Уильям Мейкл: Operation: Syria

Corporal Wiggins laid down the law.

“This is your first time out with us. So don’t fuck up. Do what I say, when I say it, and we’ll get along fine. I don’t expect any backchat from you new lads, is that clear?” he said and the three younger men opposite across the belly of the plane nodded.

Sergeant Hynd watched with amusement, dropped Captain Banks a wink, and went private in his headset.

“Irony is lost on that lad,” the sarge said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have got him that promotion, Cap.”

Banks grinned.

“It hurts to say it but he deserves it, if only for his cheek,” he replied. “Besides, it’s not every day he’ll get to enjoy being a new corporal. Let him strut for now. We’ll be too busy later for any nonsense from any of them.”

The plane juddered as it hit some turbulence. Banks turned to look out the window. There was only darkness beyond but he knew they must be over the mountains by now, nearing their target. Soon the red light would be switched on to signal their drop into the dark.

He’d been looking to ask for a period of leave for him and the squad when he was called to the colonel’s office early that same morning but his superior had other ideas and Banks hardly got a chance to speak, never mind ask for a holiday.

“We need a rapid response team for a rescue mission,” the colonel said with no preamble as soon as the door was closed at Banks’ back. “And your squad is first up on rotation, so get kitted up. You leave inside the hour.”

“We’re not ready to go, sir. We’re understaffed,” Banks said. “What with losing Corporal McCally and not replacing those lads we lost in Antarctica yet… ”

The colonel waved his objections away as if frustrated by them and interrupted.

“That’s not a problem. I’ve already handled it. We’ve got five new lads in from Leuchars today. Take three of them; that’ll be your choice. Find out what they’re made of and if they’ve got the gumption to stick with it for the long haul. You know the drill.”

“…and I need a new corporal,” Banks finished.

“What’s wrong with Wiggins?”

Banks had laughed.

Nothing much, apart from a mouth as wide and as busy as the Clyde tunnel?

He didn’t say that though and the longer he thought about it, the more he knew that Private ‘Wiggo’ Wiggins deserved at least a chance at the post.

Having gone in expecting to get a holiday confirmed, he left the colonel’s office with a new corporal, three new squaddies under his wing, and orders for a parachute drop that same night in the Syrian Desert.

He’d told Wiggins about the jump first.

“In the dark, onto an escarpment, in a desert? That’s not much of a fucking holiday, is it, Cap? Do we at least get a camel ride out of it?”

“Aye, you’re right, it’s not a cushy number. But at least you’ll be getting paid more for the privilege, Corporal Wiggins.”

It took a couple of seconds to sink in, then Wiggins’ mouth had flapped but nothing came out and Hynd laughed.

“Speechless, for once,” he said.

“Nah, Sarge,” Wiggins came back, his composure restored. “Just practicing my lip moves for when I next see your missus.”

Wiggins’ mood had improved further on being introduced to the three new lads, all privates, all on the young side and all keen as mustard.

“It won’t take long for me to knock that out of them.”

As for the job itself, as the colonel had said, apart from the drop in the dark it involved a rescue mission. A team of British archaeologists had got themselves caught between two rival rebel factions in the eastern Syrian Desert. An S.O.S. had come in but nothing more had been heard for the past twenty-four hours. The squad’s job was to go in and see if there was anybody alive to rescue.

“At least it’s not babysitting duty again,” Wiggins said. “Do you think we’ll see some action this time out, Cap?”

“It’s Syria, what do you think?” Hynd had replied.

Knowing what he did of the area and its recent history as a hotbed of fanaticism, Banks could only agree with his sergeant. He wasn’t holding out too much hope for the archaeologists.

When it came to choosing his three new privates, Banks went on gut instinct and chose the three who’d made eye contact with him when he called them in for a briefing. All five of the men had solid resumes — you needed to have to get seconded to the elite squads in the first place. But the three who’d shown the most interest were the three he wanted on the mission. Only time would tell whether his choice was a wise one.

He had enough time for a quick briefing before leading everyone to the stores to get kitted out. As always, it was a quandary as to what to bring and what to leave but as it was a rescue mission, he went for light and fast as the default and packed only those things that wouldn’t slow them down unduly. He was pleased to see that the three new men managed their own gear quickly and efficiently, then there was no more time for chat as they went out to the runway in Lossiemouth and straight onto the first of several planes.

At least they got fed and watered on the way, which wasn’t always the case on these rush jobs and he’d even managed to get some sleep but now they were nearing their destination, the anticipation had his nerves thrumming as the time for the drop got close.

The light above him changed to blinking red, interrupting his musings. The noise in the hold went up several notches and a cold wind blew through as the rear door opened, inviting them to throw themselves out into the sky.

“Right, lads, this is it,” Banks said in his headset. “Keep a tight cluster going down and maintain radio silence unless you get into trouble. If you come down and see you’re alone, don’t panic and don’t go off on your own. We’ll find you. You all know the drill.”

They heaved the kit out and the team followed it out into the dark as its chute billowed open. Wiggins went first, yelling an earsplitting ‘Geronimo!’ Banks went last, trying to keep an eye on the others during the short freefall. Cold wind pulled roughly at his cheeks and tugged at his clothes. Ice showed for a few seconds at his goggles but quickly melted away as he descended into warmer air. He counted as he fell, pulled his cord on twenty, looked down between his feet, and was relieved to see six other chutes in a group not far below him.

There was little wind now and they descended as soft and silently as early season snowflakes. The lights of a town showed some miles to the east but he knew if he drifted that way, he was going too far off course. He took his direction from the river to his left, found the darker mound that was surely their target and followed the others down to their planned landing site half a mile farther to the west.

It had looked flat on the satellite images they’d perused at the briefing but Banks knew from painful experience that photos couldn’t be trusted when it came to choosing terrain for landings, especially on a rocky desert hillside. He prepared himself for a rough landing, ready to land and drop if the need arose.

The ground came up fast out of the dark and it was more by luck than judgement that he found sound footing. He quickly got out of the harness and rolled up his chute, getting it into a tight ball before looking around for others. There was no moon but the carpet of stars overhead were enough to show him that they’d hit their proposed landing spot within a matter of yards and that all of them had got down safely. He walked quickly over to where Wiggins had got the big kit bag open.