‘One word of warning,’ said Pemberton, his voice turning grave. ‘The Firm reckons its man inside Hezbollah has put this marker outside the right building but you never know if you can trust any of those bastards. Beirut is the most dishonest, double-crossing few square miles of real estate in the world. They could have turned our informant, or he might have been double-crossing us all along. Just be prepared to have a welcoming party waiting for you.’
His eyes rested for a brief moment directly on Porter. ‘So you could be walking straight into a trap. The moment you smell anything fishy, don’t stop to investigate. Shoot your way clear of danger then get the hell back to base. The last thing we need is five British soldiers taken prisoner in that hellhole, and we won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you if that happens. Remember, just living to fight another day is a victory in itself. So good luck, and give them hell.’
Porter was next to Steve as they climbed up towards the deck. The Puma chopper was revved up and ready to go. Before lift-off, each man was responsible for his own kit. Porter ran a quick inventory of his pack. Two stun grenades, two regular grenades, a pistol, a knife, a first-aid kit, a water bottle and, most important of all, an M16 assault rifle, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.
They moved out swiftly along the metal staircase, twisting through the narrow spaces that led up to the metal deck. It was already two minutes to eight: the mission was scheduled to kick of 2000 hours. Porter heard a snapping sound behind him, then a muffled cry. As he turned round, he could see Dan keeling over, his face contorted with pain. Porter had seen that face a dozen times playing football. He’s ripped open a tendon, he thought. ‘You OK?’ he said.
Dan was trying to stand up, pushing himself towards the staircase, but tears of pain were streaming down his face every time his foot touched the ground. ‘It’s no bloody good,’ hissed Steve. ‘You’re useless like that.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Sod the heroics, mate,’ growled Porter. ‘You’re sitting this one out.’
‘I’ll take his place,’ said Perry, standing at Porter’s side.
Porter turned to look at him. ‘This is a Regiment job, mate,’ he said. ‘Get yourself down to Hereford and pass the selection test, and then we’ll consider you.’
Pemberton had already joined them. He was looking from Porter, to Steve, then across to Perry. There was a frown creasing up his forehead. Not surprising, thought Porter. One minute to take-off, and we’ve screwed it up already. ‘You’re a man short,’ he said.
‘We’ll be fine as we are,’ said Mike.
‘You need the men,’ said Pemberton.
‘Get one of the backup guys,’ said Steve.
Pemberton shook his head. ‘They’re too far away.’
He glanced at Perry, as if he was assessing the man’s character. ‘You’re in,’ he snapped. ‘Now the lot of you should be on that chopper in thirty seconds.’
Porter started running. Within seconds he was out on the open deck. ‘I can’t believe we’ve some fucking Rupert coming with us,’ snapped Steve. ‘I reckon we just tip the snotty-nosed little git out into the Med.’
‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Porter.
‘His old man was a general, Daniel Collinson,’ said Steve. ‘Then he made a second career for himself in the City. His godfather’s Sir Arnold Langham, used to be at the Ministry of Defence. Collinson knows where all the strings are and how to pull them. The bloke has got more connections than bloody British Airways. Doesn’t mind using them either.’
The chopper was revved up, and ready to fly. Porter climbed inside, pushing his back to the machine’s steel frame. Steve, Mike and Keith were squeezed in next to him. Perry was sitting a few feet away. As the chopper soared upwards, Porter could feel a giddy moment of weightlessness. He looked into Perry’s eyes, wondering what he could see there. Fear, maybe? No. It was contempt. For the lads or for the enemy, it was impossible to tell.
The roar of the Puma’s blades was deafening. Each man had a two-way radio tucked inside his helmet, allowing him to receive instructions from the pilot. Nobody was speaking. In the moments before a mission kicked off, nobody ever spoke. Each man needed a few minutes of silence to settle himself, and to make his own peace with the certain knowledge that although there was a decent chance of coming back alive, the odds weren’t what any sane man would accept.
‘As Sir Winston Churchill said on the BBC, in July 1940,’ started Collinson, speaking over the radio so that his words were delivered crisply to each man on the chopper, ‘“This is a war of the unknown warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of tyranny will be lifted from our age.”’ He paused. ‘I just thought we should remember that in the next couple of hours, and maybe draw strength from it.’
Steve rolled his eyes. He took off his helmet, and pulled out the headphones embedded inside. ‘Funny, can’t hear a sodding thing,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard over the din of the engine. ‘Bloody kit must be on the blink already.’
The Puma had rolled high into the air as it approached the coast, but now it was dipping low, hugging the ground, as it flew over the docks, and took them straight into the heart of the city. By staying as close to the ground as possible, the chopper would be impossible to detect on radar, and a lot harder to hit with a missile launcher: the enemy had no time to get it in their sights before it had disappeared from view. But it made for a stomach-churning ride. Porter had done it a couple of times in Ulster, flying low over dangerous border country when it was controlled by the Provos, and he’d learnt not to bother eating anything in the few hours before a mission. It just ended up on your shoes. Glancing around, he could see Steve and Keith hanging on to the side of the machine, their expressions grim. And glancing across at Perry, he noted with just a touch of satisfaction that the man was holding on to his stomach. You’re going to be a bloody liability on this gig, mate, he thought to himself.
‘Twenty seconds, twenty seconds,’ shouted the pilot over their headphones.
The chopper shook violently as it dropped the last few feet out of the sky. The pilot knew exactly where the house was: the Coke tin in the gutter was sending out a signal powerful enough to guide him right home. But he was flying low now, skimming right through the streets, at roof level. Any higher, and it would give an opponent a chance to lock onto the Puma with a rocker launcher. Suddenly the chopper lurched violently upwards, and Porter could feel his stomach heaving. It shuddered then hovered in the air.
Porter gripped his M16 tight to his chest. Lights were flashing on the Puma, and the roar of the engine as the hatch opened was deafening. ‘Go,’ shouted Steve. ‘Bloody go.’
Four sets of ropes were tossed out of the side of the Puma. With his legs kicking across the metal, Porter pushed himself out. Steve went first, then Porter, then Mike and Keith. Collinson was hanging back, Porter noted. A cloud of dust was shooting straight up into the sky as the chopper hovered a foot above the building, creating a brilliant, illuminated light that made it impossible to see anything. Porter gripped hold of the rope, and slipped down it, then threw himself down hard onto the roof of the building.
‘Move up,’ shouted Steve, his voice raw and hoarse.