SAS: Red Notice

Book 0: SAS

by Andy McNab

Genres: Spy Thrillers; War & Military; Thrillers

Synopsis

FROM THE BEST-SELLING AUTHOR ANDY MCNAB AND NETFLIX MOVIE “SAS: RISE OF THE BLACK SWAN” STARRING SAM HEUGHAN, RUBY ROSE AND ANDY SERKIS
"One of the great all-action characters of recent times. Like his creator, the ex-SAS soldier turned uber agent is unstoppable." Daily Mirror
Deep beneath the English Channel, a small army of vicious terrorists has seized control of the Eurostar to Paris, taken 400 hostages at gunpoint – and declared war on a government that has more than its own fair share of secrets to keep.
One man stands in their way. An off-duty SAS soldier is hiding somewhere inside the train. Alone and injured, he’s the only chance the passengers and crew have of getting out alive. Meet Andy McNab's explosive new creation, Sergeant Tom Buckingham, as he unleashes a whirlwind of intrigue and retribution in his attempt to stop the terrorists and save everyone on board – including Delphine, the beautiful woman he loves.
Hurtling us at breakneck speed between the Regiment’s crack assault teams, Whitehall’s corridors of power and the heart of the Eurotunnel action, RED NOTICE is McNab at his devastatingly authentic, pulse pounding best.
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What people are saying about SAS: Red Notice:
????? "Absolutely fantastic! The author made you feel like you were in the experience with Tom."
????? "I was completely mesmerized by this storyline and couldn’t wait to see what happened next."
????? "I read in one sitting. Held my interest until the end."

Release date: April 6, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Prologue

Borjomi, Georgia

25 September 1996

05.17 hrs

Dawn had begun to streak the eastern sky as the two mud- spattered trucks inched their way up the road in the faint glow from their sidelights. They jolted over rain-filled potholes and scree and came to a halt just short of the crest of the hill.

Their movements measured and cautious, a dozen armed men climbed down from the rear of each vehicle. Their breath billowed around them in the freezing air. Checking their safety catches, they stamped their feet to restore circulation and eased the stiffness from their legs. Some placed a last cigarette in the middle of their week-old beards and lit up.

They checked their equipment, ensuring pouches were still secure. If it had a button or a Velcro strip, it was there to be fastened. Two of the team struggled to hoist heavy weapons systems onto their shoulders.

Their commander stood a short distance apart from his men. Laszlo had an aversion to the smell of nicotine. He wore the same stained camouflage fatigues as his troops and had a similarly Slavic cast to his features, complete with coarse, almost black beard, but carried himself with an arrogance they didn’t share. He was just short of six feet in height, but his sinuous limbs and slim frame made him look taller. His mouth was downturned and his eyes were the washed-out grey-blue of a winter sky; his skin was so pale he looked as if he’d lived his life in permanent shadow.

Another man exited the cab of the nearest truck. Laszlo’s cool gaze missed nothing as he approached. The newcomer’s civilian clothes were of a cut and quality that were neither cheap nor local. He wasn’t a Slav, he was from the West. Europe? The USA? It was hard to tell. They all looked the same. His brown hair was starting to grow out from its short back and sides, and he, too, had a good week’s growth on his chiselled jaw.

The man might not have been one of Laszlo’s team, but the comfortable way he held his AK, the folding butt closed down in his hand as if it were a natural extension of his body, showed that he was no stranger to shot and shell. The weapon – all of his equipment – was also of Soviet origin. In Yeltsin’s Russia, there was no shortage of underworld gangs willing to steal and trade such things, or of corrupt officers happy to empty their armouries in return for cold, hard cash.

The man had no fear of repercussion from what he was about to do. There would be nothing to suggest this had been anything but a purely local affair. He was sterile of ID and personal documentation. Like the rest of the team, it was as if he didn’t exist. He had a name – Marcus – but Laszlo knew it wasn’t his own. The team commander had taken steps to discover his companion’s real identity. Information was a commodity to be traded, like drugs, weapons and women, and Laszlo always liked to bargain from a position of strength.

