CHRIS RYAN.

Strike Back.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

To my agent Barbar Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.

PROLOGUE.

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 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 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. 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. 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.'

A Londoner with an easy charm, Keith was the joker of the pack, and always the first of them to organise a night out. Porter laughed. But there was no time left to mess around. The five-man unit trooped below deck to the Dorset Dorset's ops room. Pemberton was standing in front of a white screen, tapping the palm of his right hand with a well-chewed pencil. At his side, Porter noticed a guy of maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, with dark blond hair, the colour of biscuits, and a nonchalant cocksure manner that Porter didn't much care for. 'This is Peregrine Collinson,' said Pemberton. 'Irish Guards. He's going to be observing us today.'

'Call me Perry,' Collinson interrupted. His voice rang out around the tiny room, at least a couple of decibels too loud. We're just having a chat, mate, Porter thought. You're not addressing a battle-ready battalion.

'I'll call you Gloria,' muttered Steve.

Porter was already laughing when he heard Pemberton snap: 'What was that?'

'Glorious, sir, glorious,' said Steve.

Pemberton ignored him. 'I know we don't usually include men from any other regiments on our briefings, but Perry is a fine soldier, and I'm sure he'll be able to help out.'

There was no time for any of the men to worry about him: they had just a few minutes to memorise their instructions. After weeks of patient detective work, the Firm had identified the address where Bratton was being held. Hostages were moved every eighteen to twenty-four hours to reduce the chances of their location being revealed, usually using Hezbollah operatives posing as taxi drivers. Agents inside Beirut had managed to turn one of them: the man was desperate for money, and grateful for the fifty thousand dollars handed over in crisp, clean notes. In return, he'd been given a Coke tin with a satellite tracking device hidden inside it. When he had a fix on the hostage's location, he crushed the tin to activate the tracker and dropped it in the gutter outside the house. He'd left it there two hours ago, and ever since then the Firm had known precisely where Bratton was. But they had to go in tonight. By morning, he could have been switched to another location.

Intelligence reckoned there were twelve Hezbollah guards, on two rotating shifts of six men. There was backup not far away, so they would have to move fast. Thirty minutes was the maximum window from touchdown to evacuation. Any longer than that and they would be overrun by the enemy. The plan was what they'd trained for over the years. Standard hostage-evacuation procedure. A Puma chopper would take them in, and drop them onto the roof of the building. They would go in hard, kill everything that wasn't nailed down to the floor, then get the hell out. If anything went wrong there was a backup unit waiting on the ship. They had all done it at the killing house back in Hereford a dozen times. There was no need to change the formula now. Just make it work Just make it work.

'One word of warning,' said Pemberton, his voice turning grave. 'The Firm reckons its man inside Hezbollah has put this marker outside the right building but you never know if you can trust any of those bastards. Beirut is the most dishonest, double-crossing few square miles of real estate in the world. They could have turned our informant, or he might have been double-crossing us all along. Just be prepared to have a welcoming party waiting for you.'

His eyes rested for a brief moment directly on Porter. 'So you could be walking straight into a trap. The moment you smell anything fishy, don't stop to investigate. Shoot your way clear of danger then get the hell back to base. The last thing we need is five British soldiers taken prisoner in that hellhole, and we won't be able to do a damn thing to help you if that happens. Remember, just living to fight another day is a victory in itself. So good luck, and give them hell.'

Porter was next to Steve as they climbed up towards the deck. The Puma chopper was revved up and ready to go. Before lift-off, each man was responsible for his own kit. Porter ran a quick inventory of his pack. Two stun grenades, two regular grenades, a pistol, a knife, a first-aid kit, a water bottle and, most important of all, an M16 assault rifle, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.

They moved out swiftly along the metal staircase, twisting through the narrow spaces that led up to the metal deck. It was already two minutes to eight: the mission was scheduled to kick of 2000 hours. Porter heard a snapping sound behind him, then a muffled cry. As he turned round, he could see Dan keeling over, his face contorted with pain. Porter had seen that face a dozen times playing football. He's ripped open a tendon, he thought. 'You OK?' he said.

