‘A couple of the merc ringleaders were arrested and thrown in jail and then deported back to where they came from, but the hardware had already been bought and paid for, including a huge profit mark-up that went straight into the mercs’ bank account. The helis are still operating in PNG, flown by a couple of Ukrainian pilots scraping a living, and most of the rest of the kit is in a warehouse in Port Moresby. No doubt some of it is on our target’s shopping list, and by all accounts, you can get anything you want in PNG with enough cash. They won’t just sell you their weapons, they’ll sell you their whole goddam army if the price is right.’
‘So if we move fast,’ Shepherd said, ‘we might catch the bad guys as they pick up their shopping.’
‘You might,’ Jock said, ‘though there’s a good chance they’ll already have taken delivery of it, and in any case, I think we’ll need to use a bit of diplomacy. The Aussies are very, very sensitive and don’t like outsiders - especially Poms - sticking their noses into something that doesn’t concern them, and they see PNG as their own backyard. So if you try to go on your own without Aussie support, they’ll stop you stone dead, just like they did with the mercs. The best approach would be to sell it to them as a joint operation, with us supplying the expertise and knowledge of the enemy, and the Aussies providing the heavy back-up.’
‘I think you’re dead right, Jock,’ Shepherd said. ‘If you can start the diplomacy side between the UK and Canberra, I’ll go and brief the adjutant here and see if we can formulate a plan that’s agreeable to them and us. I’ll keep you posted.’
CHAPTER 24
When his high roller’s casino jet landed at Port Moresby, Sabit stepped out into the overpowering heat and humidity of mainland Papua New Guinea and his shirt was instantly soaked with sweat. A driver with a battered Toyota saloon was waiting for him on the other side of the rudimentary immigration control, watched over by two surly and indifferent Papuan police, their guts straining the buttons of their faded blue uniforms. Both of them were chewing betel nut and splashes of spit, like blood stains, littered the concrete floor around them.
As the driver took him in to Port Moresby, at Sabit’s request he avoided the heavily policed dual carriageway from the airport and instead took the old coastal highway past the strangely named settlements - “9 Mile” and “5 Mile” - and the sprawling shantytowns built of scraps of corrugated iron, rotten wood and palm fronds. Any vehicle owner unlucky enough to break down or run out of fuel near them would be beaten and robbed of all his possessions, while his car or truck would be stripped of everything of even the slightest value in seconds; if he was doubly unlucky, he would also be raped or killed.
They drove into the city and turned into the underground car park beneath a hotel that catered mainly to expatriates and the Papuan government politicians and officials whose palms they greased and whose pockets they lined. Sabit was taken to the cocktail bar and introduced to two men, both Papuans. One wore a sharp business suit, the other had the gold braid and medals of a General in the Papuan Defence Force. While the Papuans downed the succession of whiskies he bought for them, Sabit sipped green tea and outlined his requirements: explosives, weapons including grenades, tear gas, AK47s and RPGs, and a fast ship to ferry himself, his men and his cargo across the Torres Straits in one week’s time. Payment would be in dollars, one third in advance, the balance on safe delivery to the Australian coast. They haggled over terms for a few minutes, then shook hands on the deal.
Sabit left Port Moresby at first light the next morning, heading up country to rendezvous with his men and complete the training for the task he had set them. His obligations to al-Qaeda were now complete and the money their Arab backers had paid him was being put to good use. He had waited many years to take his revenge on the men who had killed his father and his brothers. Now the time was almost upon him.
CHAPTER 25
News of the presence of a well-funded and well-armed terrorist group in PNG had reached the Australian Ministry of Defence in Canberra and the Australian SASR on the West Coast. Before sending his report, the Adjutant had agreed a plan with Shepherd. The British SAS men would leave immediately on the HS 125, fly to Port Moresby and approach the target area on foot, acting as a reconnaissance group for the SASR. They would radio back intelligence on the terrorists’ numbers, weaponry and defences, and identify a suitable Drop Zone that the Aussie Sabre Squadron - the attack troops - could parachute into.
