Venom Squadron Read online

  Swalwell made the rounds of the SAS positions, dodging from rock to rock. His message was brutally simple.

  ‘There’ll be no surrender. We all know what those bastards are like. When the ammo’s gone and they come at you, take as many with you as you can. You’ve still got your bayonets.’

  They nodded, their faces black with dust, sweat and powder fumes, outwardly calm as they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Most of them were wishing that they could have enjoyed the luxury of a drink of water before they went into oblivion.

  Suddenly, an NCO tapped Swalwell on the arm, pointing. The major narrowed his eyes against the sun, peering down towards the mouth of the defile, trying to make out what the other could see.

  ‘Something’s happening down there, sir. Near that group of burnt-out tanks. There’s a small group of Khoratis, out in the open, and I think … my God, look! They’re carrying a white flag!’

  Incredibly, it was true. As Swalwell watched, the small group of Khoratis began to advance hesitantly up the defile, the white flag held high. Swalwell turned and shouted a warning to his men.

  ‘Keep your heads down — this might be a trick! Don’t anybody move until we find out what they want. And keep them covered,’ he added, unnecessarily, for an arsenal of rifles was trained on the approaching men.

  The Khoratis stopped fifty yards from the foremost SAS positions, and one of them called out in English, asking to speak to the senior officer. Swalwell stood up slowly and started moving down the slope to meet them.

  ‘If they show the slightest hostile move, let ’em have it,’ he cried. ‘And don’t worry about hitting me!’

  The others watched, tensed over their weapons, as Swalwell picked his way between the rocks. As he passed the burnt-out remains of the Khorati tanks, he almost gagged at the sickly stench of roasted flesh that drifted from them. There were clouds of flies everywhere, feeding on the bodies of the Khorati infantry that littered the defile.

  He halted amidst the carnage and faced the Rhorati emissaries, noting that none of them appeared to be armed. Their leader, a small man with a bristling moustache, his peaked cap pulled well down over his eyes, looked at Swalwell and then waved a hand in a semi-circle, encompassing the dead who lay around them.

  ‘Many have died,’ he said, Swalwell made no reply, but stared directly at the Khorati officer, wondering what was coming next. The man cleared his throat before speaking again, and spat into the sand.

  ‘There will be no more fighting. We have received orders to withdraw. You and your men have fought bravely; do you wish for anything, medical assistance or water, perhaps, before we leave?’

  Swalwell shook his head, and instantly regretted it. Nevertheless, he said coolly: ‘No, thank you. We have plenty of everything.’

  The Khorati shrugged, made a move as though to extend his hand, then looked at the hardness in Swalwell’s face and thought better of it. Instead, he saluted stiffly and turned on his heel, followed by the rest of his entourage. Swalwell watched them go, then made his way wearily back up the slope, feeling the tension beginning to drain out of him. Fifteen minutes later, the SAS looked on as the Khoratis, in the distance, began to climb aboard their trucks. Only a small party stayed behind, waiting for the cool of the evening, when they would bury their dead.

  *

  At Faraz Airport, the expected attack was beginning to develop. On the northern side of the field, the Muramshiris were coming forward in short dashes, probing the defences, regardless of the losses they were taking. It was as though the leading elements had received orders to sacrifice themselves in order to make the defenders use up their precious reserves of ammunition — which was exactly what was happening.

  Squadron Leader Wells’s orders were to fall back on the airport buildings and make a last stand there, if the Muram-shiris succeeded in breaking through. Every available man, pilots and all — including Hugh Dalton, who insisted that he was still able to use a gun despite his injured arm — had now been pressed into the airfield’s defence.

  In the Operations Room, Wells decided that he could do no more. Every man knew that he could only fight like the devil until his ammunition ran out, which in all probability would be in a matter of minutes.

  Seizing a Sten gun and some clips of ammunition, Wells was about to leave the room when he stopped, puzzled. Over the radio, which was still switched on, came a faint voice. A voice which, unbelievably, despite the atmospheric distortion, Wells recognized immediately.

  ‘Faraz Operations, this is Yeoman calling. Yeoman calling. Do you read? Faraz, this is Yeoman calling. Come in, somebody.’

