Moving Targets_An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel

by Stephen Leather

Before anyone could reply the air was split with gunfire. The reaction to the outburst of firing up on the hillside was for the Patrol Base to go on full stand-to. Up to now they had had little knowledge of who was doing the firing or where it was coming from, but the firefight in the cave had at last given them an identifiable target and they were now making up for lost time by targeting it with every small arm and support weapon they possessed. Rounds spat through the air around them.

  ‘Quick, get back in the cave,’ Shepherd shouted. ‘The next thing is going to be an air strike.’

  They sprinted into the cave entrance and almost before the words were out of his mouth, they heard the shriek of a fast-jet engine at full throttle, followed by the massive detonation of a high explosive bomb. Even though they were shielded by the rock walls from the full force of the blast, the shock waves knocked them off their feet and caused their eardrums to pop. They scrambled deeper into the cave as a series of bombs detonated around it, each one rocking the cave and causing torrents of dust. Small rocks and pebbles, shaken loose from the roof, rattled down around them. The aerial bombardment lasted for only a few minutes and was clearly random but it was then followed by an artillery barrage that lasted for much longer. But again, in the absence of visible targets for the spotters, it was only random fire. Just to be sure, the SAS men waited a good twenty minutes after the guns at last fell silent before coming out into the open once again.

  ‘At least we know that if we go anywhere near that Patrol Base, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later,’ said Jock. ‘But because of the artillery fire, we also know that there must be a support base not too far away. The maximum artillery range is up to forty kilometres but it’ll be a lot less in this hilly terrain. The only problem is which direction?’

  ‘The direction is east of south,’ Shepherd said. ‘While you heroes were hiding your heads up your arses I was taking note of the direction of fire. Mind you, I was shitting myself too, so I didn’t take the time of flight of the shells and can’t estimate the range they were firing from, but at least we know roughly where they are. Our only problem now is working out a way of getting into the base when we do find it.’

  They left after dark but it took them two more nights to reach the Fire Support Base. It was on a wide, dusty plain with very little cover around it. Shepherd and the team watched at first light as a small group of local children approached the base. The fence surrounding it was constructed of forty-gallon drums, filled with sand and concrete, and extending the full perimeter of the base. A small gap, patrolled by a couple of sentries, had been left for vehicles to enter and leave and this was the place that the local children made for, to beg or perhaps steal anything that was going.

  The SAS men looked a motley bunch, dressed in a raggedy assortment of well-worn oddments of British military uniform and local Afghani dress. As their uniforms had become torn from walking through the wild thorn bushes that dotted the hills, they had been replaced by local tribesmen’s dress filched from dhobi lines close to the villages at some risk of discovery. Likewise, their military equipment was a mixture of British and local, acquired on the battlefield when their old kit was beyond repair. They had each retained their regimental belt kit but had swapped the military back packs for the locally manufactured ammo vests they had liberated from dead enemy fighters.

  From their position they could see the self-propelled AS 90 artillery pieces on the base being readied for firing. ‘We’ve got to get down closer and then try to speak to the guards without being shot,’ Shepherd said. ‘If we spook them, they might just lower the barrels on the big guns and let us have it full blast.’

  ‘If we can get within a couple of hundred yards I’ll go forward and speak to them,’ Jock said. ‘They can’t mistake my accent for anything else but Glaswegian. Anyone can speak English or Scottish but it takes a special person to talk Maryhill! Our problem is we all look as if we have just come out of the nearest Afghan village so I’ll only have a few seconds to convince them that I’m the real thing.’

  Using every bit of cover available they eventually reached a fold in the ground about 200 yards from the sentries. By now it was mid-afternoon and scorching hot. The kids had drifted away to find other sport, and the sentries were looking thoroughly bored and listless.

