CRISIS FOUR.

by Andy McNab.

OCTOBER 30, 1979-APRIL 15, 1999.

CRISIS FOUR.

OCTOBER 16. 1995.

The Syrians don't f.u.c.k around if they think you're invading their air s.p.a.ce. Within minutes of crossing the border, your aircraft will be greeted by a three-ship intercept, flying so close you can wave at the pilots. They won't wave back; they've come to get a visual ID on you, and if they don't like what they see they'll hose you down with their air to-air missiles.

he same rule doesn't apply, of course, when friendly commercial aircraft blip onto their radar screens, and that was why our team of four had opted for this particular method of infiltration. If Damascus had had the slightest clue about what was about to happen aboard our British Airways flight from Delhi to London, their fighters would have been scrambled the moment the Boeing 747 left Saudi Arabian territory.

I was twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable, feeling jealous of all the people sitting upstairs behind the driver, probably on their fifth gin and tonic since take off, watching their second movie and tucking into their third helping ofboeufen croute.

Reg 1 was in front of me. Six feet two, and built like a brick s.h.i.thouse, he was probably having an even worse time in the cramped conditions.

His curly black hair, going a bit gray at the sides, was all over the place. Like me, before I left in '93, he had been selected to do work for the intelligence and security services, including the sort of job for the U.S.

that Congress would never sanction. I had done similar jobs myself while in the Regiment, but this was the first I'd been on since becoming a K. Given who we were going in against, none of us was giving odds on whether we'd get to do another.

I glanced across at Sarah, to my right in the semidarkness. Her eyes were closed, but even in the dim light I could see she wasn't looking her happiest. Maybe she just didn't like flying without complimentary champagne and slippers.

It had been a while since I'd last seen her, and the only thing about her that had changed was her hair. It was still very straight, almost Southeast Asian, though dark brown, not black. It had always been short, but she'd prepared for this operation by having it cut into a bob with a fringe.

She had strong, well-defined features, with large brown eyes above high cheekbones, a nose that was slightly too large, and a mouth that nearly always looked too serious. Sarah would not be troubled in her old age by laughter lines. When it was genuine, her smile was warm and friendly, but more often it appeared to be only going through the motions. And yet, just when you were thinking this, she'd find the oddest thing amusing and her nose would twitch, and her whole face would crease into a radiant, almost childlike, grin. At times like that she looked even more beautiful than usual maybe too beautiful. That was sometimes a danger in our line of work, as men could never resist a second glance, but at thirty-five years of age she had learned to use her looks to her advantage within the service. It made her even more of a b.i.t.c.h than most people thought she was.

It was no good, I couldn't get comfortable. We'd been on the aircraft for nearly fifteen hours and my body was starting to ache. I turned and tried the left side. I couldn't see Reg 2, but I knew he was to my left in the gloom somewhere. He was easy to distinguish from Reg 1, being the best part of a foot shorter and with hair that looked like a fistful of dark-blond wire wool. The only thing I knew about them apart from their zap numbers was that, like me, they had both been circ.u.mcised within the last three weeks and that, like mine, their underwear came from Tel Aviv. And that was all I wanted to know about them, or about Regs 3 to 6 who were already in-country, waiting for us even though one of them, Glen, was an old friend.

I found myself facing Sarah again. She was rubbing her eyes with her fists, like a sleepy child. I tried to doze off; thirty minutes later I was still kidding myself I was asleep when I got a kick on the back of my legs. It was Sarah.

I sat up in my sleeping bag and peered into the semidarkness. Threeloadies (load masters) were moving around with orienteering lights attached to their heads, glowing a dim red so as not to destroy our night vision.

Each of them had an umbilical cord trailing from his face mask, and their hands moved instinctively to make sure it didn't get snagged or detached from the aircraft's oxygen supply.

I unzipped the bag and, even through my all-weather sniper suit, immediately felt the freezing cold in the unpressurized 747 cargo hold. None of the pa.s.sengers or cabin crew would have known there were people down here, tucked away in the belly of the aircraft. Nor would our names have appeared anywhere on a manifest.

