FRIENDLY FIRE
By Stephen Leather
****
NOVEMBER 2001.
THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES.
For eight hours Spider Shepherd had been lying up in a sand dune overlooking the six-lane highway that slashed through the desert like a knife. It was a moonless night, the blackness dotted with so many stars that looking up made his head spin. He lay motionless, peering through his sniper scope, watching and waiting for any movement in the shadows. To his right, far off in the distance, were the lights of a city and beyond it, close to the sea, the diffused yellow glow of the oil terminals that gave the Gulf state its immeasurable wealth.
To his left, about a hundred yards away, was a clump of small concrete buildings and rusting pick-up trucks. Several of the buildings seemed to have been abandoned but, in some, oil lamps flickered behind wooden shutters. From time to time, Shepherd heard the reedy cry of a sick baby.
‘Target mobile,’ said a voice in his ear. There was a faint double-click in his earpiece as he acknowledged, still peering through his scope towards a jumble of concrete and mud-brick houses flanking a narrow, high-walled passage. The houses were half a mile away, on the other side of the highway, but that wasn’t a worry. The rifle he was using was accurate at well over double that distance.
At first he saw nothing, but then a black-clad figure slipped from the passage, crossed the street and disappeared again into an alley at the far side. Shepherd continued to track the man and focused on his face. ‘Target acquired. Positive ID,’ he murmured into his throat-mic. Shepherd’s memory was photographic and one quick look at the surveillance photograph in his top pocket had been enough.
‘Wait out.’
He saw the shadowy figure disappear and then reappear where the mud brick walls and buildings gave way to the empty scrub and desert beyond the city. There he paused and made a final scan of his surroundings before moving across the open ground towards the road that led from the airport into the city. Tomorrow was the ruler’s birthday and other heads of state, including a representative of the Queen, would be traveling along this road from the airport to the palace. MI6 had come across intel that one of al-Qaeda’s top bomb-makers had arrived in the Gulf state on a mission to attack one of the VIP convoys. The ruler was a close friend of the British Prime Minister and had agreed to allow the SAS to operate in his country, provided the mission remained totally covert.
As he checked out the target through his scope, Shepherd saw he was carrying a mobile phone. It would be the trigger for the massive bomb that two days earlier had been buried at the roadside. There were four oil drums full of explosives and it had taken three men the best part of two nights to dig the hole, taking cover every time they saw headlights heading their way. Now the bomb was buried and ready to be armed and that was the job of the bomb-maker. The three other members of the bomb-maker’s team were being taken out by other teams. There would be no arrests, no trials, no publicity, just three bodies buried deep in the desert.
Slowly, deliberately, he took a series of deep breaths, preparing himself for the shot. The man came to a halt again, peering along the dusty road, then crouched down in the shallow ditch at the roadside. Shepherd murmured into his throat mic. ‘I have the target. Positive ID. Clear engage?’
‘Clear engage. Stand By, Stand By. Fire when ready!’
It had to be a head shot, a clean, instantaneous kill, to stop the bomb-maker activating his device. Shepherd sighted on the bridge of the man’s nose, took up the first pressure on the trigger, then exhaled in a long, slow breath, and squeezed the trigger home. He barely felt the recoil, but the bomber dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Target down,’ said Shepherd.
Two dark shapes emerged from the darkness and ran to the body. One of them turned it over with the toe of his boot. There was no need to check for vital signs. The bullet Shepherd had fired had drilled a neat hole in the bomber’s forehead and punched a fist-sized exit wound in the back of his head.
Shepherd slung his rifle across his back and ran towards the men, just as the dark shape of a Puma helicopter, flying without lights or markings, came skimming in over the sea. As he reached the men, the helicopter went into a hover a couple of feet above the ground, throwing up a whirlwind of dust. Shepherd and the other troopers jumped aboard, dragging the body with them. They were airborne in seconds, flying back towards the sea. When the helicopter was half a mile from land, one of the troopers kicked the body out of the open door. ‘God bless all who sail in her,’ he scowled as the body spun through the air and splashed into the waves far below.
