Moving Targets_An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel

by Stephen Leather

  ‘We set off the next day and all the time the Boss kept giving me funny looks, convinced that I was trying to con him. When we arrived at the box restaurant and he saw the condition it was in his eyes nearly popped out of his head, but he gamely went in with me and I introduced him as “Officer Sahib”.

  ‘The owner was ecstatic, he’d been around the Raj long enough to know a proper officer when he saw one, and he went into his by now, familiar routine, overseeing us while we washed away the dust from our journey, and then guided us to a crate masquerading as a table. He polished a couple of spoons and forks on his sleeve before serving us with two curries, one goat and one chicken. By now the boss had a rictus grin but he gamely took a tentative mouthful. There was a pause and then his face lit up and he proceeded to demolish more than his share of the food on the table, though that was only fair as, unlike me, he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

  ‘From then on, there was a different routine. The boss and I would drive down during the week and the rest of the guys at the week-end, on Thursday afternoon or Friday. The décor in the box restaurant kept evolving; there were now pictures cut out of magazines on the wall and even a strip of threadbare carpet on the floor. Then of course the inevitable happened; trouble flared up somewhere in the Gulf and we were packed off to deal with it at a rate of knots.’

  Jock rolled onto his back again and let out a sigh. ‘I’ve never been back to that part of the world since then, but I’d love to, because those were some of the best meals of my life. And you know what? If I did go back, I bet I’d find that the box restaurant has expanded into a chain of them by now, called something like “Big JCB Box Restaurants - By Appointment to the British Army”.’ He glanced at his audience and suppressed a burst of laughter.

  ‘You lying bastard,’ Geordie said. ‘You made all that up, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, no, I swear it’s all true. I was only laughing because when I was telling you about the food, you were all drooling down your chins.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Shepherd said. ‘Change the record, will you? I can take having nothing to eat, but I can’t stand Delia Smith here talking about what we could be eating.’

  They fell silent and were soon once again dozing, recharging their batteries for the coming night. They remained in cover, unseen, throughout the day while all around them the whole country seemed to be up in arms. In the distance they could hear the faint sounds of artillery and heavy mortars echoing around the mountains, and high in the sky, they could see the con-trails of patrolling B 52s flying from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, waiting for orders to release their payloads. They could also hear the sound of fast jets stacking up, waiting to be called down for a strike, and the dull concussions from exploding ordnance when they did so. From past experience, the SAS men knew that some of those bomb and missile strikes would not be hitting enemy targets, but areas chosen almost at random. Not wanting to return to base without releasing their deadly cargos - bomb loads had been known to detonate when combat aircraft crashed on landing - the pilots would often dump their bombs and rockets into supposedly empty areas, regardless of whether this caused collateral damage.

  ‘I don’t know what has caused all this to happen, but someone has really kicked over the anthill,’ Geordie said.

  ‘It’s obvious isn’t it?’ Shepherd said. ‘It’s because that fucking idiot of a general directed his operation through the locals’ opium crop. They’ll have thought he’d laid on the op just to destroy the crop that is their main source of income, and for many of them their only one. So the word has gone round and the whole area is going to hell in a hand-cart, which shouldn’t surprise any of us one little bit. And it’s all down to the General wanting to go out in a bit of glory and collect his gallantry medal before getting himself a cushy number in the MOD.’

  ‘The bastard,’ Jimbo said, with feeling.

  ‘And you know what, my friends?’ Jock said. ‘I’m afraid it probably means that we are up shit creek, in the proverbial barbed wire canoe, without a paddle, because you can bet the blame game for this cock-up has already begun and we all know from bitter experience that Rule One is that nothing is ever a general’s fault. He’ll be looking for scapegoats and we’ll be right in the frame.’

  ‘But bloody hell,’ Geordie said, ‘when it comes down to it, we’re all on the same side and fighting the same enemy, aren’t we?’

  Jock, the eternal pessimist, shook his head. ‘When the brass get their hands on us, they’ll throw the book at us. We should all expect to be doing some time in the slammer.’