I folded the bag in half, leaving inside the two "aircrew bags" I'd filled during the flight--plastic bags with a one-way valve that you insert yourself into and p.i.s.s away to your heart's content. I wondered how Sarah had been getting on. It was bad enough for me because my c.o.c.k was still extremely sore, but it must be hard being female aircrew on a long flight with a device designed only for males--and the female commander of a deniable op. I put a Post-It on my mental bulletin board, reminding myself to ask her how she got around the problem. That was if we survived, of course, and were still on speaking terms.

I could never remember which was starboard or port; all I knew was that, as you looked at the aircraft from the front, we were in the small hold at the rear and the door was on the left-hand side. I clutched my oxygen tube as a lo adie crossed over it, and adjusted my mask as his leg caught it, pulling it slightly from my face. The inside was wet, clammy and cold now the seal had been broken.

I picked up my Car 15, a version of the M16 Armalite 5.56mm with a telescopic b.u.t.t and a shorter barrel, c.o.c.ked it and applied the safety. The Car had a length of green para cord tied to it like a sling; I strapped it over my left shoulder so the barrel faced down and it ran along the rear of my body. The rig (parachute) would go over that.

I pushed my hand under the sniper suit to get hold of the Beretta 9mm that was on a leg holster against my right thigh. I c.o.c.ked that, too, and pulled back the top slide a few millimeters to check the chamber. Turning the weapon so it caught one of the loadies' red glows, I saw the glint of a correctly fed round, ready to go.

This was my first "false flag" job posing as a member of Israeli special forces, and as I adjusted my leg straps I wished I'd had a little more time to recover from the circ.u.mcision. It hadn't healed as quickly as we'd been told. I looked around me as we got our kit on, hoping the others were in as much pain.

We were about to carry out a "lift" to find out what the West's new bogeyman, Osama Bin Laden, a Saudi multimillionaire turned terrorist, was getting up to in Syria. Satellite photography had shown earth moving and other heavy equipment from Bin Laden's construction company near the source of the river Jordan. Downstream lay Israel, and if its main source of water was about to be dammed, diverted or otherwise tampered with, the West needed to know. They feared a repeat of the 1967 war, and with Bin Laden around it was never going to be a good day out. He hadn't been dubbed America's "public enemy number one" by Clinton for nothing.

Our task was to lift Osama's right-hand man known to us only as the "Source" for op sec (operational security) reasons from on site. His private jet had been spotted at a nearby airfield. The U.S. needed to know what was happening in Syria, and, more to the point, maybe learn how to lay their hands on Osama. As the briefing guy had said, "Bin Laden represents a completely new phenomenon: non-state-supported terrorism backed by an extremely rich and religiously motivated leader with an intense hatred of the West, mainly America, as well as Israel and the secular Arab world.

He must be stopped."

Once ready and checked by the loadies, it was just a question of holding on to the airframe and waiting. There was nothing to do for the next few minutes but daydream or get scared. Each of us was in his or her own little world now. Before any operation some people are frightened, some are excited. Now and again I could see reflections from the red flashlights in people's eyes; they were staring at their boots or at some other fixed point, maybe thinking about their wives, or girlfriends, or kids, or what they were going to do after this, or maybe even wondering what the f.u.c.k they were doing here in the first place.

Me, I didn't know what to think really. I'd never been able to get sparked up about the thought of dying and not seeing anyone else again.

Not even my wife, when I was married. I always felt I was a gambler with nothing to lose. Most people who gamble do so with the things that are important to them; I gambled knowing that if I lost I wouldn't break the bank.

I watched the glowing redheads pack our kit away into the large aluminium Lacon boxes. Once we'd been thrown out and the door had closed again, they'd stow all other evidence that we had been there in the boxes and just sit it out until they were taken care of in London.

Two of the loadies started a sweep with their flashlights to make sure there was nothing loose that could be sucked out as soon as the door opened. Nothing must compromise this job.

We got the order to turn on our own oxygen, disconnect from the aircraft supply and stand by. Sarah was standing in front of Reg 1, who was to tandem jump with her. She had never failed to amaze me. She was an IG (Intelligence Group), the very top of the intelligence-service food chain, people who usually spend their lives in emba.s.sies, posing as diplomats.

