Going Dark Page 21

  Tom was impressed; the MP7 was a fearsome weapon, up to 950 rounds-per-minute rate of fire. It had an effective range of up to two-hundred metres, with devastating stopping power in something not much bigger than a large handgun. It was light, at just over four pounds fully-loaded, and only twenty-five inches long with the stock extended.

  ‘No problem,’ said Tom.

  Bill pulled out a standard-looking Glock pistol. ‘I take it you’re familiar with Glocks?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Police and British military use them.’

  ‘Bomb-proof, reliable weapons. This is a fourth generation Glock 17, as good as it gets, and you have four magazines and a further box of fifty in the case. Should be enough unless you’re planning a war?’

  ‘I certainly hope not.’

  ‘You have a chest harness rig for the MP7 and magazines and a thigh or pancake hip holster for the Glock and a spare magazine,’ said Bill, positively buzzing. ‘We also have some communications kit here,’ he continued, pulling out a six-inch-long rectangular box with a short aerial and covert microphone attachment and earpiece.

  ‘This uses GSM technology, so you’ll be able to speak directly to Pet or Mike on an open mic or using the transmitter button here. It’s real simple and the transmissions are fully scrambled, with an algorithm at each end so you won’t be overheard.’ He handed the rig over to Tom. It seemed simple and was comprised of the main unit and a wireless microphone and earpiece, with an on/off switch and volume control. Tom was well aware that the encryption would be entered using a ‘fill gun’ that loaded the encryption and frequency data on the screen.

  ‘You’ve a covert chest harness for this which will fit in with the MP7 sling,’ Bill said as he reached for another piece of kit from the Pelican case.

  ‘There is a standard German-issued tactical body armour vest here which can be worn overtly or covertly depending on what you’re looking for. Latest Kevlar formation: won’t stop a big, high-velocity round but it will stop most handguns. I’d certainly wear it if doing something dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Last thing is this.’ He handed over a small, seven-inch tablet that looked similar to a mini iPad, other than it had a chunky, robust-looking black surround making it resilient.

  ‘It’s a direct communications tablet which will allow Pet or Mike to send you documentation or link you into various types of imagery. It has its own GSM transmitter that can either use cellular phone systems or satellite communication if necessary. If you can use an iPad, you can use this.’

  Tom turned the tablet over in his hands, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the equipment that had been handed over to him. It was favour payback like he’d never seen. He now had two powerful firearms, 140 rounds of sub-machinegun ammunition, and 118 rounds of 9mm handgun ammunition. If the Brankos wanted a war, he was now armed to take part.

  He fixed Bill with a direct, even gaze. ‘Thanks for this. And send my thanks to Mike. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Just don’t lose it, we’d like it back. Everything you have is untraceable and will either show up as lost or stolen, so Uncle Sam can deny it and you. Now buckle up: we’re landing any time now.’

  As Tom sat back into the luxury of the leather chair with its endless legroom, Bill reached into an overhead locker and produced a couple of pre-packed sandwiches.

  ‘You want these?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Tom, ever aware of the military doctrine: eat when you can, drink when you can, sleep when you can. You never know when your next meal is coming.

  Tom ate the cheese and chicken sandwiches as the plane descended. He looked out of the window at the familiar sights of the small Highland airport. He checked his watch, which showed 1830 hours: less than two hours since he had received the call from Branko, and at least eight hours sooner than he could ever have been expected to get to Scotland. He just had to hope that Donnie could come through and get him to Cameron and Shona’s as quickly as possible. He wanted to see the house in daylight to do a close-target recce before planning an assault and rescue.

  *

  The HS215 landed smoothly and quickly taxied to the terminal. Tom was conscious that, since getting on the plane, he’d heard nothing from the pilot or anyone from the crew: probably as he was on a fully-deniable flight. He wondered what had been done to keep the aircraft off any official records.