  Wells threw himself across the room, grabbing headphones and microphone.

  ‘Yeoman, Yeoman, this is Faraz. Wells answering. Christ, it’s good to hear you! Where are you?’

  ‘I’m inbound on a Dakota.’ The voice became urgent. ‘Listen, Ernie. No questions. There are four Khorati Dakotas inbound to Faraz, ETA ten minutes. They will land. Do not, repeat not, open fire on them. Forces on board are friendly. Acknowledge my instructions.’

  Wells did so automatically, not understanding what was happening. Yeoman’s voice came over the air again: ‘Okay, good. I am aware of what is happening at Faraz, but I want you to tell me the latest situation.’

  ‘Desperate.’ Wells’s voice was equally as urgent. ‘Muram-shiri forces are massing on northern airfield perimeter and are about to break through. We can’t hold them.’

  ‘You must hold them, Ernie. Ten minutes, that’s all. Hang on, and we’ll be with you. Yeoman, out.’

  The radio voice was abruptly cut off. Wells picked up his gun again and dashed outside to where his jeep stood. A minute later he was careering across the field towards the battle that was beginning to flare up on the far side. Somehow, he had to get the message to his men that help was on the way, and that they had to hold on at all costs. He only hoped that there would be time.

  Twenty miles to the north, the four Dakotas flew in close formation, five hundred feet over the desert. Yeoman was relieved that he had at last managed to make radio contact with Wells; at this height, the range of the aircraft’s VHF radio was severely restricted.

  As they flew on, de Salis suddenly tapped Yeoman’s shoulder, pointing down to the left through one of the cockpit windows.

  ‘It’s as I thought,’ he shouted above the roar of the engines. ‘They’re pulling back. Take a look.’

  Yeoman did, and saw a column of trucks, moving northwards through the desert away from the ridge. De Salis gave a smile of satisfaction. ‘That means things are starting to happen in Khorat,’ he said, but did not elaborate further. In any case, Yeoman was not taking much notice; he was peering ahead through the windscreen, over the pilot’s shoulder, willing the man to coax every last ounce of power out of the transport and reach Faraz before it was too late.

  The next few minutes were among the longest Yeoman had ever known. As the Dakota approached Faraz, the twenty-five paratroops in its cabin checked their equipment; they would not have to jump into action this time, but they would need to get out as fast as possible after the aircraft landed. De Salis was supremely confident that the hundred paras in his force would be more than a match for the Muramshiris.

  The airfield was not difficult to locate, for a considerable amount of smoke hung over it. Yeoman leaned over to shout into de Salis’s ear:

  ‘Wells said that the Muramshiris were attacking on the northern perimeter. Tell your pilot to make a circuit and approach from the south — there’ll be less risk of running into ground fire that way.’ De Salis spoke to the pilot in Arabic, and the instructions were duly passed on to the pilots of the other three Dakotas. All four aircraft altered course a little to starboard, placing the field on their left-hand side.

  As they drew abeam, Yeoman craned his neck, his forehead pressed against the side cockpit window, trying to make out what was going on below. Amid the dust and smoke it was impossible to see anything, but the fighti
ng seemed to be concentrated on the northern edge of the field, which meant that the enemy were still being held.

  Yeoman clung to the back of the pilot’s seat and braced his legs as the pilot put the transport into a steep turn through 180 degrees, levelling out in line with the runway and lowering his undercarriage and flaps. This boy knows his stuff, Yeoman thought; his intention was to touch down as far up the runway as possible, leaving plenty of room for the others to land behind him, one after the other, so that there would be no delay in deploying the paras.

  The runway rushed up to meet the Dakota and the pilot allowed the aircraft to float a few inches above the ground, deliberately keeping his speed a little high. Then he closed the throttles in a fluid movement and the aircraft settled with a crunch on its main wheels. Inside the fuselage, the exit hatch was already open and the paras were tensed, ready to jump out as the aircraft rolled to a stop.