Their lives should be one long round of receptions and recruiting sources through the c.o.c.ktail circuit, not running around, weapon strong.

Then again, Sarah had always made a point of finishing the jobs herself.

She was masked and goggled up, looking for all the world as if she'd done this a thousand times. She hadn't; her first jump ever had been three weeks before, but she took her job so seriously that she'd probably read ten books on free fall and knew more facts and figures than all of us lot put together.

She turned and looked for me. We got eye-to-eye and I gave her an everything-is-OK nod. After all, that was part of this job, to look after her.

The lo adie motioned us toward the door. Our berg ens each containing forty pounds of equipment, were hanging from our rigs and down the back of our legs. We waddled forward like a gaggle of geese, putting weight on each foot in turn. Thankfully the berg ens hadn't needed to be fully laden. If everything went to plan, we'd be on the ground for only a few hours.

There was a pause of about five seconds as the lo adie by the door spoke into his mike to the British Airways navigator, then he nodded to himself and swung into action. The door was about half the size of an average up-and-over garage door. Pulling out all the levers, he swung them counterclockwise, then pulled the handles toward him. Even though I had a helmet on, I heard the ma.s.sive rush of air, and then a gale was thrashing at my sniper suit. Where the door had been there was now just a black hole.

The tags on the aircraft's luggage containers fluttered frantically. The freezing cold wind whipped at the parts of my face that weren't covered by my mask. I pulled my jockey's goggles over my eyes, fighting against the blast, gripping hard on to the airframe.

Seven miles below us lay Syria--enemy territory. We did our final checks. I wanted to get this jump out of the way, get the job done and be in Cyprus for tea and toast tomorrow morning.

We rammed up close to each other at the exit, the roar of the wind and the jet engines so loud I could hardly think. At last came a handheld red light from the lo adie We all joined in with a loud scream: "Red on, red on!" I didn't know why, no one could hear anything; it was just something we always did.

The lo adie light changed to green and he shouted, "Green on!"

He moved back as we all shouted to ourselves, "Ready!"

We rocked forward, trying to scream above the roar: "Set!"

Then we rocked back.

"Go!"

Out and out we spilled, four people on three rigs, tumbling toward Syria. Being the last man, I was pushed by the lo adie to make sure there wasn't too much of a gap between us in the sky.

You can now free fall from an aircraft flying at high alt.i.tude and miles from the target area and land with pinpoint accuracy. The HAHO (high alt.i.tude, high opening) technique calls for extreme weather clothing and oxygen equipment to survive temperatures as low as minus 40 C, especially when a fifty-mile cross-country descent can take nearly two hours.

It has now largely replaced the old HALO (high alt.i.tude, low opening) approach, for the simple reason that, instead of hurtling toward the ground at warp speed, with no real idea of where you're going to land or where the rest of the team are once you're on the ground, you can glide gently onto the target sitting in a comfortable rig. Unless, of course, a man in a white coat has recently clipped a bit off the end of your c.o.c.k.

I felt the jet stream pick me up and take me with it. As the aircraft thunders over you at 500 miles an hour you think you're going to collide with the tailplane, but in fact you're falling and never hit it.

Once I was out of the jet stream it was time to sort myself out. I could tell by the wind force, and the fact that I could see the aircraft lights flashing three or four hundred feet above me, that I was upside down. I spread my arms and legs and arched my back, bunging myself over into a stable position.

I looked around--moving your head during free fall is about the only thing that doesn't have an effect on your stability--trying to see where everyone else was. I could just about see a figure over on my right-hand side; I didn't know who it was, and it didn't matter. As I looked up I saw the taillights of the 747 disappearing way above us, and downstairs, on the floor, there was nothing, I couldn't see a single light.

All I could hear was the rush of air; it was like sticking your head out of a car traveling at 120 mph. What I had to do now was keep stable and wait for the AOD (automatic opening device) to do its bit. The drill is just to a.s.sume that it's going to work, but to get in the pull position just in case. I thought, f.u.c.k that. I knew my pull height--30,000 feet, an 8,000foot drop. I moved my left hand up, just above my head, and my right hand down to the pull handle. There has to be symmetry with everything. If you're in free fall and put just one hand out, that will hit the air and you're going to tumble.