He stood for a couple more minutes, watching the new day creep across the landscape. To his right, a steep, boulder- strewn slope tumbled to a fast-flowing river. Water the colour of chocolate surged downstream. The force of the current had carved out the soil for a ten-metre stretch along the far bank, exposing a latticework of tree-roots that gleamed white against the mud, like the ribs of a putrefying corpse.

On the other side of the road, a dense pine forest cloaked the lower slopes of the mountains that filled the northern horizon. It seemed to float in a sea of mist. The treetops swayed each time there was a gust of wind. As he watched, the sun’s first rays painted the snow-capped peaks with gold. In the west, just visible now in the strengthening light, a black gash as straight as a Roman road showed the course of the pipeline being driven through this remote valley. Directly in its path, just over the hill from where they now stood, a huddle of buildings lay surrounded by a patchwork of fields.

As soon as the man reached him, Laszlo turned. The wind whipped up a shower of pine needles as the two of them moved through the edge of the forest. As they neared the crest of the hill, they flattened themselves to the earth and wormed their way to a point from which they could study the approach to Borjomi.

On the slope below, the trees gave way to fields of yellowing grass, dusted with frost and punctuated by mounds of autumn hay secured beneath tarpaulins. Beyond them, houses were clustered around a dusty square. A rusting iron water pump and a long stone horse-trough stood at its centre, half shaded by a large, stag-headed oak tree.

The buildings at the heart of the village were of wood and stone, with sun-faded shutters and roofs of patched tiles or corrugated iron, steeply pitched to shed the winter snows. The gables of some had once been richly carved but were now so weathered, cracked and split with age that the embellishments were barely visible.

While those houses looked almost as ancient as the oak tree they faced, the buildings around them were drab, Soviet-era constructions, their crumbling concrete façades pockmarked by bullet holes. A huge barn, built of unmilled wood with gaps between the planks, boasted a roof of heavily patched corrugated-iron sheets.

The whole place was mired in mud and poverty. Tangles of scrap metal and rotting timbers decorated the yards. A solitary motor vehicle, a battered Lada with rust-streaked bodywork, was parked next to a pair of horse-drawn farm carts. Apart from a handful of chickens scuttling about and a few cows mooching in the fields, the place seemed to be deserted.

At the side of the road just outside the village, an old door had been nailed to two fence posts driven into the ground. Daubed on it, in crude hand-lettering, was an inscription in Russian, Georgian and Ossetic: ‘Protect our village.’

The two men worked their way back from the brow and conferred in low tones. Although his companion was now issuing orders to him, Laszlo’s stance and attitude showed that he did not regard him as his superior in any way.

‘Ready?’ The man’s Russian was halting but understand- able. And now his accent gave him away.

Laszlo nodded. ‘Ready, Englishman.’ He signalled to his men and led them down the hill, moving tactically, one foot always on the ground. Half the team stayed where they were to cover the advance of the rest. Using the haystacks to mask their approach, they too went static and returned the favour.

A cock crowed inside a barn and wisps of grey smoke began to rise from a chimney as some unseen inhabitant coaxed his fire into life. Laszlo was wary. It wasn’t always like this. An attack could be initiated at any moment. He’d taken incoming from sleepy backwaters like this and lost men. That was why he favoured a rolling start-line. If his team took fire as they approached they’d just roll into the attack and fight their way forward.

They reached the shadows of a tumbledown wall on the edge of the settlement and waited there, all eyes focused on the Englishman as he took one last look at the target to confirm that nothing had changed since he issued his last set of orders the day before.

He’d led them into a field for a run-through in slow time, letting the whole team see what each of the component groups would be doing during the attack. They’d rehearsed the what-ifs: what if the team had a man down? What if a group got separated from the main force? What if the team took heavy fire from an RPG?

Now that the Englishman had seen in real time what he’d told them to call the battle space, he knew there was nothing to add. His voice was calm as he spoke to Laszlo.

The South Ossetian checked that his men were in place and ready, raised his hand, paused a moment, and let it fall.

