Tall Order

by Stephen Leather

  There were wisps of cloud but it was easy to see the figures on the ground far below. The RPA was heading towards the cave complex, though it was too dark to see inside. Some distance away from the cave entrance there were a couple of dozen men exercising, doing a combination of press-ups, sit-ups and star jumps.

  Another dozen or so men were lining up and being taught how to use an AK-47. Despite the fact that the RPA was at thirty thousand feet the images were crystal clear and Shepherd could even make out the curved magazines. Most of the men were wearing baggy trousers and long shirts, though several had the long thawb robes. Most used scarves to protect their heads from the fierce Afghan sun, which made identification difficult, as did the fact that most of the men had beards.

  Martin’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the men on the screen. Shepherd didn’t say anything. There was no point – either Martin would recognise Khaled among the fighters and instructors or he wouldn’t. Nothing he could say would make any difference to the process.

  The RPA did a slow circuit. The camera zoomed in and out without Exley touching the keyboard or controls and Shepherd realised the changes had been made by the original pilot. He leaned towards Exley.

  ‘Anita, what’s the story with zooming in and panning? Can we do that with the recording?’

  She shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not,’ she said. ‘What we can do is freeze and then zoom in on the still. That produces quite good results. But other than that, what we see is what we get.’

  Shepherd pulled up a small stool and watched the footage from behind the pilot and Martin. The resolution was awesome, way better than anything they had in the Super-Recogniser Unit.

  ‘This pass is interesting. They were giving a demonstration of a suicide vest and we got a terrific view of it,’ said Exley.

  Shepherd leaned forward.

  The RPA was on a different approach this time, heading towards the cave entrances from the side. The pilot who had made the run had spotted a gathering of half a dozen fighters standing around a portly man with a straggly beard. They were standing around another man but as the RPA approached the gathering Shepherd could see that it was a shop dummy, all white with a head that was featureless except for a nose. The older man was arranging a vest on the dummy, fastening straps and adjusting wiring. The camera zoomed in on the group.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Martin.

  Shepherd stood up. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No doubt. No fucking doubt in my mind.’

  The camera pulled back as the older man led the young fighters away from the dummy. They walked maybe a hundred yards and then gathered behind an earth embankment. The older man was holding something, presumably a transmitter. The camera had pulled back so that they could see both the group of fighters and the dummy with the vest. The man pressed the transmitter and almost immediately the dummy exploded and a cloud of dust mushroomed above it. The fighters emerged from behind the embankment and began jumping up and down and hugging each other. The older man stood watching them.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Martin. ‘A bit heavier but I’d recognise him anywhere.’

  ‘The resolution isn’t that great,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think even I’d be able to recognise him from that picture.’

  ‘It’s him,’ said Martin.

  ‘Anita, can we get some stills?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Close-ups on the face and full body.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the pilot.

  Martin twisted around in his seat. ‘Now what? Can we use a drone to blow him to Kingdom Come?’ he asked.

  ‘They don’t come out much,’ said Exley. ‘We were fortunate to get these pictures. We might get lucky again if we went on a kill mission, but it would be a matter of luck. A targeted drone strike isn’t really an option. Not if you want to be sure.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Martin asked Shepherd.

  ‘That decision is above my pay grade,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I’ll find out.’ He looked over at Exley. ‘That was a week ago, right? Is that guy in any of the more recent footage you have?’

  ‘There are no suicide vest demonstrations but there are several tuition sessions going on outside. I can show you what we have.’

  ‘Get started with Dean,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a call to make.’

  Shepherd went outside and called Patsy Ellis on his mobile. Her assistant put him on hold for less than ten seconds before putting him through.

  ‘What’s the story, Dan?’ she asked.

  ‘Khaled is there,’ said Shepherd. ‘At least he was a week ago. We’re going to start looking at more recent footage.’

  ‘Can we carry out a drone strike?’

  ‘I’d say not,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s in the caves most of the time. There’s no guarantee that an RPA would be there at the time he comes out.’