I could see the needle on my wrist alti. I was past 34,000. Instead of waiting to feel the pull of the AOD on the pin, I kept on looking at the alti, and bang on 30,000 feet I pulled the handle and pushed my hands up above my head, which made me backslide, which meant the air would catch the drogue chute to bring the main pack out. I felt it move and rock me slightly from side to side. Then bang--it's like running into a brick wall. You feel like one of those cartoon characters that's just been crushed with a rock.

I still wasn't particularly worried where everybody else was in the sky, I just wanted to sort myself out. I could hear another canopy cracking open, and I knew that it was near. I looked up to make sure I had a canopy rather than a big bag of washing above me. The middle three or four cells of the big mattress were full of air. I grabbed hold of the brake lines, the two handles attached to para cord on each side of the canopy, and ripped them from the velcro that held them in position on the webbing straps just above my shoulder and started pulling. There are seven cells to the canopy; by pumping you expose the end cells to air to quicken the process.

I had a look around me now, trying to find out where I was in relation to the others. f.u.c.k, my c.o.c.k hurt! The leg straps had worked their way farther up my leg and it felt like someone was giving my d.i.c.k a squeeze with a pair of pliers.

Above me I could see Sarah and Reg 1.1 must have had a slow opening of the end cells, as they should have been below me. They were now spiraling past me, his right arm pulling the brake line down to get into his correct position in the stack. Sarah just hung there like a small child as he slotted in between me and Reg 2, who was below me somewhere.

Being the last man in the stack, it was a piece of p.i.s.s for me; I was just bringing up the rear. As long as I was directly above and just touching the rear of the canopy below me, I wasn't going to get lost, unless Reg 1 got lost with Sarah. Reg 1 would be doing the same to Reg 2, who was at the bottom; he'd be doing all the navigating and we'd just be checking. And if the worse came to the worst, we could actually shout to each other once we'd got off oxygen.

Reg 2 would be looking at the display on his sat nav (global positioning device, via satellite). All he wanted was one bar in the center of the display.

Technology is wonderful. We were traveling at about thirty-five knots; the canopy gives you twenty knots, and we were running with the wind, which was fifteen.

I checked my height--just over twenty-eight grand--good. Checked the sat nav, good. That was it. Everything was done: the oxygen was working, we were stacked. Time to get comfy. I got hold of the risers that attached the canopy to the rig, and pulled myself up and wiggled my legs to move the leg straps halfway down my thighs.

For the next thirty minutes we minced along the sky, controlling the rig, checking height and the sat nav. I started to see lights now. Small towns and villages with streetlights following the roads out of the built-up areas for about half a mile, then darkness, only car lights giving away the road.

I looked at my alti. I was about 16,200 feet. I thought, I'll just go for a few more minutes and I'll take my oxygen mask off. The f.u.c.king thing was a pain in the a.s.s. If I started feeling the effects of hypoxia dizziness, I'd bring the mask back to my face and take a couple of deep breaths. By now I was just under 16 grand; my mouth was full of saliva and it felt all clammy. I got hold of the clip with my right hand and pulled the press stud off, and the thing just fell down and dangled by the left-hand side of my face.

I could feel the cold around my mouth where all the moisture from the mask had been. I was freezing, but it was nice; I could stretch my mouth and chew my jaw around a bit.

After about ten minutes I checked my alti again: 6,500 feet, time to start working. I put on my NVGs (night viewing goggles), which had been hanging around my neck on para cord and started looking for the flash on an IR Firefly (infrared detecting system). It was the same flashing light that you would expect to see on the top of a tall tower to warn aircraft, but these are just little handheld things that throw out a brilliant quick flash of light, through an IR filter. No one would see it apart from us--or anyone else with NVG, of course. I kept looking in the darkness. It would be easy to pick out. Bang--there it was to my half right.

We were coming in on finals. I was concentrating on keeping myself positioned right on top and to the rear of Reg 1 's canopy, which was larger than mine as he had the extra weight to jump with. I heard him below me sounding like a nursery-school teacher.

"Right, any minute now. Keep your legs bent and under your hips. Are your legs bent?"

