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By Andy McNab

Tom Buckingham series

SAS: Red Notice

SAS: Fortress

SAS: State of Emergency

Nick Stone series

Remote Control

Crisis Four

Firewall

Last Light

Liberation Day

Dark Winter

Deep Black

Aggressor

Recoil

Crossfire

Brute Force

Exit Wound

Zero Hour

Dead Center

Silencer

For Valor

Detonator

Cold Blood

Line of Fire

Whatever It Takes

Standalone Non-Fiction

Seven Troop

About the author

About the author

Photo by: Neil Spence

From the day he was found in a shopping bag on the steps of Guy's Hospital in London, Andy McNab has led an extraordinary life. As a teenage delinquent, McNab railed against society. As a young soldier he waged war against the IRA. As a member of 22 SAS he was at the center of covert operations for nine years—on five continents.

During the Gulf War he commanded Bravo Two Zero, a patrol that infiltrated Iraq in 1991 and was forced to escape and evade on foot to Syria. One of the four men taken prisoner, McNab survived relentless torture, but returned to active service after six months of medical treatment. Today he is a consultant to security and intelligence agencies in both the UK and USA, working with the Ministry of Defence, the FBI, SEAL teams and Delta Force.

Drawing on his insider knowledge and experience, McNab is the bestselling author of 50 books, which have sold over 33 million copies. He also acts as an advisor for films, working on Hollywood blockbusters such as Heat and Black Hawk Down.

Fortress

Fortress

Camp Bastion: SAS trooper Tom Buckingham finds himself in deep trouble for taking down a renegade Afghan soldier. Instead of being proclaimed a hero, he's made a scapegoat for the incident and drummed out of the regiment.

On his return to Britain, disillusioned and embittered, Tom's unique services are quickly snapped up by charismatic entrepreneur, Vernon Rolt: a powerful billionaire with political ambitions, very few scruples, and a questionable agenda. With riots on the country's streets, a government in disarray, and a visit from the American president imminent, there has never been a better time to make a play for power.

But, as Tom will soon discover, in the affairs of the state, hidden forces are always at work and he is quickly drawn back into the covert world of intelligence and special forces which he knows so well. He will have to decide where his loyalties lie and who his real friends are if he is to intervene in a spiraling sequence of events which involve terrorism, insurgency, and ultimately, assassination.

One man is willing the world into chaos. One man has the power to stop him and change the fate of nations.

Fortress is Andy McNab's most topical, hard-hitting, and viscerally exciting novel to date.

Chapter 1

1

Walthamstow, East London

28 June

The target’s hands hovered each side of his head, shaking so much that they looked like they were about to fall off. Callum’s forefinger curled round the trigger of his Heckler & Koch MP5SF, his right eye studying the target’s wide-eyed grimace down the night sight. The man, IC6 – Middle Eastern, early thirties, six one, well built – stood framed in the Transit’s open passenger door, lit by the glare of the halogens from one of their 5 Series ARVs.

‘Name?’

All that came back was the high-pitched whinnying sound of the man, who was either a terrified van passenger or a wannabe suicide bomber.

‘Name, now!’

‘Still no DSO,’ shouted Vic from the car, his headset mic flipped down, mobile pressed to his ear. But it didn’t matter at that stage. Even if they hadn’t lost radio contact, SCO19’s designated senior officer back in the control room at Scotland Yard couldn’t see what they were seeing. Soon they would have cameras on helmets, but not yet. Right now they were on their own, the choice theirs: to kill or not to kill. Callum was the lead; it was his call, his neck if they fucked up.

‘No wheelman.’

Cook, who’d taken off after the driver had done a runner, had given up the chase, his words pushed out between gasps of breath.

Even though it was past two a.m., the hottest day of the year was showing no sign of cooling. A short, sharp shock of rain had merely covered the street with a sticky slick of gloss that was now steaming the place up. Vic was dripping with it and even Callum who, a few lives back, had seen service in hell-hot Sierra Leone and, even further back, had had a few sweltering holidays with his gran in Jamaica, was feeling it.

His brain scrolled through standard procedure.

Target should drop like liquid. Aim for the head to avoid triggering explosive devices attached to chest or waist: tick. Confrontation to be made in secluded location to avoid risk to personnel or public: tick. Prepare to fire multiple shots at the brain stem to minimize the risk of detonation. Brain stem? Who wrote this shit? This wasn’t keyhole surgery.

The man’s mouth moved. ‘Suleiman.’

At last, a name.

‘Suleiman what?’

