by Damien Lewis
“What is this other building?” Zahid asked, confusedly. “Who is there? Is it Americans, too?”
I gave an exhausted shrug. “I’ve no idea.”
He stared at me for a long second like he didn’t believe me.
“Zahid, mate, I do not know. Whatever that place is I’ve never even been there.”
“Then shall we go take a look at what is happening?” Zahid suggested. “I can phone the person who alerted me and we can get directions.”
I shook my head, emphatically. “No bloody thanks. We’ve got enough problems at the Mission without getting into another cluster fuck.”
Zahid shrugged. “So what next?”
“I tell you what’s next,” I shot back at him. “Let’s go to the Mission. Let’s fucking go there! Now!”
Zahid’s eyes grew wide: “To the Mission? Are you sure? But there are hundreds of bad people up there.”
“You know what—I don’t care anymore. Let’s go.”
After discovering the Ambassador’s corpse I just had to know the truth. I had to know about the rest of my American brothers, and the only way to know for sure would be to go see for myself. I didn’t think that I’d get in and out of the Mission alive, but I owed it to my buddies at least to try.
Zahid told Hamid to set a course for the Embassy.
The die was cast. I was going back in.
And now that the decision had been made I felt suffused with this strange, all-encompassing calm.
Zahid and Hamid were the cover to get me close enough in the car and to help me blend in. From there I’d be going ahead alone. I wished I had some of my buddies from the world of private soldiering with me—maybe Shane, my ex–Paratroop Regiment mate; Cat, who was ex–Royal Green Jackets; and Ceri, who was ex–Welsh Guards. Guys alongside whom I’d worked and fought hard in Iraq and Afghanistan. With four or five top guys and some good weaponry—Colt Diemaco assault rifles, M49 SAW light machine guns, and a shitload of grenades—we’d stand a half-decent chance.
But right now it was me alone with one pistol and I’d have to think very differently. Instead of going in all guns blazing, I’d be a lone operator going over the wall covertly. I’d head for the gym insertion point hidden away on the northeast corner of the compound. It would be dark there, and once inside I’d have the advantage of knowing the ground like the back of my hand. I’d pause on the rooftop and survey the compound, and maybe I’d spot Dave, Scotty, and the others still fighting—what I was hoping and praying for. That at least would give me a point to head for.
As I approached the Mission for the second time in the one night the entire sky above it was lit up a fiery orange. It seemed as if there was a massive bonfire burning inside the compound. I told Zahid to bring us in from the northeast, to try to get me close to the point where I planned to go over the wall. We neared the final corner and there were vehicles everywhere blocking the road.
I told Zahid to stop. “Park up. Get in among those vehicles where you won’t stand out. I’m walking in from here.”
Zahid got Hamid to pull over. “Morgan, let me go ahead and see,” he volunteered. “Just to where I can see the main gate.”
I knew that Zahid would blend in on the streets, and that he was clever enough to talk his way out of trouble. He was gone for a good minute, during which time I rechecked the Browning and the mags. Zahid came back looking pale and visibly shaken. He slid back into the vehicle.
“Morgan, everything is burning,” he told me, his eyes wide with shock. “Everything. And there are gunmen everywhere. Hundreds of them.”
I shrugged. It was nothing that we didn’t know already. For a moment I considered trying to brazen it out and walk through the front gate, with Zahid at my side for company. My “local” look might well get me through. But all it would take was one word of a challenge from the bad guys and I’d be dead, plus Zahid would be in a whole world of trouble. No: it was best to stick to Plan A. I asked Hamid to wait in the vehicle ready for my call, while Zahid tried to find out whatever intel he could on the Americans.
“Right, it’s shit-or-bust time,” I announced, speaking more to myself than the guys. “Let’s get going.”
I checked the pistol one last time, making sure I had a round chambered, and tucked it into my belt at the back. I had the two spare mags in different pockets so they didn’t clank against each other as I walked or scaled the wall. I switched my cell phone to silent mode. That was it: ready. I told the guys to wait for my call and slid out of the vehicle.
