Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

Dougie’s head was resting against the wall of the Bushmaster and his eyes were closed. Other members of the troop were driving and manning the weapons stations. It was probably a good shout to get some shut-eye while you could.

Danny couldn’t. He wasn’t wired like that. On the face of it, this was a straightforward op. It would be a stupid move for anybody to take on this heavily armed convoy. But it was in Danny’s nature to repeat the operational details in his head, over and over. The prison facility was a three-pronged building with a high perimeter fence. The vehicular entrance to the fence would be open, but the convoy would not cross the perimeter until the Kurds on site had given a pre-arranged sign that it was safe to approach: three flashes from a torch, repeated at one-minute intervals. Once the troop had the all clear, one of the Jackals would enter the facility grounds and pick up the Kurds. They were expecting three men. The Jackal would take them back to the convoy. Then the troop would escort them through the night, back across the Iraqi border to the safety of the British military base. It was up to the head shed what happened to them after that.

Danny’s earpiece burst into life. It was Ollie Macalister, who was driving the Bushmaster. Danny could see the back of his head, and that of Chinese Mike, who had that name because he preferred Asian women. He was sitting up front in the passenger seat. Beyond them, through the toughened windscreen of the armoured vehicle, a milky half-moon hung in the sky. From time to time, Danny could see the silhouetted outline of a distant mountain range. Other than that, nothing. They were driving without headlamps so they couldn’t be seen from a distance. Ollie had his night vision engaged.

‘ Okay, lads, ’ said Ollie over the radio, ‘ we’re on the edge of government-held territory. We’re going to head off road now. Follow my lead. ETA to target, ninety minutes. ’

Danny felt the Bushmaster swerve off road. The terrain instantly became bumpier and Dougie, who had appeared to doze through Ollie’s radio transmission, opened his eyes. There was no sign of sleepiness. Instant alertness. The guys in the back all began to raise their hands to their helmets to engage their NV. Immediately the interior of the Bushmaster turned a hazy green colour and small details appeared that had been invisible before. A first-aid kit strapped to one of the doors. A holster on Dougie’s lower leg containing a tiny snubnose pistol. Extra-curricular, but that was okay. In the badlands of Syria, each man took whatever he felt he needed.

‘It’s ma kid’s birthday today,’ Dougie said in his deep Glaswegian accent. It was a surprising admission. Normally, on ops, the guys kept personal stuff like that to themselves. Neither Danny nor Bullethead said anything. If Dougie wanted to open up, he’d do it of his own accord. ‘The missus wants tae give her a fuckin’ iPhone. Eleven years of age, man, and we give her a fuckin’ Batphone to every paedo on the net.’ Dougie had a particular obsession with paedophiles. If he ever found himself behind bars – and that wasn’t unlikely for a guy of Dougie’s temperament – the sex-case criminals would be in for a rough time.

‘She’ll be fine, buddy,’ Danny said. ‘It’ll be Candy Crush and Ariana Grande all the way.’

Dougie made a non-committal grunt and Danny found himself thinking about his own daughter, Rose, who he hardly ever saw. He’d met her mother Clara in Syria all those years ago, but Clara didn’t like Rose having a killer for a father. Danny preferred not to dwell on it, so he was pleased when Ollie brought the Bushmaster to a halt, announced that they were thirty klicks from target and called for a changeover. Bullethead took the wheel while Danny climbed on top and manned the grenade launcher. It was good to be out of the vehicle and in the open, even though it was much hotter and his eyes immediately started to sting from the dust kicked up by the convoy. They were back on a road now. The desert glowed green around him. Rough scrub here and there. Boulders dotted around. The occasional distant glint of an animal’s eyes.

But no people. No threats. The surrounding terrain was quiet and effectively empty. It somehow made Danny twice as alert. He scanned the area carefully up ahead, left and right. When he turned a full 360 he saw the three Jackals following, and his troop mates manning the double-mounted Gimpys, also searching for threats.

Nothing.

After forty-five minutes, something appeared up ahead. A low building, probably three klicks distant, but visible because of the largely flat terrain. Danny was about to alert the others when Bullethead’s voice came over the comms. ‘ Eyes on the target. Repeat, eyes on the target. Go static. ’

The convoy came to a halt. Danny continued to scan the surrounding area. There appeared to be no infrastructure in the vicinity of the prison. This road in, and the occasional drainage ditch on either side. Otherwise, this was a solitary facility. And abandoned, as he expected. There were no vehicles nearby, or any sign of life. He flicked a switch on his radio pack, changing to the satellite channel that would put him in touch with the ops base back in Iraq. ‘Alpha, this is Zero 22. Over.’

A brief pause. Then: ‘ Zero 22, this is Alpha. Go ahead. Over .’

‘We’re three klicks east of the target and we have eyes on. Have you heard from the Kurds? Over.’

‘ Roger that. They made contact at 22.00 hours and confirmed the approach procedures. You’re clear to advance on target at will. Over. ’

‘Understood. Out.’

Danny switched the radio back to the troop’s personal comms frequency. ‘We have the all-clear from base. We’ll advance to a klick from target then recce on foot.’

The convoy moved off, trundling slowly over the hard-baked desert earth.

Ten minutes later they came to a halt again. Danny and Dougie dismounted from the Bushmaster and silently jogged towards the target. They stopped five hundred metres out. Danny noticed a deep drainage ditch heading off at right angles to the road. He wondered if this area was prone to flooding in the winter months. The prison complex was clearer now. It was a surprisingly modern building, low and sleek. The guys back at base had described it to Danny as a symmetrical three-pronged construction, each prong leading from a circular central space. They were approaching from the east, heading to the area between two of the prongs. Danny retrieved a telescopic night sight from his ops waistcoat as he and Dougie hit the ground to put in surveillance. He identified the perimeter fence, topped with rolls of razor wire, and three security towers evenly spaced about it. There was a gap in the fence where a gate had been opened, and a small guard house next to it. The perimeter didn’t look massively secure to Danny, but one glance at the surrounding terrain explained why that would be the case: escape from here on foot and in this unforgiving landscape, you’d likely be dead in a couple of days anyway.

‘ Any sign of the safe-approach signal? ’ Bullethead asked over comms.

‘Not yet,’ Danny said. ‘Hold your positions.’ He raised his night sight again and scanned the prison buildings. Still nothing. No vehicles. No personnel. No movement.

‘Where the fuck are they?’ Dougie said.

Danny continued to watch. He was looking out for three flashes from a torch in quick succession. None came.

A minute passed.

Two.

Nothing.

Danny switched his radio frequency. ‘Alpha, this is Zero 22. Over.’

‘ Go ahead, Zero 22. Over. ’

‘We’re on target. There’s no sign of the Kurds. No safe-approach signal. Can you make contact with them? Over.’