‘Suleiman, sir?’

You had to laugh.

‘The rest of your name.’

‘Nazul. Suleiman Nazul.’

Callum could hear Vic’s fingers dancing over the laptop, then an agonizing pause.

‘Negative on that. No form coming up.’

The sweat pouring down Suleiman’s face was being blotted up by the T-shirt under his padded gilet. Who wears a fucking padded gilet on a night like this? What’s in it? Duck down or Semtex? One of his wobbling hands strayed close to his streaming head.

‘Hands back up! Up! ’

There had been no warning, no build-up, no plan. Fresh intelligence from a trusted source, the control room had said. Scramble. The Transit, white, 02 plate; contents on board reported to include syringes, latex gloves, clamps, drills, aerosols and a generous quantity of hydrogen peroxide. Someone fitting out a hair-dressing salon? Right. And a .380 starter pistol converted to fire live rounds. The passenger, believed to be a British jihadi recently returned from Syria, nom de guerre: Abu Salayman de Britaini; given name unknown. Was this him?

Callum nodded at Wren beside him. Wren moved towards the rear of the van, tried the door, opened it a bit, then wider, then both doors.

‘Negative.’

Wrong van?

Wrong man?

Callum adjusted his stance and lifted his head an inch above the sight so he was looking at the man eye to eye. He was fresh from his annual requalifying at Gravesend, stuffed to the gills with the latest guidance, essential if he was to keep his firearms ticket.

‘Okay, Suleiman, here’s what’s going to happen. When I say so, you’re going to keep your hands as high as you can while you get down on your knees, then, keeping your arms stretched, lower them to the ground and lie face down. You got that?’

He nodded eagerly. Maybe he thought his life wasn’t over after all.

‘Okay: one, two, three . . .’

On three, two things happened. Callum heard the crack of a round passing him at supersonic speed, followed by the thump of a weapon’s report. Suleiman spun round as if someone had cut his strings and dropped – like liquid – to the ground in a cloud of pink mist.

‘– the fuck?’

Callum wheeled round, leaped behind the car for cover and scanned the building behind them. Less than half a second between the crack and the thump meant a firing point less than a hundred and fifty yards from the target. An oblong slab of flats, unlit, deserted, awaiting demolition.

In seconds, Vic was at Suleiman’s side with the emergency kit, rolled him over and cradled his head, the half that was still intact. He looked up at Callum.

Nothing to be done.

Chapter 2

2

Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

‘I’ve decided.’

Dave Whitehead peeled off his kit and let it drop onto his cot – M4, waistcoat stashed with extra rounds, Sig 9mm, Kevlar helmet, Gen 3 NVs, sat phone, sweat-sodden MTP, vest, socks and boots: it came off in layers until all that remained was the basic soldier in a pair of boxers featuring Stewie the homicidal baby from Family Guy.

‘Decided what?’

Tom Buckingham was only half listening as he steered his laptop round their quarters in search of the ever elusive Wi-Fi signal. The whole row of Portakabins had been plagued by glitches all week. He glanced at the time: 23.00. Six thirty in Hereford. Ten minutes to his Skype with Delphine. He needed to be ready, and alone.

‘Came to me in a flash while we were out there today.’

The screen burst into life. The BBC News Home page: Outrage at killing sparks nationwide riots. Nine dead, hundreds injured. Tom lowered the laptop onto the shelf under the window, checked the signal strength, clicked Skype onto standby and tried to absorb the news from home.

‘Hey, listen up.’

Something about Dave’s tone told him he’d better pay attention. He turned away from the screen.

‘I’m serious. When this ends, it’s time to get out.’

It was the start of their second sweltering month at Bastion, tasked with babysitting an Afghan National Army mission to lift a Taliban chief as he broke cover and crossed from the Tribal Areas into Helmand for a shura, a tribal meeting. They wanted him alive, so no taking him out with a drone. But the shura kept getting postponed. So they waited, rehearsed and waited some more. Today should have been The Day. But when they’d hit the safe-house the guy was supposed to be in, it was deserted.

Tom, already down to his vest, glanced in the mirror. Dave, behind, signalled to him to pay attention.

‘You know, bin it while I’m ahead.’

He had confided in him about leaving a few days ago, starting a new life, getting on the troops-to-teachers programme. Tom had thought it was a wind-up. He gestured at the laptop, his mind elsewhere. ‘Can this wait? I’m kind of on standby here.’

Dave, ignoring him, popped a can of Monster and poured it down his throat. ‘After all, I’m great with kids, aren’t I?’