  Bill opened the cabin door and folded it down. ‘Thank you for flying Air Deniable, we hope you enjoyed your flight. Please have a safe onward journey,’ he said in a slightly tinny voice, mimicking a pilot’s patter.

  Tom stood and shook hands with the American agent. ‘Thanks, Bill.’

  ‘Stay safe and stay in touch with Pet; she has your back.’

  Tom descended the steps, which Bill immediately closed behind him. The aircraft note changed, and it lurched off again. Clearly there was no waiting for a return take off slot either.

  Tom noticed the difference in air temperature compared to London. He estimated that it was about ten degrees Centigrade, making a mental note of the clothing he would require given the altitude up in the Cairngorms.

  He strode across the pan towards the familiar terminal. There wouldn’t be any Customs or Border Force activity, given that it was a non-domestic flight, but he was aware of the multiple CCTV cameras that would be tracking him.

  As he approached the door, he heard a familiar voice shout, ‘Tom!’ He turned to the source of the greeting to see the large frame of Donnie, dressed in orange flight overalls, walking towards him. He was a tall man, well over six feet, and of powerful yet lean build. He had short, grey hair and humorous blue eyes, a smile never far from his mouth. He was a big character who had never quite pulled off being a Major in the Royal Marines, remaining close to the NCOs and Marines despite his rank.

  ‘Good to see you, Donnie,’ Tom said as they hugged.

  ‘Come on, man. Helicopter’s warmed up and ready to go.’

  Tom followed Donnie to a waiting Ford Mondeo airfield maintenance vehicle with a flashing orange strobe light on the top. They got in and set off towards the nearby helicopter pan, where a red and white liveried helicopter sat waiting with two crew members stood by. The logo ‘Coastguard Rescue’ was emblazoned on the helicopter’s flanks. Tom recognised it as a Sikorsky S-92, almost identical to the US Black Hawk helicopter used in many Special Forces deployments. It was now used by a civilian firm to perform the role that was traditionally performed by the RAF and Navy. Most of the pilots, like Donnie, were ex-military.

  As he drove, Donnie said, ‘Go on then, I need to know something before I send a multimillion-pound aircraft on a taxi mission. I have enough influence to get this done without too many questions, but I at least need a clue.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, Donnie, because I trust you, but we cannot go to the police. You’ll have to trust me on that one. Cameron and Shona are being held hostage up at the cottage by armed Serbian gangsters. It’s because of something I’ve done in my work; they’ve got them to get to me and some evidence I have.’

  Donnie let out a long sigh. ‘Jesus, man. What the fuck are you going to do?’

  Tom paused. If he told Donnie the whole truth, he probably wouldn’t drop him off, thinking it was a suicide mission. A little white lie was required.

  ‘I’ve managed to get up here hours before they could expect me. If you can take me up to the bothy, I can kit-up and put in a close-target recce ahead of a rescue which I’m being helped with by the Americans. I can’t trust anyone in the police as there’s a corrupt cell that will blow it all up and get Cameron and Shona killed.’

  ‘What do they want from you?’

  ‘They want a memory card that shows a corrupt solicitor raping a woman as well as his involvement in organised crime. I filmed him while undercover.’

  ‘Why not give it to them, then?’

  ‘They’ll kill Cameron and Shona whatever happens, then they’ll
kill me. They can’t leave us alive: the lawyer is a multi-millionaire and I know too much. These bastards are ruthless monsters, Donnie.’

  Donnie turned to look at the Pelican case that Tom had tossed on the back seat of the Mondeo.

  ‘I take it that suspicious-looking peli-case you have there doesn’t contain your clothes?’

  ‘The American friend who organised the flight has sorted me out with more than I need to defend myself. I also have satellite cover and communications equipment. I need some kit and clothes from the bothy for the CTR before the rescue. I’ll freeze in what I’m wearing right now.’

  For a full minute Donnie was silent before he eventually said, ‘Cameron pulled my arse out of the fire on more than one occasion. I owe him everything.’ He stared at the airfield in front of them. ‘Come on, Tommy-boy. The helo is waiting for us.’

