by Damien Lewis
‘C’mon! MOVE!’ Tom yelled, jumping to his feet and taking the initiative. He motioned for the Afghan fighters to do likewise and follow his lead. ‘Get movin’. Move your fuckin’ arses. NOW! MOVE!’
Tom waited until all the fighters were on their feet and running forward, before bringing up the rear. They charged towards the north of the fort caution thrown to the wind with the Afghan fighters in the lead. Behind them they could hear the mortar barrage creeping ever closer. Suddenly, up ahead of Tom, one of the Afghan fighters placed a foot on the ground and it just exploded. One moment he was running, the next there was a boom! and he was flying through the air, with his arms and legs flailing, before landing with a dull thump. As there had been no scream of an incoming shell, Tom knew that this was no mortar round. A second later, he realised what was happening.
Mines! he thought to himself, in horror. We’re running through the centre of a fucking minefield!
Tom remained frozen to the spot, momentarily paralysed by fear. His shocked mind wondered what madness could have led the Afghan soldiers – who, on and off, had occupied this fort for decades – to allow them to route their rescue mission through the centre of a fucking minefield. Then he snapped himself back to the present, and as he did so his overriding concern was for his SBS mate, Sam, and the two US officers, who were racing ahead of him seemingly blind to the danger all around them.
‘MINES!’ he screamed, trying to get his voice to carry above the noise of the battle. ‘It’s a fuckin’ MINEFIELD, Sam. FUCKIN’ MINES!’
The pace of the action seemed to wind right down now, as Tom watched his three fellow soldiers come to a dead halt up ahead of him. As if in slow motion, they turned back to look at him, the shock and uncertainty writ large across their faces. Tom felt himself making a wide sweep of the area in front of him with his left hand – as if to point out the minefield all around them. Then he was jabbing his finger repeatedly at the fallen Afghan fighter, whose right leg had been totally shredded in the explosion, and mouthing the word ‘MINES!’ again and again.
Sam, CIA Steve and Major Martin still looked confused. They hadn’t seen the mine go off and it would make far more sense to them if a mortar round had taken out the fallen Afghan soldier. So Tom took a few fearful steps towards Sam, who was the nearest of the three to him.
‘MINES!’ he yelled in Sam’s ear, and then over at the others: ‘IT’S A FUCKIN’ MINEFIELD.’
As the others suddenly understood, they glanced down in horror at their feet. At the same time Tom could hear the mortar rounds creeping ever closer. They were barely fifty yards away now, and the noise of their detonations kept getting steadily louder, as the mortar barrage came after them. For a few seconds they were all rooted to the spot, frozen with indecision. If they moved ahead, it was into a minefield. If they turned back, it was into that fearsome mortar barrage. But then there was the long, hollow hooowl! of another incoming shell, and as the noise drilled deep into their skulls it sounded as if the round was about to land right on top of them. Tom and Sam hit the deck and embraced as they waited for the impact – as this one clearly had their names written on it.
‘This is it, bro!’ Sam yelled.
‘Nice knowing you!’ Tom yelled back, just as the mortar round hit some half a dozen yards in front of them.
But rather than an ear-splitting, flesh-shredding blast of high explosives and razor-sharp shards of hot steel, there was just a dull, sucking flop! as the shell impacted with the soft ground and failed to go off. Either it was a blind or a dud, or the soft sand has prevented it from exploding. Or perhaps the enemy had forgotten to disarm the mortar’s safety fuses. On either side of the special forces soldiers mortars started impacting now – but several more of them failed to explode. Even so, trapped in the midst of a minefield and with mortar shells raining down on them like this, the chances of survival didn’t look too good for the two SBS soldiers and their US and Afghan allies.
Suddenly, with a wild-eyed look at his SBS mate, Sam leapt to his feet and started charging through the centre of the minefield up ahead of them. Forcing himself to overcome his fear, Tom jumped up and raced after him, and then the rest of the rescue team were following their lead, pounding their way across the minefield towards the north-eastern tower of the fort.
