Soft Target ss-2 Page 13

  Shepherd sipped his tea. ‘Thanks for doing this at short notice, Major,’ he said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Gannon.

  ‘I didn’t think they allowed live firing here, it being in the centre of London and all,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’re not training here,’ said the major. ‘We’ll be in Stirling Lines.’

  Shepherd’s heart sank. It had taken him the best part of an hour to drive from Ealing to Central London, and this meant retracing his route plus an extra four or five hours westward to Hereford. They wouldn’t get to the barracks until evening, so they probably wouldn’t start training until tomorrow. A whole day wasted.

  Gannon looked at his watch. ‘Transport’s on the way,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on SO19 procedures,’ said the major. ‘I’ve already briefed the guys in Hereford and they’ll have the Killing House set up for us.’

  The Killing House was where the SAS rehearsed its hostage rescues. Shepherd had spent hundreds of hours there when he was in the Regiment, firing live ammunition at targets while colleagues played the part of hostages, often smoking and cracking jokes as the bullets flew.

  ‘Have you done much firing recently?’ asked Gannon.

  Shepherd carried a pistol when he was undercover and the operation warranted it, but he’d never had to fire it in anger. Apart from a yearly range assessment, there was no requirement for him to do any live firing. It was different for the officers in SO19: their shooting skills were constantly tested and assessed, hence the need for Shepherd to get in some practice.

  The windows rattled and Gannon looked over his shoulder. A large green helicopter settled slowly in the middle of the parade-ground. Its rotors slowed and the turbine settled back from a deafening roar to a juddering growl.

  ‘Our chariot awaits,’ said the major. He stood up. ‘You can bring your tea with you, if you like.’ He grinned at Shepherd’s confusion. ‘One of the perks of the job,’ he said.

  There were three troopers behind Shepherd, their feet shuffling in the darkness. There were no lights in the Killing House, and the troopers hadn’t been given night-vision goggles. Their Heckler & Koch MP5s had been fitted with 1003 Aiming Projectors, which shone a tight beam of intense light from a fifty-five-watt halogen bulb directly along the gun’s line of fire. The light could be used to blind targets temporarily but because the beam was so focused it didn’t affect the user’s night vision.

  Shepherd had the retractable stock version of the weapon, the MP5A3, which was favoured by the SAS because they often used their weapons covertly. It was also in general use by SO19.

  Shepherd had memorised the layout of the Killing House by glancing at a hand-drawn map for less than five seconds. His memory gave him an advantage over the troopers he was with, but they spent up to three hours a day practising there and knew all of its permutations. The corridor they were in had three doors off it as well as the one they had just come through. There was a door at the end, facing them, another on the right three paces ahead and a third on the left a little further on.

  Shepherd’s eyes were stinging from the cordite in the air and his ears were buzzing. They were using live ammunition and the floor had to be swept clear of dozens of empty cartridges after each scenario had been played through. They weren’t wearing gas masks because armed police were generally not permitted to use tear gas or thunderflashes, unlike the SAS who used pretty much any ordnance they needed to achieve their objective.

  Shepherd flashed his light at the door on the right, then kicked it open and went in low to the right. Two troopers behind him followed, one to the left, one to the right, while the third stayed in the corridor. Lights flashed. There were two targets in the room, one sitting at a desk, the other standing in the far corner. ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’ shouted Shepherd, as he pulled the trigger and sent three slugs thudding into the chest of the desk target, a diving suit filled with straw. MP5s ratt-tatt-tatted behind him and the target in the corner was hit in the chest and head.

  More flashes to confirm that the room was clear, then back out into the corridor. The formation changed: this time Shepherd brought up the rear and waited in the corridor while the three troopers burst into the second room. There were three short bursts of fire. One target, another padded diving suit. The briefing had specified six targets and one hostage. That meant the hostage and three targets were in the last room.

  Shepherd led the way down the corridor. He flashed his light at the door then went through, keeping low as he swept his MP5 around the room, stabbing at the light button. Flash, flash, flash. There were more flashes behind him. One hostage, four targets. The briefing had been flawed to catch them out, but the troopers with Shepherd were old hands and one snorted just before Shepherd yelled, ‘Armed police,’ and the firing started.

  Bullets thudded into the four padded diving suits and within seconds it was over.

  ‘Clear,’ said Shepherd.

  The hostage was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair holding a transceiver. He spoke into it. ‘Lights,’ he said.

  The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered into life. Major Gannon surveyed the targets. ‘Not bad,’ he said. Like Shepherd and the three troopers, he was wearing black overalls and a Kevlar vest. ‘You might have given me a new parting, but I’m not bleeding so that’s a good sign.’

  Shepherd smiled. None of the bullets had gone anywhere near the major. It was traditional for troopers to play the part of hostages in the Killing House. It demonstrated trust but it also gave them the chance to experience being under fire. The major had had more than enough experience of gunfire and that he had decided to sit in on Shepherd’s initial exercise was a better demonstration of his faith in Shepherd’s ability than any written evaluation.