  *

  Tom and Donnie approached the helicopter, which had a line mechanic attending to the front wheel assembly.

  ‘All set to go, Jim-boy?’ Donnie said to the mechanic.

  ‘All set, boss,’ replied Jim-boy.

  Donnie tossed the Mondeo keys to him, saying, ‘We won’t be long; just up to the Cairngorms for a wee drop-off, pal.’

  ‘She’s full of fuel and all systems are looking good.’

  ‘Never expected anything else, Jim-boy. See you in a bit.’

  They approached the open cabin side door, where a crew member in an orange flight suit and helmet sat waiting for them. As they walked, Donnie said, ‘We’ll head in and set you down by the base at Bynack More, which doesn’t take us over the farmhouse. There’s no need to give the enemy a free look at us. That’s only a short hop to the bothy. You worked out how you’re going to get to the farmhouse?’

  ‘Yeah, I can get there in about forty minutes, I reckon. Gives me plenty of time to set up for a CTR.’

  Donnie stopped walking and fixed Tom with a stare. ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, my friend. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you or your family. You all mean a lot to me,’ he said, his eyes meeting Tom’s. Both men paused for a minute, looking directly into each other’s eyes.

  The moment broke, and Donnie turned to nod at a member of the crew.

  ‘Tom, this is Tiny, our winch-man. My co-pilot over there is Adam and our wonderful winch-op, Gavin, is sat by the monitor over there.’ He nodded briefly at each crew member in turn.

  All nodded and smiled but said nothing.

  Tiny directed Tom to a bench-seat on the side of the aircraft. ‘Sit here and strap in. We’re cleared for an immediate lift. Put these on.’ He handed over a set of headphones with an attached microphone.

  Tom nodded his thanks and began to strap in, settling the headset over his ears and ensuring the microphone was correctly positioned by his mouth. He set the peli-case on the floor in front of him and held it tight into the aircraft with his lower legs.

  Tom had travelled in helicopters on many occasions during his military service, both in the Gulf States and the UK, so he settled immediately into the familiar routine.

  Donnie’s voice crackled in his headset. ‘Okay, gents, we’re ready to rock-and-roll. For the benefit of all, we’re heading off south: quick scoot adjacent to the A9, taking as quick a route as possible. We will infiltrate from the west side of Bynack More on the north-eastern ridge of the range and set our passenger down there. Flight time should be about fifteen minutes.’

  The engines started to whine as the helicopter blades began to rotate, building to the deafening roar Tom knew so well, before he felt the aircraft lurch forwards and ascend.

  The journey took just over twenty minutes, with the Sikorsky flying at its cruising speed of 280km-per-hour. The crew were a hive of activity during the flight, constantly running a series of checks and monitoring the systems. Tom tried his best to tune out the almost incessant stream of dialogue between the team until Donnie’s voice came over the headset saying, ‘Five minutes to landing, Tom.’

  Tom felt the aircraft descending as Donnie’s distorted voice crackled in his ear once more. ‘Thirty seconds to landing. Get ready, Tommy-boy.’

  The winch-op slid the door open and hung out, secured by a tether, to check the landing site for any obstructions. He quickly announced it safe to land.

  Tom felt the helicopter wheels kiss the floor in a gentle landing and then the winch-op slid the door open while nodding to Tom.

  ‘Thanks, Donnie, I appreciate the lift,’ Tom said into the microphone.

  ‘Take care. Call me when you can.’

  Tom unbuckled his harness, removed his headphones, and jumped out of the Sikorsky, clutching the peli-case. He jogged to a nearby small outcrop of rocks, which he squatted behind to shield himself from the rotor-wash that was beating hurricane force winds and whipping debris about. The note of the helicopter’s engines changed and roared as it ascended again, turning as it did so and moving off in a tactical take off, gaining height rapidly and speeding out of sight.