Dan was trying to stand up, pushing himself towards the staircase, but tears of pain were streaming down his face every time his foot touched the ground. 'It's no bloody good,' hissed Steve. 'You're useless like that.'

'I'll be all right.'

'Sod the heroics, mate,' growled Porter. 'You're sitting this one out.'

'I'll take his place,' said Perry, standing at Porter's side.

Porter turned to look at him. 'This is a Regiment job, mate,' he said. 'Get yourself down to Hereford and pass the selection test, and then we'll consider you.'

Pemberton had already joined them. He was looking from Porter, to Steve, then across to Perry. There was a frown creasing up his forehead. Not surprising, thought Porter. One minute to take-off, and we've screwed it up already. 'You're a man short,' he said.

'We'll be fine as we are,' said Mike.

'You need the men,' said Pemberton.

'Get one of the backup guys,' said Steve.

Pemberton shook his head. 'They're too far away.'

He glanced at Perry, as if he was assessing the man's character. 'You're in,' he snapped. 'Now the lot of you should be on that chopper in thirty seconds.'

Porter started running. Within seconds he was out on the open deck. 'I can't believe we've some fucking Rupert coming with us,' snapped Steve. 'I reckon we just tip the snotty-nosed little git out into the Med.'

'Who the hell is he?' asked Porter.

'His old man was a general, Daniel Collinson,' said Steve. 'Then he made a second career for himself in the City. His godfather's Sir Arnold Langham, used to be at the Ministry of Defence. Collinson knows where all the strings are and how to pull them. The bloke has got more connections than bloody British Airways. Doesn't mind using them either.'

The chopper was revved up, and ready to fly. Porter climbed inside, pushing his back to the machine's steel frame. Steve, Mike and Keith were squeezed in next to him. Perry was sitting a few feet away. As the chopper soared upwards, Porter could feel a giddy moment of weightlessness. He looked into Perry's eyes, wondering what he could see there. Fear, maybe? No. It was contempt. For the lads or for the enemy, it was impossible to tell.

The roar of the Puma's blades was deafening. Each man had a two-way radio tucked inside his helmet, allowing him to receive instructions from the pilot. Nobody was speaking. In the moments before a mission kicked off, nobody ever spoke. Each man needed a few minutes of silence to settle himself, and to make his own peace with the certain knowledge that although there was a decent chance of coming back alive, the odds weren't what any sane man would accept.

'As Sir Winston Churchill said on the BBC, in July 1940,' started Collinson, speaking over the radio so that his words were delivered crisply to each man on the chopper, '"This is a war of the unknown warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of tyranny will be lifted from our age."' He paused. 'I just thought we should remember that in the next couple of hours, and maybe draw strength from it.'

Steve rolled his eyes. He took off his helmet, and pulled out the headphones embedded inside. 'Funny, can't hear a sodding thing,' he said, shouting to make himself heard over the din of the engine. 'Bloody kit must be on the blink already.'

The Puma had rolled high into the air as it approached the coast, but now it was dipping low, hugging the ground, as it flew over the docks, and took them straight into the heart of the city. By staying as close to the ground as possible, the chopper would be impossible to detect on radar, and a lot harder to hit with a missile launcher: the enemy had no time to get it in their sights before it had disappeared from view. But it made for a stomach-churning ride. Porter had done it a couple of times in Ulster, flying low over dangerous border country when it was controlled by the Provos, and he'd learnt not to bother eating anything in the few hours before a mission. It just ended up on your shoes. Glancing around, he could see Steve and Keith hanging on to the side of the machine, their expressions grim. And glancing across at Perry, he noted with just a touch of satisfaction that the man was holding on to his stomach. You're going to be a bloody liability on this gig, mate, he thought to himself.

'Twenty seconds, twenty seconds,' shouted the pilot over their headphones.

