Hard Landing (50 page)

Gannon waved at the elderly barman for more drinks.

‘So?’ said Willis.

‘What?’

‘You didn’t ask me here to complain about the security services, did you?’

Gannon grinned. Willis knew him too well. ‘There’s a drug-dealer we’d like to sort out. Gerald Carpenter.’

‘I know the name.’

Gannon smiled. Of course the American knew the name. Carpenter was one of the biggest players in the country, and his escape from Shelton prison had been plastered across the newspapers for the best part of a week.

‘Why didn’t you sort him out when you had him?’ asked Willis.

Gannon’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you getting at, Matt?’

‘Don’t try to kid a kidder,’ said Willis, evidently enjoying Gannon’s discomfort. ‘The papers might fall for that crap about the Real IRA breaking into Shelton to get their men out, but I’m a bit too old to believe in fairy stories.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘I haven’t a clue. But I know one thing for sure. The Real IRA don’t have the expertise to break into a shoebox, never mind a high-security prison.’

‘And?’

‘Hell, I don’t know, Allan. Why don’t you tell me? Four men in black use an RPG to blow their way into a high-security prison. They cut all communications, overpower a couple of dozen trained officers and disappear into the night with two prisoners from the remand wing. Sounds like special forces to me, buddy.’

‘You might be right.’

‘Then there was the other prisoner that got out with Carpenter. What was his name?’

Gannon shrugged.

‘Macdonald,’ said Willis thoughtfully. ‘Armed robber. Seems strange company, doesn’t it? A big-time drug-dealer and a small-time thief. I mean, if the Real IRA had gone to all that trouble, don’t you think they’d have gone the extra mile and broken into the Special Secure Unit and got a few of the boyos out?’

Again, Gannon shrugged.

Willis leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey, watching Gannon over the top of his glass. ‘So, where were you when it all went bang?’ he asked.

‘I was playing squash with my staff sergeant.’

‘You win?’

‘I did,’ said Gannon.

‘Interesting,’ said Willis.

The barman brought over their drinks and they waited until he’d gone back to the bar before continuing their conversation. ‘We’d like to undo the damage,’ said Gannon.

‘All the king’s horses?’

‘And all the king’s men. Snag is, we don’t know where Humpty Dumpty is.’

‘But you’re looking?’

‘The Regiment doesn’t have that expertise. And the security services don’t usually react favourably to requests from us for help. We work for them, not vice versa.’

‘And you’re looking for the two of them? Carpenter and Macdonald?’

‘Just Carpenter.’

Willis looked up at the ceiling. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ he mused.

‘Just the big fish,’ said Gannon.

‘And you’re assuming he’s left the UK?’

‘He’d be mad to stay,’ said Gannon.

‘And am I to assume that’s the end of it, so far as MI
5
and MI
6
are concerned?’

‘I wouldn’t be coming to you if they were on the case,’ said Gannon. ‘Interpol are on the lookout for him, but Carpenter won’t be travelling on his own passport.’

‘What about his family?’

‘They left the country the day after he was taken out of prison. Got on the Eurostar to Paris and vanished.’

Willis ran a finger round the lip of his glass. ‘You want me to get our guys active on the case?’

‘He killed one of yours.’

‘I know he did, but there’s no proof. If there was, we’d have had him back in the States.’

‘Couldn’t have been extradited, not with the death penalty a possibility.’

Willis grinned. ‘There are ways around that. We’d have had him. But, like I said, there’s the little matter of proof.’

‘The cops and the Church had proof, but Carpenter came close to getting off.’

‘Inside help, I hear,’ said Willis.

‘What big ears you have.’

Willis swirled his whiskey in the glass. ‘So, going back to your request, you want the DEA to find Carpenter, and then what?’

‘Put in a request for the Increment to go and get him.’

‘That’ll depend on where he is.’

‘He won’t be in the States, that’s for sure.’

‘And then what?’

‘We take him back to prison.’

Willis took a long pull on his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Gannon’s face. He put down his glass. ‘Are you sure about that, Allan?’

Gannon looked at Willis levelly. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Cross your heart?’

Gannon grinned. ‘And hope to die.’