  ‘RPA?’

  ‘Sorry, that’s what they call drones. Remotely-piloted aircraft.’

  ‘Why don’t they call them drones?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe because they don’t want us to lose sight of the fact that they are being piloted. But they are touchy about it.’

  ‘Okay, so if we can’t do it remotely, we’re going to have to go in and get him, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s an alternative.’

  ‘And we definitely need this American? Dean Martin?’

  ‘The drone pictures aren’t clear enough to make a positive ID,’ said Shepherd. ‘I could have a stab at it, but I’d never be a hundred per cent certain. But Martin remembers him. So the short answer is, yes. We need him.’

  ‘What shape is he in?’

  ‘Physically he’s looking good. As fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog. Are you thinking of sending him in to make an ID? He’s been out of Special Forces for more than ten years.’

  ‘He’d only be there as an observer,’ said Ellis.

  ‘I’m not sure an SAS hit-squad would want a passenger along,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Ellis. ‘Why not take him up to Hereford and put him through his paces? I’ll arrange transport and make sure they’re expecting you.’

  Shepherd opened his mouth to reply but the line went dead in his ear.

  Chapter 72

  Present Day, Hereford

  T he flight from RAF Waddington to the SAS’s base in Hereford took just over thirty minutes with the Augusta A109E Power helicopter flying close to its maximum speed of two hundred miles an hour. The helicopter was part of the RAF’s Command Support Air Transport unit at 32 Squadron, tasked with moving senior military commanders and government ministers around the UK and Europe. It was considerably more luxurious than the helicopters Shepherd had been ferried around in during his SAS days; the seats were padded with comfortable headrests and there was a cup holder close at hand, and pristine over-the-ear headphones allowed him and Martin to listen in to the radio traffic.

  The helicopter circled the camp once and then landed. Shepherd grinned as he climbed out and saw a familiar face standing by the side of a sand-coloured Land Rover. It was Major Allan Gannon, his former CO and a long-standing friend. The major was wearing desert fatigues and had a Glock on his hip. He had grown a beard and his skin was tanned, which suggested he’d been in sunnier climes. Shepherd jogged over, bent low even though the still-spinning rotors of the Augusta were well above his head.

  He straightened up as he reached the major and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Good to see you, Spider,’ said the major. He was a couple of inches taller than Shepherd, broad-shouldered with a square jaw and a nose that had been broken at least twice.

  ‘And you, boss. Thanks for arranging this at such short notice.’

  He turned and introduced Martin. ‘This is Dean. Former Navy SEAL. We need to get him mission ready.’

  The major shook hands with Martin. ‘Well, you’re in the right place,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you some gear and get started.’

  He climbed into the Land Rover. Shepherd got in
next to him and Martin jumped into the back.

  ‘You’ve been overseas, boss?’

  ‘The suntan’s a clue, is it?’ laughed Gannon. ‘The regiment is so stretched at the moment that even old war horses like me are seeing action,’ he said. ‘Purely in an advisory role, of course.’

  Their first call was to pick up fatigues and webbing belts, and once Shepherd and Martin were suitably dressed the major drove them to the armoury. He parked and took them inside. Sergeant Peter Simpson was waiting for them behind his counter. He was grey-haired and stocky, wearing desert fatigues. Simpson was a Loggy, a member of the Royal Logistics Corps, and had been in charge of the armoury since before Shepherd had joined the regiment.

  ‘Bloody hell, Spider Shepherd,’ said Simpson in his gruff Geordie accent. ‘Can’t keep you away.’

  ‘Spider?’ repeated Martin.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Which ends with our man here eating a live tarantula in the jungle for no other reason than to prove that he could,’ laughed Simpson. ‘So how can I help you gentlemen today?’

  The major stepped forward. ‘We’re just going to put the guys through their paces,’ he said. ‘What do you want, Spider?’