The plan was readily agreed by the Australian MoD in Canberra with the proviso that the Australians, not the British, had operational control. Warrant Officer Ronnie supplied the patrol with the additional kit they needed from the Aussie armoury. Shepherd had asked for a satellite voice radio to communicate with the Aussie Head Shed, which Rupert would carry and operate. He also requested AR-16’s for Rupert, Jimbo and Geordie, but not for himself. He asked Ronnie for something with a bit more punch.
Ronnie thought for a moment. ‘We’ve a couple of FN’s in the armoury. They’re museum pieces really, we only keep them because some of the guys used them on operations in Vietnam. We’ve only a few hundred rounds to go with them but if that’s what you want, you’re very welcome, provided they’re signed for, of course.’
Shepherd smiled to himself. You just couldn’t beat military bureaucracy.
With Chas, Dave and Aimee in tow, the SAS team flew to Port Moresby that night, landing at dawn when there were unlikely to be any locals around to witness their arrival. When Shepherd checked in with Jock on the sat phone, he reported a problem. ‘We have a time and distance issue with the Aussies. They’ve now decided to bring the job forward and no argument will convince them otherwise. I think the problem is that their Head Shed think they are dealing with a bunch of untrained head-hunters but according to the resident spook at our embassy in Port Moresby, the Ukrainians have already flown at least forty men who looked like ethnic Chinese up-country. There may be others who were there already or arrived by different means. So it’s reasonable to assume that they are from one of China’s separatist groups, possibly Uyghurs from the Xinjiang region in the far north-west of the country - the Taliban’s Chinese cousins, if you like. They’re Muslims who have been oppressed and sometimes terrorised by the Chinese government. They’ve carried out a number of purges and mass arrests of them, and a fair few deportations and executions too.’
‘That would explain why the terrorists have been so careful to obscure their identities,’ Shepherd said. ‘They’d know that if they were identified, the Chinese wouldn’t hesitate to carry out further reprisals on their families and people.’ He paused, thinking hard. ‘So if we’re right about their identities, that suggests their ultimate target is to force concessions from the Chinese and they’re going to have to do something more dramatic than kill a few tourists in Athens or Paris to do that.’
‘True enough,’ Jock said, ‘but regrettable though it is to be giving the Beijing regime a helping hand, we’ve got a chance to wipe out the terrorist group. However you need to re-think how you’re going to insert, because the Aussies have brought the para drop forward and it is now set for tomorrow night.’
Shepherd swore. ‘Looks like we’ll have to make use of the Ukrainians and their second-hand HIPs too; we’ll not get in position quickly enough otherwise.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jock said, ‘so I took the liberty of getting the resident spook in Port Moresby to hire them. They’re on standby and good to go as soon as you’re ready.’
‘Good work,’ Shepherd said. ‘We’ve still a little testing and training to do, but we’ll then get up country as quickly as possible.’
Jock brought him up to date on the rest of the intel he’d gleaned and then Shepherd broke the connection and began to brief Jimbo, Geordie and Rupert. ‘The village we think the bad guys are holed up in is at the head of a river valley. The terrain there is typical of the country: the valleys are all narrow and viciously steep, with the slopes smothered in dense primary and secondary jungle,
so it will be a tight DZ, and if the jumpers are slow off the mark, they could end up in the wrong valley altogether. Also, if the Aussies jump in blind there could be problems with the locals as well as the terrain. We’ve advised them to jump in small sticks and from the map I estimate they can find primary jungle around the village that could give them an 850 yard run in. So that’s five jumpers, taking one hundred and fifty yards each with a hundred yards margin of error. If they jump into trees that will be fine, the forest canopy will give them a soft landing and they can climb or abseil down. But if there are any stands of bamboo, that will be much more dangerous. As the SAS learned in Malaya way back in the 1950s, bamboo shatters when you land in it and leaves long, jagged slivers that are as deadly as knives; they can kill a jumper instantly. So we need to find them a safe DZ and I’ve suggested that they jump from combat height, five hundred feet, just time for the chute to deploy and get the weapon container away before hitting the trees.
