Kill Zone (A Spider Shepherd Short Story)

by Stephen Leather

  KILL ZONE

  By Stephen Leather

  ****

  October 2002.

  Afghanistan.

  Spider Shepherd squatted on his heels outside his tent, drinking his first brew of the day from a battered mug as he watched the wind stirring dust devils from the dirt floor of the compound. The dust covered every surface, leaving everything as brown and drab as the wintry Afghan hills that surrounded him. Unshaven and wearing a tee-shirt and fatigues worn and sun-faded from long use, Shepherd drank the last of his brew and tossed the dregs into the dirt. ‘Why does a brew never taste right out here?’ he asked.

  Sitting next to him with his legs outstretched was Geordie Mitchell, an SAS medic who was a couple of years older than Shepherd. ‘That’d be one of those rhetorical questions, would it?’ said Geordie. He had a floppy hat pulled low over his head. His hair was thinning and his scalp was always the first area to burn under the hot Afghan sun.

  Shepherd stood up and stretched. ‘It just never tastes right, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s because we use bottled water, plus the altitude we’re at affects the boiling point of the water, plus the milk is crap. Plus the sand gets everywhere.’ Geordie stood up and looked at his watch, a rugged Rolex Submariner. ‘Soon be time for morning prayers,’ he said.

  The two men strolled across the compound, their AK47s hanging on slings on their backs. They heard raised voices at the entrance to the compound and headed in that direction.

  They found a young SAS officer, Captain Todd, in the middle of a furious altercation with the guard at the gates. Like all the Regiment’s officers, Harry Todd had been seconded to the SAS from his own regiment for a three-year tour of duty, and was on his first trip with them. He’d only been in Afghanistan for two months and he was finding it tough going. As if his Oxford, Sandhurst and The Guards background was not already enough to raise hackles among the men he nominally led, Todd’s blond hair flopped over his eyes like a poor man’s Hugh Grant and, despite his youth, his nervous habit of clearing his throat made him sound like some ancient brigadier harrumphing over the Daily Telegraph in the Army & Navy Club.

  Shepherd had managed to avoid the Captain so far, which suited him just fine. The Major had realised that Todd was going to be an awkward fit and soon after he’d arrived he had detached him from the Squadron to the Intelligence Clearing Centre, largely with the aim of keeping him from getting under everybody’s feet. The Clearing Centre was where all the intelligence received was collated and evaluated. It came from a variety of sources; satellite and drone surveillance imagery, communication intercepts from GCHQ, and humint – human intelligence – in all its varied forms, from “eyes on” information from SAS observation posts right down to tip-offs of often dubious value from assorted spies, grasses and ordinary Afghans with grudges against their neighbours. Todd’s job was to sift the intelligence as it came in and then brief the OC - the Boss - at the morning prayers held at 0800 every day. Like documents passing across some bureaucrat’s desk, the intelligence was divided into three categories: “For Immediate Action” that might be acted on within hours or even minutes; “Pending”, for events that might be coming up in the near future; and “File For Future Use”. Documents in the latter category often disappeared into the back of a filing cabinet and never saw the light of day again. Much of his work was humdrum and routine, but Todd had clearly been looking for an opportunity to show his worth and by the look of it, he had decided that today was the day.

  Todd was standing next to an Afghan in a black dishdasha, with an AK 74 slung across his back. Initially Shepherd was more interested in the weapon than the Afghan - its orange plastic furniture and magazine made it easy to identify as the updated and improved version of the ubiquitous AK47, and it was an unusual weapon for an Afghan to be carrying.

  As Shepherd and Geordie walked over, the Afghan turned to look at them. He had the hook-nosed profile, sun and wind-burned skin, and dark beard and hair of a typical Afghan, but he had a distinguishing feature that Shepherd noticed at once - though his right eye was hazel, the pupil of his left one was a strange, milky white, almost opalescent colour.

  Todd was haranguing two armed guards at the entrance who appeared to be refusing to allow the Captain and the Afghan into the compound. ‘I’ll have you on a charge for this, I’m warning you!’ said Todd.

