Strike Back
Authors: Chris Ryan
CHRIS
RYAN
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Epub ISBN 9781407069890
Published by Century 2007
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Copyright © Chris Ryan 2007
Chris Ryan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Century
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HB ISBN 9781844135356 TPB ISBN 9781844135479
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Also by Chris Ryan
The One That Got Away
Fiction
Stand By, Stand By
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
The Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
In the Alpha Force Series
Survival
Rat-Catcher
Desert Pursuit
Hostage
Red Centre
Hunted
Black Gold
Blood Money
Fault Line
Untouchable
In the Code Red Series
Flash Flood
Wildfire
Non-fiction
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide
To my agent Barbar Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.
The Mediterranean: Tuesday, 12 September 1989
John Porter folded the telegram into the inside breast pocket of his olive-green combat uniform. He permitted himself a brief smile, then walked swiftly up the grey gunmetal stairs that led up to the deck of HMS
Dorset
. A stiff breeze was blowing up from the Lebanese coastline, and he could feel it catching his jet-black hair, thrusting it down into the bones of his face.
‘
Baby Girl. Born 23.11, 11.9.89. 7lb. Sandy. Love Diana
,’ the telegram had read. The words were already stencilled into his mind. My first kid, he thought to himself. Sandy. I can hardly wait to see the smile on her face when she lays eyes on her dad.
All I need to do is try not to bugger things up by getting myself shot in the next few hours.
He walked purposefully towards the rest of the unit. The
Dorset
had been anchored off the Lebanese coast for three days now, waiting for the spooks to assemble enough info for the mission to kick-off. A British businessman, from one of the arms manufacturers that racked up billions in vital exports every year, had been held in one of the brutal basements of Beirut for the last four months. There was no way the government was willing to negotiate with his captors: they were already armed to the teeth without handing over the sophisticated missile systems they were demanding for Kenneth Bratton’s release. So the government had done
what it always did when the going got tough: called on the Regiment to sort out the mess. Their mission was to go in, and bring Bratton out. Preferably, though not necessarily, alive.
‘Congratulations.’
Porter’s eyes swivelled round. Major Chris Pemberton was standing only a couple of feet away. A tall man, with more lines chiselled into his face than was normal for a man in his late forties, he was smiling, but there were still traces of ice in his steely, grey eyes. He had a rich Yorkshire accent, and a scar sliced down the side of his right cheek.
Porter nodded. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he replied.
‘A girl?’
‘Called Sandy.’
‘Just as well,’ said Pemberton. ‘Girls love their dads. Always. Doesn’t matter what a useless old bugger you are.’
‘Is that …’
Porter could have finished the sentence, but he could tell the Major had already lost interest. He wasn’t here to swap tips on brands of nappies. A harsh wind was blowing in from the coastline, and a few miles across the horizon some blacklooking clouds were starting to swirl out across the sea. If they were going to fly in tonight, there wasn’t much time left. It looked as if a storm was brewing.
‘We can stand you down if you want to,’ said Pemberton. ‘We have backup.’
Porter paused. Stand down? Why the hell would he want to stand down? He had spent eight years in the Irish Guards, and seen plenty of contacts across the water, then, a year ago, he’d made his third request for a transfer to the SAS. When he’d been accepted into the Regiment, it was the best moment of his career. Now he was about to go on the first mission where real blood was at stake. He’d sooner toss himself over the side of this ship than stand down. This is what it had all been about.
‘Appreciate it, sir,’ he said tersely. ‘But I’ll be fine.’
Pemberton examined him closely, the grey eyes flickering across his face, scrutinising him for any sign of weakness. ‘We don’t like to send men out when they’ve got other things on their mind, and this is an important mission. We can’t afford any fuck-ups. You’re entitled to forty-eight hours leave when you have a kid, and if you want to take it, no one will think any the less of you.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You’ve already proved yourself, Porter. You don’t need to prove yourself again.’
‘I said, I’ll be fine …’
Pemberton patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good man,’ he muttered.
Together they joined the rest of the unit. Steve, Mike, Dan and Keith were all far more experienced than Porter. Mike had only been in the Regiment two years, but the other three had clocked up fifteen years between them. They should know what they are doing, Porter reflected.
And if they don’t, then God help us.
‘The mission is set for 2000 hours,’ snapped Pemberton. ‘There will be a full briefing in fifteen minutes.’
Porter could feel the adrenalin surging within him. It was only forty-eight hours since they’d been assembled in Hereford, and put on a plane to Cyprus. From there they were flown out here on the same Puma chopper that was going to take them straight into enemy territory in the next couple of hours.
‘Well done on the kid, mate,’ said Steve.
He grinned. A Welshman with a neat line in patter, Steve was the only other man on the unit with a wife and kids at home. He joked all the time about how he’d rather be back in the Falklands than pushing prams around Newport.
‘We can organise a nice little flesh wound, if you like,’ said Keith. ‘Get you a few months in hospital chatting up the
nurses, and by the time you get back, you’ll have missed all the nappies.’