‘I told the Adj that the guys doing the drop should have a weapon to hand, when they leave the aircraft, either a pistol on the belt or their Armalite. They usually pack their AR-16s into personal weapon containers but in this case the guys must have a weapon they can get their hands on, preferably the long weapon, because we don’t know what might be waiting for them on the ground. It’s not just the terrorists, the local tribes can be very feisty. I suggested they should jump with the rifle slung over the shoulder but it’s down to the parachute training guys to make the decision.’ He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘And you know what? I’m 99% certain that this op is just too complicated and is going to end up in a glorious fuck up.’
Having briefed his patrol mates, he summoned Aimee, Chas, Dave and the pilots. ‘It’s time for a little concurrent activity,’ he said, ‘because we don’t have long to get this right. We’re going to be inserting by heli, so I need to know accurately how far away the HIP helicopters we’ll be using can be heard in various situations. I need to know how far away it can be heard first in primary jungle - virgin jungle, in other words - then in secondary jungle, where the trees have been felled for slash and burn agriculture and the undergrowth has grown back up, and lastly how far away it can be heard along a river valley. The HIPs are on standby for us, so I need you guys to test it out. That will allow us to plan our insertion. The second part of the equation is how to stop the Ukrainians telling the guys upriver what we’re up to, because it’s quite possible the bad guys have paid them to report anyone on their track.’
‘Er, but how are we going to communicate?’ Dave said, clearly hoping he’d found a reason to cancel the exercise.
‘In the aircraft rescue pack there are some metal heliographs - mirrors to you and me,’ Aimee said. ‘We can use them to reflect the sun when we hear the heli and the guys on board will be able to record the distance on the air chart. There are also some mini-flare packs, so we can each take one of those and when we hear the aircraft we can fire them and again the heli guys can record the distance.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Spot on, Aimee. Keep this up and we’ll be promoting you in place of Rupert.’
‘What about keeping the Ukrainians quiet, once we have been dropped off?’ Jimbo said.
‘Easy,’ Aimee said, ‘we’ll keep them under lock and key until you get back. It’s what Chas and Dave do best, right guys?’
While the rest of the group set about their task, heading across the airfield to where the Ukrainian pilots were waiting with the HIPs, Shepherd, Jimbo, Geordie and Rupert made for a patch of secondary jungle just beyond the airfield perimeter where they could practise their Immediate Action drills.
‘Erm, Spider,’ Rupert said, eyeing the jungle uneasily. ‘Just one small problem, I’m afraid I’m not actually jungle trained. In fact I’ve never even been in the jungle.’
‘You what?’ Shepherd said. ‘I thought you told us you were badged SAS?’
‘I am, but I didn’t do jungle training, I was fast tracked into SAS HQ as a badged officer.’
‘You mean your friends in the Head Shed cut corners and badged you without you being properly trained or qualified,’ Geordie said, ‘thinking no bugger would know. But you’ve been found out now my friend, and I’ll make sure everyone in the Regiment knows as well.’
‘Well, jungle trained or not, you’re coming with us,’ Shepherd said. ‘You’re going to carry the radio set and be our voice link to the Aussies, so you’d better make sure you can use it. Right, we’re going to practice our IA drills. In case it wasn’t covered in the five minutes training you actually did, Rupert, IA stands for Immediate Action and drill means something that is practised until it becomes instinctive. Previously when we’ve had a contact with the enemy in the jungle, we’ve put down fire to keep their heads down and then pepper-potted backwards, covering each other, making for an RV which everyone in the patrol could find. Once the patrol was complete we would then find a way around the enemy. The rationale for that manoeuvre was that we knew we would always be outnumbered, so we would avoid taking casualties and our jungle craft would get us to the target even if we had to make a very long detour. And no, you can’t use a GPS because the jungle canopy is too dense to let the signal through. Therefore we have to rely on a paper map and navigational skills. Now if we do our normal IA drills, they will be long gone before we get to the village, so we will have to modify them. I suggest that we try this: I’ll go as lead scout, with Geordie behind me, then Rupert, and Jimbo as “Tail-end Charlie”. When we hit the enemy, Geordie moves to my left, Rupert comes tight behind me - you should be almost touching me - and Jimbo goes to my right, so together we form a chevron shape, with Rupert tucked in the back where he should be safe enough and not have to worry about getting lost. The theory is, it’s a bit like running guard in American football, and we’ll go through the enemy like a dose of salts. If you think it’s workable let’s give it a try, and we can tweak it as we go.’
