Bloody Heroes

by Damien Lewis

  While the rest of the men settled down to rest, Mat goaded Sam into one last effort. He wanted Sam to help him do a quick recce of the OP. They needed to check if there were any signs of human presence in the region: hidden pathways, a makeshift shelter, a goat track even. If there were, they would have to search for another, more secure location. Sam had also offered to be the comms man on the team, and Mat wanted him to do a quick comms check of their position. There was no point in choosing this location for the OP unless it had good reception for the radio and satcoms. Mat and Sam spent five minutes doing a quick walkabout. As far as they could see, there was no sign of human presence at the OP and their signal strength appeared to be excellent.

  Mat also wanted a chance to be alone with Sam so he could check on his welfare. While the other lads were suffering, none of them – CIA Bob included – had complained about the gruelling climb. If anything, they’d chosen to make light of it. Only Sam had vocalised his discomfort – and from what Mat knew of him this was completely out of character. Mat suspected that the British Army bergen Sam’d been carrying had really cut into his shoulders. If so, it was Mat’s duty as the team medic to make sure his injuries were treated properly. Sam had refused to complain about the bergen until it was too late and he was just as likely to refuse to ask for medical help now.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ Mat ventured. Despite their exhaustion, it was a joy just to be relieved of the massive weight of their packs. ‘Seems like you were suffering honkin’ bad back there.’

  ‘Sure, bro, I’m fine,’ Sam replied, as he turned to face his fellow soldier. Sam was almost a full head taller than Mat, but he didn’t let that fool him into thinking that he was any the tougher because of it. Mat was squat and solid as a rock, and he’d more than proven his endurance on the climb. Sam didn’t doubt that Mat’s pack, which was laden down with all the photographic gear, would prove to be the heaviest of the lot of them if they ever checked. He rolled his shoulders. ‘It’s just that goddam backpack, you know. It beat the crap out of my shoulders big time, bro.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought as much. Listen, you got to let me take a look at that, OK? You leave it untreated, those cuts could fester bad and infect your blood. Six days from now you could have septicaemia and you’ll be buggered. There’s little chance of getting you medevacced at this altitude, is there, mate?’

  ‘You got it, big man,’ Sam replied, with a smile. ‘Appreciate the concern, bro. Say, what is it with you Brits anyways and all this “yomping” shit? Couldn’t hear none of you guys complaining. It’s, like, weird – I mean, you guys enjoy this shit, or somethin’?’

  ‘Look, mate, you’re as fit as any of us, make no bloody mistake about it. It’s just that we do a lot of this shit, specially in the Boot Necks – the Royal Marines, that is. The Paras too. Gets to be sort of automatic after a while, mate.’

  ‘Bitch, I ain’t never done nothin’ like this before in my life,’ Sam said, shaking his head in bemusement. ‘And I ain’t got no desire to start learnin’ now. SEALs just don’t do this sort of shit, period.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t over yet, mate, cos you’re going to have to get back down the bloody mountain again. Look, it’s mainly just psychological. With us lot it’s cos we done it before that we know we can do it again. Plus none of us had the bergen from hell, did we, mate? Anyhow, truth be told all of us found that tough. At this altitude, with all that weight? Bloody honkin’ filthy it was. We just cracked on with it cos we had to.’

  ‘Really? You guys made it look like a goddam walk in the park.’

  ‘Bloody take a look at us, mate. Bloody hanging out of our hoops we are. Just we ain’t saying it.’

  ‘Bro, what in God’s name is “hanging out of our hoops”?’

  ‘Means we’re shagged, mate. Knackered. Wanked out. Bollocksed. Cream-crackered. Buggered. Hanging out of our hoops. You name it, mate, we’re feeling it.’

  The patrol’s OP consisted of a flat patch of bare, rocky earth just large enough for seven men to sleep on, surrounded by a series of massive boulders. Over and above this was a tangled thicket of pine trees that helped keep their position hidden from prying eyes. The northern end of the OP dropped away abruptly into an all but sheer escarpment, plunging some several thousand feet down into the Naka Valley. This gave a perfect vantage point from which to observe goings-on in the target area. During the day this viewpoint would be manned by two members of Mat’s team – so that they could keep two sets of eyes on target. The only entrance to the OP was located at the southern end where a man could just squeeze himself between two boulders. Three claymore mines were bedded into the ground guarding that entrance point – just in case they had any unwanted visitors.