  Jock got to his feet and held up his hands. He walked towards the gate, shouting that he was a British soldier. The first sentry, a Londoner, unslung and cocked his rifle, shouting to him not to come any closer. Jock ignored the warning, raised his hands even higher and continued to identify himself. By now the situation was critical and the first sentry had already released the safety catch on his rifle and was on the point of firing, when his mate, another Londoner, shouted ‘Hang on! Stop! I think he’s one of ours. I think he’s a sweaty’ - “Sweaty Sock” being the rhyming slang for Jock. ‘Let him come a bit closer, so we can be sure.’

  After a confusing half-hour, the patrol found themselves admitted to the base and given the first solid food they had eaten in a week, Before they were even half way through their meal they were interrogated by the artillery unit’s commanding officer. He took some convincing that their tale was true, but eventually he contacted Bagram for orders. Within another half hour the patrol were on board a Puma for the short flight to Bagram.

  CHAPTER 14

  The noise in the Puma cabin was deafening, making conversation virtually impossible. The door gunner glanced briefly at the passengers before concentrating on what was happening outside the aircraft, but the loadmaster was trying to make them as comfortable as possible. There was always a very close affinity between the helicopter crews and the SAS, not least because all the crews knew that if their helicopter went down, it would be the guys from special forces who would be tasked with rescuing them.

  The pilot looked back and indicated to the loadmaster to give Shepherd a set of headphones. ‘I don’t know what you guys have been up to,’ the pilot said once Shepherd had them on, ‘and I don’t really care, but it’s beginning to look as if you are in some deep shit, because I’ve been ordered to land at the secure LZ near the headquarters complex and there’s a reception committee waiting for you. So it doesn’t look good, does it? All I can do is wish you all the best.’

  Coming in to land, the pilot deliberately put the Puma into a hover before setting down so that the SAS men could get a good look at the people on the ground. They were not surprised to see a group of military policemen waiting for them, headed by the base Provost Marshal.

  ‘I don’t think the pilot was exaggerating,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘No, that’s a lot of trench police for us four little ones,’ Geordie said. ‘It’s nice to be wanted and welcomed back so warmly.’

  As they were climbing down from the helicopter, the military policemen attempted to manhandle them towards an armoured personnel carrier. This nearly turned into a brawl when the hotheaded Jock took exception to this, and things only calmed down after Shepherd interceded.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Spider, but if they lay a fucking finger on me again I’ll break it off and shove it up their fucking arse!’ said Jock.

  ‘They won’t touch you again, Jock,’ said Spider. ‘If they do, they’ll regret it.’

  Their weapons and almost everything else they possessed was then taken from them on the LZ. Wearing only the clothes they stood up in, they were hustled into the APC and driven under escort to a deserted accommodation hut. There they were allowed to shower and change into tracksuits before being thrown into what passed for a jail - a khaki-coloured marquee without side panels, which left it fully open to the elements, surrounded by razor wire. There was a metal bucket with a dash of disinfectant in the bottom for a toilet and a chatti - a tall earthenware jar - for water. ‘This is fucked up,’ said Jock, shaking his head in disgust. ‘This is seriously fucked up.’

  Shortly afterwards they were given a cursory medical by a clearly embarrassed medical officer who declared them slightly malnourished but o
therwise physically fit. They were then visited by the Provost Marshal, a tall, usually imposing figure who was somewhat diminished by what he had been ordered to do. Looking distinctly uncomfortable, he informed them that ‘under direction of the Commanding General, you are to be charged with desertion, loss and misuse of military equipment and cowardice in the face of the enemy.’ He used the various numbered sections of Queens Regulations to describe the charges, and was clearly embarrassed when Geordie asked him what the various sections meant. Since he did not know the detail of each section, to his further embarrassment he had to send for a copy of QR’s before he could conclude the interview. He told them that as soon as a suitable aircraft was available they were to be transported back securely to the UK for court martial and in the meantime they were to be kept in isolation from all other troops to avoid what, avoiding their eyes, he described as ‘any contamination of other units by your conduct’.