It seemed to take an age to cross the minefield, each step haunted by the dread of shredding flesh and bone. But in reality it could only have been a few seconds before Tom and Sam reached the shelter of the massive tower. They collapsed, breathless, in the cover of the wall – and for the first time since the assault began they risked a silent prayer. As their fellow soldiers charged in to the shelter to join them, Sam and Tom crouched there, staring at each other in wide-eyed fear. It was several seconds before they’d got their breathing under control, or stopped their hands from shaking. How was it that they were still alive? Behind them, there was the body of the Afghan fighter lying where he’d fallen, his lifeblood draining into the desert sand.
Once they’d caught their breath, the Major signalled for the rescue team to move forward. The Afghan fighters scrambled up the rampart to the top of the wall first. As soon as they made the battlements, they started taking incoming rounds from the enemy. Sam, Tom, Major Martin and CIA Steve followed them up the sloping earthen ramp, and as they reached the top, the Afghan fighters leaned down from the parapet so that the British and American soldiers could grab hold and get a helping hand up on to the wall.
As Sam and Tom went up, there were rounds buzzing past their heads like a swarm of giant, angry bees, and to either side of them the battlements were getting blasted apart. CIA Steve and the Major followed quickly. But as they did so there was the terrifying whoosh! of approaching RPGs. Suddenly, two grenades slammed into the wall just below them with a deafening blast. In a split second the wall was enveloped in a swirling mass of smoke and debris.
‘ALLAHU AKHBAR! ALLAHU AKHBAR!’ the brothers yelled in delight, as they saw the first RPG round smash into the wall just below where the enemy soldiers were trying to break into the fort.
‘Die, you whores!’ Ali roared, as he waited for his loader to fit the next grenade on to his weapon. This brother was good and quick and within seconds the next round was ready. Ali lined up the sights on the same spot. ‘This fort is ours – so die like the whore dogs of the kafir …’
His last words were drowned out in the roar of the back-blast of the RPG firing. The rocket-propelled grenade streaked across the compound, leaving a smoky trace in the air like a vapour trail. Then a great gout of smoke and flame shot out from exactly the spot where the enemy were trying to breach the wall. There was a second round of delighted cheering as Ali and the brothers saw two matchstick figures falling from the wall head first into the fort.
Ali and the brothers were gathered at the central gateway, taking cover in the mud-walled buildings clustered at the base of the wall. It was a perfect vantage point from which to put down fire on to the northern section of the fort, and the positions of the Afghan, British and American soldiers. And it was from here that they had been launching their attacks across the compound to seize Dostum’s HQ building. That was the key target of their assault now. The brothers knew that the American CIA agent – and maybe some foreign journalists and aid workers – were pinned down inside that building. Kafir prey, ready for the killing.
Behind the brothers, Ahmed had established a mortar-fire position, taking advantage of the shelter afforded by the thick mud wall. With one of the 80mm mortars from the arms store, he and a team of two other brothers were putting down sustained mortar fire on to the enemy. Not only was Ahmed a seasoned mortar operator, but he was one of the few brothers strong enough to manhandle the mortar and its base plate. He kept shifting it from one spot to another, continuously changing his position to avoid getting targeted by the enemy. It was a trick that he had learned during his years fighting with the Taliban, and he was putting it to excellent use now. Three rounds in quick succession dropped do
wn the mortar tube, and Ahmed had the gun up on his shoulder and was running to the next position. Slam! The base plate was dropped on to the ground again, the trajectory checked and another three rounds fired – Boom! Boom! Boom! Then it was up again and on to the next position, before they were spotted.
Over at the gateway, Ali had a third RPG round ready now, but just as he was sighting the weapon on the same section of the fort wall and preparing to fire, a sustained burst of gunfire came back at him and he was forced to dive for cover into one of the buildings. The fire was coming from the enemy positions on the eastern entranceway tower, and it had them well and truly pinned down. By the sound of the weapon, the accuracy and the rate of fire – even the noise the rounds made as they whirred past his ears – Ali could tell that this was not an AK47, or any of the other Soviet weaponry with which he was familiar.
