The Operative (7 page)

Ten minutes after bidding farewell to the canoe the pine trees that lined the distant shore seemed as far away as ever. Jack and Stratton were aware that their core temperatures were dropping dangerously low. Their limbs had long since gone numb and though it was getting more difficult to operate their muscles they increased their efforts, as much to generate body heat as to speed up their swim.

Stratton’s hand suddenly hit something which turned out to be a rock and they were instantly rejuv enated: unlike most of the loch’s shoreline that dropped almost vertically where the land met the water they had been heading for a point with a shallow gradient.

A few minutes later they were helping each other stagger up the rocky beach, unable to feel the stones beneath their bare, numb feet. As soon as they hit the shoreline they broke into a hobble, moving as fast as they could up the slope and into the wood where they stopped to take off their T-shirts, their only
clothing other than their underpants, squeeze out the water and put them back on, a task that was exceedingly difficult in their condition.

‘What do you think?’ Jack asked, shivering fiercely.

‘We don’t have much choice,’ Stratton said with difficulty, his face and neck numb, the muscles almost rigid.

Stratton was referring to the power station and Jack had to agree. It was out of sight from where they were but finding it would not be difficult since all they had to do was follow the edge of the loch. The problems were the distance and if they would have enough time to get there before they collapsed.

‘There’s a road that follows the loch this side,’ Stratton said. ‘Let’s head west until we strike it.’

They headed uphill and after pushing through the dense pine wood, which was overall easier on their bare feet, they emerged onto a track that, although muddy, was fairly level and, as such, a godsend. They broke into a brisk pace along it. The track met the tarmac road ten minutes later and they pressed on without stopping, keeping to the soft verges to save their tender soles that were already lacerated. The lights of the power station became visible in the distance through the trees.

Half an hour later Jack and Stratton paused at a sharp bend in the road as it veered away to follow a river that fed the loch. The power station was less than half a mile away as the crow flew but the road showed signs of diverting along the inlet for possibly a couple of miles before crossing it and turning back towards the station. They chose to save time by going cross-country against the distance of the road and made their way down the rocky incline and into the freezing water. They swam across as quickly as they could and scrambled up the steep, rocky bank the other side and back onto the tarmac road.

By now they were literally turning blue and were well aware that hypothermia was fast setting in as their bodies closed down
all extremity blood-flow to preserve what energy and heat they had left for their brains and organs. They forced conversation as best they could, talking about anything: upbringings, school, girlfriends, whatever came to mind. Once they lost control and succumbed, delirium would be followed by collapse, coma and then death.

As they rounded the final bend to the power station and stepped from gloom into the glow from the security lights that surrounded the complex they continued to question the wisdom of giving themselves up, despite their serious situation. It was the equivalent of surrendering to the enemy and, although the training team would understand it to be a life-or-death situation, in their own hearts, and in the minds of the others, they would have failed. The charges they had laid were part of a coordinated attack and were intended to detonate at the same time as others in the area. A check of their watches showed that there was a good hour before the devices were supposed to blow. Their surrender would alert the ‘enemy’, giving them time to search and perhaps find the charges, raise the alarm that special forces were about and compromise the other teams. That would be an unforgivable failure and one that neither man would want to live with. But it was also clear that they would not survive much longer in their present condition.

As Jack and Stratton approached the power station they saw a military four-ton truck parked part-way down the slope towards the main entrance and recognised it as one used by the SBS Directing Staff. The DS would no doubt be inside in the control office with the duty civilian engineers, taking advantage of the warmth and the tea and coffee facilities while watching the loch for signs of the attackers who were expected to get in and out without being seen.

Stratton and Jack made their way to the lorry and Stratton checked the cab to ensure that it was empty. The back was secured
by a tailgate with a length of canvas rolled down from the roof to meet it. The canvas was not strapped to the tailgate and they reached up to pull themselves inside. But they were shocked to discover that they could not use their hands – their limbs were so cold and numb that their nerves had ceased sending information to the muscles. As they looked at each other in the stark illumination of the security lights, long past the shivering stage and stunned by the level to which their bodies had deteri orated, they began to laugh, even though they were horrified as well as amused at their ridiculous predicament. They had come this far, almost frozen to death, dripping wet, inches from possible sanctuary and couldn’t help themselves.

‘I hope I’m not as blue as you,’ Jack said.

Stratton raised one of his feet to inspect the bottom of it. ‘I think we’ve lost the soles of our feet,’ he said, and they laughed even more.

‘How long do you think we have before we die?’ Jack asked, grinning.

‘I don’t know, but not long,’ Stratton replied.

The laughter dried up and they looked soberly at each other.

‘Better get in the back of the lorry and see what’s inside, then,’ Jack suggested.

‘Let’s get the tailgate down,’ Stratton said and each took a side to take out the pins that held it in position. Stratton’s was loose and popped out immediately so he went to help Jack who was having trouble with his. They pushed on it together but it was jammed solid. Stratton managed to pick up a stone and after a couple of taps the pin came loose and they pushed it out to let it dangle on its chain. Noise was not a concern since the buildings were some fifty yards away and the wind was blowing strongly.

Together they pulled at the tailgate and, unable to hold it as it lowered, they let it swing down with a clang. After helping each other inside, they attacked the bags and boxes. The Directing Staff
always carried emergency gear that included clothing, sleeping bags, rations, fuel cookers – everything that Stratton and Jack needed to survive.