  When Spider had been with the SAS his weapon of choice had been the MP5 but the Heckler and Koch carbine was now dated and the regiment preferred to use the Belgium-made self-loading SCAR rifle or the Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle.

  ‘I’ll take the HK416,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A good choice,’ said Simpson.

  ‘It’s a nice weapon,’ agreed Martin. ‘But me, I always preferred the 417.’

  ‘Ah, a Yank,’ said Simpson. ‘You guys used 416s to take down Bin Laden, but I agree, you get more of a punch with the 417.’

  The HK416 and HK417 had similar internal workings but the HK417 had an enlarged receiver to take the larger 7.62mm round.

  The major wrinkled his nose. ‘The 417 has a better range, greater accuracy and better penetration, but it has a lower rate of fire and you don’t get as many cartridges in the magazine.’ He shrugged. ‘But horses for courses.’

  ‘So you’d like a 417?’ Simpson asked Martin.

  Martin grinned. ‘This might sound crazy, but I’d prefer an AK-47.’

  The major raised an eyebrow. ‘Old school. I like it.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, during training and on exercises I’d always take a 417, but as soon as I hit the Sandbox I’d pick up an AK-47. With a beard and a suntan and a Kalashnikov on my back I’d pass for a local. A 417 is a giveaway, every time. The AK-47s never jam, and there’s ammunition and clips everywhere you look. Plus, if you fire the AK, anyone will think it’s a local firing. If they hear a Heckler, they know it’s us.’

  Shepherd nodded in agreement. When he had been with the SAS in Afghanistan he’d often taken a Kalashnikov as his weapon of choice.

  ‘Camouflage,’ said the major. ‘You’re preaching to the converted.’ He nodded at Simpson. ‘So, a 416 for Spider and an AK-47 for our friend from America.’

  Simpson took them down a corridor lined with wire-mesh cages. He unlocked one and took out an HK416, which he gave to Shepherd, then opened another cage filled with battle-scarred AK-47s. He waved for Martin to make his choice. Martin took one from the middle rack, checked the action, looked down the barrel and into the receiver, and nodded.

  ‘Good choice,’ said Simpson. ‘The guys brought that one back from Sierra Leone. Used to belong to a child soldier. Thirteen years old and he had more than fifty kills to his name, they say.’ He locked the cage. ‘And for you, boss?’

  The major shook his head. ‘I’m good,’ he said. ‘I’ve fired more than enough rounds over the last month.’

  They went outside and climbed into Gannon’s Land Rover with their weapons and ammunition and he drove them the short distance to the outdoor firing range. He parked by the entrance. There was already a red flag fluttering from a flagpole, showing that the range was in use, and as they headed for the door there was the dull thud of a carbine being fired on full automatic.

  There were two men on the range, both wearing desert camouflage trousers and T-shirts. Shepherd recognised one of the men – Chris ‘Happy’ Hawkins. He was in his early twenties with unkempt red hair and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. His colouring and hair meant that he rarely worked undercover in the Middle East. His chances of passing himself off as an Arab were slim to none, with the emphasis on none.

  Hawkins strode over, transferred an HK416 to his left hand and shook hands with Shepherd. ‘How the hell are you, Spider?’

  ‘All good,’ he said.

  ‘You putting on weight?’

  ‘I’m flying a desk at the moment,’ said Shepherd, patting his stomach. ‘But it’s only temporary. I hope.’

  Hawkins looked over at Martin. ‘He looks in good shape.’

  Shepherd grinned. Hawkins was one of the few gay members of the regiment, at least one of the few who openly admitted their sexuality. While he came in for a lot of good-natured ribbing no one really cared what he did in his spare time or who he did it with. The soldiers of the SAS cared about only one thing and that was doing the job – everything else was secondary.

  ‘Dean, Dean Martin, like the singer,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘With the same smouldering Italian looks,’ said Hawkins, only half joking. He went over and introduced himself, and the two men shook hands. Hawkins looked at the Kalashnikov. ‘You okay with that?’

  ‘My weapon of choice,’ said Martin.