As he crouched in the darkness waiting for a chance to return fire, Ali exchanged glances with the brothers gathered around him. Instinctively, they knew that this was no group of Northern Alliance soldiers that they were up against now. The rounds coming at them were smaller than anything that the Northern Alliance whores used. These were 5.56mm rounds – the calibre used by the kafir American dogs and their allies. And the fire coming at them was well targeted and sustained – most likely a team of several gunners putting down short bursts and working in conjunction with each other. It was far too disciplined for Afghan soldiers, of that Ali was certain.
On two sides Ali was faced with the cursed, infidel enemy – the American and British dogs. And how he ached to kill more of them.
11
TWO WHITE DOVES
AT THE SAME time as Major Martin’s rescue team were fighting their way into the fort’s interior, Captain Lancer’s men were fighting for their very survival up on the roof of the entranceway tower. They were laying down a fierce barrage of fire on to the enemy trying to break out. But the enemy fighters were continuously counter-attacking: AK47 fire, heavier machine-gun fire, mortar rounds and RPGs were slamming into the battlements and pounding the tower walls. A continuous, deafening thunder of gunfire and explosions rolled around the tower roof, as Captain Lancer, Mat, Jamie and Ruff tried to return fire. The air was thick with smoke and cordite fumes. Without air strikes, there was little chance that this handful of SBS soldiers could hold their positions for much longer. Either they would be blown to pieces, or the enemy would overrun the tower and gun them down.
‘FAST AIR ON ITS WAY!’ Sergeant Major Trent yelled over. Even the burly Sergeant Major’s voice was barely audible above the noise of battle. ‘Mat, Jamie, Ruff, get your shit together.’
‘Right,’ the men yelled back, rolling away from the battlements.
Mat knew Sergeant Major Trent – or ‘Trenty’ as the lads called him – from previous missions, and he was a no-nonsense individual with many years’ combat experience. No amount of enemy fire was going to break Trenty’s nerve. Under his direction, Mat, Jamie and Ruff formed a FAC team, to talk the US aircraft down on to target. There was a real urgency to their actions now, as the fast air was just minutes away.
Scrabbling around in his bergen Jamie pulled out one of their laser target designators – a heavy, portable-TV-sized device used for ‘painting’ the target with a laser beam, so that a guided munition could home in on it. At the same time, Ruff was digging out the other LTD from his backpack. Dodging incoming fire as he crawled across the roof, Mat joined Trenty at the radio. Forward air control was Mat’s second chosen SBS skill, after medic, and he would be doing the comms with the US pilots. The photography talents that he’d put to such good use in the Naka Valley just came naturally to him. He’d often wondered whether in another life he’d have made a good paparazzo, chasing after the stinking rich and the undeservedly famous.
‘Right, I want you to concentrate on two target areas,’ Captain Lancer yelled, as he gathered Trenty, Mat, Jamie and Ruff in the cover of the tower stairway. Down here they had some cover from the shrapnel and the bullets, but the noise of battle could be heard thundering down the stone steps and crashing off the walls. ‘First, Target 1, here, the enemy at the gateway – the buildings they’re hiding in.’ The Captain jabbed his index finger at the map. ‘After that, Target 2, the pink building at the southern end of the fort where the rest of ’em are holed up.’
As the Captain pointed out the targets, small shards of shrapnel from exploding RPG rounds and mortars was falling on to the map that they had spread out on the tower steps. Mat noticed that the red-hot shards of metal were burning black holes in the map’s laminated surface, sending up little plumes of smoke as they did so.
‘Jamie, you lase Target 1, the gateway,’ the SBS Captain shouted. ‘Hit that first cos that’s where they’re trying to break out from. Ruff, you lase the pink building, Target 2.’
‘Got it,’ Ruff and Jamie confirmed.
‘And keep your GPMGs close to hand,’ the Captain called after them, as the two men scurried back across to the battlements. ‘In case they try another breakout.’
