TURKISH DELIGHT by Barry Faulkner (ebook reader wifi .TXT) 📗

Jones hard on the shoulder. ‘Ready,’ I shouted and ducked away covering my ears.

The third one we fired hit home and the nearest skiff which was still a good six hundred metres from us went up in an explosion of fire as the rocket exploded on impact leaving burning pieces of the boat floating on the sea.

We were now pretty much out of range of anything shot from the shore and the FB’s twin Mercedes engines were showing their class, putting evermore distance between us and the chasing skiffs.

‘What the...?’ Williams pointed towards the skiffs. Behind them and catching up fast were two Turkish Naval launches with machine guns mounted on the forward superstructure. We were out of range, but those boats can move so we wouldn’t be for much longer. I tapped Jones on the shoulder and shouted in his ear what we had seen. He moved his head from the bazooka sights and looked.

‘Jesus, Nevis! Are you sure you blew up an ammo dump and not the President’s palace?’ He shouted over his shoulder to Taylor. ‘Weave!’

Taylor started to zigzag weave the boat. Then we heard the sound that strikes fear into any soldier out in the open: the whirring of helicopter blades.

It was a good way away from us and coming from the direction of the beach.

‘Are we in international waters?’ Jones shouted to Taylor, who nodded ‘Affirmative.’

I knew what Jones was thinking. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a ‘copter out here in the open waters, especially if it was carrying air to ground missiles, so we would raise the white flag and surrender. Doing that in international waters would limit the chances of being held for more than a couple of days; our masters would say we were just on patrol and must have strayed out of the Cypriot three-mile limit. But if we were in Turkish waters that was a different thing all together; we’d be put on a show trial no doubt, and either rot in a Tukish jail or be part of a prisoner swap.

The whoosh of a missile had us all diving to the bottom of the boat – seems they didn’t want to take prisoners. I was wrong; the distant boom of it hitting home on one of the Turkish launches that disintegrated in a white explosion of flame and debris shooting into the air stopped my thoughts for a moment. Then as one we all turned and looked towards the Cyprus coast. Bearing down on us were two SBS Pacific 24 Mark 4 Royal Navy armed launches – the missile had come from one of them; the firepower they had far outclassed the Turkish launches. Our chasers had seen them too, the other launch and skiffs turned for home and the helicopter banked away towards the land.

In a minute the first Pacific drew close by and a smiling face looked down on us from the rail.

‘I might have known it would be you upsetting the neighbours Jonesy, any casualties?’

Jones saluted. ‘No sir, glad to see you, sir.’

He was bloody right there.

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CHAPTER 17

Back at the base on Cyprus we learnt that the Pacifics had been on patrol in international waters looking for people traffickers’ boats coming from Syria when they picked up Williams’s call for assistance.

And that was it – no debriefing, no written statements to do and sign, nothing. Woodward had said I didn’t exist, that I wasn’t there and the powers that be would deny all knowledge of me, but that was par for the course in my N14 days, so no change there.

After a hot shower and a good sleep I wandered down to the restaurant and joined Jones and his crew for a full English breakfast – not as tasty as a Turkish one, but after a day without food it did the job.

‘I don’t know what you were doing in Turkey, Nevis, but you opened up a can of worms.’ Jones spoke between mouthfuls of sausage and fried potato. ‘Whatever you blew up could be seen from the spy satellites – the base is on red alert. You certainly annoyed somebody.’

‘Couldn’t be me – I’m not even here.’

They all laughed.

I was surprised Woodward didn’t ring to congratulate me, but I suppose it was to be expected as the Turks would have increased radio and telephone traffic surveillance in the hope of picking up some evidence of who the bomber was. I gave Gold a call.

‘You still there?’

‘Yes, some cheap hotel with musty bed sheets – lovely.’

‘What about Rambart, any sign of her?’

‘I’ll ring you on a burner.’

‘Okay.’ I closed my phone; she’d ring me back on a disposable burner phone and then ditch it after the call – anybody picking up the call wouldn’t have a chance of tracing it. Can’t be too careful. My phone rang and she was back.

‘The whole place is at fever pitch – we must have knocked out most of their stored armaments. There’s a cafe opposite the Defence Ministry here and I’ve basically taken up residence. Rambart’s been in and out of there  with some high ranking officers. They’re turning over the old town – the rumour on the street and in the daily papers is that it was the Kurds, the PKK.’

‘Right,’ that made sense – Turkey’s main enemy is the Kurdistan Worker’s Party, or PKK; they claim to represent Turkey’s largest ethnic group, the Kurds, who make up twenty percent of the Turkish population. They’ve been battling the Turkish state off and on for some thirty years demanding independence, and if the Turks can blame the PKK for anything they will as it gives them an excuse to crack down on them with superior firepower. Mind you, that firepower would have been a bit diminished now.

‘How long are you staying?’ I asked Gold.

‘A couple more days