  Their final visitor was the Officer Commanding SF in Afghanistan. Young for an officer holding the rank of major, he was on the accelerated officer promotion scheme. He had served with the Regiment for almost six years, three of those as a captain and three as a major, and during the whole of that time he had been on active service tours in Iraq, Afghanistan and on secret operations in other parts of the world. However, he knew he was now walking a tightrope because it was a results based career. One mistake could bring it crashing to the ground, and the situation he now found himself in could easily be the one that brought it all to an end. He knew that the greatest assets he had to help him on his way up the promotion ladder were the troops under his command, and the men in front of him had consistently provided the results to sustain and maintain his career. If he treated them right and with respect they would repay him tenfold, but if he lost their respect he might be out on his ear.

  ‘Right guys,’ he said. ‘This is how it is. After you went missing, I sent a couple of patrols in the area to see what had happened. They found your radio and GPMG and followed your tracks a short way before losing them. We knew then at that stage you were okay. I signalled Hereford with a Sitrep and advised them to take no further action because I was certain you would eventually turn up safe and well. The situation we now find ourselves in regarding your current personal circumstances is deplorable. The problem, as you may have noticed yourselves, is that we are under the command of an arsehole who unfortunately has the power to do every one of us a great deal of damage. I’m sure you’re aware that he hates SF with a passion.’

  The officer took a long slow breath before continuing and Shepherd could see that he was choosing his words carefully. ‘On the disciplinary side, the Commanding General wants your heads on a platter. He refuses to take any personal responsibility for the cock-ups on the operation, and attributes all the blame to your patrol and the other SF patrols for failing to give adequate warning of the presence of the enemy forces. The fact that you made an E and E across country rather than rejoining the main force, has allowed him to present this as desertion and cowardice. By all military rules, you should have gone to the RV, but for perfectly understandable reasons - in my eyes at least - you chose not to. However, he can use that to accuse you of deliberately disobeying orders and putting the op in jeopardy, though you and I would argue that you were acting to secure the op rather than jeopardise it. However, ignoring any evidence to the contrary, he has convinced himself of your guilt and is determined to press ahead with your court martial.

  ‘I have tried very hard to reason with him and his staff, but to no avail. The good news is that his attempt to lay the blame for the failure of the operation on you is upsetting our bosses at home and in this regard, I feel he has bitten off considerably more than he can chew. In the end it will come back and bite him on the arse, but that will take time. Meanwhile, even though personally, I think the man is a prat, for now I am under his command, but if and when the court martial does come about, I promise you now that I will be there to give evidence on your behalf. I have outlined the situation to the Hereford and Northwood Head Sheds and they are working on it but for the time being, I’m afraid it’s just a case of grin and bear it, and hopefully it will be all sorted out before you get back to the UK.’

  ‘So our careers depend on whose head is farthest up the prime minister’s arse?’ Geordie said. ‘Let’s hope the Director SF gets there first and goes deepest then.’

  ‘We’ve no option but to go along with it, I know,’ Shepherd said, ‘but to say we’re not happy about it is the understatement of the century. If this does go wrong and your assessment proves to be too optimistic, we could easily end up in the slammer for a good number of years. The MOD is staffed by a vindictive shower of bastards who will do everything they can to protect themselves. However, let me make it clear: if we are going to go down because our chiefs lose a political arse-kicking contest, we won’t just lie back and think of England. As long as everyone involved is aware of that, we will let it ride for now, but you had better make everyone involved aware of what I’ve just said. We won’t go quietly, I promise you that.’

  The OC nodded, and satisfied that everybody understood their positions, he hurried back to the comms centre to send yet another “flash” message to Hereford.

