after six, we needed to make landfall within the next forty minutes to make maximum use of the darkness. The spray came hard in our faces and water made its way into every orifice, but we maintained a steady lick in the direction of the main harbour. After twenty minutes two sets of navigation beacons reared up either side of its large, natural entrance.

I tapped Lynn on the shoulder and pointed to the right. Without my having to say anything, he adjusted course.

Fifteen minutes later, we were close enough to the shore for me to be able to make out the headland west of the harbour that I'd used as the marker for our run-in. The lights of the city twinkled through the salt-spray crashing up from the bow. I could make out the headlights of cars moving along the coast road.