I set off on foot into the semidarkness. I was hoping to blend in with all the gunmen and killers who were milling about in the wild, flame-illuminated chaos. I flitted through the darkest parts of the streets, boots crunching on the gravel road underfoot as I went. I could hear long bursts of gunfire sparking off from inside the compound, but still I didn’t know if this was a two-way battle going on, or if it was the Shariah murderers “celebrating” their “victory.”
All around me the air was thick with smoke and it reeked of the smell of burning rubber. The sky above the compound was burnished a violent, boiling orange. Making like a local and sticking to the darkest areas, I got to my intended entry point without being challenged. My heart leapt: there near the wall was an old oil drum, something that the construction crews had used for mixing cement. It was exactly what I needed to give me a leg up over the twelve-foot-high perimeter.
I rolled it closer, until I had it right against the wall. I climbed onto it and reached for the top. The apex of the wall was just out of reach so I bent at the knees, sprang upward, and made a grab for it. My hands made contact with the tiles that formed the flat upper surface of the wall, and I held fast, dangling there for an instant or two. Then I was pulling myself upward and a moment later I had my elbows hooked over the apex of the wall.
A roll of razor wire was right in my face, topping off the security fence that ran just inside the wall. I used my hands to push the razor wire backward so as to give myself enough room to get my body onto the top of the wall. I managed to get myself up there squeezed into a crouch, but I knew I couldn’t afford to delay. I was silhouetted, and someone was bound to see me. I knew where the outhouse/gym roof was in theory, though in the pitch dark I could barely make it out.
I made a guesstimate as to the distance and jumped. I sailed over the razor wire, landed awkwardly on the flat roof, and sank down low. I was hoping that the noise of my arrival had been drowned out by the gunfire. I was down in the prone position and stayed down, taking my time to make sure that no one had seen me. I strained my ears, listening hard for any cries of alarm, but there were none. All I could hear were the sharp bursts of gunfire reverberating through the darkness.
Cautiously, I lifted my head so I could peer inside. I could not believe the scene that met my eyes. Everywhere I looked the compound was aflame. It was like a scene from some movie, like it wasn’t for real. This was the place that I’d worked so hard at guarding and protecting for six long months, and now it was completely finished. Everything that could burn was being burned to the ground.
Right in front of me was a small patch of orchard, but on the far side of that lay the Mission’s canteen—or at least what had once been the canteen. Right now the entire complex was awash with flame. Even at such a distance the heat on my face was intense: burning hot. Great showers of sparks and glowing embers kept whooshing up into the sky like erupting volcanoes. The canteen roof was still intact, but otherwise the place was in the process of being burned out completely.
I flicked my eyes farther westward. The main body of Shariah fighters was on the far side of the compound, and from my vantage point I could just see them milling around in the distance. I felt talons of fear ripping at my guts: that was where I had to get to, for that was where the VIP Villa was situated—the last known location of Dave, Scotty, Sean, and the others.
I got my head down again. Stay up too long and I’d be spotted.
My heart was thumping like a mac
hine gun, and I could feel the fear monster slavering in my stomach. The voice was back in my head again: Go any further, Morgan, and you’re dead. I was having difficulty breathing—whether from the heat, the smoke, or the sheer animal panic I wasn’t sure. No ifs or buts, I was shit scared now. But I forced the voice of terror to shut it, and I peered over the edge of the roof to scope the way forward.
The ground below seemed close enough and clear of obstructions. I turned around, hung my legs over, lowered myself, and dropped the last six feet or so. I was thinking: It’ll be just my luck if I twist an ankle. But I landed on the concrete fine, the soles of my desert boots making a soft plop. I scurried across the few yards of open dirt to the orchard and got into its cover. I stayed low for a good minute, hidden among the darkness and the foliage.
Still, there was no particular shouting or yelling in my direction, and no gunfire apart from the odd stray round. It seemed as if I hadn’t yet been seen. I tapped the bulge at my back a couple of times, to make sure the Browning had survived the clamber over the wall. Thank God the pistol was still there. Being an older design of weapon, the Browning is a heavy lump of solid steel, as opposed to a modern Glock, which is mostly lightweight plastic.