  ‘It’s interesting without the night-vision gear,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The cops aren’t trained in it,’ said the major. ‘Nine times out of ten they wouldn’t go into a no-light situation. Too risky.’

  Shepherd had read the S019 manuals and it was clear that the police followed different procedures from the SAS. They went in hoping that the incident could be resolved without shots being fired. They identified themselves as armed police and would charge in shouting that the targets were to drop their weapons. They were only to fire if they were under attack or if civilian lives were at risk. The SAS went in as a last resort and went in hard. There was no shouted identification, no need to tell the bad guys to give up. They went in intending to shoot and kill. The chest and the head were the only targets. Double tap, triple tap, it didn’t matter: all that mattered was that the target went down and stayed down. If Shepherd stood a chance of being accepted as a member of an armed-response unit he’d have to forget most of what he’d learned as an SAS trooper.

  There was a further problem, which Hargrove had made clear to him when he’d accepted the assignment: once an SO19 officer had fired his weapon he was immediately removed from firearms duty until the incident had been investigated. That could take months. If there had been a fatality, it could take years. If Shepherd fired his weapon, the undercover investigation would be over.

  The major stood up and stretched. ‘Your marksmanship is spot on,’ he said. ‘Can’t fault you on that. But we’re going to have to slow your reaction time a bit.’ He grinned. ‘Crazy, I know, but at the moment you’re moving at twice the speed of a cop. You’re identifying yourself and firing at the same time and that’ll get you drummed out the first time it happens in the real world.’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘On style, I’d keep your weapon high, stock to shoulder,’ said Gannon. ‘I know we fire from the hip, but the cops train that way. Generally they don’t go up against multiple targets so intimidation is the name of the game. They hope the bad guy will back down. Most armed cops go through their whole career without ever firing their gun in anger.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.

&n
bsp; ‘What you just went through is as tough as it will get,’ said the major. He gestured to a small CCTV camera in the corner of the room. ‘We’ll review the tapes, then run through a few exercises, just to get you more in tune with the cop way of doing things.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Major.’

  Gannon waved away his thanks. ‘It’s an interesting exercise,’ he said. ‘Like detuning a high-performance car. Come on, let’s get some fresh air while they’re getting the tapes ready.’

  They walked away from the Killing House to the barracks memorial garden in front of the Regimental church. The SAS had moved from its old barracks in May 1999, and taken over the former RAF Cledenhill base. They had brought the Killing House with them and the clock tower from the old Stirling Lines barracks had been rebuilt in the garden. Engraved on it were the names of all the members of the SAS who had been killed in action.

  ‘You know there’s always a place for you here, Spider,’ said the major.

  ‘On the clock tower? Thanks a lot, but I don’t plan to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet.’

  The major ignored his jibe. ‘With the Regiment,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a bit long in the tooth to be abseiling out of helicopters,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’re thirty-four. Hardly over the hill. And the Regiment could use you on the directing staff. We lost three instructors last month. They’re in Iraq pulling in two grand a week.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, but I was never cut out to be an instructor. Besides, as a cop I can spend more time with my boy.’

  ‘An undercover cop?’ said Gannon. ‘That means being away for days at a time, maybe weeks, doesn’t it? If you come back to us you’d be based here and have most weekends off. House prices are a darn site cheaper than London, too. Your in-laws are still in this area, aren’t they?’

  ‘Born and bred,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re taking care of Liam until I get my situation sorted. It’ll be okay.’

  ‘The offer stands,’ said the major. ‘You change your mind, let me know.’ They headed towards the administration block. ‘These rogue cops, aren’t they going to be suspicious when you turn up out of the blue?’ asked Gannon.

  ‘Alleged rogue cops,’ said Shepherd, with a smile. ‘That’s the thing about being a cop – we have to bother with things like proof and evidence.’

  ‘But presumably they wouldn’t be sending you in unless they were pretty damn sure.’

  ‘Like my boss says, knowing and proving are two different things. But my legend’ll be watertight.’

  ‘It had better be,’ said the major. ‘Bad cops with automatic weapons. Not a pleasant mix.’

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd.

  Gannon slapped him on the back. ‘I don’t doubt it for one minute,’ he said.

  The Saudi knew that he would be lucky one day. That was all he needed. One lucky day when Allah smiled on him. He’d been at university in London when the IRA had almost killed the then prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. They’d exploded a huge bomb in her Brighton hotel and she had been pulled from the rubble, shaken but alive. The Saudi had never forgotten what the IRA had said afterwards: Margaret Thatcher had been lucky, but she would have to be lucky for ever; they only had to be lucky once. The Saudi felt the same.

  He had been unlucky three times already. He had planned the perfect operation in Manchester. Five men in Manchester United’s Old Trafford stadium all fitted with explosive vests, ready to blow themselves up shortly after kick-off. The tickets had been acquired, the volunteers had been selected, but even before the explosives had arrived in the country a careless conversation on a mobile phone had been picked up by an electronic monitoring station at Menwith Hill in Yorkshire. Within days the five volunteers, all Iraqis with British citizenship, had been arrested.