The team burst from cover. With the Englishman leading one group and Laszlo the other, they advanced along both sides of the main street. Dogs set up a chorus of barks and howls and a few villagers began stumbling from their houses, some clutching hunting rifles and shotguns, one or two with AKs, but the attacking force, better armed and better trained, cut them down before they fired a single round.

Laszlo led his men from house to house. The crump of HE grenades and the crash of splintering wood were interspersed with cries and screams. Half dressed and rubbing sleep from their eyes, the remaining occupants were dragged from their homes, herded into the open, kicked and punched face down into the mud, then immobilized with plastic zip-ties.

While the Englishman stayed with his group and controlled their captives, Laszlo led his team further along the line of buildings. He paused for a couple of seconds, dropped into cover and looked back towards the others. A young villager, perhaps no more than a teenager, was sprinting towards the forest.

Two of the insurgents fired at him and missed. The Englishman dropped to one knee, took careful aim and brought him down with a single shot into the centre of his body mass, then moved forward and finished him with a second to the head.

Laszlo smiled to himself and turned his attention back to the last of the houses. Once it, too, had been searched and cleared, and the occupants secured, the looting began. Food and alcohol were gathered up with as much enthusiasm as the modest treasures the villagers possessed.

Laszlo took a gulp of a fiery local spirit, then passed the bottle among his men. One carried off a fading sepia photo- graph of a couple dressed for their wedding against a gaudily painted backdrop of a castle. Wanting the ornate frame but not the image it contained, he stamped down with his boot, smashing the glass and ripping the photograph to shreds. He picked out the last shards and propped the frame carefully against the trunk of the oak tree.

Another emerged from an outbuilding clutching a pair of live chickens in each hand. He wrung their necks with practised ease and added them to the growing pile of booty.

On Laszlo’s order, the attackers began to separate their male captives from the women, who wailed and keened as husbands and sons were marched and kicked towards the barn at the far edge of the village. Those who resisted were shot where they stood. The rest were herded inside and watched helplessly as its double doors were shut and barred.

Laszlo listened for a moment to the terrified shouts and cries of those trapped within, then nodded to the two men carrying the heavier weapons systems.

They staggered forwards, smashed the windows and directed searing blasts of flame into the barn’s interior. Laszlo had selected these weapons with purpose – for the physical pain endured by the dying, and the legacy of mental terror suffered by those unfortunate enough to survive.

In seconds, fuelled by the dry timbers, the hay and straw stored there, the barn was ablaze from end to end. His men stood watch as it burned, and when two villagers somehow succeeded in smashing their way through the disintegrating wall, Laszlo raised his weapon to his shoulder and dropped both targets instantly.

The terrible screams of the remaining victims were soon drowned by the roar of the flames and the crash of falling beams. As the barn collapsed in on itself, the massacre extended even to the villagers’ hounds and livestock. The cattle were burned alive with their owners or mown down by gunfire; the dogs were dispatched with a knife thrust or 7.62mm short round.

The flamethrowers now moved among the houses, pausing at each to direct a jet of blazing fluid through the doorway or a shattered window. As they moved on to the next, the one behind them became an inferno. More cries from the women captives were brutally silenced by rifle butts. The attackers showed as little mercy as the Nazis had done in this part of the world just over half a century before.

The SS’s Flammenwerfer, designed as an infantry weapon to clear out trenches and buildings, had become an instrument of terror when used against civilian populations. It held twelve litres of petrol mixed with tar to make it heavier and increase its range to twenty-five metres. The flaming oil was ignited by a hydrogen torch.

Flammenwerfer operators had been so hated that the trigger and muzzle section of their weapon soon had had to be disguised to look like a standard infantry rifle in an attempt to keep them from being singled out by enemy snipers. Whole villages had been annihilated in its path. Maybe the men here today had had relatives who’d perished in their flames and the pain and fear had been passed down the generations.