  Other than the wind there was no noise as Tom assessed his surroundings on a small plateau in the shadow of Bynack More that jutted over a thousand metres up. The silence was a relief to Tom, comforting and peaceful, given he’d moved in very little time from London to a jet aircraft to a helicopter.

  Tom had climbed the Munro on many occasions over the years and, despite the grave situation, he immediately felt at home. It was his turf and he knew it intimately, something which he hoped he could turn to his advantage against the intruders. It was a popular Munro with walkers, but they mostly ascended the opposite side by the popular Loch Morlich. The side Tom was on was rarely used, other than by the more intrepid of the many climbers. Tom checked his watch: just approaching 19:00.

  He shivered; it had been about ten degrees Celsius at the airport, but he estimated that up there it was closer to five. Not problematic, but not comfortable in his lightweight clothing and trainers.

  He hefted the peli-case and headed across the plateau to the bothy.

  *

  The bothy sat in the shadow of Bynack More: a small, one-roomed structure made of local stone and believed to be well over a hundred years old. Tom had bought it a few years before from Auld Willie, a man who farmed nearby and whose family had owned it for as long as anyone could remember. It had fallen into disrepair over the years through neglect and didn’t appear in any of the guidebooks.

  Tom and Cameron had repaired the corrugated iron roof and windows, made it watertight, and fitted a log burner which they had lit and left burning for two weeks solid just to dry the place out.

  After that, they’d managed to damp-proof it and lay a suspended floor over a waterproof membrane. Once that work was complete, they had a readymade, cosy bolthole in the Cairngorms that was the envy of many. There was no running water, no toilet, no decorations, no soft furnishings, and no home comforts. It was just a bothy they could use to light a fire, get warm, and shelter from the elements. A sleeping platform with a foam roll-mat occupied one corner and an old armchair by the stove also doubled as a hot plate for cooking on.

  Tom did not immediately enter the bothy but circled around it, depositing the peli-case by the locked lean-to storage shed that butted onto the side of the building. He crouched low and crept up to the window at the rear, peering in to make sure it was empty. It appeared that it was, so he collected the case and approached the property’s only door.

  It was unlocked, as was the tradition, offering refuge against the worst of the weather to walkers, whoever they may be.

  Tom entered, feeling the usual sense of excitement he felt when coming back to what he considered his real home. The wood burner was set with paper and kindling, and there was a large stack of logs to the side of it ready for cold or stranded walkers.

  Within a minute Tom had the beginnings of a fire crackling away. He added a few logs and soon the fire was roaring, filling the small room with warmth and turning the place from cold and uninviting to warm and welcoming. He took a small
kettle from the rack above the stove and went outside to the small burn that ran towards the River Avon, where he filled the kettle before returning to the bothy and setting the kettle to boil.

  Despite the urgency of the situation, Tom did not feel the need to rush to the cottage. He did not want to move until last-light, which was about an hour away, to avail himself of the advantage of the cover of darkness.

  In true British military tradition, he was not going to begin his mission without a hot tea inside him. He did not have a firm plan other than getting eyes on the cottage and trying to get usable intelligence as to what he was facing. He had one advantage: surprise. The Brankos still believed he was five hundred miles away, back in London.

  The satellite phone buzzed in Tom’s pocket which he answered with a, ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Pet. You have a call coming in from Branko. I’m patching him through to you, he will think you’re somewhere near Camden, which is where your phone is.’

  Her voice was replaced by a gruff one which barked, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Camden.’

  ‘I hope you’re not trying anything stupid. Not if you want your family to live.’

  Tom said nothing.

  ‘I will call you again. You’d better still be in Camden. I’m going to be checking with my friends where you are, and I have people everywhere: just remember that.’

  Pet’s voice replaced that of Branko.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m close by and safe at the bothy. I’m also well-armed thanks to the CIA, so I’m leaving at last-light to move up and get eyes on the cottage.’

  ‘I had a satellite pass over the property twenty minutes ago: there were two cars there, an old Land Rover Defender and a new looking Mercedes SUV.’