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This edition published by Arrow Books in 2003

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First published in the United Kingdom in 1999 by Century

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About the Author

Chris Ryan was born near Newcastle in 1961. He joined the SAS in 1984. During his ten years he was involved in overt and covert operations and was also Sniper team commander of the anti-terrorist team. During the Gulf War, Chris was the only member of an eight man team to escape from Iraq; three colleagues were killed and four captured. It was the longest escape and evasion in the history of the SAS. For this he was awarded the Military medal. For the last two years he has trained potential recruits for the SAS.

He wrote about his experiences in the bestseller
The One That Got Away
(1995) which was also adapted for the screen. He is also the author of the bestsellers
Stand By, Stand By
(1996),
Zero Option
(1997),
The Kremlin Device
(1998),
The Hit List
(2000),
The Watchman
(2001),
Land of Fire
(2002),
Greed
(2003),
The Increment
(2004),
Blackout
(2005),
Ultimate Weapon
(2006) and
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
(2001).

He lectures in business motivation and security and is currently working as a bodyguard in America.

Also by Chris Ryan

The One That Got Away

Stand By, Stand By

Zero Option

The Kremlin Device

The Hit List

Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book

The Watchman

Land of Fire

Greed

The Increment

Blackout

Ultimate Weapon

Also published by Century

Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book

Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide

Brian

Able man, somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame.

The Border Reiver’s Philosophy

I would have none think that I call them thieves

The freebooter ventures both life and limb,

Good wife, and bairn, and every other thing;

He must do so, or else must starve and die,

For all his livelihood comes of the enemie.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to give special thanks to all my family and friends for their patience and understanding. To my agent, Barbara Levy; also to Mark Booth, Liz Rowlinson, Katie White and Rachael Healey and all the team at Century.

WEAPONS

203	Combination 5.56 calibre automatic rifle (top barrel) and 40 mm grenade launcher below
.50	Heavy machine gun
AK47	Russian-made 7.62 calibre automatic rifle
Colt .45	American automatic pistol
Galil	Israeli-made 7.62 automatic rifle
Milan post	Vehicle-mounted missile launcher
RPG7	Russian-made rocket launcher

TENTH MAN
DOWN
Chris Ryan

ONE

Typical Welsh autumn weather. The rain was just heavy enough to be annoying. If I kept the wipers going, even intermittently, they created smears, and whenever I switched them off, the windscreen soon became thickly beaded with water. Driving in those conditions was a pain. Tim was fidgeting about, twisting in his seat, punching the buttons on the stereo. Instead of looking out of the window and taking an interest in the mountains, he kept fiddling with the sound system, trying to get track five on his new Robbie Williams CD. There was something wrong with the player, which kept stalling, but he wouldn’t let it alone, so we got endless jumping of tracks and burst after burst of disjointed screeching.

But although his restlessness was distracting, I wasn’t letting it annoy me, because I knew it sprang from nerves. We hadn’t met for nearly six months, and he wasn’t at ease with me, any more than I was with him. Now I had the chance, I really wanted to get through to him, and I knew that if I talked too much I’d only make matters worse. So I told myself to stay cool, and concentrated on the road, now and then looking down sideways at his close-cropped blond head.

Because I saw him only after long intervals, whenever we did get together I was always surprised at how he’d changed. Now that he’d just turned ten, I realised how much of his mother he had in his looks: the same blue eyes and clean profile, with forehead, nose and jaw all straight and in good proportion. His hands and fingers were mine in miniature; they’d grown a lot, and looked pretty useful.

What was I doing, driving out into the Brecon Beacons with some sandwiches I’d got from Marks & Sparks, which I aimed to eat on the summit of Pen-y-Fan, with this son I hardly knew? Even I wasn’t sure. What I did know was that I was seriously ill. I knew that after this school holiday I might never see Tim again. But did I really imagine that, in one afternoon, I could influence the rest of his life? Did I really hope that he’d follow my example and go for an army career? I don’t think so. Part of me wanted him to find an easier way of making a living. Perhaps he should try to become a doctor? A lawyer? A teacher? I couldn’t wish him a road as hard as the one I’d travelled myself.

Looking back, I realise those vague ideas were at the back of my mind. At that moment, while I was still capable of climbing the hills, all I wanted was that Tim should see the country in which my SAS career had begun. In particular I wanted to introduce him to Pen-y-Fan, the mountain whose silhouette is supposed to be graven on every Special Forces man’s heart. Whatever profession he might take up in the end, I wanted him to become an open-air person. I wanted to pass on to him my feeling for the hills. I wanted him to get some idea of what my service career had meant to me.

Above all, I wanted him to know what had happened in Kamanga. I suppose I was trying to justify my conduct there – but only a shrink could have explained why I wanted to pour everything out to a ten-year-old.

After a while I couldn’t stand the racket from the stereo any longer, and said, ‘Eh, give over with that. The player’s messed up. And anyway, we’re nearly there.’

Obediently Tim hit the off button and turned to look out of the window. I didn’t sense any hostility in him: as I say, he was just covering his shyness until he got the measure of me. Back in my flat we’d already had stilted conversations about his school and his teachers. English was his best subject, he said: he liked writing, and had just done an essay on family life. I didn’t fancy asking exactly what he’d said. An easier area was football: he was obviously showing promise as a striker, and as a fan he’d transferred his affections from Chelsea to Arsenal. He was tough on the subject of football hooligans, who he thought were the pits. We’d also had a run-down on his home computer, compared notes about the Internet and discussed digital TV, but we’d exhausted every subject quite quickly.

Now, suddenly, he turned his attention to our surroundings, and said indignantly, ‘Hey, Dad, it’s raining out there. We’re not going to walk in this, are we? And boy, are these hills steep!’

I laughed, and said, ‘You wait till we’re on them! They’ll be steeper than the ones at home.’

‘Oh, sure!’

His voice had a Northern Irish twang all right, but what else could I expect? For six years now, since Kath’s death, he’d lived with her parents in the well-to-do eastern suburbs of Belfast. His school was there, his mates were there. Northern Ireland was his environment.

‘Pity about the cloud,’ I said. ‘But it’s lifting. I think we’re going to be lucky.’

A few minutes later we came down to the Storey Arms, once a pub, now an adventure centre, and pulled up in the car park opposite. I opened the back of the car, and we started to sort out our gear. Once we were in the open, the rain didn’t seem so bad. It was only drizzle, really.

On that dull morning there were only three other vehicles on the hard standing, one of them a zebra-striped minibus with a party of hikers, girls and boys, disembarking from it. Tim must have seen me staring at it, because he said, ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

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