The chopper shook violently as it dropped the last few feet out of the sky. The pilot knew exactly where the house was: the Coke tin in the gutter was sending out a signal powerful enough to guide him right home. But he was flying low now, skimming right through the streets, at roof level. Any higher, and it would give an opponent a chance to lock onto the Puma with a rocker launcher. Suddenly the chopper lurched violently upwards, and Porter could feel his stomach heaving. It shuddered then hovered in the air.

Porter gripped his M16 tight to his chest. Lights were flashing on the Puma, and the roar of the engine as the hatch opened was deafening. 'Go,' shouted Steve. 'Bloody go.'

Four sets of ropes were tossed out of the side of the Puma. With his legs kicking across the metal, Porter pushed himself out. Steve went first, then Porter, then Mike and Keith. Collinson was hanging back, Porter noted. A cloud of dust was shooting straight up into the sky as the chopper hovered a foot above the building, creating a brilliant, illuminated light that made it impossible to see anything. Porter gripped hold of the rope, and slipped down it, then threw himself down hard onto the roof of the building.

'Move up,' shouted Steve, his voice raw and hoarse.

They had practised this manoeuvre a hundred times back at the killing house. Go in hard and fast. Maximum speed and maximum aggression. The tactics were settled. But it was always different in real life. Back at base, the opposition was just pretending to kill you.

They had landed on a flat roof, with a single doorway leading down inside the two-storey building. Steve and Mike had already shot the door open, and the two men were fearlessly leading the way. Porter ran after them, his ears cocked for the first round of gunfire that would inevitably greet them, and weapon cocked tight to his chest, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to fire. Collinson was lagging a couple of yards behind the pace.

'Take out, take out,' Steve shouted.

Porter dropped to his knees as soon as he hit the first-floor landing. He could see the man clearly enough: a solitary figure, swathed in black robes, with an AK-47 tucked into his chest and dark glasses covering his eyes. Pressing the trigger on his M16, Porter loosed off a barrage of fire. At his side, Mike and Keith had done the same. A lethal hailstorm of bullets was biting chunks out of the bricks and mortar. Enough of it lodged into the chest of their sole opponent to send him crashing back against the wall, blood spurting from a dozen different wounds, and a pitiful moan erupted from his lips as he clung miserably on to the last few seconds of his life.

Steve kicked the body out of the way, affording it the merest glance to make sure there was no more breath left in it. The house was a simple, flat-fronted concrete structure, and it was only the intelligence reports that told them it was the front for an underground complex of bunkers. Another man was already running into view. A burst from their assault rifles quickly finished him off. Another bullet-ripped corpse lay in front of them. Porter could feel the excitement rising within him, making him stronger as each second passed.

With a rapid burst of fire, Keith and Mike had kicked their way through to the ground floor of the building. There was a simple square room, measuring twenty feet by twenty-five, with a couple of motorbikes stored in one corner. It smelt of soldering irons and diesel oil. To the back, there was a staircase, leading downwards. A pale light was snaking its way up to the surface. Porter paused for a moment. There was a brief, eerie silence as the guns stopped their murderous fire. He looked left, then right. Suddenly there was cry, followed by a burst of fire. Porter could feel a chunk of the wall right next to him being cut open by bullets. He dropped to his knees and squeezed the trigger on the M16. He didn't even know what he was firing at until he saw his assailant keel over.

'How many have we killed?' he barked.

'Three, maybe four,' said Steve. 'But there must be more of the bastards.'

Porter walked towards the staircase. They could be certain there would be more Hezbollah fighters downstairs.

'Stun grenades,' muttered Steve.

Both men unhooked the oval devices from their ammo belts, pulled the cords, then tossed them down into the stairwell. There was a delay of three seconds, then the muffled sound of an explosion. The blast of the grenade unleashed a wave of heat, followed by a rolling cloud of gas that would temporarily disable anyone who encountered it. In the two minutes it bought them, the unit had to get their man.

'Let's go,' shouted Steve.

Behind him, Porter could hear the sound of puking. At the side of the room, Collinson had just thrown up. He was leaning against the wall, looking down at his vomit in shame, clutching his chest as he tried to recover his breath. 'You OK, mate?' said Porter.

