STAND BY,
STAND BY
Chris Ryan was born near Newcastle in 1961. He joined the SAS in 1984. During his ten years he was involved in overt and covert operations and was also Sniper team commander of the anti-terrorist team. During the Gulf War, Chris was the only member of an eight man team to escape from Iraq; three colleagues were killed and four captured. It was the longest escape and evasion in the history of the SAS. For this he was awarded the Miltary medal. For the last two years he has trained potential recruits for the SAS.
He wrote about his experiences in the bestseller The One That Got Away which was adapted for the screen. He is the author of the bestsellers Zero Option, The Kremlin Device, Tenth Man Down, The Hit List, The Watchman, Land of Fire and Greed. Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book and Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide are published by Century.
He lectures in business motivation and security and is currently working as a bodyguard in America.
Also by Chris Ryan
The One That Got Away
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
The Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s SAS Ultimate Survival Guide
STAND BY,
STAND BY
CHRIS RYAN
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Epub ISBN: 9781409066774
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781409066774
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
For my mother
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to give special thanks to someone who shall remain anonymous but without whose editorial help I would never have finished this. To all my family and friends for their patience and understanding. Also to Mark Booth, Liz Rowlinson, Tracey Jennings and Nicky Eaton at Century.
The Castle
As the knights fight in the hall, people stand by the wall.
Jokers joke whilst people poke at one another.
Shrieking sounds down below where cellars glow.
The King sits on his throne when people groan.
The Lady who wears silver threads lives in dread of the spider and the dead.
by Sarah Ryan, aged 7, 1996
GLOSSARY
ASU
IRA Active Service Unit
Basha
Sleeping shelter
Bergen
Rucksack
BG
Bodyguard (noun or verb)
Blue-on-blue
Accidental strike on own forces
Box
General name for intelligence services
Casevac
Casualty evacuation
CAT
Counter-attack team
Communications
CTR
Close target reconnaissance
DET
Intelligence gathering organization
DAS
Colombian Police
DF
Direction finding
Dicker
IRA scout
Director
Officer commanding special forces, generally a brigadier
DOP
Drop-off point
DPMs
Disruptive pattern material camouflage garments
DZ
Drop zone
EMOE
Explosive method of entry
ERV
Emergency rendezvous
EMU
Encryption device
FMB
Forward mounting base
FOB
Forward operating base
GPS
Global positioning system (navigation aid)
Head-Shed
Headquarters
Incoming
Incoming fire
Int
Intelligence
IO
Intelligence officer
LO
Liaison officer
LUP
Lying-up point
LZ
Landing zone
Magellan
Brand name of GPS
OP
Observation post
PE
Plastic explosive
Phys
Physical exercise
PIRA
Provisional IRA
Player
Terrorist
PNGs
Passive night goggles
PUP
Pick-up point
QRF
Quick reaction force
RTU
Return to unit
Rupert
Officer
SAM
Surface-to-air missile
Satcom
Telephone using satellite transmission
SEAL
Sea, Air and Land – American special forces unit
Shreddies
Army-issue underpants
SOCO
Scene of Crimes Officer
SP
Special Projects
SSM
Squadron sergeant major
RUC
Royal Ulster Constabulary
TACBE
Emergency radio
TCG
Tactical Control Group
Tout
Informer
UCBT
Under-car booby trap
US
Unserviceable
VCP
Vehicle control point
319
VHF radio
WEAPONS
AK 47
Soviet-design 7.62mm short rifle
203
Combination of 5.56mm automatic rifle (top barrel) and 40mm grenade launcher (below)
HK 53
5.56mm automatic rifle
Galil
Israeli-made 7.62mm automatic rifle
G3
7.62mm automatic rifle
Long
Any rifle
L2
Hand grenade
9mm sub-machine-gun
RPG7
Soviet-made rocket launcher
SA80
5.56mm rifle
Short
Any pistol
Sig
Sigsauer 9mm pistol
ONE
That night the dream came again. As usual I was being swept forward, unable to control my speed. I felt as though I was on a roller-coaster at a fairground, accelerating bumpily through the cold, dark air. But why were no other passengers riding with me? Why was I alone in this freezing night?