Sambor, the more imposing of the operators, was Laszlo’s ‘little’ brother by just thirteen months. He had the same almost lifeless eyes and pallid complexion, but that was where the similarity ended. He had inherited the rest of his physique from his father’s family. His massive hands were twice the size of Laszlo’s, his fingers like sausages and his hulking frame topped by a riot of dark brown hair, greasy after weeks in the field, which fell to his shoulders.

A child who had somehow escaped detection stumbled out of a nearby building, coughing and choking, smoke streaming from his smouldering hair and clothes. Sambor swung the barrel of his flamethrower back towards the boy and turned him into a human torch. With an unearthly shriek, the blazing figure blundered into a wall before sliding to the ground.

As the dense black column of smoke rose high above the village, Laszlo and two of his men turned their attention to the makeshift sign. Using a piece of scrap iron as a crowbar, they prised the old door away from the posts and pitched it through the window of a blazing house. Within seconds the flames were licking at the painted inscription. The last trace of defiance had now been obliterated, and the centuries-old village erased from the map.

As the ashes swirled around them, the insurgents gathered in the village square, surrounding the captive women. The Englishman had taken as many lives as any, but his expression betrayed nothing of his current thoughts.

Laszlo turned to him. ‘You should leave now. Unless . . .’ He gestured to the women and gave him a questioning glance. One sat silent, rocking slowly backwards and forwards as her tears carved white streaks through the dirt on her cheeks; others sobbed or pleaded with their stone-faced captors, who were already loosening their belts.

The Englishman shook his head and walked back up the hill towards the waiting trucks. Behind him he could hear a fresh chorus of wavering cries, rising and falling like sirens as the fighters began to take their reward.

Laszlo wouldn’t be taking part in what followed. It was a gift from him to his men. Or that was what he had told them. In truth, for Laszlo and the Englishman, this was the final flourish. Just as the flamethrowers spread fear among their potential victims, so did the prospect of rape; and fear, eventually, would bring compliance.

2

Half a mile away, near the centre of what the locals liked to call the Village, the door of one of Hampstead’s more characterful pubs bore a sign announcing that it was ‘Closed due to illness’. Anyone peering through the leaded windows, between the immaculately sculpted flower baskets, might therefore have been surprised to find that the chairs and high-backed settles in its panelled bar were packed with people.

The landlord was perched on a stool at one end, staring wist- fully through the half-drawn curtains at the procession of potential customers moving down the street.

His paintings, horse brasses and faux-rustic ornaments had all been taken down and stacked in a corner. In their place were massed ranks of portable flat-screens displaying live CCTV and satellite feeds, local news reports and classified video- conferences. A series of grainy A4 prints was clamped to a magnetic whiteboard, which now held pride of place. Closer inspection would reveal that they were all at least a decade out of date, and of just one man, clean-shaven and with a mop of shoulder-length dark hair, against the backdrop of a busy Moscow street.

The landlord gave an ostentatious sigh. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’

Clustered around laptops or hunched over communications equipment, his current clientele – some in street clothes, some in police uniform, others still in black Special Forces party gear – didn’t reward him with a second glance.

‘Come on, lads, I’m losing money hand over fist here.’

One of the soldiers finally raised his head. ‘It’ll take as long as it takes, mate. Maybe an hour, maybe all day. Perhaps even all fucking night. You’ll be well compensated for loss of income, so do yourself a favour, will you? Stop bumping your gums and get us another brew. Oh, and a few sandwiches and biscuits wouldn’t hurt either.’

At the table in the centre of the room, flanked by two lower- ranking officers, James Woolf of MI5 – or, as he always insisted it was called, the Security Service – sat like stone, listening to the mobile phone pressed to his ear.

Seated next to Major Ashton was a stocky West Country- born sergeant with a shock of wiry black hair. With eight years’ service in the Regiment, Gavin Marks, the 3i/c, was the same age as the boss, but hadn’t had the privilege of the same education. He’d started out as a Royal Marine, but soon seen the light. At least, that was what everyone who hadn’t joined the Regiment from the Navy kept telling him.

He spoke into his throat mic. ‘Blue One, roger that. When we get the “Go” the police will come and collect them.’ The ‘team’ consisted of two sub-teams, Red and Blue, each with an assault group and a sniper group, which meant that they could cover two incidents at once.