The organist started to play a hymn that Shepherd could only dimly recall. Weddings and funerals were pretty much the only times that he walked on hallowed ground. The vicar closed his Bible and smiled reassuringly at the congregation. A small hand slipped into Shepherd’s. ‘Don’t be sad, Daddy.’

Shepherd smiled down at his son. They were sitting in the front pew at the small stone church down the road from the house where Moira and Tom lived. They’d wanted their daughter buried close to them and Shepherd had agreed. His in-laws were sitting in the same pew on Liam’s other side. Liam was in his school uniform, his shoes polished, his tie neat. Shepherd was wearing a suit.

‘I’m not sad,’ he said, and put an arm round his son to pull him close. That was a lie. He was sadder than he’d ever been in his life. He hadn’t had time to grieve for Sue while he’d been in prison, but as soon as it was all over the enormity of what he’d lost had washed over him.

‘What happens now?’ asked Liam.

‘We live our lives,’ said Shepherd. ‘We remember her all the time and we think about her and we miss her, but we have our lives to live.’

‘And then we see her again in Heaven?’

‘That’s right,’ said Shepherd.

‘Are you still going to be a policeman?’ asked Liam, squeezing his hand.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd, and that was true.

‘I want to be a policeman when I grow up.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Because they help people.’

Liam was right, Shepherd thought. Sometimes policemen did help people. And sometimes they killed them. And sometimes they brought misery to those around them.

He looked over his shoulder. At the back of the church he could see Major Gannon, in a dark suit, flanked by O’Brien, Shortt, Armstrong and Mitchell. Gannon nodded at Shepherd, who smiled thinly. It was reassuring to know that they were there, watching his back literally and figuratively. Shepherd didn’t believe in angels with wings and harps, but guardian angels were a different matter and the five men at the back of the church were just that.

Shepherd walked out with his son and into the churchyard with Moira and Tom. Tom was wearing a tweed hat that hid the plaster covering his head wound. He had his arm round Moira’s shoulders.

Outside, Shepherd stopped and stared up at the cloudless sky. It was a perfect summer’s day. Birds were singing in the trees that bordered the churchyard. Butterflies flitted around yellow-flowered bushes on either side of the path that led from the church to the road. It was a perfect day for a wedding, thought Shepherd, but a lousy one for a funeral. Funerals should be held on rainy days, with cold winds blowing from the north and leaden skies overhead.

Gannon came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about your loss, Spider,’ he said. He was carrying the sat-phone briefcase in his left hand.

‘Thanks, Major.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’

‘It’s all up in the air.’ He gestured at Sam Hargrove, who was walking to his car. ‘He wants me back in harness.’

‘You do good work,’ said Gannon.

‘Thanks.’

Gannon knelt down so that his head was level with Liam’s. ‘You should be very proud of your father.’

‘I am,’ said Liam.

Gannon ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Is that your gran over there?’ Liam glanced at Moira and nodded. ‘Why don’t you go over and see if she’s all right?’ said Gannon. ‘I want a word with your dad.’

‘Okay,’ said Liam, and ran over to his grandmother.

Gannon straightened up. ‘We’ve found him,’ said Gannon.

‘Where?’

‘On a Colombian ship in the Atlantic. Used the ship’s sat-phone to talk to his wife and kids and the NSA tracked it.’

‘And?’

‘We’re going out to get him.’

‘Officially?’

‘Oh, yes. The DEA has formally requested that the Increment do the dirty.’ The Increment was Gannon’s unit, an ad-hoc pulling together of SAS and SBS troopers capable of carrying out tasks deemed too dangerous for the Security Services. On the far side of the graveyard, Moira held one of Liam’s hands and Tom took the other. ‘Do you want to come?’ asked Gannon.

Shepherd watched Tom and Moira walk away with Liam. He knew that his place was with his son, being a father. But the adrenaline kicked in and his heart beat faster. He wanted to be a father, but he wanted to see Carpenter pay for what he’d done. Carpenter had kidnapped Liam and threatened to kill him. He’d forced Shepherd to help him escape. And he’d ordered the killing of Jonathon Elliott. Carpenter had to pay for his crimes, because if he was allowed to get away with them then everything Shepherd had done would count for nothing.

