fighting, it was impossible to tell.
The Osprey put down in what had been a square, its rear ramp lowered, two sentries on guard as medics hauled the casualties aboard. He heard the engine revs climb, the air whipping up a tornado of dust. The sentries backed up the ramp as the suspension of the landing gear slackened and the chopper started to lift. He was shouting at the top of his voice but it was pointless against the roar of the rotors. Something clanked off his shoulder and he felt a sting as if from a huge wasp. The ramp was waist high as he reached it: arms outstretched, he scrabbled for a grip, felt himself slipping back until four hands from heaven reached down and hauled him aboard by his epaulettes. Only then did he allow himself one look back at the receding devastation as it sank into the gloom of the night.
12
Ryazan, Russia
They were standing in the vast metal cave that was the Mil’s hold, Zirak and Gregorin a few paces away, a look of quiet triumph on their faces, Kroll lounging against a mound of camo net. As trucks came and went on the floodlit apron, a steady stream of men, purposeful, focused, loaded kit on to the deck of the hold. Several glanced at the group in their Iranian standard issue men’s clothes — dark suit jacket, loose trousers. One gestured discreetly at the new arrival, then muttered something to his comrade, whose face registered a mixture of awe and disbelief. Vladimir was notorious, a Spetsnaz legend. Dima hoped to God the reality still lived up to the mythology.
The prison van had screeched up to the Mil at ten-thirty. It looked like it had travelled through a war zone. Its windscreen was cracked and one side mirror hung drunkenly from its mounting. Zirak and Gregorin stumbled out of the cab wearing stolen prison guards’ fatigues, with their captive looking dazed and moving stiffly. As they led him up the ramp into the hold of the Mil where Dima was standing, Vladimir threw his head back and erupted in laughter.
‘Tell me this is a joke.’
‘No joke.’ Dima grabbed Vladimir and kissed him on both cheeks. He smelled rancid.
‘You spring me from one of Russia’s baddest prisons. Did everyone else turn you down? I get it, it’s a suicide mission and you figured I’d prefer it to another five years in there. Nice sense of humour you have, Dima Mayakovsky.’
Dima studied his old comrade. Prison had not been kind to him. His weight was down, his skin was an ugly pallor from lack of sunlight and there was a livid scar on his cheek from a recent knife fight. He’d arrived in jail with several teeth gone and had since lost several more. Dima gestured at his T-shirt. ‘Off.’
Vladimir peeled off the grubby garment. Dima circled him, studying his frame, which to his relief didn’t look as bad as his face. He thumped him hard in the abdomen. Vladimir barely flinched.
‘You found time to visit the gym then.’
‘Nothing else to do.’ He dropped on to all fours and started rapid push-ups.
Dima nodded to Kroll.
‘Take him away, brief him and get him something decent to eat. The man’s not had a proper meal in two years.’ Then he nodded at the other two. ‘Well, you passed the initiation. Lose the van somewhere.’ Gregorin started to speak, but Dima shushed him. ‘Tell me later. We’ve got to get this show on the road.’
Another pair of vehicles drew up to the ramp. Burdukovsky, the logistics man, stepped out of one and beckoned Dima over to it. ‘Happy?’
Burdukovsky slapped the hood like a car salesman. ‘Peykans. The Lada of Iran. Finest examples available.’
Dima knew them well from his tour. They had been the commonest car on Iran’s roads and these two looked authentically weary. One had a bashed door, the other two different coloured front wings and a roof-rack that was entirely rusted. They would blend right in. Burdukovsky gestured at the licence plates. ‘Genuinely from Tabriz, more or less.’
‘You’ve surpassed yourself. Do they work?’
‘New engines and drivetrain. You should have no trouble. And I’ve thrown in full tanks of gas. If you can, bring them back in one piece: usable ones are getting harder to come by.’
He waved them on to the ramp then gestured to Dima to join him on the tarmac.
‘There’s more.’
He walked backwards until he’d got a decent view of the Mil, then beckoned Dima again. Like a kid in a Ferrari showroom, Burdukovsky bristled with excitement. ‘You’re very privileged. See those?’ He pointed at the dishpan-shaped cowling on the rotor. ‘Noise suppressor. Top secret. The Americans used it on the Black Hawks when they went to get Bin Laden. They don’t know we’ve got it. It’s a big bus but it has all the toys off the combat Me-28s. Low-level and extreme terrain-following capability with a combined radar and thermal imaging system. Duplicated hydraulic and control systems, armoured cockpit’s got a separate, ceramic fuselage, bulletproof windshields and armoured partition between crew members, self-sealing polyurethane foam-filled fuel tanks.’
He strode forward and smoothed his hands over the fuselage as if it were the flanks of a prize racehorse. ‘Feel.’
Dima felt.
‘Special paint to suppress infrared detection. First time we’ve used it.’
Dima pointed at the Nuke team’s Mil-24. ‘And that?’
Burdukovsky shrugged, the first sign of a chink in his armour of enthusiasm.
‘Standard issue, so keep them back till you’ve secured the site.’
Dima walked over to the other aircraft. Shenk, the Nuclear Recovery team leader, was doing final checks on radiation gear with his crew. When he saw Dima he stopped and stood with his arms folded as if barring the way. He had a long tombstone of a face, more suited to an undertaker. If there was a Mrs Shenk he felt sorry for her.
‘Something you need?’ He jutted his chin out.
Dima suppressed a desire to give it a good whack.
He tried a warm smile.
‘Came to wish you good luck.’
‘You do your bit right, we won’t need luck.’
The rest of the crew stopped what they were doing.
Dima pressed on. ‘I need pictures of the device I can show the team. They need to know what they’re looking for.’
Shenk shook his head slowly and deliberately.
‘Classified.’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
Shenk jutted his chin. ‘Very serious. All pictures, diagrams and descriptions are only for those cleared by the Defence Secretary himself. You secure the area and find your target. We do the rest.’
Dima walked over to the kit laid out in the hold of the chopper. Geiger counters, wouldn’t want to go in without those. And a slim tablet-style PC: bit odd. He decided to find out if there was any more to it, like a scanner.
He picked it up, turned it over and scrutinised it doubtfully. Shenk grabbed it out of his hand.
‘Only for those authorised, I’m afraid. Extremely delicate.’
Dima picked it up again, peering slightly as his grandmother might, confronted with the same object.
‘It doesn’t look much.’
‘Look,’ said Shenk, taking it back again. ‘This begins by being used as a normal sat nav to give directions, but it’s been customised to pick up the signal from the devices. It will then pinpoint the suitcases by giving the longitude and latitudes of their positions to within less than half a square mile, from a distance of up to 400 miles. This information is then converted when this tab is touched, and this point on the appropriate menu here, to a grid reference that can be used on the map. It’s more accurate than a scanner and thus ten times more out of bounds to the likes of you.’
Dima changed his expression to look guilty, and memorised the instructions to tell Kroll when the moment came.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ said Shenk, ‘I have to prepare for this mission.’
