Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

He put the gun through the railings and tapped the end of the barrel twice against the man’s skull.

The guard dropped his cigarette and spun round. When he saw Jacob he made to grab his own weapon; but Jacob shook his head sharply and instead the man stepped nervously backwards.

The gates were not locked. The gun still pointing at its target, Jacob opened them and stepped outside. The guard couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon; so when Jacob delivered a sharp, sudden blow with his free hand into the man’s neck, it must have come as a surprise. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Quickly, silently, Jacob closed the gates, strapped the man’s rifle – an old Russian-made AK-47 – over his shoulder and dragged the body towards the garage. These doors were not locked either – why bother when there’s a security guard on duty? – so they were quickly inside.

Jacob worked with haste. He rifled through the security guard’s pockets, finding nothing more useful than a small amount of money, then turned his attention to the truck. There were several canisters of fuel in the garage, so he loaded these into the back along with the AK-47, before taking his place in the driver’s seat. No key. That wouldn’t be problem.

There were two ways he could start it. A screwdriver driven deep into the ignition with a hammer then turned with some kind of wrench would work; but there was no screwdriver, no hammer and no wrench, and besides, it would create more noise than he wanted to make. Better to hotwire. He pulled the plastic casing away from under the steering column and located the wiring loom, which he ripped out with a firm tug. There were five or six wires here. It was just a matter of finding which ones were hot. He touched two at a time together, methodically, and before long the truck had coughed into life.

Jacob jumped out and opened the garage doors. Seconds later he was away. He drove slowly through the village streets, sensibly, so as not arouse suspicion. But as soon as he was on the main road, he floored it.

Jacob Redman was happy to be getting the hell out of Dodge.

The mood in the Hercules was bleak.

No one spoke. They just sat there, all eyes on Craven’s bloodied body bag. Sam knew what they were all thinking: that it could have been any of them; that in situations like that, survival is just a fluke; that maybe, if one of them had looked another way or been a bit more on the ball, Craven would still be alive, joking with them in the afterglow of a mission successfully completed. But Craven wasn’t going to laugh with anybody ever again. And as they flew south, Sam wondered if the same might be true of himself.

He could feel the tension with Mac. His old friend was avoiding his eye. Sam didn’t really blame him. He didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark. Why then, was Sam doing it?

The plane shuddered. Just turbulence.

He was doing it, he realised, because he, too, was still in the dark. Jacob might be safe, or safer, but Sam had just as many questions and hardly any answers. And when you don’t know what you’re talking about, maybe it’s best to keep your mouth shut.

He thought of Jacob. Where was he now? Running blindly, no doubt. Keeping hidden. Wondering why the Regiment had been sent to kill him and how many others there were with the same aim…

It was fully day by the time the Hercules started losing height. Sam would never have thought it would be a relief to touch down in Afghanistan, but that was exactly how he felt. When the aircraft came to a halt and the tailgate opened once more, sunlight and warmth flooded in. Sam staggered, exhausted, on to the tarmac with his Diemaco slung over his back and the others following in a ragged group.

Members of the squadron were waiting for them. Not everyone, but at least twenty – enough to make it clear that word of Craven’s death had preceded them. They stood grim-faced and respectful, not saying anything to the returning soldiers, because they knew there was nothing to say. Sam avoided their gazes. Craven’s death wasn’t his fault; even if he hadn’t had other plans on that mission, the kid would still have bought it. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Keeping things from your mates like that wasn’t the Regiment way. Now that it was over, it made him feel bad.

By the entrance to the aircraft hangar where they had first arrived was the spook who had briefed them. He showed no signs of having been up all night. His clothes, despite the already uncomfortable heat, were neat. There were no bags under his eyes. He addressed Sam, because Sam was the first to arrive at the hangar.

‘Care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

Sam stopped. He turned slowly to look at the man.

‘What?’

‘I said, care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

Stay calm, Sam told himself. He could feel his blood like lava under his skin. ‘I thought,’ he replied as mildly as he was able, ‘that perhaps you could tell us that. There was a waiting party for us. Russian special forces. A bit of an intelligence fuck-up – I’d say it was you that’s got the explaining to do.’

A voice from behind. Mac. Quiet. ‘Take it easy, Sam.’

But the spook spoke over him. ‘Listen to me, soldier…’

Something snapped in Sam. Blinded by a sudden rage, he stepped towards the spook before he could even finish speaking, grabbing him by his collar and pushing him roughly against the wall. ‘ No ,’ he hissed. ‘You fucking well listen to me, sunshine…’ The spook weighed nothing; his square glasses fell from his face and his previous look of smug resolve had changed to one of alarm. Sam sneered at him, but as he held the guy up against the wall, the words just seemed to dissolve from his mind, leaving only the anger.

Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. ‘Leave him, Sam.’ Mac’s voice. Not loud, but firm.

Time stood still. Sam felt the spook trembling. With a contemptuous flick of his hands he allowed the guy to fall. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, but he managed to stay standing. Back on terra firma, however, the anger returned to his face. He opened his mouth to deliver some sort of reprimand; but then Mac was there. Like a father hushing a small child, he put one finger to the spook’s lips. ‘Tell you what, pal,’ he said. ‘Do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up, okay?’

The spook looked at Mac, then at Sam, then at the half dozen other burly SAS men that had surrounded him. His face twitched.

‘Your flight back to Brize Norton leaves in half an hour.’

Mac nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good lad,’ he said, making no attempt to avoid being patronising. He turned to Sam. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s get ready.’

Sam looked down at the floor, suddenly embarrassed about the way he’d been with Mac. ‘All right,’ he mumbled.

They walked away together. But as they did, the spook called out from behind them, emboldened perhaps by the fact that they were leaving. ‘Don’t think that’s the end of it!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ His voice sounded ridiculously poncy, like the bully in the playground of a posh school.

It just so happened that as the spook called out to them, Craven’s body was being wheeled off the Hercules. Sam turned back to the man, but this time he knew he could keep himself under control.

‘We already did,’ he spat. ‘We already did.’

And with that he turned, pleased to be leaving Bagram – and that nob-jockey spook – behind him.

He didn’t need a sleeping tablet to knock himself out on the return journey. None of the boys in the troop did. He simply hung his hammock on the other side of the plane to where Craven’s stretcher was attached and within minutes of being airborne he was asleep. A deep and dreamless sleep, despite the hum of the jet engines and the troubles of the night before.