requirement of tactical movement. Night work was slower, but safer. You avoided pre-existing tracks, footpaths and human habitation at all cost. You made maximum use of natural cover, crossed open ground at its narrowest point, and then only after a careful scrutiny of the terrain. Hills were to be contoured some two-thirds up their slopes, in order to keep to the high ground wherever possible and at the same time minimise the risk of being silhouetted against the sky, should the cloud cover suddenly break.
These things had all been instilled so deeply in him that they came as naturally as walking and breathing. But never once, not even in his most sombre dreams, had he ever thought he’d one day find himself using such skills against the very same people who had taught them to him.
He was dressed in black from head to foot. Below the hem of his beanie hat, his face was camouflaged with burnt cork. When the clouds passed over the moon he was nothing more than a moving patch of black on black, invisible even to a fox. From time to time, when the cloud cover parted and the landscape glowed with the moonlight, he instinctively paused to check his background and ensure that he wasn’t outlined against the sky or casting a long, moving shadow that would be a giveaway to any potential spotter.
Only by constant vigilance was it possible to move totally undetected, and it was a skill at which he’d excelled since the earliest days of his SAS training. Nobody could see, hear or even smell him coming – literally. He’d left the cigarettes untouched for several days, so that the scent of tobacco smoke and aromatic tar couldn’t be carried on the wind to be picked up by a sensitive nose as much as quarter of a mile away. Before setting out he’d washed himself carefully with a neutral and odourless soap, for the same reason. Overcaution wasn’t in the SAS vocabulary. On covert missions into hostile enemy territory, where the smallest mistake could spell fatal disaster, even spicy foods had to be avoided for up to a week beforehand, to avoid telltale scents leaking out in your sweat.
And a mission into enemy territory was exactly what Ben was engaged in at this moment. A mission sanctioned, planned and carried out by him alone, and for which he would bear the sole responsibility if he failed, or was taken captive, or was killed. Any of which, when going up against an opponent like this one, was a very possible outcome.
With that in mind, he’d equipped himself as thoroughly as if he were on an official military operation. As carefully, too. The van in which he’d driven up through Scotland could never be traced to his name. The lightweight infra-red binoculars with laser rangefinder were the same model he’d carried on active duty. So were the silenced Browning nine-millimetre semiautomatic pistol strapped to his right thigh and the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with integral sound suppressor slung around his shoulder. Needless to say, he’d acquired the hardware without leaving any trails. The firepower was no kind of an overcaution, either. Ben would have been surprised if his target wasn’t similarly armed. Whatever happened tonight, if blood was spilled it would be done swiftly and quietly.
His preparations hadn’t stopped there. The soles of his boots were covered with rough, grippy leather pads that he had taped into place over the rubber to avoid leaving tread marks. The CTT combat tracker team would be able to tell from even the faintest partial print exactly what kind of boot the intruder had been wearing, and he wished to give them not even the smallest shred of evidence. For the same reason, the leather pads would prevent mud from getting into the treads, which might easily get scuffed against a rock and leave a telltale smear. SAS soldiers were taught that nothing could be allowed to leave a trace of their passing whilst on patrol behind enemy lines. If you had to piss, you did it in a special sealed
These things had all been instilled so deeply in him that they came as naturally as walking and breathing. But never once, not even in his most sombre dreams, had he ever thought he’d one day find himself using such skills against the very same people who had taught them to him.
He was dressed in black from head to foot. Below the hem of his beanie hat, his face was camouflaged with burnt cork. When the clouds passed over the moon he was nothing more than a moving patch of black on black, invisible even to a fox. From time to time, when the cloud cover parted and the landscape glowed with the moonlight, he instinctively paused to check his background and ensure that he wasn’t outlined against the sky or casting a long, moving shadow that would be a giveaway to any potential spotter.
Only by constant vigilance was it possible to move totally undetected, and it was a skill at which he’d excelled since the earliest days of his SAS training. Nobody could see, hear or even smell him coming – literally. He’d left the cigarettes untouched for several days, so that the scent of tobacco smoke and aromatic tar couldn’t be carried on the wind to be picked up by a sensitive nose as much as quarter of a mile away. Before setting out he’d washed himself carefully with a neutral and odourless soap, for the same reason. Overcaution wasn’t in the SAS vocabulary. On covert missions into hostile enemy territory, where the smallest mistake could spell fatal disaster, even spicy foods had to be avoided for up to a week beforehand, to avoid telltale scents leaking out in your sweat.
And a mission into enemy territory was exactly what Ben was engaged in at this moment. A mission sanctioned, planned and carried out by him alone, and for which he would bear the sole responsibility if he failed, or was taken captive, or was killed. Any of which, when going up against an opponent like this one, was a very possible outcome.
With that in mind, he’d equipped himself as thoroughly as if he were on an official military operation. As carefully, too. The van in which he’d driven up through Scotland could never be traced to his name. The lightweight infra-red binoculars with laser rangefinder were the same model he’d carried on active duty. So were the silenced Browning nine-millimetre semiautomatic pistol strapped to his right thigh and the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with integral sound suppressor slung around his shoulder. Needless to say, he’d acquired the hardware without leaving any trails. The firepower was no kind of an overcaution, either. Ben would have been surprised if his target wasn’t similarly armed. Whatever happened tonight, if blood was spilled it would be done swiftly and quietly.
His preparations hadn’t stopped there. The soles of his boots were covered with rough, grippy leather pads that he had taped into place over the rubber to avoid leaving tread marks. The CTT combat tracker team would be able to tell from even the faintest partial print exactly what kind of boot the intruder had been wearing, and he wished to give them not even the smallest shred of evidence. For the same reason, the leather pads would prevent mud from getting into the treads, which might easily get scuffed against a rock and leave a telltale smear. SAS soldiers were taught that nothing could be allowed to leave a trace of their passing whilst on patrol behind enemy lines. If you had to piss, you did it in a special sealed
Similar Books
