‘They’re a few minutes away from the lighthouse,’ said Swift.
Waterman pointed a finger at the front wall. The analyst fed an instruction into the computer and immediately a line of four screens running along one side of the wall flickered on.
The images took a few seconds to coalesce into something intelligible: live feeds of cramped spaces filled with heavily armed men in uniform.
‘We’re relaying through helmet cams.’
A second later a map of a section of coastline around Inverness appeared on a large section of the wall that was still dark. The occupants of the Arena watched transfixed as two flashing blue lights pulsed along a sinewy grey track that hugged the coast.
Two more helmet cams blinked on, relaying feeds from the front seats of the vans. Their views were washed in the green and black of night vision. The vehicles drove without front or rear lights, navigating purely on GPS and the short distance ahead of them that was reclaimed from darkness by the goggles they wore.
The Arena watched as the two trucks moved through the pitch darkness, surrounded by a bubble of green light that only they and the occupants of the front seat could see. The blackness hemmed them in on all sides, lending the bumpy road the feeling of a lunar landscape.
The four monitors running down the left side of the screen relayed the feeds from the helmet cams: Cam One, the front seat of the leading van; Cam Two, the cramped rear; Cam Three, the front seat of the following van; and Cam Four, the rear cabin of the following van.
The views of Cams Two and Four were almost identical: tiny, packed quarters full of assault team officers, luminous pupils shining like cats’ eyes.
‘Patch me through to Myers,’ said Waterman.
Waterman had never met Myers but had reviewed his file. Like the others, he had no dependants. A Scotsman with five years of SAS training and before that two tours in Afghanistan.
Swift nodded, and seconds later an audio link opened, leaking the sounds of weapons being prepared, a chattering chorus of clicks and bolts, into the Arena.
‘It’s Waterman, can you hear me?’
‘Clearly.’
The voice that responded was confident, assured. If Simon Myers had any trepidation about his own battlefield promotion, he wasn’t showing it.
‘Intel led us to this lighthouse. But that could have been intentional. Do you understand what I am saying?’ said Waterman.
‘Yes. We’ll exercise maximum caution,’ came the off-screen reply.
‘Look for trip wires, IEDs. Assume nothing,’ said Waterman. He had begun pacing nervously, tugging at the end of his beard.
The flashing blue dots were almost on top of the lighthouse now. On the map, the building hung precipitously over the edge of a cliff, straddling the powder-blue representation of the sea and the forest green of the land.
‘This is close enough.’ Myers’ voice crackled over the speakers.
Cams Two and Four showed the men in the rear of both vans lurching forwards with the momentum of the sudden stop.
The four cams wobbled and shook as the team prepared for the assault.
Cams Two and Four suddenly went black as the back doors flew open on both vans.
And then they were running.
Cams One and Two showed a pack of men in a tight group, automatic weapons held out in front of them, running to the bottom of a fire escape. In front of them was an emergency exit door, and above them, a metal ladder hung from the suspended grille platform of the fire escape.
Cams Three and Four showed the assault team running across a wide area of tarmac that ringed the perimeter of the tall, cylindrical structure that rose like a finger into the sky. The lighthouse was dark, the beam off, and there was no evidence of occupation.
On Cam Four, the commando at the front of the pack – Myers – could be seen lifting his hand, and the cam plunged down, huddling with the rest of the team in a sudden crouch. For a second, Cam Three twisted its perspective, looking directly at the balaclava-hooded officer carrying Cam Four, a tiny lens mounted on the side of his helmet.
Myers pointed to Cam Four, clenched his fist three times and then pointed at the front door. Two men peeled from the group, wedged a crowbar in the door, then launched their bodies against it, splintering the lock. After two firm but surreptitious shoulder barges, the door gave and creaked open.
On Cams One and Two, an identical operation was unfolding. Two of the assault team were running their fingers along the edges of the metal emergency exit door on the ground floor. One of them silently indicated to the other, who slid the blade of a knife in and jemmied it open. Behind them, one of the unit stepped off the knee of another and caught hold of the bottom of the ladder, lifting himself up.
Cam One now relayed a feed of the ascent up the fire escape metal ladders. On each floor, the camera would swivel sideways, looking through the windows into the gloomy interior. On the cam, the assault officer’s reflection could be seen, machine gun pressed into his shoulder, muzzle tracing an arc around him.
On Cams Three and Four, the leader pointed upwards with two fingers of one hand and tipped them towards the interior of the building. The two feeds from the cameras jiggled as the pack moved quietly forwards. As they stepped over the threshold, the monitors plunged into darkness for a second before night vision washed the screens into deeper hues of green and black.