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Chris Ryan

The Kremlin Device

To Janet and Sarah

ONE

With the tailgate open, the cabin depressurised and five minutes to run, we'd all gone on to individual oxygen. That knackered voice communication: for one thing, we had masks over our mouths, and for another the Here's four turbo-props were deafening. We were wearing covert radios, with throat mikes on our necks and earpieces under our helmets, but we couldn't use them until we were in the final stages of our descent, because of the risk that they'd foul up the pilots' con-mis.

Our PJI the Parachute Jump Instructor from Hereford — stepped along the line of bulky figures, giving our kit final checks. The hold was so dark he was doing most of the work with his hands, following lines and straps with his fingers, pulling on rings and clips. Then the red jump-warning lights came on, like half ping pong balls one either side of the tailgate. Two minutes to go.

Our kit made us cumbersome: GQ-360 chutes on our backs, oxygen tanks on stomachs, 1201b berg ens clipped upside-down on the backs of our legs and tucked high under our chutes, so that they rested against the backs of our thighs from knee to arse. Our weapons, 203s or Minimis, were tied with para-cord to our left legs.

With that lot on I had a job to waddle to the rear of the plane.

As leader of the team, I'd be the first to jump.

Stars wheeled across the big, square opening as the pilot put in his final turn. I glanced to my left at Harry Price, known to all as Pavarotti, the hefty Welshman famous for singing in the showers and for the eyes tattooed on the cheeks of his arse. He'd had them done one night when he got pissed in Cardiff, by a Chinese bloke for a flyer a side, and the eyes were a bit slitty.

Now, under his helmet, goggles and oxygen mask, not much of his face was showing, but I could see the muscles in his jaw wqrking as he swallowed. He was thinking the same as I was: for fuck's sake, let's get out of this damned aircraft and on our way.

Anyone who says he's not nervous when about to free-fall at night wearing full equipment is bullshitting. All eight of us were crapping bricks. A night-time HALO a high-altitude, low-opening drop is no picnic, however many times you've done it before.

After two seconds you're heading for the ground at 125 miles per hour. You roar through the first thousand feet of air in ten seconds, the next in five, and so you keep going.

A clean free-fall is one thing; a drop with full kit something else, because of the risk that your load may move and render you unstable. Tonight we were jumping at 22,000 feet and dropping to 4,000 before we popped our chutes: a free-fall of ninety-five seconds. This way, on this moonless night, we'd come out of the blue or rather, out of the black as far as anyone on the ground was concerned: until our chutes deployed nobody would see a thing.

Our target was a clearing among the chestnut forests of the Cevennes where, according to the exercise scenario, partisan forces would be waiting to guide us ii~, meet us and take us to safe houses.

The captain of the aircraft had given the wind as eight knots on 260 degrees just south of west. We were going to jump four ks west of our target and fly ourselves in towards it. The sky was clear but the air was full of turbulence, and the Here kept juddering and twitching so that the guys were being jostled against each other as we huddled on the ramp.

Somebody gripped my right arm. I twisted and saw it was the head lo adie asking with thumb up if I was all set. I nodded and gave him a thumb in return. He raised a single finger. One minute to go. Cushy bastard: we were going out into the black night while he was safely tethered to his aircraft by a harness and long webbing strop. By the time we hit the deck he'd be well on his way back to Lyneham and a warm night tucked up in bed I caught myself up. Geordie, I told myself, stop pissing around. You're in the SAS, and this is what it's all about. If you did the crew's job you'd be bored out of your mind.

I passed the signal to Pavarotti and glanced down at my altimeters, one strapped on either forearm: both dials were registering 22,000. I felt the angle of the floor change slightly as the pilot throttled back, dropping speed for his final run-in towards the DZ. Screwing my head round, I got a glimpse of Whinger Watson, my second-in-command. All I could see was the red light glinting off his goggles, but I could imagine the oath he was muttering to himself: "Firekin ell," again and again.

He and I were the old men of the party: at thirty-six and thirty seven we could almost have been some of the guys' fathers.

Time for last-minute checks: harness straight, bollocks clear of crutch straps, bergen in position, weapon secure, mask tight, gloves on. I reached round and bent the Cyalume light velcroed on to my bergen, cracking the glass phial in the middle and setting the chemical reaction going so that everyone would have a marker to steer towards when they followed me out of the plane.

Thirty seconds to go. Into my mind came a sudden vision of Moscow. For a moment I imagined we were doing a night drop into the heart of the city, heading down towards all those redbrick towers and golden onion domes. I knew that the dark land below us was France, not Russia, and that we were only on a preliminary exercise; but Moscow was our ultimate destination, and for the past few days we'd heard so much about Spetznaz, Omon, Alfa Force, the Mafia and the break-up of the KGB that I'd started seeing red in my sleep.

Then I felt the head lo adie grip my arm again. I tensed myself and hunched forward.

The two little jump-warning lights were still on. Still on… Still on… Then the bottom half of each ping-pong ball sprang to life. Green on!

GO!

All I had to do was tumble forward, head-first into the black space outside. Lean forward gone.

As I cleared the belly of the aircraft upside-down, the slipstream hit my front with a huge thud. Head up, chest out… An instant later I was horizontal and falling in a good position face down, arms and legs spread, chest thrust out, steering with my hands turned up and out. The engine scream had been replaced by the roar of air blasting past my helmet.

So far, so good. Now I needed to get eyes on the other guys, make sure everybody was OK. Pavarotti had jumped a couple of seconds behind me, the others after him. I wanted to slow my descent so they could catch up. Bending in the middle, I de arched myself that is, curled my body into a banana shape to increase resistance to the air.

Staring down, I saw long streaks of haze between ourselves and the ground: a thin layer of cloud. As I hit it, drops of water stung my cheeks and forehead like fire. A second later I was through, and aware of someone coming down on my right, a black shape slanting in at an angle, monochrome, but more solid than the surrounding darkness. Another appeared, then another.

There was no way of telling who was who, but I was glad they were keeping a safe distance from me, facing inwards in a wide ring.

I stuck out my chest again and straightened out to pick up speed and keep pace with them.

Below us the wooded hills were crow black, not a light in sight. Then, at three o'clock to me, I saw a brilliant spark flare up: a Firefly, our reception committee. Now I could count six other guys around me, all more or less level. Good work. But where was the seventh? Maybe behind me, out of my vision.

For a few moments I positively enjoyed myself Hurtling through the night, keeping control, gave a feeling of terrific exhilaration. I was free as a bird, flying; everything seemed easy. Inside the thin gloves my fingers were freezing, but what the hell!

Again I thought irrationally, Moscow, here we come!

Against the illuminated faces of my altimeters the hands were unwinding fast. My mind was making continual checks: I'm fine. Eighteen thousand. My position's stable. Sixteen. Keep that posture. Left hand down a bit. Now you're OK. It's fourteen.