  There was a view southwards into a gorge on the other side of the ridge, which ran parallel to the Naka Valley. It had a river snaking along the valley floor. Although the gorge was too steep and inhospitable to be permanently inhabited, Mat knew that any river would be a magnet for goatherds who would bring their animals there to drink. That much had been explained to him in the mission briefings. Every goatherd had to be treated as a potential enemy. So a second sentry point was set up looking down into the southern end of the gorge. A third sentry point was established at the western end of the OP, in a crevice between two massive boulders. At any one time four of the six SBS soldiers would be on sentry duty. This left the other two free to eat, sleep or file reports, while CIA Bob got on with the job of spying on enemy forces in the region.

  Mat and Sam took first turn watching over the Naka Valley. As they gazed down, Mat got out his map and started identifying some of the key features that had been mentioned in the mission briefing. Directly below them lay two villages of mud-walled houses, which were reportedly the source of much of the terrorist activity in the region. In front of the two villages lay a wide, open area that had been identified as a parade ground. It was here that US intelligence had observed the terrorist training sessions and afternoon combat exercises taking place. As it was now 2 p.m. and the hottest part of the day, there was little activity that Mat and Sam could observe. It seemed that even terrorists needed to rest through the heat of the afternoon.

  Mat and Sam took it in turns to do alternate watching duties of thirty minutes each. Any longer than that and eye strain started to be a real problem, as did the ability to concentrate. Back in the cover and security of the centre of the OP, CIA Bob was busy setting up his spying equipment. Keeping one eye on the Naka Valley, Mat and Sam watched as CIA Bob strung a dull metal Christmas-tree-like device from the branches of one of the trees. With a set of headphones clamped over his ears, he then proceeded to twist and turn the device, minutely adjusting the orientation. Finally, a broad smile broke out on his bearded face. By the looks of it this was some sort of listening device, and CIA Bob had just picked up a good signal.

  Next, he set up a spindly metal tripod with a set of eight metal fingers extending like a splayed hand from the top of it. Between the ends of the fingers there was a delicate silver wire. Above this, CIA Bob pulled out an extension and unfolded four flat blades set in a cross shape. Both Mat and Sam had come across a similar device before: this was an aerial for a satcom device. CIA Bob set the device to search for communications satellites in the sky above, and then pulled out an Iridium satphone from his tiny backpack. Once the satcom had found three satellites, he was able to put through a test call to JSOC headquarters back in the USA.

  Using his tiny Psion laptop computer, CIA Bob would be able to upload written information, photos and even video footage back to base via the satcom. This was the way in which he, Mat and the rest of the patrol would be reporting their intelligence back to headquarters. The Psion also had two state-of-the-art chips embedded within it, which could descramble any encoded signals that enemy forces in the region might be using. And the tiny computer not only allowed him to upload information back to headquarters, it also enabled him to download information from Global Hawk and Joint-STARS – US spy planes now
patrolling the skies above Afghanistan.

  The Joint-STARS (Joint Surveillance and Target Attack Radar System) jets – a Boeing 707 equipped with radar and electronic communications systems – have the technology to look deep into hostile regions. They can search some 150 miles of territory and distinguish between a tank and a wheeled vehicle. The Joint-STARS aircraft were a boost to special forces, because they enabled them to do real-time data links, helping coordinate ground actions with air assaults. The Global Hawk unmanned spy planes were making their combat debut in Afghanistan. These drones have the ability to carry out surveillance operations from 60,000 feet, for more than thirty hours at a time. Both aircraft provided just the sort of back-up that Mat’s team would need while calling in air strikes on the Naka Valley.

  Mat and Sam were fascinated to watch CIA Bob at work. He looked more like a mad scientist than an officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. All afternoon he sat around with his headphones on, most of the time acting as if he wasn’t really listening to what he was hearing. Then, just as Mat and Sam were convinced that he was dropping off to sleep, he’d start scribbling crazily in his notebook, before lapsing back into inactivity. He must have been monitoring the headphones traffic and listening for pro words – phrases that would signal to him something important was being said. CIA Bob spoke Arabic, Pashtun, Farsi and several other local Afghan languages, and Mat and Sam found themselves itching to know what sigint – signals intelligence – he’d picked up.