  ‘Blimey, Jock,’ Jimbo said. ‘I’m all for a bit of Caledonian gloom, but that’s a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? Army rules dictate that we should have attempted to link up with the main force again, not E and E’d across country. So if they’re looking for scapegoats - and they will be - we’ll be serving ourselves up, trussed, seasoned and ready for the oven. A hundred years ago the top brass used to break men on the wheel in this part of the world. Why? Because they could. And you know what? Not much has changed since then.’

  ‘We do have rather more pressing problems right now than what’s going to happen to us when we get back,’ said Shepherd. ‘We still have no comms, no rations and no way of getting back to Bagram, other than on foot. Shit, creek and paddle, lack of, comes to mind.’

  CHAPTER 11

  By early evening, the reddening sun was dropping swiftly towards the western horizon. Unlike the fierce heat earlier in the day, it was now spreading a kindly warmth, aided by the rocks around the LUP releasing the energy they had soaked up during the long daylight hours. None of the patrol were fooled by that, they knew that before dawn the air would be so cold that the water in their canteens would freeze and the only reason the streams and rivers did not ice up was that they flowed at too fast a rate. Even so, the backwaters and eddies would still be frozen by dawn.

  They waited a while longer, watching dust devils chasing each other across the plain, until only the snowy tips of the mountains around the patrol were visible in a blue mist, then got ready to move out. There was no long period of dusk where they were; it lasted for only a few minutes before darkness as black and unbroken as a mineshaft at midnight settled on the land.

  They had already been on full alert for a couple of hours, squatting behind the scrub, wearing their full equipment and camouflaged scrim nets. Weapons to hand, they were scanning the area around the LUP with fierce concentration. Shepherd was paired with Geordie, and Jimbo with Jock. As Geordie was going to lead the patrol down the ridge from the LUP, he and Shepherd were doing a visual reconnaissance of all possible routes down. They wouldn’t use the route that had brought them into the LUP for fear of ambush, so they were minutely scrutinising all the other available options, because to take the wrong one could add miles to their journey.

  Jimbo and Jock were quartering the countryside around them in general, looking for anything that was not natural and did not blend in. Starting close to the LUP, they gradually moved their gaze further and further outwards, before starting again in the next sector. They did this tirelessly, knowing that once they were on the move, their areas of observation would be very much reduced. Each of them had a set of binoculars but they were careful to have them inside the scrim net before raising them to their eyes, conscious that any sun-glare reflecting from the lenses could be spotted from dozens of miles away.

  As the sky darkened, they heard the faint, distant howl of a pye-dog. Similar to the hyenas of Africa, they were related to the semi-domesticated dogs found in every settlement in Afghanistan, scavenging on anything edible that the inhabitants discarded. Pye-dogs lived on carrion and the weak and wounded of the rest of the animal kingdom, and it was not unknown for packs to take down a lone shepherd or another vulnerable human. They were also a constant source of annoyance to the army, because with their hypersensitive hearing, they would start howling and barking long before the troops got close to them. In some cases, larger bo
dies of troops issued a couple of their marksmen with silenced weapons purely for the purpose of shooting a pye-dog so that the others in the pack would turn on it and devour it, buying a few minutes of silence.

  The patrol waited until night had fallen and it was too dark to see more than three or four yards. Then one by one they stood up and settled their equipment more comfortably on their shoulders and waists, while resisting the automatic instinct of ground troops the world over to stamp their feet to get their footwear more comfortable. Their boots of choice were US Army jungle boots with rubber soles and partial black leather uppers, but with dark green canvas tops that allowed the feet to breathe and keep cool. They were also virtually invisible after dark, whereas on a moonlit night, the light brown British army issue desert boots could often be seen from hundreds of yards away.

