Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (39 page)

The HK416 had been specially made for the American special forces teams. It used a gas piston system, which meant that hot gas and burnt carbon were expelled with each shot, making it less likely to foul. It was capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute, but Croft had it set to single fire. He preferred to pick each shot carefully rather than use the ‘spray and pray’ technique. As with most HK carbines the kick was negligible, minimised by a recoil pad in the stock.

Each of the SEALs also carried a sidearm, either a Heckler & Koch 45 or a SIG Sauer P226. Two of the SEALs also had M320 grenade launchers fixed under their weapons.

The parachute canopies they were carrying on their backs were twice the size of standard sport parachutes, attached to a specially strengthened army harness. The SEALs were not carrying reserve chutes. There was no point. Their CYPRES opening systems were set to open their main chutes at seven hundred feet. In the highly unlikely event the system failed, at terminal velocity they would hit the ground in less than six seconds, nowhere long enough for a reserve to be safely deployed. Not that there was a likelihood of a chute failure – the SEALs used the best equipment available and they all packed their own chutes.

Next to the digital thermometer were three lights, one red, one amber and one green. The red one winked on and Grant stood up. ‘We’re approaching the drop zone,’ he shouted above the noise of the engines, even though the SEALs all knew what the red light signified. ‘Check your buddy’s equipment.’

The eight SEALs heaved themselves up off their metal frames and began to methodically check each other’s equipment – the oxygen supply, the webbing straps, the Irvine height-finder and the device that would ensure all the chutes opened at seven hundred feet. The SEALs were more than capable of pulling their own ripcords but at terminal velocity there was zero room for error and it was best left to technology.

Croft had been paired up with the SEAL on his left, Julio Morales, a stocky Hispanic with massive forearms and a pinched waist that suggested long hours lifting weights and a carb-free diet. Croft checked that Morales was good to go, then clapped him on the shoulder. Morales then went over Croft’s gear, nodded and gave him the OK sign.

Once all the checks had been completed, the SEALs turned to look at Drake.

‘Comms check,’ said Drake. ‘Sound off. Sierra one.’

‘Sierra two,’ said Henderson.

‘Sierra three.’ Julio Morales.

‘Sierra four.’ Lars Peterson.

‘Sierra five.’ Salvador Garcia.

‘Sierra six.’ Franklin Sanders.

‘Sierra seven OK.’ Calvin Wood.

‘Sierra eight OK,’ said Croft.

‘All good,’ said Drake.

Croft turned and looked up at the light array. Red was still showing. His heart began to race and he took slow deep breaths as he pulled the goggles down over his eyes.

Al-Farouq held open the door and the men manhandled Shepherd and Raj down the stairs to the basement. Al-Farouq said something to the men and they bundled Shepherd on to a chair and tied him with a length of rope. The men holding Raj dragged him underneath one of the hooks. One of them held both his arms while the other stood on a chair and threaded a length of rope through one of the metal hooks in the ceiling. Shepherd struggled but the men either side kept him pinned to the chair.

‘Dan!’ shouted Raj, as his wrists were tied together. ‘Dan, help me!’

Shepherd turned his face away. There was nothing he could do to help Raj.

The man finished tying Raj’s wrists and the other man hauled on his end of the rope, pulling Raj’s arms up. ‘Dan!’ shouted Raj.

‘You know what is going to happen?’ asked Al-Farouq.

‘What sort of man are you?’ replied Shepherd.

‘I am a man who requires the truth, that is all,’ said Al-Farouq. ‘Tell me the truth and your friend does not get hurt.’

The men holding the rope pulled it harder so that Raj went up on his toes. One of the men walked over to a table and picked up a cane. He swished it back and forth. The man holding the rope tied it to another hook on the wall. If he stretched, Raj could just about manage to stand on his tiptoes.

‘You can stop this, Mr Shepherd,’ said Al-Farouq.

‘So can you,’ said Shepherd.

Al-Farouq nodded at the man with the cane. He took a quick run at Raj and then smacked the cane against his backside. Raj screamed.

Shepherd closed his eyes. He heard the shuffle of feet, the whistle of the cane, and a second scream, louder than the first. Shepherd put his hands over his ears but the men holding him ripped them away, forcing him to listen.