  The Dakota bounced a little, then the tail came down and it slowed rapidly. The pilot braked sharply and swung clear of the runway, turning the machine so that the fuselage sheltered the exit from any fire that might come from the perimeter. Within seconds, the first twenty-five men, led by de Salis, had jumped clear and were doubling across the sunbaked ground towards the positions where the defenders were still holding on grimly. One by one, the other three Dakotas touched down and turned off the runway to stand in line with the first, each disgorging its cargo of heavily-armed troops. In addition to machine-pistols and machine-guns, Yeoman noted, de Salis’s men were armed with mortars and Bazooka anti-tank rocket launchers.

  The Dakota’s pilot unstrapped himself, grinned at Yeoman, then grabbed a carbine that had been lying on the cockpit floor and dashed off to join the others. Yeoman, unarmed apart from his puny.38 revolver, felt completely helpless; matters were now out of his hands.

  He climbed down from the deserted Dakota and walked round the tail. De Salis’s Khoratis were already going into action; as he watched, Yeoman saw one of their rockets curve away beyond the perimeter to explode on some unseen target. The Muramshiris, he thought, must be having a hell of a shock.

  A jeep emerged from the dust that hung on clouds over the northern edge of the field and raced towards him. It was driven by a dishevelled and dirt-streaked Wells, who was grinning broadly despite the fact that he had a grimy, blood-stained bandage wrapped around his right thigh. He brought the jeep to a stop in front of Yeoman and got out carefully, placing the weight on his uninjured leg. He held a Sten gun in one hand and a magazine in the other. He tossed the magazine to Yeoman.

  ‘See that?’

  Yeoman inspected the magazine. It was empty.

  ‘That’s right,’ Wells said. ‘No more ammo. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, we’d have had it. There’s not much to say, really, except thanks — and it’s good to see you back safe and sound.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about what happened later on,’ Yeoman said. ‘Meanwhile, would you mind giving me a lift over the Ops? I want to send a W/T signal to HQ. The word “bastard” is going to figure very prominently in it.’

  A mile to the north of the airfield, at the command post from which he had been supervising the assault, the Sultan of Muramshir was almost beside himself with rage and frustration. For the tenth time, he turned to Soropkin, whose face had become very grim during the past few minutes.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ the Sultan pleaded, ‘you must order your troops ashore! My men are falling apart. Those aircraft which just flew in are Khorati — but why should the Khoratis suddenly desire to help the British against us? I don’t understand what’s happening. Please get your men ashore, Soropkin, before it is too late!’

  For a few seconds, the Russian made no reply. Then he turned decisively to the Sultan.

  ‘It is already too late. You had to achieve a victory before we could intervene, and you have failed to do so. If we attempt to land now, those British warships out there will stop us. I will not be the one to precipitate a war between the Soviet Union and Britain. You must look to yourself for salvation.’

  He turned abruptly and began to walk away, rubbing his palms together as though washing his hands symbolically of both the Sultan and Muramshir. He had taken less than half a dozen paces when a bullet from the Sultan’s revolver blew off the back of his head.

  The two Muramshiri officers who were with the Sultan looked on, aghast, as their ruler stood astride the Russian’s twitching body and emptied his revolver into it in an ecstasy of rage. No longer wholly sane, he reloaded the weapon immediately and began to run towards the scene of the battle.

  Under the determined assault of the Khorati paratroops, the Sultan’s Muramshiris — most of whom had no idea why they were fighting, except out of loyalty to the Sultan — were rapidly breaking up. With mortar bombs falling among them, groups of them were starting to retreat from the airfield perimeter, leaving their dead behind them. Many of them, dazed by the sudden turn of events, surrendered to the Khoratis — and to those Muramshiris who were loyal to Colonel Al-Saleh — expecting to be shot out of hand, only to be treated in kindly fashion.

  One group of Muramshiris, most of them weaponless, came straggling back along the track that led northwards from the airfield towards the main road. Suddenly, a single shot ran out and they halted uncertainly, wiping the sweat from their eyes, staring at the figure who barred their path.

  The revolver he held moved a little to one side until it was pointing directly at one of the soldiers, a boy who was little more than a raw recruit. He began to tremble and gulp in fear.