  ‘What’s the problem, Captain?’ Geordie said.

  ‘This guard is refusing to let us into the compound,’ Todd said, flicking his hair from his eyes.

  Geordie grinned. ‘That’s probably because you’ve got an armed and unknown Afghan with you,’ he said. He didn’t call the officer ‘sir.’ That was the SAS way. No saluting and no honorifics, though the Major was always referred to as ‘Boss’.

  ‘This man is Ahmad Khan, a Surrendered Enemy Personnel,’ said the Captain.

  ‘Well, that doesn’t carry too much weight in these parts,’ said Geordie. ‘I can tell you from my own experience that SEPs are like junkies - they’re only with you long enough to get their next fix: cash, weapons, whatever, and then they’re gone again. With respect, Captain, no experienced guy would trust an SEP as far as he could throw him.’

  Todd glared at the medic. ‘This man has vital intelligence I need to put before the Boss and I am not going to exclude him from the compound just because of your prejudice against SEPs and perhaps Afghans in general.’

  Shepherd could see that Geordie was close to giving the officer a piece of his mind, and while he preferred not to get involved, he figured that he should at least try to defuse the situation. ‘It’s not about prejudice,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘It’s based on bitter experience. We’ve had more than our fair share of green on blue attacks out here.’ He pointed at the Afghan’s rifle. ‘One: He’s carrying a loaded AK74. Only the top guys in the Taliban carry them. So he’s not some tribesman picking up a few extra dollars for fighting the faranji invaders, he’s one of their leaders. Two: This is a secure compound. Not even a Brit would get in here without being vetted or vouched for, and yet you’re trying to bring an armed Taliban fighter in here.’

  Geordie pointed a finger at the officer. ‘The thing is, Captain, you’re not only jeopardising the safety of everyone here, but you’d better watch your own back, because I’d take odds that he’d rub you out if he thought he could get away with it.’

  ‘Your comments are noted,’ Todd said, barely keeping the fury from his voice. ‘Now step aside, the OC needs to hear what he has to say.’

  The two guards – both paratroopers – stood their ground, their weapons in the ready position.

  ‘With the greatest of respect, Captain, they’re not going to let you in while your SEP has a loaded weapon,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if he unloads his weapon and leaves the magazine and his ammunition belt with the guards, he can probably be allowed into the compound. He can pick them up again on his way out.’

  Ahmad Khan looked to Todd for guidance, then shrugged and began unloading his AK 74, but he glared at Shepherd, clearly unhappy.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Geordie asked the Afghan.

  ‘Enough,’ said the man, handing his ammunition belt and magazine to one of the paratroopers.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ahmad Khan.’

  ‘Well, Ahmad Khan, you’d better be on your best behaviour while you’re here because we’ll be watching you.’

  The Afghan smiled. ‘Do I scare you, soldier? Is that it?’ He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I can see the fear in your eyes.’ He chuckled.

  ‘You don’t scare me, mate,’ said Geordie. ‘I’ve slotted more than my fair share of guys li
ke you.’

  The Afghan gave a mirthless smile. ‘Tread carefully, my friend. We Afghans are a proud people. We don’t give in to threats, nor tolerate insults to our honour.’

  ‘Leave it, Geordie,’ said Shepherd, putting a hand on the medic’s shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt anyone now.’ He nodded at the Captain. ‘Morning prayers are about to start,’ he said.

  Shepherd and Geordie walked away from the entrance as the two paratroopers stepped aside to allow the Captain and the Afghan to enter. They caught up with Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, an SAS trooper who had been on selection with Shepherd four years earlier.

  ‘What’s up with Goldilocks?’ asked Jimbo as Shepherd and Geordie fell into step with him. ‘Porridge too cold?’

  ‘He’s come in with an SEP,’ Shepherd said. ‘And because the guy speaks English, Todd thinks he’s some sort of Deep Throat in a dishdasha.’

  Jimbo gave a weary shake of his head. ‘Typical fucking Rupert,’ he said. ‘They always think locals who can speak English must be trustworthy.’