'Bloody fine,' snapped Collinson.

'You don't look it.'

'I told you, I'm fucking OK,' said Collinson.

'You can stay here if you '

'Leave the fucking bed-wetter,' shouted Steve. 'We're going down.'

Mike, Keith and Steve had already started to descend the staircase. Their boots were rattling across the bare concrete, sending a ripple of echoes resounding through the enclosed space. Porter followed swiftly in their wake. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a narrow corridor that stretched for twenty feet both left and right, with two doors in both directions. One man was lying unconscious on the floor, blood streaming from his nose: he had been knocked out by the smoke from the stun grenade. It was still filling the room with a noxious, brutal odour. A couple of pale light bulbs were filling the room with an eerie glow that struggled to break through though the fumes. With one swift movement, Steve emptied three rounds of ammunition into the skull of the man lying at his feet, shooting his brains out. The corpse twitched on the impact, and a chunk of broken skull bone skidded out across the concrete, but in less than a second the corpse had stopped moving.

'Two men left, two right,' shouted Steve.

His voice reverberated around the corridor, and was still ringing in Porter's ears as he peeled right and started striding through the sealed concrete passageway. His M16 was cocked, as both he and Steve edged their way closer to the first doorway. They had already worked out the standard operating procedure back on the boat. Porter would kick the doors down, and Steve would stand behind him ready to shoot anything that moved. There was no need for either man to say anything.

From the corridor behind him, Porter could hear the rattle of gunfire, and then the sound of a man screaming. Without pausing to think, he held his rifle in his left hand, balanced himself, then threw his entire weight into the wooden doorway. As it flung open, Steve was already kneeling down at the entrance, his gun held in his arms. It took just a fraction of a second to establish there was no hostage inside, and the decision made, Steve loosed off a volley of fire. The bullets splattered around the ten-by-ten room, taking down the two guards who were still trying to recover from the fumes of the stun grenade. Neither man knew what had hit them: before they had time to reach for their own weapons, their lungs had been perforated with bullet wounds, sending both of them collapsing to the ground.

They were solid, trained opponents, noted Porter: they were keeping their discipline, and trying to regroup, but they had been overwhelmed by the speed and scale of the attack.

Porter heard a movement. Up ahead in the corridor, another door was opening. He could see just a sliver of metal emerging through it. Porter recognised it at once. The muzzle of an AK-47. He waited, counting the beats of his heart as he allowed the sniper to expose just enough of himself to waste his own life. An inch, then another inch. It would take just an instant for the man to turn and fire. Porter waited, ticking off one second, then another. The hand was in view. Steadying the M16 cupped into his shoulder, Porter aligned the sights. The man was about thirty, with a slim build, and a scraggy, dirty beard. With a squeeze on the trigger, the bullets exploded from the barrel of the gun. The AK-47 dropped to the ground, as the shards of hot metal turned the hand gripping it into shredded ribbons of torn, bleeding flesh.

With a roar of controlled anger erupting from his lungs, Porter leapt forward, turning the M16 on the wounded man and finishing him off with a rapid burst of fire. Looking up, he could see Kenneth Bratton tied up to a chair that had been nailed to the floor. His arms were bound by rope that was cutting into his bare skin, and a gag had been stuffed into his mouth, and held in place with thick layers of plastic tape. He was wearing a black boiler suit, with staining down the front. In his eyes you could see the look of pure terror: the cringing, pleading fear of a man who knows he is clinging to life by the most slender of threads.

Behind him, there was one more guard. He was a boy, maybe no more than fifteen, with a shaved head and a week of untrimmed beard growing on his face. In his hand, there was a Browning BDA 380 snub-nosed pistol. And it was pointing straight at Porter. For a second, Porter could feel a cold sweat pass across his skin: he thought briefly about Sandy and reflected sadly that maybe he never would get to meet his new baby daughter. He'd had guns pointed at him before. But not with the same lethal certainty that they were intent upon killing him.

'Easy, mate,' said Porter.

The boy barked something in Arabic.