Captain Lancer turned back to Mat. ‘We’re danger-close to the targets, less than five hundred yards,’ he yelled in his ear. ‘At that distance five-hundred-pounders are a real threat. Be damn careful with those target coordinates.’
‘We got solid walls between us and them,’ Mat yelled back. ‘Should be OK. But I’ll be careful.’
Jamie and Ruff chose a vantage point behind the battlements from where they could get eyes on the targets. Incoming rounds were still ploughing into the tower roof, and both men were acutely aware of how much they needed those US air strikes to hit the enemy hard. They fired up the compressed air cylinders on the LTDs, which provided an all but silent means of operation, crucial for covert use of the LTDs. After shooting the lasers at their respective targets, the two men scribbled down the enemy coordinates. Then they made a note of their own, friendly coordinates, which they’d also be putting up to the US pilots. They didn’t like doing so, but their need for the air strikes was far greater than their fear of one of the pilots targeting them by accident.
Up on the tower roof they were fortunately at a higher elevation than both the enemy targets. This meant that the laser beams would be pointing downwards when the air strikes went in and the laser-guided bombs homed in on the ‘hot spot’, the point where the laser beam hit the target. If the target happened to be higher than those operating the lasers, the laser beam would be tilted upwards. Then there was always a danger that the bomb would home in on the wrong hot spot – the source of the laser beam itself, targeting the LTD operator. This was one less thing to worry about now.
Over in the shelter of the tower stairwell Mat flipped up the eighteen-inch-long ‘donkey dick’ antennae for the VHF radio that they’d use to communicate with the US pilots. Somehow, he didn’t find it hard to believe that the US 5th SOF soldiers had forgotten such a crucial piece of kit as their comms antennae. After seeing the way they’d been rushing around Boxer Base earlier, it didn’t surprise him that they’d come in unprepared. As far as the SBS lads were concerned, there was a very good reason why the US military had a two-tier system for special forces. The US Tier 1 Special Forces – the SEALs and Delta Force – were every bit as good as the SBS and SAS. But their Tier 2 Special Forces were just that – second place in both training and combat experience.
As Mat finished setting up the comms kit, Jamie came crawling across the tower roof with the target coordinates. He pulled back one of the radio earphones so he could speak directly into Mat’s ear.
‘Here you go,’ Jamie yelled above the noise of the battle, as he handed Mat the scrap of paper with the coordinates on it. ‘Mallet the fuckers big time.’
Mat gave Jamie the thumbs up and then turned back to the radio set. After a few further comms checks, he put a call out to the US aircraft.
‘Fast air, fast air, this is Romeo Zero Alpha,’ Mat intoned into the radio set, calling up the F-18 Super Hornet high above him. The call sign that he w
as using had been specially designated as special forces, so any allied pilot hearing it would immediately know who he was dealing with.
‘This is Red Fox Four, hearing you loud and clear, Romeo Zero Alpha,’ the lead pilot’s voice came back at him. ‘Authenticate – Alpha PX.’
‘Romeo Zero Alpha, authenticating: Alpha PX – Bravo ZX,’ Mat replied, providing the pilot with the second half of the password that he’d been given during briefing for the Mazar mission.
‘Authenticated, Romeo Zero Alpha,’ the pilot responded. ‘What can I do for ya?’
‘What’s your locstat and bearing you’re coming in on?’
‘Four-six-two-four. North-north-west.’
‘OK, Red Fox Four, if you turn to your west you should see a mountain range,’ Mat continued, looking over the map that he had spread out before him on the stairs. ‘Then before that you’ll see a small village to your front, centre. You got that?’
‘Mountain range and a village. I got it.’
‘OK, look beyond that village and to the north-east, about one kilometre, and you’ll see an old fort. That’s your target area.’
‘I got the fort.’
‘OK, Red Fox Four, what d’you have on board?’
‘I have two-thousand-pound JDAMs and five-hundred pound laser-guided.’
‘OK, we are danger-close, I repeat, danger-close to the targets. So, I want only your five-hundred-pound laser-guided.’