  At a signal from Shepherd they moved off and quickly fell into the familiar patrol routine, travelling tactically in single file, with Geordie leading, Shepherd and Jock next, and Jimbo bringing up the rear, shuffling along, wearing the local Dunlop flip-flops that Shepherd had liberated from the scene of the firefight, to obliterate the bootprints left by the other guys in front. After rehydrating at a stream early in the march they headed in the approximate direction they wanted, using strict march routine. This meant that they never moved farther than they could see in one bound, with Shepherd using binoculars to select the route and indicating to Geordie the direction he wanted them to travel. Communication was by finger or mouth clicks and then hand signals. Shepherd signalled forward to Geordie, and Jock signalled rearwards to Jimbo. Except when looking to Shepherd for instructions, Geordie kept his gaze fixed ahead while Jimbo watched the rear and the other two kept watch to either side. It was an extremely laborious, frustrating and slow way to travel, but it was safe. They could have travelled much farther and faster, but to do so would risk hitting trouble, whereas this way would take longer but with a little luck would get them safely out of danger.

  By day they lay up in fissures in the rocks on the side of the hills away from the tracks along the ridge tops and valley bottoms. They now adopted a fifty percent alert strategy where alternately, two of them were awake throughout the day while the others rested. Although this routine was very tiring, Shepherd felt it was necessary for their security. Initially they headed north-east before gradually doing a half-circle and then travelling almost due south towards Bagram. Although they saw a lot of air activity and a few Afghan tribespeople at a distance, they did not come across any British or American army patrols.

  Physically they were all already thin to the point of gauntness. In Bagram as part of the Force QRF they had had to be at an extremely high level of fitness and the daily regime of runs, gym work and agility had stripped the reserves of fat from their bodies. With one op hot following upon the heels of another since then, there had been no opportunity to regain weight, and now, trekking across difficult terrain with no food other than their emergency belt rations, they were losing weight at an alarming rate.

  They continued to ignore the couple of day’s rations on their belts, choosing not to use them until it was absolutely necessary. Even in their gaunt state, although they could cheerfully have eaten a horse, hooves, saddle and bridle included, they knew they could comfortably survive without any food at all for at least a couple of weeks. The major issue was always finding water, because without that, survival was measured in days or even hours. Fortunately in these mountains, even in the driest season of the year, water was never a problem. Before first light every morning they filled their water bottles and bags from one of the many streams that cascaded down the mountains and during the day, the liquid they drank helped to alleviate their hunger pangs.

  As they moved on across the country, they occasionally came to a cultivated area where they were able to help themselves to a few bits of fruit and vegetables, though always being careful to leave no trace of their visit. However, they kept such foraging to a minimum because living off the land was very time-consuming and delayed their movement across country; better to be hungry but covering ground.

  Perversely when on ops or E and E, with minimal rations and bellies rumbling they would spend much of their resting time talking about food. Jock had already treated them to his tale of the Big Box restaurant, and Geordie now took his turn. After his spell on watch on the fourth day, he was lying prone, talking quietly, almost to himself, so the others had to strain to hear what he was saying. ‘I love my food, me,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean on Ops, I don’t care if I eat or not when I’m on operations and there’s lots of other stuff going on, but I do like a bit of food when I’m in base or back in camp in the big H.

  ‘First day back, I’ll start breakfast with porridge, not the salty crap you Jocks eat,’ he said, giving Jock a challenging look, ‘but real porridge with sugar and lots of milk. Then I’ll have a full fry-up: eggs - two - bacon, sausage, beans, fried bread, followed by toast and jam and a mug of tea. That’ll be about 0730, then at ten I’ll go to the mess and have a steak pie or a sandwich and a mug of tea.

  ‘At dinner time, half-twelvish, I’ll have three courses: soup, a roast dinner, meat and veg, followed by plum duff and custard and a mug of tea. That’ll keep me going until about three in the afternoon when I’ll have my usual wad of cake and a mug of tea, then at five-thirtyish I’ll have my tea, four courses this time: soup, roast dinner or it might be a steak or chops with chips and veg, followed by more duff and custard, then bread and cheese or whatever else the chefs have knocked out. Then I’ll be out at night for a few beers and on my way back I’ll have a curry or a Chinese to keep me going till breakfast.’