‘All call-signs, this is Alpha. Radio check. Blue Two?’ The speakers crackled into life.

‘Blue Two.’ ‘Blue Three?’ ‘Blue Three.’ ‘Blue Four?’

The response this time was a double click as Blue Four squelched his radio button. As he did so, the listeners could hear the faint background noise of yapping dogs and a jet on its final descent into Heathrow.

‘Blue Five?’

Gavin glanced at the notepad in front of him. ‘Blue Five.

Confirm the sizes on those charges.’ ‘Blue Five. Two by one metres.’

3

Up on the Heath, the captive couple had hardly drawn breath, unable to tear their eyes away from the four-man SAS assault team and their welter of weapons and equipment.

Screened by the bushes, Blue One peered through their weapon optics at the target house. The Heath was lined with mansions like this. Wealthy Victorian industrialists had built them, not just to live in but to make the kind of statement about their position in the world that their current owners – the new aristocracy of film stars, footballers and foreign multi- millionaires – were happy to broadcast.

A nondescript Transit van was parked up on the higher ground at the edge of the Heath. Behind its darkened rear window, Keenan Marshall, a tanned Cornishman, whose newly disciplined hair did nothing to camouflage the surf-dude he used to be, trained the optic sight of his AWSM (Arctic Warfare Super Magnum) sniper rifle with suppressed barrel on the front elevation of the target house.

Keenan caught a flicker of movement from the upper floor and called in. ‘Stand by, stand by. Sierra One has a possible X-ray [target] on white three-six. Green on blue.’

Green on blue signalled the colour of the potential hostile’s clothing.

Gavin’s response was immediate: ‘Armed or unarmed?’ ‘Can’t confirm. Wooden shutters obscuring.’

‘Roger that. Give us what you’ve got.’

‘Sash windows. Double-glazed. Wooden frames. Recommend medium ladders. Can’t confirm downstairs windows.’

‘Roger that. Blue One, acknowledge.’

The Scotsman came back. ‘Blue One. Roger that. Possible X-ray now unsighted. Downstairs: no signs of life. No con- densation. No shutters. White curtains. Front-door security gates are locked.’ They might have been no more than seconds from launching the assault, but his voice betrayed less emotion than that of a Scandinavian newsreader.

A fresh voice broke in: ‘Stand by. Stand by. Sierra Four has a possible Yankee [hostage]. Female, coming out of Green . . . wait . . . wait . . .’ Sierra Four was telling them he had more to say: everyone else should stay off the net. ‘She looks pregnant.’ A woman who looked like she was in her twenties, with blonde hair and a maternity dress so short that it showed almost every inch of her endless legs, had appeared at the side of the house and was walking down the garden. One hand cradled her bump, the other held a plastic spray with which she was squirting the flowers as she strolled along.

Jockey sparked back into life: ‘Blue One. Confirm she’s pregnant.’

Gavin’s voice, still controlled but now with a note of urgency: ‘All stations, cancel gas. Do – not – use – gas. Out.’

The jury was out about chemicals affecting a foetus’s development. But no one was here to kill or deform unborn children.

‘Stand by, stand by. Blue One has Posh Lad in the cordon approaching the female.’

4

Tom ‘Posh Lad’ Buckingham adjusted his earpiece and stepped out from behind the tree he’d been using as cover. He saw the blonde’s face register surprise as he began walking across the garden towards her. He reckoned she was in her early thirties, roughly his age, though the clothes he was wearing – tweed jacket, Viyella shirt and cavalry-twill trousers – made him look much older.

He’d chosen the sort of outfit some upper-crust Englishmen wear when they’re trying – unsuccessfully – for a casual look, topped off on this occasion with an expensive leather satchel slung over the shoulder. Gavin had given it the serious thumbs-up as Tom had changed for the op that morning. ‘To the manor born, mate. You look like Prince Charles getting ready to head down to Highgrove for a chat with his plants.’