*
Back at base, Shepherd was disassembling his rifle, carefully wrapping the telescope mount and the scope in foam rubber to protect them, and then slipping his scope into his grab bag. He looked up as a grizzled-looking figure in shorts and tee-shirt walked over to him. ‘All right, Spider?’ It was Billy Armstrong. He’d gone through selection with Shepherd five years ago and, like him, was a keen runner. It was Armstrong who had thrown the bomb-maker’s body out of the chopper.
‘Like shooting fish in a barrel… and just about as interesting.’
Armstrong grinned. ‘They tell me the entry hole was an inch and a half northeast of his nose. You’re losing your touch.’
‘And you’d know?’ Shepherd said, laughing. ‘A man who couldn’t hit his own arse with a shovel.’ He rubbed his chin with his hand. He hadn’t shaved in four days. ‘I’ll be glad to get back home,’ he said. ‘Only two more days.’
‘Wishful thinking, mate,’ said Armstrong.
‘What? You’re shitting me.’
‘Fraid not, you’re on your way to Doha.’
‘To do what?’
‘You know better than to ask and, even if I knew, I know better than to tell you, but I’ll bet any money that wherever you are going, it isn’t Hereford.’
‘Are you coming?’
‘Apparently not. They’ve got something for me but they’re being all secret squirrel about it.’
‘When do I go?’
‘You should have left already.’
Shepherd groaned. ‘I need to call my wife. She’s going to hit the roof when she hears this.’
‘No time, Spider. Seriously.’
*
Shepherd flew into the Doha International Air Base, better known as “Camp Snoopy”, later that morning. Twenty years before, Doha had been a small town in a dusty, desert kingdom of Qatar with a lot of oil and not much else. Now it was a city of a million citizens with a cluster of gleaming tower blocks rising out of the desert sands. The American base was next to the international airport and was used as the main jumping-off point for troops and equipment heading into Afghanistan.
Shepherd had had no sleep other than a quick catnap during the two-hour flight, but the adrenaline was pumping as he looked around, taking in the hive of activity. Trucks and forklifts roared across the concrete as crates of ammunition and supplies, and more trucks and armoured vehicles were loaded into giant C5s and C17s. As each was loaded, it taxied out to the end of the runway and took off, its engines belching black fumes as the aircraft laboured upwards under maximum load. Before it was out of sight, the next C5 had taxied into position, ready to begin its own take-off run.
The sprawling base was the hub for the U.S. Central Command (CENTCOM) area of operations that included Iraq and Afghanistan. The invasion of Afghanistan had begun just four weeks earlier and the base was a hive of activity. There were vast areas of concrete hard-standing, acres of toughened hangars and warehouses, shielded by concrete blast walls, and communications centres a
nd control rooms deep below ground in air-conditioned, blast-proof chambers carved out of the solid rock. Above ground there was the usual US base sprawl of McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks and all the other home comforts US forces expected wherever they deployed. It wasn’t like that in the rather more homespun British section, a small corner of the base allocated to the trusted partners in George Bush’s “war on terror”.
As Shepherd stood on the concrete next to the Hercules transport plane, easing the stiffness from his limbs, a Land Rover pulled up. ‘You Shepherd?’ asked the driver, a Geordie lad who looked as if he was barely out of his teens.
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Shepherd. He tossed his kitbag into the back of the Land Rover and climbed in. The driver set off across the airfield towards the SAS sector, a compound within a compound, a functional collection of tents, portacabins, shipping containers and two breeze-block buildings, all surrounded by a double razor-wire fence, and shielded by berms bulldozed out of the sands. Three times on their way across the base, they were flagged down while their ID was examined by gum-chewing men in unbadged combat fatigues.
The driver dropped Shepherd at the gates of the SAS compound and sped off. As Shepherd showed his ID to the guard on the gate, he heard a shout. ‘Spider! They’ve not got you on this Sunday school outing as well?’