Only last week, on an exercise with the ANA, Dave had covered himself in glory by pulling an eight-year-old boy out of the rubble that had been his home and delivering him into the arms of his frantic parents. When they’d gone back to see the family, Dave had taken a basketball he’d liberated from the same US Marines that now made up the vast majority of troops in Helmand, fixed up a makeshift hoop for the kid and shown him the ropes. Within minutes he was surrounded by ten more eager players.

‘Yeah, it’s a great idea. Now can you fuck off for a bit while I talk to Mademoiselle?’

Dave threw his head back, drained the dregs of his drink, tossed the can into the bin with deadly accuracy and lay back, wiping droplets of liquid from his blond stubble. Flung together by the SAS, they were planets apart. Tom, all blue chip and silver spoon, had seen pictures of Dave as a kid, a skinny, scruffy urchin with spindly legs, scabs on his elbows and big flappy ears. Removed from his drug-addicted mother at four, he had weathered every indignity the care system could heap on him, as he was bounced through a succession of homes and foster placements, his spirit undimmed, until the Army had thrown him a lifeline. There, he had blossomed, single-mindedly transforming himself into the fine fighting machine that now lay spread-eagled on the cot and scratching his ball-bag.

‘I mean, look at you, playing soldiers while Her Indoors waits in vain. When you gonna get your act together?’

Dave had a theory he loved to expound on about doing one thing at a time and had given Tom a hard time for saddling himself with a fiancée.

‘Tell you what,’ said Tom. ‘Just fuck off to the gym.’

‘I’ve decided. Don’t try to talk me out of it.’

‘There’s a new USAF one. They’ve got a whole rig of great kit in there, chest press, pec fly, gyroscopic dumb-bells. An hour of those and you’ll sleep like a baby. With a nice clear head when you wake up.’

‘My head is clear.’

‘Sure, sure, I know. Their AC runs off its own genny. You’ll look cool and be cool. Now split.’

‘You sound like an ad for deodorant.’

‘I’ll catch you up, okay?’

Dave reared up and was on his way out of the door.

‘Where’s your weapon?’

He patted his holster.

‘I’m going to the gym, man – not patrol. Hey . . .’

Tom paused, his fingers on the keyboard.

Dave grinned. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?’

The door swung shut and he was alone.

Tom glared at the laptop, not relishing the upcoming communication. Skype seemed to be the worst of both worlds. He used to like to write letters. At prep school, every Sunday after chapel, they’d been made to. He’d listed the week’s academic achievements – that bit didn’t take long – then his various triumphs on the field. Dear Mum, I got two trys in rugby and got sent to the Head for fiyting Robbo only it was just play. Nothing broken so you don’t need to tell Dad. The ginger cake is all gone. Please send a bigger one this time if poss. Love from Tom. He’d carried on after he’d enlisted, deaf to the hoots of derision from his mates. But it was easier than phoning – no grief coming back at him.

He clicked on BBC News again, scrolled through pictures of a street of shops in flames, a mounted policeman, face bloodied, helmet gone. Even the ANA had heard about it, the interpreter raising an eyebrow at him at breakfast, as if to say, Welcome to our world.

Delphine would have something to say about all this.

He stared at his reflection in the window. A hundred metres away, he saw a small glow of light. It flickered once, then twice more – a lighter, perhaps. Maybe a cigarette would help. After a long abstinence he’d lapsed, then promised Delphine he’d stop. That had lasted about three days. A pair of Ospreys thundered overhead, landing lights off to deter enemy fire, yet plain to see from all the light thrown up by the base. It was huge: as big as Reading, its air traffic busier than Gatwick’s. Brits, Americans, Danes and the fledgling Afghan National Army were all here. The ANA were in charge now, the end in sight for the Coalition, though it didn’t feel much like it.

The aircon stuttered to a stop and, in a matter of moments, the room heated up to an uncomfortable level. Great. Fucking perfect.

The laptop came to life. Delphine was there.

‘Hey, babe.’ Seeing her lifted his spirits instantly.

‘Bonsoir, mon chéri.’

She blew him a kiss. He blew one back. Why did this make him think of prison visits?

‘You’ve caught the sun again.’

‘Hard not to – it’s up to forty-five.’

Neither of them had got the hang of this.

‘How’s your day going?’

‘Oh, you know. Same old.’

Her colloquial English was coming on. But it was clear something was wrong. She looked tired and drawn and, although she’d probably touched her face up for the chat, he could see her eyes were red from crying.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Tom, it’s not good here. I don’t like it, what’s happening – all this trouble, I don’t feel safe.’

