a couple of hares squatted a hundred yards off, heads down and munching. Some crows were in the trees by the lake, arguing the toss as usual. Apart from that, it looked good. He wondered whether Bronson and Capel, the other two Delta men, were watching. Maybe he’d see one of them down by the lake on water duty. They could have a chat, catch up on old times.
He looked up to where a few late stars showed between the clouds, and wondered briefly about the sky cover that was supposed to be up there, watching over them. They were probably brewing coffee and having breakfast about now, changing shift in their long hours spent patrolling while the cameras sent back images to base. And above them would be the satellites, forever circling, taking pictures of the aircraft taking pictures.
Seconds later he was moving, belly down and making his way carefully towards the lake. It was a 250-yard trip, mostly downhill, a gentle slope over undulating grass. There were a couple of gullies he could use, dead ground forged by decades of water coursing down to the lake, and some low scrub where he could take a look around without standing out. As long as he didn’t run into trouble, it would take about an hour to complete the trip there and back. But there was no hurry.
TWENTY-NINE
To the west, the British Special Reconnaissance team was also on the move. But their objectives were different. ‘Hunt’ Wallis was scanning the ground in front of him through his glasses, fighting a rising sense of panic. He was desperate to see signs of Jocko Wardle, his colleague. Wardle had gone out on a recce after hearing noises in the trees. They had agreed it was better for Wardle, a former poacher, to do it, using the dark to move rather than waiting for daylight.
That had been an hour ago.
So far, there had been no sign of him coming back, no contact on the tiny radios they were each carrying. The sets had a short range of a few hundred yards, but were sufficient for communicating between OPs without disturbing the airwaves. Wardle should have been on by now, signalling the all-clear, or back in the basha, looking for something to eat.
‘Anything?’ Mike Wilson slid alongside Wallis, bringing an aroma of damp clothing and chocolate, and the familiar tang of oiled weapons.
‘Fuck all. Something’s up.’
Wilson nodded. ‘He’s run into trouble, daft bastard.’
‘Unless he stopped for a crap. Or tripped over and broke his silly fuckin’ neck.’
The dark humour hid a genuine concern for their colleague. But both men knew that if he hadn’t come back by now, he probably wasn’t going to.
He was either captive. Or dead.
Yet they had seen no sign of enemy forces.
Either way, he was beyond their reach. Their orders were not to engage with local forces under any circumstances unless their lives were at extreme risk. Agonizing over the rights and wrongs of leaving Wardle out there would only lead to negative thinking. And that was counter-productive. If there was an opportunity to take a look later, they would do it. For now, they could only watch and wait.
‘Better call it in,’ Wilson said soberly. ‘I’ll get on the net.’
Wallis nodded and continued scouring the darkness while Wilson went back to make the call. If Wardle turned up safe and well, they could cancel the alert. He’d get a beasting for causing them grief, but that was part of the job.
Until then, they had to figure out what kind of trouble had overtaken him… and whether they were next in line.
Wilson made his way carefully into deeper cover, wary of setting off the birds in the trees overhead. The comms equipment, a lightweight electronic pack which fired messages in split-second bursts, was concealed along with their rations and backpacks in a hollow beneath a fallen tree, and covered with camouflage netting spotted with leaves and twigs. Anyone coming through here would practically have to trip over it to see it.
He paused to gently brush aside a spider’s web. Jocko’s non-appearance was the worst kind of news; he wasn’t the type to get lost, and would have found some way to contact them if he’d been compromised. A brilliant birdsong mimic, he’d have sent up a warning, to give them a heads up.
Wilson reached the hollow and checked the area. Just as they’d left it. No sign of intruders. He slipped under the camouflage netting and reached for the radio pack, mentally composing his message. It would have to be short, sharp and without embellishment. Ten seconds and London would know what had happened.
The radio was gone.
A bird flapped from the tree above his head, and he felt a momentary despair as the netting shifted behind him.
Then something cold and sharp pierced the back of his neck.
THIRTY
Doug Rausing felt his eyes closing and pinched his arm hard. Falling asleep right now wasn’t good. He checked his watch. He was surprised to find that Conway had already been gone forty minutes. Still, that was OK; it took that long to get down to the water and start on the way back. He could take another forty if he had to — and some. Lack of sleep was something you got used to in Delta; that and being thirsty, uncomfortable and wishing you were in a nice bar somewhere, sucking down a cold beer.
He checked through the monocular. It was easier to carry than field glasses and lighter, too. He’d first used it in the Marine sniper section, and had grown to trust it.
The lake looked the same as before; lighter now, but no sign of anything that shouldn’t be there. The surface of the water carried the same glitter he’d noticed on previous mornings, a ghostly sheen as if someone had lit it from underneath. Must be some kind of optical flare, where the coming dawn was feeding early rays across the land and into the tiny wind ripples running from east to west.
A crow rose from the trees to the right, an untidy black shape. He focussed the monocular, tracking the bird’s progress as it lifted into the sky. Must be the early bird he’d heard talk about; keen to be up and out there, like Conway.
Another crow joined the first one, this time with a sound of protest, wings clattering.
Something had disturbed it.
Rausing felt a flicker of alarm. He checked his watch, then tracked along the route Conway should be taking back from the lake. Down one way, back another; it was standard procedure. That way you didn’t run into an ambush. He was tempted to use the radio, but they were under silent conditions unless open warfare broke out.
A third crow lifted out of the trees, and another, the protests louder, and Rausing wonderer if Bronson and Capel had decided to make a move. They were dug in at least three hundred yards further on, and would have no reason to come this way; their orders were to stay apart, to limit possible exposure.
Yet something wasn’t right; he could sense it. Conway could move like a ghost — they all could. But Conway was the best.
A snap echoed up the slope, like a twig breaking. Then silence.
Rausing tracked across the terrain again, looking for the slightest sign of movement. He knew the noise wasn’t Conway; the man didn’t tread on twigs. Then a chilly feeling swept right through him.
Jesus, he thought. What twigs? There are no trees down there!
He swung left again. The lake was empty, same as the grass leading down. Same with the edge of the trees.
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
He swore and toggled his radio. ‘Conway. Come in. You OK?’ His voice was too loud, and he bit down on the