The red light on the bulkhead flicked off and the amber one went on as the pilot cut power to two of the engines, one port and one starboard. ‘That’s amber!’ shouted Drake. ‘Time to switch on your O
₂
supplies!’ The SEALs began switching from the plane’s oxygen supply to their own personal oxygen cylinders which they would be using all the way to the ground. Once they had checked the oxygen was flowing as it should, they unfastened their harnesses and shuffled towards the rear of the plane, keeping close to the fuselage. The engine noise died down again as the pilot set the throttles of the remaining two engines to idle. With a metallic grinding that the SEALs felt as much as heard, the rear door began to lower. The amber light winked off and the green light went on.

Jim Grant gave his first two loaders the OK sign. They pushed the first of the pods on rails that led down the ramp. It gathered speed quickly, and when they let go of it six feet from the end of the ramp it flew off into the sky. The loaders hurried past Grant and his colleague, who were already sending the second pod on its way. In a series of well-practised manoeuvres they threw the remaining pods out so close together that they were almost touching.

Grant flashed Drake the OK sign and Drake patted Henderson on the shoulder. Henderson nodded and jogged down the ramp. Morales followed him. Then Peterson.

Henderson threw himself off the ramp, thrusting out his arms and legs in a starfish pose as he went out. As Morales and Peterson followed, Henderson, Garcia, Sanders, Wood and Croft filed down the ramp. One by one they jumped, and then Drake took a deep breath and followed. He gasped as the wind tore at him, and he had to fight to keep his arms and legs out as he fell through the slipstream. He found himself spinning to the left so he pulled his left arm in closer. He arched his back so that his centre of gravity shifted towards his stomach. The turning stopped and he concentrated on slowing his breathing as he looked around, mentally counting off the seven other jumpers below him. They had left the plane almost as one but the speed of the Hercules, even close to stalling, meant that they were already fifty feet or so apart. Down below them were the six pods. Each pod had a small drone chute popping around, keeping them from spinning as they fell.

The pods were falling at a faster rate than the SEALs and the men moved to keep close to them. Drake concentrated on keeping stable as the seconds ticked by. He snatched a quick look at the altimeter on his right wrist. He had already fallen eight thousand feet and they were less than thirty seconds into it. He did a quick count again, ticking off the seven men by name. Beyond them, the six pods seemed to be moving to the north. The men were tracking to keep in line with the pods and Drake followed suit. He arched his back to look up and he could see the brightest of the stars twinkling above him. He snatched another look at his altimeter. Eighteen thousand feet gone. Eleven thousand to go.

Even through his insulated gloves he could feel the chill in the air. At thirty thousand feet the temperature was below minus thirty-five degrees Celsius, and without the protective gear and oxygen he would have been unconscious already. As he fell, the air warmed one degree with about every two hundred feet but it was still bitterly cold.

The ground was closer now. He could see hills off to the west, the border with Afghanistan. To the north of the drop zone there were a cluster of brown buildings and what looked like farmland. He didn’t see any major roads but the area was criss-crossed with tracks.

He counted off the men again, then the pods, then checked the altimeter. Twenty-five thousand feet. Not long now. He mentally prepared himself for his chute opening, even though he had no control over it. As the pods reached seven hundred feet the CYPRES computers fired the small explosive charges that cut the line holding the main parachutes in place. The spring-loaded pilot chutes on the pods broke into the slipstream and pulled the main chute with them, and one by one the massive canopies popped open like blossoming black flowers. Then Henderson’s chute popped, quickly followed by those of Morales and Peterson. Drake’s breath caught in his throat as Garcia’s chute didn’t deploy but then it popped open at the same time as Sanders’. Woody’s chute opened, then Croft’s, then Drake’s altimeter hit seven hundred feet and his own chute automatically deployed, yanking him by the shoulders and dramatically slowing his descent. He reached up and grabbed the toggles that controlled the direction of his chute and pulled the right one so that he turned towards the pods. He looked up and gave his black canopy the once-over. The nine-cell flat ramair canopy was clean with no tangled lines. He made another adjustment to his direction and then looked down at the liquid crystal display tablet on his chest. It showed all six pods as small dots, off to the north.

‘OK, guys, let me know you’re all OK,’ said Drake. He twisted around and counted four canopies close by but he had no way of knowing who was who. ‘Sierra One OK.’

‘Sierra Two OK,’ said Henderson.