‘It’s just people letting off steam, taking advantage.’

Instantly he felt the shallow gloss of his words. ‘There’ll be nothing like that where you are, trust me.’

Her shoulders rose and she let out a dismissive sigh. ‘You say that, but people right here in the bar, they’re saying terrible things about what should happen to the protesters. It’s all so ugly.’

Delphine was right. It was ugly, but the chances of her coming to any harm at the Green Dragon in Hereford were less than zero. The lads back at the Lines would see to that. He’d told a couple of them to look out for her.

‘Trust me, it’ll all die down. Stuff like this happens all over – this could be Paris or Lyon or Marseille.’ Now he could hear the impatience in his tone. Civil strife, ethnic tensions, tribal conflicts, you name it, he’d seen it – in Benghazi, Beirut, Kinshasa, Kirkuk. In Western Europe we don’t know we’re born, he felt like saying, but that was the last thing she needed to hear.

‘Why do they keep extending you? Tell them you want to come home.’

Now it was hitting them what different worlds they occupied, what it meant to be an army fiancée – let alone a wife, if they ever got that far. Had he misled her? She knew some of the wives back in Hereford and must have heard the gripes. This was his first long job away since they had got together. It had all happened so fast: just forty-eight hours’ notice. This was how it was going to be: she had to realize that.

‘It doesn’t work like that, babe. They give the orders. I do what I’m told.’

Her face disappeared from the screen for a moment. When it reappeared she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘I keep thinking how different it could have been.’

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. First there had been the Eurostar incident. She had been so brave, standing up to the hijackers, helping him defeat them. His respect for her then was total. But it had taken its toll on her – with flashbacks, nightmares and an under-standable fear of tunnels. And then losing the baby, their baby. Their different responses to grief had opened a void between them. He knew all about loss. He could have written a book about it. But none of it was working for her.

‘Look, we’ve got the whole of our lives ahead of us. We can try again.’

It sounded weak and clichéd, but what else could he say? How could he comfort her, reassure her from a desert fortress more than three thousand miles away? The pregnancy had been a complete accident, parent-hood something he hadn’t even considered. But he’d supported her all the way, even fancied himself as potential good dad material – when he was around. But it wasn’t to be.

He had dealt with more than his fair share of death: seen mates killed, shredded, vaporized, smashed to pieces so small there was nothing to bury. But watching your own child die as it was being born, and its distraught mother turn her face away from you in grief? There was no training for that.

‘Look . . .’ he began. The screen flickered, but he soldiered on. ‘Why don’t you go home for a bit, get away from all this? Find some . . .’ He’d been going to say ‘perspective’ but that would have sounded as if he thought she was being irrational. ‘Get some decent rest. Clean French air. Your mum’s cooking. Cassoulet and tarte Tatin. Mmm, fantastique.’

This time she couldn’t help smiling. He had only stayed with them once and had overeaten spectacularly. Her father’s expression had implied concern that a man with so little self-control should be allowed anywhere near live ammunition.

‘The pub can arrange cover, I’m sure, and—’

‘They have. Moira has found someone.’

‘So it’s already sorted?’ He tried to keep the dismay out of his voice. ‘Good! That’s – good. You need to get away.’

Then the line was gone. Her sad, perfect face was sliced and diced into pixels, then discrete blocks of colour that froze and slid away, like a surreal, digitized version of Jenga.

‘Fuck it.’

He grabbed his pistol and followed Dave out into the baking night.

Chapter 3

3

Perimeter of Camp Bastion

They flattened themselves against the dirt, head to toe like a line of ants, moving forward in the darkness, out of the mud-walled village towards the poppy field. There were twelve and the Leader, levering themselves forward on their elbows, four of them not yet out of their teens. Isamuddin’s face was still completely smooth, without even the beginnings of a moustache. All were full of hope for the better life awaiting them.

Every day for two months they had trained under cover, behind walls and under improvised awnings, building their strength, assembling the devices, memorizing the layout of the infidel base, the size of a city, from a map scratched onto the wall of the room that had been their living quarters. As he pulled himself forward, Isamuddin risked a glance behind him at his brother. But Aynaddin wasn’t looking. His eyes were tight shut, tiny points of light betraying the presence of his tears. Only his lips moved in silent recitation. Isa tried to send him a thought message: Do not worry, little brother. You and I will soon be in glory. But all Ayna heard was the verses he repeated over and over to jam all his other thoughts – of doubt and paralysing fear.

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