The Operative (4 page)

‘Sir,’ Stratton said, raising a hand.

‘This is an explosive op. You’ll be running that side of it.’

Stratton nodded.

‘As I said, we’ll have a detailed brief on the flight and any upto-date int when we get to our forward-base location at Camp Victory. Get your kit sorted. We leave from the lower field in thirty minutes.’

‘Listen up,’ the sergeant-major boomed as the officer headed back up the stairs. ‘For those of you who can’t remember where Iraq is, think desert – sand and heat, and a lot of both. Pack accordingly. Don’t forget mozzy nets and insect repellent – Yanks have so far reported six hundred and fifty cases of leishmaniasis which is a flying tick-borne disease. Smith? Don’t bring your hammock this time. There ain’t any trees where we’re going.’

Smudge rolled his eyes as some of the men looked round at him. ‘I packed it by mistake,’ he mumbled.

‘You heard the boss,’ the sergeant-major continued. ‘Thirty minutes. That means I want everyone down on the lower field to load the choppers in twenty and ready to go in twenty-five. Let’s go.’

Everyone immediately headed for their personal equipment cages.

‘You want to work with me on this one?’ Stratton asked Jack.

‘I’d be offended if you didn’t ask,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll go grab the boom-boom soon as I have my kit together, which’ll take three minutes. What do you think you’ll need?’

‘A lot of linear, methinks. Stacks of L-Ones and Twos. I’ll pick up the console and the RT devices.’

‘Right.’

‘P for plenty,’ Stratton said as Jack walked away.

‘Always.’

Stratton walked to his equipment cage, unlocked the combin -ation, took hold of his large backpack that was already good to go other than for a few changes for desert conditions and paused to deal with a major distraction. He hadn’t done a train before, not a moving option like this, and it posed some interesting problems. He was eager to solve them but pushed all thoughts of it out of his mind for the time being. Stratton no longer feared failing to find a solution to problems such as these as much as he used to. There had been a time when he would have been worried
about fulfilling such a hugely pivotal role in an operation, but after so many years he knew that there was always a solution: it just had to be found. It was not complacency or smugness on his part, but a confidence in himself, his team, and the tried and tested system that was Brit special forces. He was looking forward to the journey to Baghdad, every minute of which would be spent going over details, calculating how he was going to blow the train without killing those on board, and then looking for all the things that could possibly go wrong.

Less than eleven hours later at 5:55 a.m. local time the fiery tendrils of dawn stretched skyward from the Iranian border little more than a hundred miles to the east as Stratton lay beneath one of several railway carriages. They were attached to a narrow, none too magnificent yet surprisingly clean and well-maintained diesel locomotive. Its engines hummed loudly, ticking over enough to convey electrical power to the carriages as Stratton shuffled slowly on his back over grimy, oil-stained sleepers separated by jagged gravel, moving between the heavy cast-iron wheels from one carriage connection to the next. He was wearing a pair of dirty old trousers with a matching jacket and worn boots with nylon packing-string for laces. His head was wrapped completely in a grubby red and white
shamagh
or scarf, with only his eyes visible.

Stratton was working quickly, placing slender, shaped linear explosive charges – pre-cast hollow tri angular lengths of lead filled with RDX – moulding the strips to the metal links where they would cut them like sugar cubes when the devices were deton -ated. To complete the charges he attached a remote-control detonator to the tail end of each strip and secured them neatly to the bottom of the links so that they would not be noticed. The dull lead was ideal, not only as a dense tamping device to direct the force of the blast against the surface to be blown: it also blended well with the dirty metal. As a final touch he scraped
old grease from the bearings and smeared it over the charges to complete their camouflage, careful not to cover the short, slender antennas of the devices’ receivers.

As Stratton completed the last charge-placement for that coup -ling, a pair of dirty brown feet inside worn sandals shuffled along the length of the train towards him. He froze, following the feet through the massive spoked wheels with his stare, quickly considering his options if he were seen. Getting caught at this stage would undoubtedly lead to the discovery of the explosives, thus ending the mission. The target would bolt and remain even more difficult to catch and – top of Stratton’s list – getting found out would have serious implications as far as his immediate chances of survival were concerned, particularly if the man had an AK47. But something about the lethargic manner in which the man walked reduced Stratton’s alarm.

His instincts were vindicated as the feet ambled past, away from the train, across the tracks and out of sight.

Stratton took hold of an old canvas bag beside him that contained more linear charges and detonators. He checked to see that the area opposite where the man had passed was clear and rolled out from under the carriage, over the rail between the wheels, onto the grimy, caked sand and to his feet.

The train stood in a dilapidated station, battered by both wars with Britain and America and peppered with bomb craters and scattered wreckage of all kinds, from cranes to rolling stock as well as military hardware. Several of the station’s buildings spaced out at either side of the tracks had been completely destroyed while others remained nominally functional, though none had their windows or doors intact. Like so many government-owned buildings in the country, the station had been extensively looted after the fall of the Baathist regime. There was no raised platform, the buildings being at ground level and set well back from the tracks. Vehicles were dotted about: lorries and fuel trucks,
some functional, some wrecked by the war, others gutted for spares.

A dozen or so men hung about the largest of the station buildings: drivers and labourers, all taking part in the morning ritual of smoking, talking, eating bread and drinking
che
, a sweet tea, provided by a boy who had set up a tea shop in one of the destroyed buildings, the flickering fire reflecting off the roofless walls. Several of the men carried AK47 assault rifles. Some of them were station guards, others simply those who preferred to be armed, but none of them were taking any notice of Stratton who would have been difficult to see in the low light conditions or hear because of the locomotive engine.