  During the rest of the day Shepherd and his mates were fed at regular intervals by a clearly sympathetic cook. After dark a sentry patrolled around the wire but he did not interfere when a couple of squaddies who had clearly taken a drop or two of beer strolled up to the nick and threw a couple of packs of cigarettes over the wire. The word had spread that Shepherd and his patrol were being held and the other troops were indicating where their sympathies lay. They didn’t need the cigarettes themselves - none of them smoked, even Jock had given up under pressure from both his wife and his patrol mates - but they appreciated the gesture. Jimbo scraped back the pebbles on the floor of the tent and stashed away the cigarettes for whoever occupied the place after them, then they all lay back and gathered their strength for whatever lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 15

  The atmosphere on board the Royal Air Force Hawker Siddeley 125 executive jet was frigid as the aircraft flew north-west across the Mediterranean towards Heraklion on the island of Crete. The various factions on board the aircraft were barely on speaking terms. The fact that the interior of the aircraft was little larger than the inside of a Transit van did nothing to ease the strain between them because there was literally no place to go to get away from each other. Even the toilet door at the rear of the plane had been wired open.

  The catalyst for the ill feeling were the four gaunt, poorly dressed individuals, looking very out of place in the luxury cabin of the jet. They were seated at two of the tables in the middle of the cabin, alternately dozing or communicating silently to each other by means of hand signals. Occasionally one of them would raise an eyebrow or a finger to the Master Air Load Master, Aimee, who also doubled as Cabin Steward, and she would unhesitatingly bring them a coffee or a cold drink from the tiny galley near the front door of the plane. The way she fussed over them while ignoring the other occupants of the cabin left little doubt about whose side she was on.

  Behind those four, sitting with their backs against the rear bulkhead, were two burly men who were obviously military despite their civilian clothes. They were occasionally shooting nervous glances at each other, but studiously avoiding looking at the scruffy individuals seated in front of them. Sandwiched between the two groups was an individual in khaki-coloured, cavalry twill trousers and polo shirt, who could not have been anything other than an army cavalry officer. The fact that his name was Rupert was almost too perfect for the four men he was nominally commanding. ‘Finally my dreams have come true,’ Jock said to his mates as they boarded the aircraft. ‘A Rupert who’s actually called Rupert. Do you think that makes him doubly useless?’

  Like the RAF policemen, Rupert could barely bring himself to look at the scruffy group in front of him, but when he did so, his lip curled in disdain. Beyond the co
ckpit door the pilot and his co-pilot were also barely on speaking terms. As he piloted the plane, Wing Commander Norman Chamberlain was red-faced, still struggling to control his anger. His rank was equivalent to an Army Colonel, but he was a time-serving non-achiever who had wangled his way on to the RAF VIP Flight based at Northolt near the A40 on the outskirts of London. He spent his working hours flying high-ranking government officials and civil servants all over the continent and the rest of the world, but deep down he knew he was little more than the airborne equivalent of a cab driver. He bolstered his ego by namedropping the details of various well-known figures that he had ‘in the back of my plane’. He knew his fellow pilots ridiculed him behind his back but that only served to make him even more pompous and irascible.

  He had been delighted when a few days previously he had been briefed by the station Operations Officer that he was to fly a special cargo to Bagram Airbase in Afghanistan. The passengers were four senior members of a foreign aid organisation plus two escorts supplied by the RAF Police. Their cargo consisted of five metal ammunition boxes. Although officially the Wing Commander was not supposed to know what was in the boxes, he inferred from what the Ops Officer had said that, using the Government foreign aid budget as cover, they would contain several million US dollars for distribution to the American-allied tribes among the multitude of warring factions in Afghanistan. He was to fly the normal route, overnighting at the RAF base at Akrotiri in Cyprus, then transiting over Turkey to the Arabian Gulf, and overnighting again in Qatar, before flying the final leg into the Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. At each stop the police detachment were responsible for securing the aircraft and cargo, even sleeping on the plane if necessary.

  The crew were then to recover to Northolt on the reverse route, but this time carrying no passengers or cargo. This suited the Wingco down to the ground. He planned to get back to Akrotiri and then call a mechanical defect on the aircraft, enabling him to spend a couple of days topping up his tan and buying a few demijohns of local wine and Metaxa brandy so he was set up for the summer barbecue season in the UK.