One of the group of men sitting on upturned crates and sun-faded chairs next to a shipping container got to his feet with a big grin on his face. He had the typical SAS build: no more than medium height and a body built for endurance rather than raw power. Next to the young troopers who were sitting around him, his lined face and hair flecked with grey made him look even older than his forty years.
‘Fuck me, Spud,’ Shepherd said. ‘I thought you’d be drawing your pension by now.’ Jake ‘Spud’ Edwards had been one of his trainers back at the SAS Stirling Lines camp in Hereford.
‘So did I, Spider, so did I. Turned forty last autumn, got myself a cushy little number back at The Lines, keeping my nose clean and counting down the days till I can jack it in. But there are so many of the Regiment away, with so much kit - and fuck knows what you’re all doing - that even old men like me, and babies like these boys, fresh from Selection - are being shipped out on active service now.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘As long as they can do the job. So… where’re we going then?’
‘Where d’you think?’
‘I’m guessing Afghanistan?’
‘You know what Spider?’ Spud said with a broad grin. ‘You’re not as thick as you look. But take your suncream, we’re going on holiday. The Defence Secretary stood up in the House of Commons the other day and said he doubted if British troops would even fire a single shot.’
He introduced him to the others. There were a couple of other older troopers he knew from previous ops but as Spud had said, the majority were fresh from Selection. There was also a contingent of Paras from the Special Force Support Group Battalion with the usual assortment of tattoos and shaven heads on display.
Spud beckoned to one of the Paras, a young-looking, sandy-haired corporal with a rash of old acne scars across his forehead. ‘This is Lex,’ Spud said.‘He’s going to be your spotter.’
‘What?’ Shepherd said. ‘Why not one of ours?’
Spud shrugged. ‘Not enough men. We’re thin on the ground, remember?’
‘What about Billy? Why’s he sat on his arse over there? He’s spotted for me before.’
Spud shrugged. ‘Ours not to reason why,’ he said. ‘All I know is Lex has been assigned to you.’
Shepherd glanced at Lex. ‘You know what spotters do, Lex?’
‘Bit of a clue in the name, isn’t there?’ he said. He had a Scottish accent and had a habit of thrusting his chin up as if looking for a fight.
‘Up to a point. You’re called a spotter and you may spot targets as well, but your prime role is to have your sniper’s back. My back. You protect me, so I can concentrate on what I’m doing.’
‘I get it,’ said Lex.
‘You’re sure?’ said Shepherd. ‘I have to trust you with my life out there. Literally.’
Lex’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything. As the two men stared at each other, Spud broke the silence. ‘Lex is good, I’ve worked with him before. He’ll be all right, trust me.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Trust me,’ he repeated.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Okay Lex. If Spud says your okay, that’s good enough for me.’
He settled down in a quiet corner, unpacked and sorted his kit and began cleaning his rifle.
Lex walked over and squatted down next to him. ‘That doesn’t look like a standard 7.62.’
‘No, this is the Rolls-Royce of sniper rifles, an Accuracy International .50 cal, made in the UK and going for twenty-three grand a pop.’
‘So what’s so great about it?’
‘It’s state of the art kit. The traditional sniper rifle fires a lighter round with an arcing flight that makes it less accurate. The .50 is heavier and has a flatter trajectory, so it’s a more accurate weapon, and it’s beautifully engineered.’ He flashed Lex a tight smile. ‘How much do you know about the Afghans?’
‘They’re ragheads, that much I know.’
‘They’re just about the toughest fighters in the world, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘And just because we helped them out against the Sovs a few years ago, doesn’t mean we’re best buddies now. We’re invading their country, don’t forget, and they’ve been fighting westerners pretty much non-stop since Queen Victoria was a nipper, so it’s not going to change now. Plus there are a lot of al Qaeda around. So a picnic it definitely won’t be.’ He paused as he checked the action of the rifle.