They had to help each other out of their wet, near-frozen T-shirts and pulled on the dry clothing as quickly as they could, not bothering with buttons since that was impossible at that moment. The DS kept their own field kit in the lorry and Stratton and Jack raided their bags for footwear which fortunately fitted. A few minutes later they were climbing out of the back of the lorry with a backpack each, filled with necessary stores. They hobbled across the road like two old men. But it was still not over for them. They were still cold to the core and had to find a secure place where they could get into the sleeping bags and make a brew of hot, sweet tea before they could even begin to start getting back to normal.

They headed straight up a pine-covered hillside that loomed over the power station. After walking only a hundred yards into the dense wood they dropped their packs, unwrapped their sleeping bags and wriggled into them. Jack placed a petrol cooker between them and got it going while Stratton rigged a poncho across their feet to cover the glow from the cooker in case any of the DS should venture out to the truck. Within a few minutes both men were lying back, enjoying a hot brew while a meal was heating up on the cooker.

It took a while before the throbbing from the cuts on their feet began to increase – which was not all bad since it indicated that their circulations were returning. After the meal both men fell into a deep sleep despite the pain. When they woke up at dawn, having missed the first rendezvous, they decided to get going for the next later that morning despite it being daylight. They could take it nice and easy, get there by dark the following day and continue the rest of the operation. Walking would be painful but, considering the suffering they had already endured on the selection course, the fact that this was the final exercise
and the last hurdle would make it that much easier, knowing they could rest all they wanted at the end of it.

Jack and Stratton remained close friends from that day on and five years later Stratton was best man at Jack’s wedding. As he watched Jack tear across the desert on the old Russian motor-bike towards the track junction with a force of militia bearing down on him he knew that Jack would not give up until he had succeeded in his task – and that was what worried him most.

Stratton forced himself to look away to concentrate on his own task as the train closed on the thousand-metre point of the track. He pulled the laptop in front of him, moved the cursor down the column of devices, highlighted one of the codes, and positioned two fingers over the two detonation keys that had to be pressed simultaneously. He looked up to check the train’s location and as it reached the point he hit the keys.

Stratton watched the coupling between the second and third carriage flash brightly as it blew apart. A second later a thunderous boom engulfed the hide and echoed across the desert.

Forouf was in the middle of a conversation with his associates when the blast shook the carriage to its wheels as it hammered the rear door from its hinges, throwing it into the long, narrow space where it slammed into a row of seats. He was first to recover and hurried to the gaping hole in time to see the carriage behind separating from his. Several of his fighters appeared, bunched in the opposite doorway, staring helplessly at the widening gap as their master gradually moved away from them.

Alif Hammad, one of Forouf ’s associates, had dropped to the floor to cover his head with his hands and remained waiting for a devastating assault that he expected to follow any second. When it did not come he got to his knees and looked out of a window to find nothing but the open desert. He had been waiting for an attack since leaving Mosul and prayed that it was not a cock-up.
He did not care if they killed Forouf in the process although the man was of some importance. But Hammad was particularly concerned about his own well-being.

Stratton highlighted another device code on his laptop and hit the keys.

Forouf watched in horror as another explosion beneath the trailing carriage blew the wheels off. Its front, now unsupported, dropped. Several of his militia fell from the doorway onto the track to be instantly grated, then the carriage spun sideways and flipped over. The occupants were brutally tossed as if in the spin cycle of a washing machine before the carriage disintegrated and they were thrown away or crushed beneath the tumbling undercarriage. The trucks following behind completed the destruction as they ploughed through what was left of the carriage.

Forouf pushed angrily back into his carriage and went from side to side, searching through the windows for the enemy who had done this. But because of the angle he could not see the motorbike cutting across the front of the train.

The locomotive driver and his engineer had heard the explosions behind them that shook the train and were straining to look back out of the windows at either side of the cab. They saw the final destruction of the carriage and turned in to look at each other, shocked and completely clueless as to what they should do. The engineer then saw the motorbike ahead as it arrived at the rail junction. He shouted for the driver to look. It only served to add to their dilemma, leaving them with just two options: stop, or keep going. But since they had no communications with the boss two carriages away and were scared to make a decision that could get them shot they agreed to do nothing and keep going. One thing they were sure of: this was not a good day.

Jack leaped off the bike as it slid to the ground and hurried to the charge on the outside of the rail up against the end of the ramrod that levered the track change. It was exactly how he had left it and he studied it quickly without touching anything, unable to identify the fault. A distant crack and another explosion turned his attention to the train as a ball of smoke rose from behind the engine. Then he looked back down at the charge.

The door at the front of Forouf ’s carriage blew in as the coup -ling between his carriage and the leading one disintegrated, separating it from the rest of the train. The wind immediately ripped through uninterrupted with no doors now at either end and as Forouf hurried forward to see what this new destruction was he saw several of his men lying dead in the doorway of the leading carriage as it moved away.

Confusion, frustration, anger and fear brought him to the boil as the locomotive gradually pulled away and one thing became obvious to him. He had been deliberately isolated from his men and the engine.

Forouf hurried to the front of his carriage as some of his men appeared at the rear of the one moving away from him. ‘
Awkef al qetar
!’ he yelled to one of them who responded by running back through the carriage to the other end where he opened the door to reveal the rear of the locomotive. The man jumped across the coupling and grabbed at the handle of the door that led into the engine compartment but it was locked. He banged on the window and shouted in futile competition with the wind, the clattering wheels and the throb of the engines. He was joined by a colleague who nudged him and indicated the ladder that led up onto the roof of the locomotive.