  ‘You know, I heard some of the guys talkin’ about spooky there back at the fort,’ Sam whispered, nodding in CIA Bob’s direction. ‘Word is the guy’s worth a fortune back in the States.’

  ‘You what?’ Mat replied, incredulously. ‘You telling me he’s minted? Then what the hell’s he doing freezing his bollocks off with us lot on a 12,000-foot peak in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Guess he must be madder than he looks, which sure is sayin’ somethin’,’ Sam responded.

  ‘Whatever tickles your fancy, I suppose. Still, just goes to show it’s not all about money, don’t it?’

  ‘Guess it ain’t so different from us, though. He’s here to do a specific job, just like we are, bro. Listen to all the frequencies, monitor the sigint and get a handle on the enemy comms.’

  ‘Yeah, but just look at him, mate. Bit of a spotter’s job, ain’t it? I mean, hanging up all those wires and coat hangers in that tree. Doing that would send me nuts. No wonder he looks like a Vietnam vet who’s been locked up by the Vietcong for too long in a bamboo cage full of rats. I’d rather have me gun, any time, mate.’

  By the time Mat and Sam had been relieved of their sentry duty, the sun was fast sinking towards the distant horizon. Night came quickly in the Afghan wildlands, and with it the temperature dropped to well below freezing. Both men spread out a poncho to shield them from the damp of the ground, and rolled out their down-filled sleeping bags and Gore-Tex bivvy bags. Each was so exhausted from the climb that they knew sleep would come easily that night, no matter how inhospitable the surroundings. As he crawled inside his down bag fully clothed, Mat glanced across at CIA Bob. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see the state of the CIA agent’s sleeping bag: it looked as if it had been made for a summer camping trip in Yosemite National Park.

  ‘You sure you’re going to be warm enough in that bag, mate?’ Mat asked.

  ‘Damn right I am, buddy,’ CIA Bob responded, with a grin. ‘They breed us Yankees hard as nails, not like you pansy-assed Brits. That’s how we managed to whup your butts when you tried to lord it over us a few hundred years back. Whupped ’em good ’n’ proper, too.’

  ‘Fair ’nough, mate,’ Mat replied. ‘Only I was going to offer you me thermals. But if that’s how you’re going to be I ain’t offering twice.’

  ‘Gee, your thermals? Really appreciate the offer, buddy.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t offering again, mate,’ said Mat, trying his best to ignore CIA Bob’s sarcasm. ‘How was the sigint, anyways?’

  ‘Kinda awesome, buddy. We’ve got comms going back and forth between some guys down there and it’s all about Mullah Omer and some others of our “Most Wanted”. No mention of old Osama Binliner yet, but I’d say this place is crawling with bad guys.’

  ‘Awesome, mate. That is, as long as they ain’t realised we’re here,’ Mat said. ‘No mention of us lot, was there, mate? I mean, no mention of our patrol?’

  ‘Us lot? Gee, now I gotta think about that for a second,’ said CIA Bob, in mock puzzlement. ‘Yeah, come to think of it there was some mention of five Brits and two Yankees bedding down for the night on top of the mountain. Said we were the SAS, too, which kinda got my back up cause we’re the SBS, ain’t we? And I didn’t appreciate them Talibuttfucks sayin’ otherwise.’

  ‘Piss off, mate.’ For once Mat was lost for a sharp reply to CIA Bob’s piss-taking.

  ‘What’s eatin’ you, buddy? You still pissed I didn’t kinda fancy wearin’ your thermals?’

  ‘Night-night, mate,’ said Mat, ignoring CIA’s Bob’s comment. ‘Sleep well. But keep one eye open – you don’t want any of them bad guys creeping up on you in the middle of the night, do you?’

  Within seconds, Mat had drifted off into an exhausted sleep. He had no worries about any enemy stumbling across their OP that night, as they had sentries out on all three positions. As for Sam, tired though he was, he found time to say a short prayer before sleep. He was a strongly Godly person, although he chose to keep this pretty quiet as he saw his religion as a private thing.