  ‘The first shot,’ the Sultan said, his voice as cold as a snake’s hiss, ‘was high in the air. By Allah, the next will be in you, if you do not turn and go on fighting. All of you.’

  The boy took an uncertain step backwards, then stopped, looking for guidance to a man who stood on his left, a grizzled sergeant who had decided that the time had come to save the lives of what was left of his men. The sergeant, who was old enough to remember the Sultan’s grandfather, cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

  Before the words could come, the Sultan’s revolver cracked sharply. The boy gave a despairing cry and fell, clutching his chest.

  The sergeant looked down at the moaning soldier, made as though to bend over him, then suddenly straightened himself and took three paces forward, throwing aside his rifle as he did so. The revolver wavered a little, then steadied on him. He ignored it and took another step towards the Sultan.

  ‘By Allah,’ he said, and there was sadness in his voice, ‘you are not your father’s son.’

  The revolver cracked again and the sergeant staggered, but he remained on his feet, clutching at the bayonet that hung in its scabbard at his belt. Again and again the revolver spoke. Blood spurted from the NCO’s tunic front and he lunged forward over the last few feet, more dead now than alive. The hammer of the revolver clicked on an empty chamber.

  With all his remaining strength, using both hands, the sergeant drove the bayonet through the Sultan’s throat with such force that the point emerged through the back of his neck. The Sultan gurgled and fell, choking on his own blood. The sergeant collapsed on top of him.

  Sultan Muhammad bin-Said had a last conscious thought before the darkness closed over him. He wondered why the man who had killed him had been weeping, even as he plunged the bayonet home.

  *

  In the capital of Khorat, the shadows were lengthening. The sinking sun’s light flooded through the western windows of the conference room of Government Building, from which Khorat’s affairs of state were run, and bathed the interior in a ruddy light.

  Almost the colour of blood, thought Brigadier Yusuf Bin Ahmed Hamad, and looked across the table at General Orabi. The latter looked utterly exhausted and dejected, his hands trembling as he chain-smoked incessantly. Did Hitler, Hamad wondered, look like that during those last days in the Berlin bunker?

  The other three men at the table were Russians. They looked uncomfortable. During t
he last hours they had witnessed Orabi’s plans, and their own, systematically torn to shreds. One of them spoke suddenly; the language he used was French, which the two Khoratis also understood.

  ‘It is not yet finished,’ he said. ‘I shall signal for more reinforcements, more aircraft. We shall rebuild, here in Khorat. Then, when the time is ripe … ’

  His voice trailed away. Orabi looked at him vacantly, nodding.

  My God, Hamad thought, he still does not realize how he has been fooled. How we have all been fooled.

  ‘The paratroops,’ Orabi said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘The paratroops betrayed us. That foreign mercenary swine … who would have believed it?’ He buried his face in his hands. The Russians stared at him with contempt.

  Hamad sighed. There was no point in prolonging this agony. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded to a guard, one of his commandos, who stood alertly in the open doorway. Like a shadow, the man disappeared.

  Slowly, Hamad took his pistol from its holster and laid it carefully in front of him on the table, taking off the safety catch as he did so. The Russians and Orabi, who had lowered his hands, looked at him in astonishment.

  Hamad rose to his feet. He looked at Orabi and gave a little smile.

  ‘Please remain seated, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to have to shoot anyone, but I will if I must, make no mistake about that. Including you, my old friend.’ Orabi’s mouth fell open. He tried to speak, and failed.

  The tramp of feet sounded in the corridor outside. Thirty men, heavily-armed commandos, filed into the room and took up station around the walls. They exuded vigilance. Hamad waited until they were in position, then said:

  ‘I have to tell you that Khorat is under new management, from now. There will be no more bloodshed. You, my friend’ — he addressed Orabi — ‘you have a simple choice. You may leave the country, or live out your days here in peace and safety, under my protection. Either way, no harm will come to you.’ His face hardened as he turned to the Russians. ‘As for you,’ he continued, ‘you will find that I am not an unreasonable man. You have twenty-four hours to destroy or dismantle what remains of your equipment and get out of Khorat. If you are still here after that, I shall order my men to shoot you down like the dogs you are.’