Whether from the heat, the fear, or the adrenaline I was sweating bucket loads. It was dripping into my eyes. I wiped them clear and started to move at a low crouch. I made my way slowly through the orchard, tracking due west in the direction of the main gate. Even here, in among the shelter of the trees, I could feel hot blasts of fire breath gusting past me. The wind kept blowing thick ash and choking black smoke into my face.
A savage burst of gunfire rippled through the air. I froze. Was that some Shariah fighter targeting me? I couldn’t seem to get my legs to move anymore. Come on, you bastard, move. I kept telling myself that I had to move more quickly, or I was in danger of crapping out and losing my nerve completely. Come on, Morgan: Your friends might still be in there fighting for their lives. Get moving.
I reached the edge of the trees, and just to my south the TOC hove into view. This was where the Embassy’s sensitive communications equipment, documents, computer gear, and weaponry had been stored. The building was a mass of burning, flames licking out of windows and gutted doorways. I could smell gasoline in the air, and I figured the attackers must have used it as an accelerant to firebomb the buildings.
This was pure and utter savagery. If any of my American friends had still been in there mounting a last-ditch resistance, they’d have been burned alive by now.
I’d crossed maybe a quarter of the Embassy grounds, and still I hadn’t been spotted—but I’d done it all from the cover of the orchard. Ahead of me the canteen block was a raging inferno, gouts of flame licking out yellow and hungry from the windows. All around me the leaves on the trees had been scorched black from the heat, and the ground was crunchy with ash underfoot.
I crouched lower in the cover of the trees, as figures darted back and forth silhouetted by the firelight: Shariah Brigade gunmen. Some were passing no more than a dozen yards away from where I lay in the shadows. The wind was blowing the smoke and flame eastward, so away from me, but if it changed direction I was going to get roasted. I’d seen enough here anyway: anyone in either the canteen block or the TOC would have been burned out, killed, or captured by the enemy.
I turned toward the west—the direction of the VIP Villa. The smoke was thick and getting into my throat and my eyes. I heard gunshots, and wild chanting. I could make out the odd cry of “Allahu akbar”—God is great!—but the rest was gibberish to me. What I didn’t know was whether the gunfire was actual fighting still, or the Shariah killers dragging out the surviving Americans—or maybe even their corpses—for their sick celebrations.
If it was fighting, there was just a chance that my buddies might still be alive. The very thought spurred me on. I forced myself to break cover. I flitted across a short patch of open ground leading from the orchard to the bushes that lined the nearby wall—the one that divided the Embassy compound into two. I made for its cover, caught my breath for an instant, and then began to track south along the wall’s edge. I was darting from one patch of cover to another—that provided by the dense, ornamental-type bushes lining the wall.
I could hear more gunfire and yelling coming from the opposite side of the wall now—the direction in which I was heading. Whatever was happening, the Shariah fighters were working themselves up into some kind of crazed frenzy. I dashed forward to another patch of cover and felt my boot collide with something soft and hollow-sounding. I crouched lower and saw that it was a body.
Fearing the worst—God forbid, my second dead American— I moved in so I could peer into the corpse’s face. Half the head was missing, from where it had been blown apart by gunfire. In my head I congratulated Scotty and Dave: nice shooting. The dead Shariah gunman still had an AK-47 clutched in his hand. I glanced at it for a second before reaching down and scooping it up. It was a good piece of firepower, and it was great for the disguise. Bushy beard, baseball cap, and AK: who would ever know that I wasn’t one of the Shariah killers now.
I pushed south, sticking to the cover of the wall. The wild shooting and yelling from the direction of the VIP Villa was growing more extreme by the second. The voices didn’t even sound human anymore. I’d come across this Arabic gang mentality before—where they work themselves up into a murderous frenzy against “the infidel.” If they found me here I had zero doubt what they would do to me: if they took me alive they would tear me limb from limb.