  Then he had arranged for a truck filled with fertiliser explosive to be driven to the base of the London Eye by the river Thames. They had been betrayed by an old man who had overheard a whispered conversation in an East London mosque. He had spoken to his imam, who had made a phone call. Two days later a rented garage in Battersea was raided and four men were taken to Belmarsh prison. The Saudi had been on his way to the lock-up to collect the truck when the police went in. Five minutes later, and he would have been arrested with the others. Allah had smiled on him, but it had not been his lucky day.

  The Saudi had next planned to detonate a car bomb in Trafalgar Square, but the day he was due to strike there had been a trade-union protest and the square was sealed off. The Saudi and another man had driven the explosive-laden car around the West End for the best part of two hours before they had abandoned the mission. The Saudi had told his associate to take the car back to the house in St John’s Wood that they were using as a base, but again he had been betrayed. The house was raided that night and the associate was arrested. He, too, was now in Belmarsh. The authorities hadn’t released details of the arrest or the car bomb. The Saudi knew why: if the public were aware of how close al-Qaeda had come to detonating a massive bomb in Trafalgar Square they would lose all confidence in the security services.

  The Saudi ran his hands down the canvas vest. It fitted well. He had made it himself, stitching it by hand. It was woman’s work, but no woman could be trusted to know what he had planned. He had been unlucky three times but he would not be unlucky a fourth.

  The four other men who had given themselves to the mission did not know each other. They knew only the Saudi, and only he knew that they were involved. Even if one of the others was caught or went to the authorities, they knew nothing of any value. They didn’t know what the target was. They didn’t know when they would be deployed. And they didn’t know who else was involved. They would be told only hours before it was due to happen.

  The Saudi only ever spoke to the men in person. He never used the telephone, he put nothing in writing. There were no computer files, no letters, no written instructions, just whispers and nods. All four men were highly trained and all had made their preparations. They were ready to die, happy even to give up their lives. They craved the opportunity to die killing infidels. And if the Saudi’s plan worked, and if he was lucky, many hundreds of infidels would die. Soon.

  Shepherd borrowed a car from the SAS pool and drove from the Stirling Lines barracks to Tom and Moira’s semi. He phoned from the car to let them know he was on the way. ‘I wish you’d let us know you were coming, Daniel,’ Moira said. ‘I could have aired your room.’

  Shepherd hadn’t known he was going to Hereford until the helicopter had landed on the parade-ground in London. ‘It’s a flying visit, literally,’ he said. ‘I’m only here for two days and then I’m back to London.’

  Shepherd heard Liam shouting in the background. ‘Is that Dad?’

  ‘Liam wants to talk to you, as you probably heard,’ said Moira.

  ‘Dad, where are you?’ Liam asked excitedly.

  ‘On my way to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Are we going to London?’

  ‘Not yet. Soon, though.’

  ‘But you can stay here for a while?’

  ‘For tonight, at least,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let me talk to your gran.’

  Liam put his grandmother back on the line. ‘You don’t have to go to any trouble, Moira. I can bunk down at the barracks.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ll spend the night with us and that’s the end of it. And you shouldn’t be using the phone while you’re driving. That’s how accidents happen.’

  She cut the connection before he could explain that he was using the hands-free kit.

  When he pulled up in front of the house, Liam was in the garden, waiting for him. Shepherd picked up his son and swung him round. ‘I missed you, kid.’

  ‘Put me down!’ squealed Liam.

  Shepherd lowered him to the ground and tickled him. Liam ran giggling into the house and Shepherd chased after him. They stopped short when they saw Moira in the kitchen d
oorway, her arms folded across her chest. ‘No running in the house, Liam,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, Gran.’

  ‘Sorry, Moira,’ said Shepherd. He winked at Liam and his son giggled.

  ‘Don’t forget your homework,’ said Moira.

  ‘Gran . . .’

  ‘It’s got to be done. You either do it now or you do it after supper. And I’m sure after supper you’ll want to play with your father. Why not pop up to your room and get it out of the way?’

  Liam looked up at his father. ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Moira took Shepherd into the kitchen and made a pot of tea. ‘Just two days, you said?’

  ‘Today and tomorrow. I’ll head back to London Thursday evening, but I’ll be here at the weekend.’

  ‘And you’re doing something with the Regiment?’

  Shepherd could hear the suspicion in her voice. She’d never been comfortable with the fact that he was an SAS trooper, and Shepherd realised she thought he might be planning a return to soldiering. She had no need to worry because that was the furthest thing from his mind. ‘Just some technical training,’ he said, ‘to do with a police job.’

  She poured milk into his tea and handed him the cup and saucer. There were no mugs in Moira’s house.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Tom and I have been talking,’ she said, ‘about Liam. He’s settled in so well with us. The school was prepared to take him on a temporary basis because of the circumstances, but I’ve already spoken to the headmistress and there’s a permanent place for him if we want it. We’d have to move quickly, though, it’s a popular school . . .’

  ‘He’s my son,’ said Shepherd. ‘He belongs with me.’