  They walked up to the HQ - a grandiose name for the mud-brick building shielded by berms and banks of sandbags, that served as camp office, briefing room, and sleeping quarters for the officers. They filed through the doorway and along a corridor with a series of small, dark rooms opening off it, lit only by narrow windows high up in the walls. There was no furniture in the rooms, just mattresses on the floor with personal belongings kept in plastic bags hanging from nails hammered into the walls. At the far end was a larger space, the office and briefing room, with two trestle tables pushed together in the centre of the room and the walls and every available surface covered with maps, documents and surveillance photographs.

  There were already half a dozen troopers there and the three men flopped down into empty chairs. Major Allan Gannon appeared and took his place at the head of the table. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a nose that had been broken at least twice. The Major looked at his watch just as Captain Todd appeared. The Captain nodded at the Major. ‘Sorry, Boss,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said The Major.

  The Captain led the morning prayers, giving his intelligence briefing including outlining possible targets on satellite surveillance photographs. When he’d finished, he folded his arms and looked at the Major. ‘I have some very interesting human intel that I want to take advantage of,’ he said to the Major. ‘I have access to an SEP who has just defected. He’s on the compound as we speak. But Ahmad Khan has not only defected himself, he has persuaded the rest of his group of twenty Taliban fighters to surrender as well. I need an escort. All his fighters want is five hundred US dollars each and the guarantee of safe conduct that your presence will provide.’

  The Major raised his eyebrows. ‘Where has this come from?’

  ‘He walked up to an Afghan Army patrol and gave himself up. He said he wanted to speak to the Brits.’

  ‘And not the Yanks?’ said The Major.

  ‘He says he doesn’t trust the Americans.’

  ‘Is that so? And what is he exactly? A Taliban fighter?’

  ‘He was a sniper, but he’s been trained in explosives and IEDs.’

  ‘Has he now?’

  ‘Boss, this stinks to high Heaven,’ said Geordie. ‘If this was genuine then his men would have come in with him.’

  ‘He thinks there is a risk to their safety if they come in on their own. His men fear that the Afghans might be trigger-happy. They want an escort to bring them in.’

  ‘Boss, I wouldn’t trust this raghead as far as I can throw him,’ said Geordie. ‘I certainly won’t be taking a trip up the road with him.’

  ‘That sort of language is unacceptable,’ said the Captain.

  ‘What sort of language?’ asked Geordie.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said the Captain. He looked over at the Major, obviously hoping for his support.

  ‘I think we do need to tread carefully,’ said the Major.

  ‘Talk about into the lion’s den,’ said Jimbo. ‘For all we know, he could be setting up an ambush.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the man, I can vouch for him,’ said Todd.

  ‘Then you can go and bring in his men,’ said Geordie.

  ‘You can’t trust these guys,’ said Jock McIntyre, his voice a Glaswegian growl. Jock was a twelve-year veteran of the SAS and had been a Para for eight years before that. In all he had five times as much experience as the Captain, and both men knew it. ‘If they switch sides once, they’ll do it again. And I wouldn’t want them in the compound with guns in their hands.’

  Captain Todd was faced with a row of nodding heads and his lips tightened into a thin white line. Although he outranked them, Todd had already discovered that in the SAS, respect was given only to skill and battlefield experience, not to stripes on the sleeve or pips on the shoulder.

  ‘And I’m certainly not going to be volunteering to ride off into the middle of nowhere with this Ahmad Kahn,’ said Jock. ‘No matter who vouches for him.’

  The Captain glanced at the Major for support again. ‘Ahmad Khan has already proved his worth by identifying a previously unknown Taliban commander,’ said Todd. ‘B Squadron are dealing with him.’

  ‘If he’s previously unknown, we’ve only the SEP’s word that the guy really is a Taliban commander,’ said Jock. ‘He could just be some local warlord or the leader of a rival faction that he wants to get rid of. And even if the SEP’s men seriously do want to switch sides, why would we take the risk of providing them with an escort, when they could just come in themselves?’

  ‘Because they’re afraid that they’ll be walking into an ambush,’ Todd said.