  Some time after they’d fallen asleep, Mat found himself being shaken out of a deep, deep slumber. As he tried to clear the grogginess from his head, he heard Sam’s urgent whisper.

  ‘Listen, bro, one of the sentries has spotted a shitload of activity going down in the valley there. There’s several vehicles on the move and we reckon it’s AQT.’

  Somewhat begrudgingly, Mat extricated himself from his sleeping bag and crawled over to the sentry point. Surely the enemy couldn’t be on to them already? Down in the valley he could see the lights of half a dozen vehicles converging on a central point. Grabbing a pair of NVGs he took a closer look. The vehicles were Toyota four-wheel drives. As he watched, they pulled up and formed a circle, with their lights facing inwards towards a central point. Several figures in white turbans and loose robes got out and set about building a fire in the centre. Once it was burning well the car lights were switched off. Some two dozen figures gathered around, warming themselves in the blaze. Every now and then Mat caught sight of the twin lights of other pickups heading towards or away from the firelight. There was clearly a considerable active presence in the valley.

  Mat glanced at his watch: it was 9.30 p.m., and he’d been asleep for two hours.

  ‘Bollocks. They can’t know we’re here already,’ Mat whispered to Sam, voicing the concern that was on everyone’s mind. ‘I mean, you reckon they’re out searching for our patrol or something?’

  ‘Shit, bro, if they know we’re here, I think they’d be on top of us by now.’

  ‘Reckon you’re right,’ Mat replied, with obvious relief. ‘Reckon it’s the bloody altitude getting to me, mate. Air’s so bloody thin can’t seem to get me bloody head together. But if they ain’t looking for us, what are they up to?’

  ‘No idea, bro,’ Sam replied. ‘Maybe it’s a bunch of AQT getting together for a heads-up around the campfire. Maybe it’s just a bunch of villagers. But my guess is if the AQT knew we was here, they’d be keeping a real low profile. They’d be coming for us in as quiet a way as possible. And that ain’t what’s happening down there around that fire.’

  ‘In which case, what the fuck did you wake me up for, mate?’ Mat said, with a grin. ‘Stone me, it’s cold. Freeze the balls off of a brass monkey, it would. I’m heading back to me sack. Best tell the boys to keep a close eye on ’em, though – just in case anything develops.’

  ‘You reckon you’re cold, buddy?’ Sam remarked under his breath. ‘Take a look-see how ol’
Spooky over there’s doin’. And listen to that, bro. You hear it? Sounds like a goddam machine gun. That’s Spooky’s teeth chattering.’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, mate?’ Mat glanced over in CIA Bob’s direction. ‘Poor guy must be freezing his cock off.’

  ‘You betcha,’ said Sam. ‘Say, bro, why don’t you offer him your thermals again?’

  The following morning, Mat awoke with the dawn. As soon as he opened his eyes he realised that his skull was pounding with an altitude headache. He felt like he had the worst hangover in his life. His throat was dry as sandpaper, as if he’d spent the whole night gasping for air through his mouth. He had a bitter, iron-like taste on his lips, and he wondered for a moment if he’d been coughing up blood. It tasted as if he had been, which would mean that the AMS was getting serious. As he spat phlegm on to the back of his hand, Mat had images of the seven of them having to abort the mission and struggle back down the mountain, fighting AMS all the way. He checked his spittle for flecks of blood, but it appeared clear. On previous high-altitude missions Mat had always found the symptoms of AMS at their worst in the morning. If possible, it was better to climb high and sleep low: a few hours’ kip on 50 per cent oxygen wasn’t very healthy for anyone.

  Mat lay there relishing the warmth and dryness of his sleeping bag, and waiting for the worst of the AMS to pass. As he did so, he gazed up into the pine trees above him. They appeared to be dripping with moisture – which meant that even at this altitude there had to be a considerable early-morning dewfall. He wondered why the outside of his bivvy bag wasn’t soaking wet from the dew. And then he realised that what had at first looked like water droplets were in fact tiny icicles. It was so cold that the very air around him appeared to be frozen. The ice would burn off pretty quickly in the Afghan sun, which accounted for the lack of it upon their arrival in the OP the previous day.