There was a chill in the air that was noticeably cooler when the wind picked up. But within a few hours, if the fine sand did not rise with the day to filter the sun’s rays – not uncommon at this time of year – the temperature would quickly climb.

The carriage that Stratton had been beneath was one of three French-made third-class passenger cars built and shipped to Iraq in the early 1970s. They were connected to the locomotive and behind them were a dozen or so dilapidated open trucks. As Stratton reached the coupling between the first and second carriage from the engine he ducked beneath the heavy linkage and lay on his back as before. He opened his canvas bag, removed a length of shaped charge, and repeated the procedure of bending it snugly around the coupling and securing it in place. After attaching the detonator and initiator and smearing the device with grease he closed his bag, ensured he had not left anything lying around and checked that the ground was clear at both sides of the carriage. The charge-placing phase was complete and as the sun began to rise above the buildings it was time to go.

Stratton rolled out and got to his feet. As he brushed himself down the sound of vehicle engines broke through the hum of the locomotive, announcing the arrival of a small convoy. There
were half a dozen or so, a mixture of 4x4s and pick-up trucks packed with men. Bringing up the rear, amidst the thick dust being kicked up, he could make out a large lorry.

Stratton turned his back to them and headed towards the locomotive as the lead vehicles came to a halt on the edge of the station. The lorry overtook the other vehicles under the direction of men from the pick-ups, drove across the tracks and down the side of the train.

It stopped alongside the third carriage from the locomotive. The back was promptly opened, accompanied by a lot of shouting by those in charge as dozens of large wooden boxes were hauled out of it.

Just before Stratton reached the locomotive cab where two engineers were occupied with their preparations he turned away across a stretch of open ground. He headed for a shattered, imploded building that looked as if it had received a direct hit on its flat roof from a mortar or artillery shell.

He stepped inside and over the rubble of plaster-coated breeze-blocks and concrete that covered the floor, concealing himself beside a jagged hole in a wall that a window frame had once filled. Another vehicle arrived and Stratton peered around the corner to take a look. It was a dust-covered black Mercedes saloon and it immediately became the focus of attention.

The car stopped at the head of the convoy and three men climbed from the back and front passenger seats, all well-dressed compared to the coarse patchwork of Bedouin attire worn by those from the pick-ups and 4x4s: two in traditional robes and
shamaghs
and one in an expensive western-style suit. They were immediately surrounded by men with AK47 assault rifles and, with a modicum of order, though still looking like little more than an organised rabble, the group made its way towards the carriages.

Stratton raised a small pair of binoculars that had been hanging
from his neck inside his jacket to his eyes and focused on the new arrivals.

‘Mister Al-Forouf,’ he muttered as he picked out the man with the sharp suit, slick black hair and well-groomed goatee.

Stratton watched the three VIPs move ahead of the others, climb the narrow steps of the centre passenger carriage and pass inside, followed by a handful of the armed followers. The rest divided up and clambered aboard the other two carriages at either end of Forouf ’s.

Stratton trained the binoculars on the crates being loaded onto the carriages. The last dozen or so caught his attention. He carefully focused on the side of one of the boxes waiting to be loaded and recognised the English writing on the side. The words FLOWER ENGINEERING were stencilled in plain black capitals on a green background, an image fresh in Stratton’s mind: he had seen the same markings only a week ago on several of the boxes that he had photographed when they’d been strapped to the sides of donkeys being led over the mountain pass in Almaty, Kazakhstan.

Stratton checked his watch. It was time to leave. He stepped from the back of the building and walked away into the desert, keeping parallel to the railway line and out of sight of the train as much as possible. A hundred yards or so away he made a sharp right-angle turn back across the rail tracks, glancing at the locomotive that now had thick black smoke issuing from the exhaust at its nose. He kept up a brisk pace across an expanse of open ground speckled with sad, dilapidated vegetation, aiming for a collection of mud huts.

He passed a sleeping dog and a small herd of roaming goats that were futilely searching the dust for a morsel, and stepped over some partially flattened coils of brittle razor wire. He continued on past a crippled, rusting artillery piece, its barrel frozen in a skyward tilt as if in defiance, its breech and under carriage shattered, and around the corner of the first mud hut where he stopped dead in his tracks.

In front of the next hut was Stratton’s transport, an old Russian Army M72 motorbike and sidecar. But sitting on it, inspecting it like baboons examining an unfamiliar fruit, were two Iraqis, both armed with AKs.

A young barefooted boy in grubby shorts and a T-shirt stood watching them. When he saw Stratton he walked over to him and immediately began claiming dramatically in Arabic that he’d told the men that the bike belonged to someone. He begged Stratton to understand that if he was bigger and stronger he would have stopped them.

‘
Maalek
,’ Stratton said, telling the boy that it was okay. He kept his stare fixed on the two Ali Babas, the affectionate local name for crooks, who had an unmistakable aura of thuggery about them. One was sitting in the sidecar, searching the inside, his AK47 resting across its top in front of him while the other, his assault rifle slung across his back, was trying to start the engine. He was pushing down the crank pedal with great effort but no result and periodically fiddling with a switch on the handlebar as he mumbled obscenities.

The boy started to explain again how sorry he was but Stratton held his hand out to stop him.

‘
Maco muchkila
,’ Stratton said quietly, reassuring the boy who was clearly upset at having failed in his intention to look after the bike while Stratton was gone.

Stratton looped his canvas bag over his shoulder and under an arm to free his hands. As he walked forward, he took hold of the end of a stout iron bar leaning against the building, moving it out of sight behind his back.

The man in the sidecar looked up with dark, narrow eyes as Stratton closed in while his friend continued his efforts to start the bike.

‘
Hazih al darrajah lee
,’ Stratton said slowly, putting on a gravel voice in an effort to disguise his poor Arabic as he relayed to them that the bike was his.