She must have acknowledged. I pulled the NVGs off my face and let them hang.

"OK, put your hands up by me." I imagined her with her hands up, holding Reg 1 's wrists on the brake lines to keep them out of the way so she didn't damage herself if they took a bad landing.

I couldn't see any ground yet--it was far too dark--but I heard: "Standby, standby. Flaring soon ... flaring ... flaring ..."

Then the sound of his bergen thumping into the ground, and his command to Sarah: "Now!"

His canopy started to collapse below me as I flew past. My bergen was dangling by the straps from my feet; I kicked it off and it fell beneath me on a three-meter line. As soon as I heard it land, I flared, too. Hitting the deck, I ran along for three or four steps, turned quickly and pulled my lines to collapse the canopy.

A body appeared behind me. Regs 3 to 6 had been on the ground for five days preparing the job and were manning the DZ (drop zone). f.u.c.k knows how they'd inserted in-country, and I didn't care.

"You all right, mate?" I recognized his voice. Glen, the only one whose name I knew, was the ground commander. He looked as if you'd hear steely Clint Eastwood when he opened his mouth, but in fact what you got was softly spoken David Ess.e.x.

"Yeah. Fine, mate, fine."

"Let's get all this s.h.i.t off."

Within minutes our rigs, sniper suits and oxygen kit had been stowed in large bin liners and we were aboard two Toyota Previas, the drivers wearing NVGs, bouncing along the desert floor, heading for a light industrial estate on the outskirts of a town less than a mile from the Golan Heights and the border with Israel. All of us were dressed the same, in green jump suits, with civilian clothes underneath as part of the E&E (escape and evasion) plan, plus belt kit and our own choice of boots. Mine were a pair of Nike hiking boots, which we'd checked were available in any Tel Aviv main street.

Glen and I went way back. We had done Selection together in the early Eighties, and had got to know each other later while chatting up the same woman, who was now his wife. He was the same age as me-late-thirties--had a swarthy Mediterranean look and a few moles on his face which were sprouting hair, and he always needed a shave. Constantly smiling, he was one of life's good guys--in love with his wife and two kids, in love with his job, probably even in love with his car and the cat.

For the last five days they'd been preparing and placing an explosive attack on an electricity substation, which was going to close down the town while we hit the target, and I knew that Glen would have enjoyed every minute of it.

"We're at the drop-off point."

If we had to talk it would be in a low whisper from now on. As we clambered from the vehicles I motioned to Sarah for both of us to stand out of the way. We got underneath one of the small stumpy trees that made up this olive grove, the stars giving us just enough light to move in without b.u.mbling. The thing I'd always loved most about the Middle East was the stars; it felt as if you could see the whole universe, and so clearly.

The Regs were putting their berg ens on and sorting themselves out.

The glow of the town could be seen coming from the dead ground about five K-s beyond the target. The night air was cold after the warmth of the people carrier and I couldn't wait to get moving.

The driver came over, holding up a small magnetic box.

"The keys," he said.

"Both vehicles, rear near-side wheel arch."

I glanced at Sarah as we both nodded. She had a smaller bergen than mine, containing her trauma kit, with fluid, and anything else she would need. Once the patrol kit was packed, what else went in was down to personal choice.

Glen joined us with a jolly "You OK?," as if he felt he had to bolster Sarah's morale.

She looked at him blankly and said, "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

There was a pause as he let the tone of her reply sink in. He didn't like it.

"OK, let's go." He pointed at her.

"You, behind me. Nick, behind her, OK?"

On the track between the olive groves I could see shadowy figures shaking out into single file. My only job was to protect her; we hadn't let Glen in on this, but if there was a drama, the two of us were going to f.u.c.k off sharpish. We'd just let them get on with it and die. As we joined the snake I wondered about the times I'd done jobs while in the Regiment, not realizing that no one really cared.

We moved off into the shadows, weapon b.u.t.t in the shoulder, index finger across the trigger guard, thumb on the safety catch. Sarah was carrying only a Beretta for self-defense. We were there to do everything else for her.

For about forty minutes we moved through wide groves. When we finally stopped I could hear only the crickets and the wind in the trees.