The ride was very rough. OK, I thought, the track’s buc
kled, but I can handle it – and I clung tight to the side-rails to stop myself being flung out. Then something began to drag at my left arm, holding it back, as if that side of the carriage was being left behind. Let go, dickhead! I told myself, but my fingers wouldn’t unclamp from the rail. Pain ripped through me. I thought, I’m going down here. I’m going to get torn in half.
The cold was horrendous. The air pouring past me was so frozen it was searing my skin. When I opened my mouth to yell, it drove a fierce pain into the roots of my teeth, so that I had to clamp my lips shut. Then over the black horizon ahead came a gleam of light. I was hurtling towards that bright rim, the rim of the world. All too well I knew what I’d see beyond it. Up and on I went, faster than ever, my arm being torn in half at the elbow.
Then in a split second I was over the top and into the light, diving towards an operating theatre as big as an airport. A wall of heat rushed up to meet me, so that in an instant I was pouring sweat, like down in the sands of Abu Dhabi. Brilliant lamps blazed on to the table, and life-support equipment was ranged alongside: drips, oxygen cylinders, white dishes full of instruments. Attendants in green gowns and masks were waiting, ready – and in the centre stood a tall surgeon with a hypodermic syringe the length of an AK 47, the point of its gleaming needle levelled at my eye. I longed for a gun so I could drop him at a distance, but no: I was going in close. ‘BASTARDS!’ I roared as I hurtled down towards him. ‘BASTARDS! BASTARDS!’
I woke up. Kath stood in the doorway, the light from the landing shining on her straight fair hair. In the background Tim was crying.
‘Geordie,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I tried to turn over, but I found I’d got the bedclothes wound around me so I was trussed like an oven-ready chicken.
Kath came across and put her hand on my forehead. ‘You’re soaking. Better change the sheets. I’ll get you a clean pair.’
‘I’ll be OK, thanks. What time is it?’
‘Just after three.’ She sat down on the edge of the bed, silhouetted against the light. With one hand she drew her dressing-gown tight around her neck, and with the other she smoothed out the top sheet. ‘What time did you get to bed?’
‘Not sure. Maybe half one.’
‘How much did you drink?’
‘Not a lot. Two or three more Scotches.’
She knew perfectly well that I’d been hitting the booze far worse than I admitted, and going to ridiculous lengths to cover up. She knew that alcohol was becoming a serious problem for me, and several times she’d pleaded with me to seek professional advice.
Now she asked, ‘What happened? Was it the dream again?’
‘Yeah. Was I making a noise?’
‘I thought someone was killing you. You were yelling at the top of your voice. It woke Tim.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I meant to ask – did you hear any news about when Tony’s coming over to do selection?’
‘He’ll be here in June, I think. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
I knew what she was thinking: that Tony had been my salvation in Iraq, and might again act as a stabilizing influence when he arrived in England. He might help me get the whole Gulf experience squared away. Possibly she was right – but how could anyone know?
‘Arm hurting?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s comfortable.’
‘Headache?’
‘A bit.’
‘Take some Paracetamol, then.’
‘OK.’
She punched a couple of tablets out of a pack on the bedside table and handed them to me, together with a glass of water. I propped myself on one elbow to get them down.
‘Thanks. I’ll be fine now.’
‘Sleep well, then.’
She ran a hand over my hair, got up, went back to the door and closed it softly. Soon the kid stopped crying, the landing light went out, and I heard the door of our bedroom click shut.
Our bedroom. I should have been sleeping there, in our big double bed. The fact that I was on my own summed everything up. The recurring nightmare was my excuse for sleeping alone; I’d said I’d move out to the spare room because I didn’t want to keep waking Kath with my bad dreams. But beneath the surface, something far deeper had gone wrong.
My sheets were clammy. Like most guys in the Regiment I sleep naked – so I got up, rubbed myself down with a towel, opened the window wider and let the cool night air flow in round my body, drying it off. I listened as the wind rustled through the oak tree at the back of the house. An owl hooted, close and loud. Lucky bird – that it should have so little to worry about. A mouse or two a night was all it needed to be happy, and it had no idea of war, no idea of captivity, no idea of death.