‘It’s just a matter of having the right gear for the occasion, Gav, you know that. Like when you slip into the velvet hot pants, nipple clamps and Spandex thong combo for a big night out.’

As he approached the blonde now, he brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from the sleeve of his tweed jacket and called, ‘Hello there!’ in his best Etonian drawl. He gave her a disarming smile. ‘You have such a lovely garden.’

The blonde smiled back. ‘Thank you, but—’

‘Did you design this yourself?’ He half turned away from her to admire one of the flowerbeds.

She gave a hesitant nod.

‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘And aren’t these daffodils mag- nificent?’ He gestured towards the display of red roses tumbling over the pergola beside her, still flowering in early autumn. ‘Absolutely stunning.’ He pulled out his iPhone and took a picture of them.

‘Excuse . . . please . . .’ The blonde looked nervous now. Her Eastern European accent was evident, and her hand pressed more tightly against her bump, as if shielding her unborn child from this stranger.

He continued talking, blithely failing to register her unease: ‘I’m a volunteer for the Garden History Society. We list one new garden every year in our official register . . . and I’d say yours would be a really strong candidate. Would you mind if I put it forward for selection?’

‘Is just hobby. Not for public . . .’ She searched for the right word. ‘Not for other people . . .’

Without a pause, he began speaking in Russian. ‘Would it be easier if we spoke in your mother tongue? I wrote my thesis on the Aptekarsky Ogorod Botanical Garden in Moscow. Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’ She showed real concern now, her eyes darting from side to side, scanning the garden behind him.

‘Where are you from?’ he said, once more affecting not to notice her discomfort.

She gestured towards her bump. ‘I’m sorry, you must . . .

Excuse, please, I . . . I very tired. Perhaps one other day . . .’

He treated her to an even more disarming smile. ‘How wonderful! Many congratulations! You know what? My wife’s just given birth to our first – a little girl. Small world, eh? How many months pregnant are you?’

‘Seven . . .’

‘A boy or a girl?’

She hesitated. ‘I . . . I do not know. They can’t tell yet.’

The smile still lighting up his face, Tom shot out a hand, seized her wrist and twisted it back viciously, forcing her to the ground. She cursed and struggled as he whipped an autojet syringe from his satchel with his free hand and plunged the needle deep into her thigh. Screened from the house by the pergola, he kept his grip on her wrist as the sedative took effect.

‘You fucked up, I’m afraid.’ His tone was still calm and matter-of-fact. ‘They can tell the sex of a baby at three months. Oh, and daffodils are spring flowers, and yellow, not red.’

She slumped, unconscious. He zip-tied her hands, then pulled up her maternity dress, exposing her stomach. The pregnancy bump was an ‘empathy bulge’ that a certain sort of man might wear in a pathetic attempt to share his wife’s experience of pregnancy. Except that this one wasn’t warm and fuzzy. A light green substance the consistency of Play-Doh was jammed into the pouch.

Tom could smell the distinctive linseed aroma of the eastern- manufactured, low-quality plastic explosive. The precise make didn’t matter to him. He was more concerned about the thin steel detonator wires coming out of the PE and twisted around a red and blue two-flex. They disappeared into her clothing, en route to a battery pack. All she had to do was complete the circuit by pressing a button in her coat pocket. The killing area would extend about twenty metres. And Tom was smack in the middle of it.

Swiftly but carefully, he pulled the aluminium tube from the explosive and separated it from the two-flex, then twisted the two steel wires together to prevent an accidental detonation. Radio transmissions could arc across the two wires and complete the circuit. He pushed the tube down into the soft soil of the rose bed. He rolled the blonde on to her front, turning her head to keep her airway open.

Still crouching beside the pergola, he spoke into his lapel. ‘That’s the female contained.’

Gavin’s response was instantaneous. ‘And the baby?’

‘No baby. Just a belly-rig full of PE. Looks like the gas is back on.’

As Gavin called it to the others – ‘All stations, this is Alpha, the gas is back on. Out’ – Tom took a respirator from his satchel, fitted it to his fa. . .