‘Sierra Three OK.’ Julio Morales.

‘Sierra Four OK.’ Lars Peterson.

‘Sierra Five OK.’ Salvador Garcia. Sal.

‘Sierra Six. As well as can be expected.’ Franklin Sanders. AKA Monster. He hated jumping.

‘Sierra Seven OK.’ Calvin Wood. Woody.

‘Sierra Eight OK.’ Adam Croft.

All good.

They were down to two hundred feet. Drake released his operations bag and it fell on a ten-foot-long cord before swinging below him. Losing the extra weight would make his landing easier and the sound of it hitting the ground would give him warning of the impact to come. Drake pulled down on the toggles, bent his knees and braced himself. The ground rushed up at him and then he heard the dull thud of the equipment bag hitting the desert floor. He pulled down hard on the toggles and felt a surge of satisfaction as he realised he’d timed it perfectly. His feet practically kissed the sand and he took two steps and stopped. A perfect landing. He pulled hard on the right-hand strap of the harness to collapse the canopy as he jogged upwind. He wound the canopy and lines around his arms, then dropped them on the ground and unclipped his harness. He stood for a few seconds, looking around him, getting his bearings. Drake felt warm – the insulation had done its job – but the surface of his black thermal suit was wet and close to freezing. He decided to keep it on; the sun was about to dip down over the horizon and the Pakistan desert could be bitterly cold at night so they would need all the insulation they had.

Guy Henderson ran over, his chute and harness in his arms. ‘All present and accounted for,’ he said.

Drake nodded. So far so good. A broken or twisted ankle would have made things much more difficult.

‘Get everyone here, give me a minute to check my downloads and establish comms.’ Drake went down on one knee and checked his tablet. He had incoming data, downloaded from operation control in Basra. There was a map showing the terrain and a building circled in red, some three miles to the north of their position. There was also a satellite photograph of a white SUV and on it details of the driver and the registration. Saeed Al-Haznawi.

‘Base, this is Sierra One,’ he said. ‘Receiving?’

‘Base receiving.’ Lieutenant Commander Dick Blanchard was on the other side of the world but his voice was crisp and clear. Like all the SEALs, Drake had a flesh-coloured Invisio M4S earpiece which had been laser-cut to fit his ear perfectly. There was no microphone. Sound was conducted through the bone of his jaw to a sensor in the earpiece, which completely eliminated ambient noise and meant that the merest whisper would be transmitted.

‘Sierra One, on the ground and ready to go.’

‘Base, you should have the target and coordinates. Looks like you are three miles away. And we now have a secondary target en route to the primary location. An al-Qaeda operative named Saeed Al-Haznawi. He is driving a white Daihatsu SUV. If you can intercept him, all good. He was last seen driving on the main road from Islamabad to Peshawar.’

‘Sierra One, roger that.’

‘You need to move in now, Sierra One.’

Sierra One, understood.’

‘Richard?’ Yokely put a hand up to his headset. It was Eric Feinstein. ‘Are you there?’

‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ said Yokely.

‘I have some good news for you,’ said the CIA technician. ‘We have a satellite moving over the area in about fifteen minutes. I can’t change its trajectory but I can get you a video feed that will give you some idea of what’s going on down there.’

‘Outstanding,’ said Yokely, his soft Southern accent stretching the word out as if he was relishing the sound. ‘Can you send a feed to the Brits, too?’

‘If you’re OK with that, sure,’ said Eric.

‘How long till we have a picture?’

‘It might stretch to an hour,’ said Eric. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘You’re a star, Eric.’

The SEALs gathered around Drake. They had stripped off their oxygen masks and left them in a pile along with their chutes and harnesses. ‘OK, Monster and Guy, you two get a hole dug and bury the gear,’ said Drake.

‘Why is it it’s always the black man who gets to dig the hole?’ growled Sanders.

‘Because you’re the biggest and strongest and you’ll do it quicker than anyone else,’ said Drake. ‘And Guy’s with you because he’s got less experience on the quads than anyone else.’

Sanders was already down on one knee pulling a collapsible shovel from one of the equipment bags. His nickname, Monster, was a result of being called Franklin, which had quickly become Frankenstein, helped by the fact that he was just over six feet six inches tall, almost a record for the SEALs, most of whom were just below average height.