After a while I went back to bed, and lay staring upwards with the sheets pulled under my chin. I knew full well that my troubles stemmed from what had happened in the desert and in that shit-heap of a hospital in Iraq.
I thought of Tony; good, tough guy that he was. Tony, who had shared my captivity, and done so much to get me through it, with his indomitable spirit and unfailing sense of humour. His proper name was Antonio Lopez, but ever since he could remember he had been known by the easy abbreviation. As a SEAL (a member of the American Sea, Air and Land special forces unit), he had been through far worse ordeals than I had, especially when that operation had gone tits-up in Panama. He had come out of the Gulf very much in one piece, and now he was about to take the selection course, in the hope of joining the Regiment for a two-year tour. Was I so much inferior to him, that I couldn’t stand the strain?
I kept thinking back to what it had been like before, between me and Kath. If anyone had asked, I could have answered truthfully in one word: ‘Brilliant!’ We’d met four years earlier, and we’d been delighted to discover that our twenty-fifth birthdays were both coming up within a week of each other. Now, lying in the dark, I remembered the day we found the house. We’d seen a photo in an estate agent’s window, and arranged to borrow the key. The price was right on the limit of what we could afford, but thanks to the generosity of my in-laws we had enough cash for the deposit. The agent warned us that the place was way off the beaten track. ‘It’s another world out there,’ he said. ‘Not to worry,’ I told him, ‘that’s what we’re after.’
He handed us the keys and we drove out, only fifteen minutes from town. When we saw the house, we looked at each other and grinned. It was old, 150 years at least, and it stood in a perfect position at the end of a lane, in a hollow surrounded by fields. A spinney of oaks ran away up a little valley at the back, with a trickle of water coming down between the trees. Even in winter, with the branches bare, it looked a dream. What would it be like in high summer?
Keeper’s Cottage was its name, and that’s what it had been: the home of a gamekeeper. Before long we came to call it KC. Over the years the brickwork had mellowed to a soft red – typical Herefordshire – and the previous owners had worked hard to restore and improve the house, so that we were able to move straight in. Outside, the garden had gone to seed, but Kath, who had green fingers, got stuck into that as soon as spring came. Under her direction I did the heavy digging, but it was she who planned and planted everything. She was thrilled to find that several of the trees in the spinney were rowans, or mountain ash – her favourites – which put on a tremendous show of brightred berries in the autumn. The place and its associations reminded me of my childhood home in the north, where as a boy I was forever ferreting rabbits and walking the hedgerows.
In KC we were as happy as anybody could have been. It was the first time that either of us had lived in a house without a number – in our eyes a big plus, as it made us feel we had the edge over our friends living in towns. The house and rooms were exactly the right size for us, neither too big nor too small. The place was so private that in summer we could sunbathe stark naked on the lawn. Kath got a vegetable patch going, and grew some cracking beans, peas, potatoes and lettuce
s, and herbs galore. We ate so many fresh salads that our ears started turning green. In winter we were snug as squirrels, because I got permission from the neighbouring farmer to collect firewood from the spinney, and in the living room we kept a Norwegian log-burner on the go day and night. The stove had a back-boiler for boosting the hot water; if I opened up the draught, I could get the tank boiling.
The footpaths and woodland tracks were ideal for running, and I could do my phys – physical training – at home just as well as round the camp. Soon I had two circuits worked out – one of six miles, one of eight. Kath talked of getting a horse . . . if we could persuade the farmer to rent us a paddock, and after the baby had arrived.
Tim was born, on time, in the County Hospital in Hereford. I watched him come into the world, holding Kath’s hand and trying to share her pain. He weighed 8 lbs 2 oz, and once he was cleaned up we could see he was going to have hair even fairer and eyes even bluer than his mother’s. Kath’s parents were so chuffed with their first grandchild that they came straight over from Belfast to see him; they stayed in the cottage, and Meg helped with the baby for a few days, until Kath got her strength back. Den, a retired doctor, didn’t do much except offer medical tips – and I don’t think he did much at home either, except watch television.