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JOHN ‘LOFTY’ WISEMAN
OPERATION LAVIVRUS
Collins
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in 2012
Text © John Wiseman, 2012
John Wiseman asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 2012.
Cover photographs © Nik Keevil (soldiers); Magdalena Biskup Travel Photography/Getty Images (mountains); Shutterstock (plane).
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Ebook Edition © APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780007463275
Version: 2017-08-09
Table of Contents
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
About the Publisher
Although the air temperature was just above freezing, the combined effect of the rain and wind generated a wind-chill factor of –20°, yet the blackened face of the soldier was beaded with sweat, blending with the rain to form a salty fluid that stung his eyes. It ran down his face into his mouth, mixing with the camouflage cream he wore, leaving a foul taste in his dry, acidulous throat.
Fear of compromise kept the adrenalin pumping, forcing tired eyes to focus. He tried to keep the blinking to a minimum, regardless of the stinging onslaught. He longed to close his eyes and find refuge in a dry, warm place, far away from here, but that had to wait.
He reached up, and a cold rivulet of water ran down his spine, causing a shiver to start in his tightly clenched buttocks, running down each leg and making his whole body shake. The noise of the magnet as it attached the innocent-looking cylinder to the target was barely audible, masked by the shrieking wind, but to the operative who was carefully placing the device the noise sounded like a railway truck coupling with a goods train.
His heart was hammering, threatening to burst through the windproof material of his camouflaged smock. Blood pulsed at his temples, and the throbbing in his ears was amplified by the howling wind, making him dizzy and causing a slight tremble in his cautious fingers.
‘Get a grip, man. Concentrate,’ he reminded himself. After shaking and pulling on the device, satisfying himself that it was firmly fixed, he dropped down onto one knee, appraising his surroundings.
Common sense told him to run, but instinct commanded him to stay. Every fibre and sinew in his body protested at this lull in activity, screaming to be stretched, to generate heat, to carry him away from the lethal profile that towered above him.
He opened his mouth slightly, which helped improve his hearing and reduced the pulse resonating in his skull. His blood was surging through every vessel in his body, like floodwater in a storm drain. It takes a special type of man to be able to handle such pressure. Training helps to condition the body, but it is experience that conditions the mind.
By concentrating on his breathing he managed to keep everything under control. He blocked out the discomfort of being cold and wet, controlling all the emotions that urged him to run. Inhaling strongly through his nose to a five count, holding each breath for the same duration before exhaling forcibly through the mouth to a count of five, enabled him to keep his senses sharp and helped retain coordination.
He moved deeper into the shadows, seeking shelter from the driving rain. The surrounding mass of unyielding concrete gave him some respite, but only increased the destructive intensity of the wind.
Although the weather was foul it suited what he was doing; he couldn’t have hoped to achieve his aim in anything less. Wind is a killer; it was unrelenting, fiercely probing the thick concrete walls. Searching for weaknesses, it veered continuously, trying new angles of attack. In contrast to the concrete mass, the sinister grey-blue shape offered little resistance to the wind, allowing it to whistle around its streamlined profile, frustrating the gale, forcing it to take vengeance on more vulnerable targets. Whistling and whining in annoyance, it attacked the soldier. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any stronger, a gust would threaten to bowl him over. Only by using all his senses and instincts could he succeed. They had served him well in the past. His hearing battled against the elements, trying to detect any sounds that might compromise him, but this sense was neutralised, so he depended on others. He could smell the heavy odours of paraffin and hydraulic fluid, and he sniffed the air regularly. Cigarette smoke, unwashed bodies and animal smells would all carry on the wind.
His eyes never stopped moving, searching the area for any sign of movement. As he crouched low everything was in silhouette, giving him early warning of movement. He avoided looking directly at the sodium lights that illuminated the perimeter, protecting his night vision, using his peripheral vision to scan the shadows. He felt very exposed as the area was too light. Every puddle in the wet tarmac mirrored the light, making him feel as though he was under scrutiny. Only the shadows and the weather were in his favour.
The sweat was drying now, causing him to shiver. Every time he moved, however slightly, a warm part of his body was invaded by a fresh attack of cold water, chilling his frame.
Resisting