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Yes, I do.’

It was a vision from Hell, Shepherd thought. Black figures with protruding snouts, huge eyes, and massive humps on their backs, crouching by the walls, bathed in red light. Their chests rose and fell as they pulled air into their lungs through tubes that ran up to the roof. The troopers were all bent forward, not wanting their parachutes to rub against the fuselage of the Nimrod. They were cradling their Heckler & Koch submachine-guns, barrels pointing down. They were all kitted out with full high-altitude parachute life-support system equipment. All the men wore black balaclavas and helmets, oxygen masks, bottles and carriers, boots and insulated over-boots. They wore felt gloves close to the skin for insulation and leather ones for protection, goggles to protect the eyes from the icy wind. Strapped to their chests were the LCDs of their computerised navigation systems. Their black thermal suits had felt liners to protect them against the high-altitude sub-zero temperatures. A thermometer on the fuselage of the Nimrod gave the temperature as minus 48 degrees Fahrenheit, and once they jumped, the wind-chill factor would kick in. Without the protective clothing they’d be blocks of ice by the time they reached the target.

On their backs were parachute canopies, two-thirds larger than a standard sports parachute, attached to a standard army harness, with a smaller reserve chute at the front of the rig. They had handguns in holsters and knives strapped to their legs. The submachine-guns were on webbing harnesses. All the troopers had the Heckler & Koch MP
5
SD
4
, a silenced model with a three-round burst facility in addition to single and full automatic fire. It had no butt stock so it was less likely to get tangled in the parachute rigging, and the silencer meant they’d have the element of surprise. They had extra ammunition in pouches on their webbing belts. Everything, in fact, that the trooper about town needed to drop in from thirty thousand feet and kill people.

They’d all been weighed at the Royal Navy Air Station in Culdrose and equipment had been distributed to equalise the men’s weights. The time taken for a high-altitude high-opening jump was dependent on weight. The heavier the man and his equipment, the quicker he’d descend, and for what Gannon had in mind it was vital they landed together.

Gannon was at the front of the plane, closest to the crew exit door. There was a loader there, a man in olive green overalls and a quilted jacket linked to the fuselage with thick webbing straps. The Nimrod was designed for high-altitude surveillance not for dropping two four-man SAS bricks out at six miles high, so the loader was far from happy about what he was being asked to do. He was more at home in a Hercules C-130 transporter. Like the SAS troopers, he was breathing from an oxygen mask connected to the plane’s central system. The Nimrod had been depressurised ten minutes earlier, when they had come close to the dropping-off point. Two of the four jet engines had been switched off so that it could be slowed to below a hundred knots.

‘Okay, communications check,’ said Gannon, into his radio microphone. One by one the troopers went through their call signs. Shepherd was Alpha Two.

Then Gannon told them to set the altimeters they were wearing on their right wrists. Thirty-two thousand feet above sea level. It would take them almost an hour to reach the target and during that time they would travel forty miles. A needle in a haystack didn’t come close to hitting a converted oil tanker sitting in the Atlantic Ocean, but the GPS-linked navigation system brought the odds down to an acceptable level. But there was no margin for error: they were doing the drop at night and if anyone missed the ship it was one hell of a long swim home.

The eight troopers split into twos and checked each other’s equipment – the oxygen supply, the webbing straps, the Irvine height-finder and the device that would ensure all the chutes opened at precisely twenty-six thousand feet.

Shepherd checked Gannon’s rig, then gave him the OK sign, a circle formed from the thumb and first finger of his right hand. Gannon checked Shepherd’s then clapped him on the shoulder. He put his masked face close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘You okay?’ he yelled, over the noise of the engines. ‘Stay close, yeah?’ He was shouting because if he used comms the rest of the troopers would hear what he was saying.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Shepherd shouted back. He’d done high-altitude high-opening drops before, admittedly never on to a ship in the middle of the ocean with little in the way of a moon, but the principle was the same: exit the plane; hope the parachute opens; guide the canopy down to the target; don’t break anything on landing. Simple.