Rupert nodded but he was clearly uncomfortable.
One of the HIPs took off with a clatter of rotors and wheeled overhead as they found a stand of trees large enough for them to practise the drill and in a few minutes it was working like clockwork.
Shepherd handed out small plastic containers of pills. ‘These are your anti-malaria tablets. The pink ones are taken weekly and the white ones daily. Take them until I tell you to stop. I’m not sure if they work because even though they took the tablets religiously, lots of the guys have twenty-four hour fevers with exactly the same symptoms as malaria, but better take them than be sorry. In the Army they have malaria pill parades, but here you’re your own boss, so remembering to take them is your responsibility. Wear a hat and long trousers and long-sleeves, rolled down, and use Deet on all exposed skin. That way you shouldn’t get bitten.’
The HIP helicopter returned with the others an hour or so later and they had the information that Shepherd had requested. He and Geordie studied their maps, pinpointing a site where the helicopter could drop them, far enough from the terrorists camp so the HIP would not be heard or seen, but close enough for the SAS patrol to reach it quickly. They took off in late afternoon. The flight, rising up the almost sheer wall of the mountains that separated the coastal strip from the interior, was spectacular. As they followed the course of a river, they saw large shoals of brilliantly coloured fish in the deep water pools and literally thousands of butterflies feeding on the minerals in the sandbanks by the river, rising in clouds as the helicopter passed over them.
They touched down on a sandbar in the middle of a relatively placid stretch of river, the Wingco in the co-pilot’s seat navigating the helicopter, while the Ukrainian pilot skilfully avoided the overhanging branches from the trees on either side. Behind them in the cabin were the two RAF policeman ready to take control of the pilot when they arrived back at the helicopter base.
The patrol exited the HIP and had disappeared into the jungle even before the helicopter had risen from the sandbar and wheeled away back towards the coast. They wer
e in light camouflage uniform, wearing shirts with the sleeves rolled down and long trousers tucked into US-issue jungle boots. They had their belt kit, ammunition and weapon, but were not carrying rations, only nuts and raisins and high energy bars.
As soon as they moved into the cover of the trees, leeches tried to attach themselves as the patrol filed past and swarms of mosquitoes clouded the air around them. Within seconds their uniforms and webbing were sodden from condensation and sweat, rendering the camouflage useless, and enormous flies buzzed around them, trying to feed on the salty sweat from their bodies.
The leaf mould of centuries made a thick, black, oozing swamp under their feet and the undergrowth was so dense that the lead scout, Shepherd, could not see more than ten yards in front of him. He moved forward slowly and stealthily, the barrel of his weapon tracking his gaze. He carefully positioned each footfall, gently easing the foliage aside and guiding it back into place so not a trace of sound or movement would be detectable even from a few yards away and there was no torn leaf or broken plant stem to betray them to a skilled tracker. The roots of the giant trees extended dozens of feet into the air, searching for water as the trees fought for light high in the forest canopy. There was plenty of animal sign on the ground, with the tracks of wild pig and deer, intermingled with those of other, smaller animals, but though the air was full of the sound of birdsong, the birds themselves were invisible in the canopy high above them.
Every few yards Shepherd held up his hand and stopped, remaining motionless as he listened, watched and scented the air, alert for the tiniest sign that an enemy might be lying in wait. The dense undergrowth appeared impenetrable but, like his patrol mates, he had learned to look through, rather than at the undergrowth. It could be a life-saving skill, revealing the shadowy outline of a figure in hiding beyond the fronds and leaves.
Moving Targets: An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel (Spider Shepherd: SAS Book 2) Page 22