‘You know what the muj used to do to the Soviet soldiers they captured?’ asked Shepherd. Lex shook his head. ‘First they’d castrate them and then they’d flay the skin from them while they were still alive.’ He shrugged. ‘But you never know, you might be lucky. You might be captured and kept alive - a few Soviets were, some of them for years. It’s like medieval Europe if you’re captured. You become the property of your captor until somebody who outranks them comes along. But I wouldn’t be holding my breath for that. That’s why it’s so important that I know you’ve got my back. Because in Afghanistan there are no POW camps and no Geneva Convention.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ said Lex.
‘You’d better not, that’s all I’m saying.’
*
During the night they flew in a Hercules to Bagram airbase, 25 miles north of Kabul. Built and named by the Russians, it was the only airport in Afghanistan that could accommodate the huge C5 Galaxies that Shepherd had seen taking off from Doha, and one was landing every five minutes. Men swarmed around them unloading ton after ton of supplies, while trucks and armoured vehicles rumbled down the ramps from the vast holds of the aircraft. The night was cold and, fresh from the searing heat of Doha, Shepherd pulled his jacket close around him as Spud, Shepherd, Lex and two other SAS troopers who had joined them walked across the dusty compound and found a place to bed down for the night in a draughty tattered tent.
Everyone was up before dawn and Shepherd, Spud and the others were sitting on folding stools eating their breakfast of naan bread and grapes as they watched the sunrise inching down the western face of the mountains. Shepherd took a sip from his mug of watery instant coffee and grimaced at the taste. ‘Any idea why we’re here?’ he asked Spud.
‘I went to see the Major first thing,’ said Spud. ‘Nothing specific, they just want more bodies on the ground. The Yanks are keen to show that this is a joint effort so they want to embed us in whatever Delta Force are doing.’ He looked up as an Afghan boy approached. He walked with a limp, his left foot twisted inwards. He could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, but the expression in his eyes, so dark they could almost have been black, suggested that he’d seen a lot of life, good and bad. He broke into a broad smile as he caught Shepherd’s eye, ‘Salaam alaykum, Inglisi. You want ciga
rettes?’ He pulled two packs out of his sleeve. ‘Only two dollars.’
Spud glanced up ‘Fuck off kid.’
‘Leave him be, Spud,’ Shepherd said, ‘He’s just trying to make a living, like the rest of us.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘No smokes thanks, kid, but what else have you got?’
‘Anything you want, Inglisi: grapes, mulberries, tea, sugar, songbirds, gold jewelry, a pesh kabz - an Afghan knife - or if you want to dress like an Afghan man, I’ll give you good price on a beautiful salwar kameez. Or I can get you a Kalashnikov. Just tell me and I’ll get it for you.’
‘A Kalashnikov?’
‘Sure. Cheap, too, same price as a half-kilo of sugar.’
Shepherd glanced at Spud. ‘What have we got ourselves into here - a country where you can get a Kalashnikov for the price of a bag of sugar?’
He turned back to the boy. ‘No guns, thanks, and I suppose a decent espresso is out of the question?’
The boy’s face fell. ‘That might be more difficult, but I’ll try.’ He paused. ‘What is espresso?’
‘I’m pulling your chain, but a mint tea would be good.’
‘At once, Inglisi. At once.’ The boy turned and ran off as fast as his limp would allow. Shepherd shouted after him ‘And go easy on the sugar, no more than six spoons, okay?
‘Be careful with the locals, Spider,’ said Spud. ‘You don’t know who you can trust.’
‘He’s a kid.’
‘They use kids as suicide bombers here.’
‘He’s okay,’ said Shepherd.
‘That’s a dad talking, isn’t it?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘How’s your boy? What is he, four?’
‘Four next birthday,’ said Shepherd.
‘Never wanted kids,’ said Spud. ‘Or a wife. Didn’t want anything or anyone to tie me down.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘How’s the lovely Sue?’
Shepherd put a hand to his forehead. ‘Shit, I still have to call her,’ he said. ‘She’s expecting me back this week.’
‘Talk to the Major, he might let you use his sat-phone,’ said Spud. ‘Still giving you grief, is she?’
Friendly Fire (A Spider Shepherd short story) Page 1