I had to presume a good number of their fighters had headed over to join the battle at the Annex. But from what I could hear and from the volume of the gunfire, they were still very much in residence at what remained of the Embassy. Was this Shariah fighters doing battle with the Americans, I wondered, or was there someone else here that they were now fighting? There was only one way to find out: keep pushing south, and get eyes on the VIP Villa itself.
I kept going nice and low to the end of the wall, squeezing myself between the vegetation and the blockwork. Every second I was tensing to hear a challenge ring out in Arabic, or for bullets to smash into the masonry at my side. I couldn’t believe I had made it this far. Using the wall as cover, I’d traversed more than half the length of the compound seemingly without being seen.
The very idea that an American, or a friend of the Americans, might have penetrated the compound had to be anathema to the bad guys, for they didn’t seem to have any of their number standing guard. But presumption is the mother of all fuckups, as they say in the military. I had to remain one hundred percent vigilant.
In any case, what I’d done so far was the easy part. Ahead of me lay the most dangerous leg of my mission. To get eyes on the VIP Villa I had to cross over the side track—the one that branched off the main driveway and ran to the TOC—and push into the open ground to the west of there. I’d then try to get into the vineyard or the rear orchard, depending on how far north I’d drifted as I made my way through. Either way, I was going to be totally exposed as I crossed over that dirt driveway.
I paused at the edge of the cover and took a good look around. There were dozens of gunmen directly to my west—maybe thirty or forty yards away. Several were dressed in traditional Afghan-style robes and headdress, but none seemed to have noticed me yet. I figured if they did see me they weren’t close enough to realize that I wasn’t one of theirs. I had no option but to bluff it. A mad dash across the driveway was sure to draw attention—and then they’d come hunting. A slow easy stroll was the only way to do it.
I straightened up from my crouch position and took a step into the open. All around me the Shariah gunmen seemed too hyped up and high on their “victory” to notice my presence. I forced myself to walk slowly across the expanse of track, as if I had all the time in the world. But I was feeling neither cool nor calm. My pulse was hammering away, and inside me I tensed for a bullet. I forced myself to keep moving, putting one foot in front of the other, and then
I’d slipped into the cover of the trees on the far side.
I went down low again. I was right smack in the center of the Mission compound now—in the heart of the savagery, the burning, and the chaos. A thought struck me: God, but it was going to be a long way out again.
I made the cover of a row of dog kennels, which were just to the front of the orchard—the ones that should have had guard dogs in them, had the State Department listened to any of our demands, instead of denying them. I hunkered down behind one and tried to get my breathing and my heart rate under control again.
Right now I needed a few seconds’ breather. The kennels were made of concrete and designed for big, ferocious German shepherds. I crawled inside one, the concrete walls providing both cover from view and reasonable cover from fire. In here I was relatively safe. I leaned back against the wall, brushed the rivulets of sweat from my face, and tried to get my breathing under control again.
I knew I’d have to show myself and move forward, for I still couldn’t get eyes on the VIP Villa, which was my key objective. Vicious stabs of gunfire echoed across to me. Maybe Scotty, Dave, and the others were still in action, taking out yet more of the bad guys. If they were, how was I going to approach them? I had to link up with them somehow. If I saw the guys still fighting I’d try to call them on the cell phone. I couldn’t think of anything else I could do.
I hefted the assault rifle and prepared to move. At least I had a proper weapon now—the scavenged AK-47—plus several mags. I risked movement. I crawled out of the kennel, stood, and walked “calmly” out of cover and into the glaring light thrown off by the fires burning all to my front.
Finally, the VIP Villa hove into view.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For the barest moment my heart leapt for joy. At first glance the VIP Villa seemed more or less untouched, for there were no flames visible. Maybe Dave, Scotty, and the rest had managed to fight the attackers off? But then I saw why there were no flames anymore. The Villa windows were fire-blackened and gutted. The inferno here had been so intense it had burned itself out almost completely. Even the villa beyond it—the one that had housed the so-called QRF, the Quick Runaway Force—was a blackened, burned-out, gutted ruin.