  Jock shook his head. ‘And you lot call me greedy! Tell me, you fat bastard, have you ever thought for a second about how all the food you shove down your neck happens to be available in whatever mess hall you park your arse? No? I thought not! The reason the Regiment has almost unlimited supplies of foodstuffs is down to a little known Scotsman, who to protect the innocent I shall call Joe B.’

  ‘I knew it would be a bloody Scotsman,’ Jimbo said. ‘Is there anything you lot don’t claim credit for?’

  ‘Yeah, the English,’ Jock said with a grin. ‘Anyway, Joe B arrived in Hereford as a Corporal from a Highland regiment. No one knew why he had been sent to H, because he was far too overweight to even start let alone finish Selection and he was only an infantryman, not a trained administrator, but there he was. In those days the Regiment lived to fight. There was no fat on the bones to run the admin side, so everyone chipped in. The guys accepted shortcomings in the supply chain, and as long as the campaign results were good, nobody got too fazed.

  ‘One day, someone had a flash of genius and installed Joe as ration storeman. In those days most of the food was supplied by the NAAFI and anything they couldn’t supply was bought on the open market. There were very strict guidelines on how much could be spent on each soldier but nobody thought to inform Joe, so when food ran short he just ordered more. He was so efficient that the only thing he kept in reserve were six cans of corned beef, but in the various Messes, everyone sang his praises. Every week his ration store was checked by the Duty Officer and every week there was the regimental reserve of six cans of “corned dog”, so everything was in order.

  ‘It lasted for a few years until a proper administrative officer was posted to the big H. This guy was like a dervish, sticking his nose in everywhere it wasn’t wanted. He eventually got around to checking on Joe and was astounded to find out how he was operating. So he seized Joe’s ledgers and requisitioning books and placed him under open arrest. He would have put him in the jail but the Regiment didn’t even have such a luxury, since the guard block was being used as a store for spare mattresses.

  ‘Joe was marched in front of the CO, a minor member of the Scottish aristocracy who had just returned from visiting a squadron fighting a particularly nasty little war in the Middle East. He could scarcely be bothered but was intrigued as to what had been going on in hi
s regiment while his back was turned. The proceedings were opened by the Adjutant, a grizzled ex-NCO, who suggested that they took evidence from the prosecuting officer first and then stood him down. Although this was highly unusual, the CO agreed. So after reading out the charges: misappropriation, theft, false accounting and several others, the officer was told that he could stand down as he wouldn’t be required again.

  ‘Trying to be firm, the CO then asked Joe why he had requisitioned things like turkey, venison and salmon, when none of it ended up in the various messes. Joe looks him in the eye and says that they were special items requested by the CO’s wife so that she could host a dinner for the wives of the squadron who had low morale because their husbands had been away on ops so long. It stopped the CO in his tracks, obviously. There was a pregnant pause and then the CO dropped the charges and sent Joe back to the ration store. So then the CO asks the Adjutant how he could stop it happening. Not the ordering, but the fact that it had become general knowledge. So the Adjutant suggests that in future all the Regiments orders are covered by the Official Secrets Act. And that’s what happened and that is why greedy buggers like you can still eat five men’s rations every day.’

  He waited, impassive, while Geordie’s suspicion battled with his curiosity. ‘So what happened to Joe?’ he eventually said.

  ‘He retired to the fair city of Glasgow on a corporal’s pension, and as you know, that isn’t a lot, but strangely enough, he managed to buy a house in one of the more salubrious parts of the city, and whenever he was asked where he’d got his money he always replied “From legacies”. After a couple of years he applied to join the Residents Association, signing his application “Joe B, Cpl Retd.,” but putting a faint cross over the upstroke of the “l” so the locals would interpret it as being “Joe B, Captain, Retired”. Somehow they heard he had been in Special Forces, so he was feted around the area. The dear old ladies did not object even when he brought a mail-order bride from the Philippines.