  Jock shrugged. ‘The same fear that we’d have about going to an RV in the mountains with them, then. I’ve not heard anything to change my mind.’ There was a rumble of agreement from the other SAS men. Jock was one of the most experienced men in the Squadron and one of the most highly-regarded.

  Todd looked over at the Major but Gannon just shrugged. It wasn’t the sort of mission that he could force on his men. ‘Right,’ Todd said, after a lengthy pause. ‘I’ll see if the members of the Para Support Group are less mule-headed.’

  Todd strode out of the room.

  ‘Tosser,’ said one of the troopers.

  ‘Bloody Rupert,’ said another.

  ‘Give the guy a break, lads,’ said the Major. ‘He’s still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘I know he’s keen, Boss, but this has all the makings of a trap,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ve seen this guy and something doesn’t smell right.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s not just the fact that he hasn’t showered for a month,’ said Geordie.

  ‘No one’s forcing any of you to go,’ said the Major.

  ‘Someone needs to tell him he’s playing with fire,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s see how it plays out,’ said the Major. ‘If he’s right then it could be an intel coup for us. He could ID a lot of local bad guys for us.’

  Shepherd wasn’t convinced but knew better than to press his luck with the Major. He walked out of the HQ with Geordie. Shepherd saw Lex Harper running around the perimeter of the compound with a large rucksack on his back. The young Para had already watched Shepherd’s back while serving as his spotter on a couple of previous ops and Shepherd realised he had the chance to return the favour.

  ‘He’s keen,’ said Geordie.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s wasted in the Paras. I’m going to suggest he puts himself for Selection when he gets back to the UK.’ He waved over at Lex and the Para sprinted over to them. He’d clearly been running for a while and he leaned forward, hands on his knees, his chest heaving and sweat dripping from his brow into the dust.

  ‘Sure you’re cut out for this line of work?’ Shepherd said with a grin. ‘Special Forces never sweat.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Lex said, grinning back. ‘They talk a lot of shite, though. So what’s up?’

  ‘Todd’s lo
oking for volunteers for a job,’ Shepherd said. ‘Make sure you’re not one of them.’

  Lex gave him a curious look. ‘Any particular reason why?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘We’ve just got a bad feeling about it.’

  Geordie hawked and spat. ‘He’s wanting the Paras to take his new Taliban boyfriend up country,’ he growled. ‘And on a good day, they’ll be bringing back another twenty SEPs, Pied Piper style.’

  ‘And on a bad day?’

  ‘On a bad day it could all turn to shit,’ said Shepherd. ‘So no volunteering, okay?’

  Lex nodded. ‘Okay, got it,’ he said. ‘Thanks. I owe you one.’

  ‘What’s in the rucksack?’ asked Geordie.

  Lex grinned and shrugged the rucksack off his back. It hit the ground with a thud. ‘Just some gear. Dirty laundry, mainly.’

  Geordie laughed. ‘Bricks, mate. That’s what you need. Bricks wrapped in newspapers.’

  ‘That’s a wind-up, right?’ said Lex, looking at Shepherd.

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Nah, it’s Gospel,’ he said. ‘Geordie got me into it years ago. You need something heavy, really heavy. That’s what builds muscle and stamina. The harder you train, the easier it is when it’s for real.’ He pointed down at Lex’s dust-covered Nikes. ‘And lose the training shoes. You want to run in boots.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you want to make it difficult for yourself, don’t you?’ said the Para.

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Shepherd. ‘Train hard, fight easy. The times in your life when you’ll need to run like the devil are probably the times when you’re not wearing your Nikes.’

  Lex nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘And remember – no volunteering.’

  *

  An hour later, Shepherd and Geordie saw a Landrover pull out of the compound. Two Paras sat in front, with another one alongside Ahmad Khan in the back. There was a Gimpy - a General Purpose Machine Gun - mounted on the bonnet and the three Paras all carried M16s. The Afghan had his AK74 cradled in his lap.

  ‘I see Captain Dickhead isn’t with them,’ said Geordie.

  ‘No back up, either,’ said Shepherd. ‘I tell you, this is going to go tits-up.’