In the Code Red Series
Flash Flood
Wildfire

Non-fiction
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my agent Barbar Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.

PROLOGUE

The Mediterranean: Tuesday, 12 September 1989

John Porter folded the telegram into the inside breast pocket of his olive-green combat uniform. He permitted himself a brief smile, then walked swiftly up the grey gunmetal stairs that led up to the deck of HMS Dorset. A stiff breeze was blowing up from the Lebanese coastline, and he could feel it catching his jet-black hair, thrusting it down into the bones of his face.

‘Baby Girl. Born 23.11, 11.9.89. 7lb. Sandy. Love Diana,’ the telegram had read. The words were already stencilled into his mind. My first kid, he thought to himself. Sandy. I can hardly wait to see the smile on her face when she lays eyes on her dad.

All I need to do is try not to bugger things up by getting myself shot in the next few hours.

He walked purposefully towards the rest of the unit. The Dorset had been anchored off the Lebanese coast for three days now, waiting for the spooks to assemble enough info for the mission to kick-off. A British businessman, from one of the arms manufacturers that racked up billions in vital exports every year, had been held in one of the brutal basements of Beirut for the last four months. There was no way the government was willing to negotiate with his captors: they were already armed to the teeth without handing over the sophisticated missile systems they were demanding for Kenneth Bratton’s release. So the government had done what it always did when the going got tough: called on the Regiment to sort out the mess. Their mission was to go in, and bring Bratton out. Preferably, though not necessarily, alive.

‘Congratulations.’

Porter’s eyes swivelled round. Major Chris Pemberton was standing only a couple of feet away. A tall man, with more lines chiselled into his face than was normal for a man in his late forties, he was smiling, but there were still traces of ice in his steely, grey eyes. He had a rich Yorkshire accent, and a scar sliced down the side of his right cheek.

Porter nodded. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he replied.

‘A girl?’

‘Called Sandy.’

‘Just as well,’ said Pemberton. ‘Girls love their dads. Always. Doesn’t matter what a useless old bugger you are.’

‘Is that …’

Porter could have finished the sentence, but he could tell the Major had already lost interest. He wasn’t here to swap tips on brands of nappies. A harsh wind was blowing in from the coastline, and a few miles across the horizon some blacklooking clouds were starting to swirl out across the sea. If they were going to fly in tonight, there wasn’t much time left. It looked as if a storm was brewing.

‘We can stand you down if you want to,’ said Pemberton. ‘We have backup.’