  The major strode over. ‘We just need to put Dean through his paces here and then we’ll do a couple of drills in the CGB room,’ he said to Hawkins. ‘Do me a favour and put up some fresh targets.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  The range was bog-standard and basic, with no frills at all. The ground was grass, the targets were pinned up on boards in front of a sandbag wall to absorb the rounds and it was open to the air. The SAS trained there in all weathers, for hours on end. The average infantryman might shoot a few hundred rounds in his entire career; the average SAS trooper expended that many in an hour. Hawkins pinned up four fresh targets and walked back.

  ‘Want to go first, Spider?’ asked the major with a sly grin. ‘See if flying a desk has made you lose your edge.’

  Shepherd grinned back but felt a lot less confident than he looked. He looked at the target on the far right, a jihadist in a headscarf sighting down the barrel of a Kalashnikov. The target was fifty yards away, not a difficult shot under non-combat conditions, but it had been more than a year since he had held a carbine and he hadn’t been given a chance to check the sights. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, slipped his finger over the trigger, sighted and squeezed off two shots. He was aiming between the eyes but both shots went low, thudding into the neck. He raised his aim and fired two more shots. These were at the height of the nose but to the left, missing the head completely. He aimed to the right and the next two shots were in the forehead. He fired off three more double taps and then lowered his weapon.

  ‘Not bad,’ said the major, unenthusiastically.

  Shepherd just nodded; there was no point in offering excuses. Everyone knew that he was firing the weapon for the first time, but he could see that the grouping wasn’t great.

  ‘Let’s see what the new guy can do,’ said Hawkins, patting Martin on the shoulder.

  Shepherd moved back to the trestle tables at the rear of the range where there was a coffee urn and a stack of mugs. He poured himself a coffee. The major joined him and Shepherd gave him the mug and poured himself another.

  Martin took up position opposite the target on the right side. He weighed the AK-47 in his hands. Shepherd wondered when he’d last held a weapon. Hawkins was talking softly to Martin and the American was listening intently and nodding.

  ‘Former SEAL?’

  ‘But he’s been out for twelve years or so.’

  ‘There are good SEALs and mediocre SE
ALs,’ said Gannon. ‘At any one time there are close to two thousand five hundred of the buggers. The regiment’s full strength is six hundred so obviously their standards have to be lower. They want the regiment to double the size but we can’t get enough men through Selection. And we’re refusing to allow them to drop our standards. That would be the beginning of the end.’

  Hawkins stepped behind Martin and the American shouldered the AK-47 and began firing quickly. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. After six rapid shots he transferred the weapon to the opposite shoulder in a smooth movement and fired off another six shots.

  Gannon looked at Shepherd and nodded appreciatively. ‘Nice moves,’ he said.

  Shepherd nodded in agreement. Firing from both shoulders was a necessary skill in Special Forces. When firing behind cover it was a big help to be able to shoot from either shoulder, but it was a skill that had to be learned through practice. Firing from the off shoulder felt awkward at first and it took dozens of hours before the movement would become automatic. Either Martin had been secretly practising or he was a natural.

  Shepherd went over to join Martin and Hawkins, who were discussing the merits of the AK-47 as compared with the AK-74. Martin’s aim was impressive; two tight groups either of which could have been covered with a teacup.

  ‘Nice shooting, Dean,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I don’t think we need do any more work here,’ said the major. ‘Your eye is fine. Let’s move on to some close quarter battle training.’

  They left the range and piled back into the Land Rover. The major drove them over to the Close Quarter Battle training facility. It was a single-storey building with an indoor firing range and a large room that had been fitted out as a practice area. The SAS had a high-tech two-storey complete killing house at a secret location a short drive from the Credenhill barracks, most of it underground so it wouldn’t appear on Google Maps. It was a continuing source of annoyance to the Head Sheds of the regiment that anyone with access to the Internet could get high-resolution satellite images of every inch of the barracks and a perfect view of the entrance from the company’s Street View program.