by Luke Duffy
As always, Bull never failed to amuse him. His face, framed in a thick scarf and topped with a misshaped, overly large woolly hat, had taken on the appearance of a frozen slab of pork. His four-week-old beard was covered with frost, and mucus that had solidified into pale stalactites, dangled from his nostrils. His skin was a pale grey, except for his nose, which was a bright crimson, but it was not the pathetic dishevelled appearance that made Marty want to laugh, it was the expression in Bull’s eyes.
He was miserable, and that made Marty feel better. Just knowing that someone else was there with him and sharing the discomfort, suffering just as much if not more than he was, was enough to raise his morale a notch.
They had known one another for a long time, even serving in the same parent regiment together and it was Marty who had told the others about the secret origins of his friend’s name.
Marty was what they all referred to as, ‘the Angry Jock’. He was originally from Glasgow, Scotland. Tall, dark haired, and with a thick Glaswegian accent, everything he said sounded as though it was spat with anger and venom. He could be trying to describe his opinion and appreciation of a great and beautiful piece of artwork, or opera, and it would still sound as though he hated it. His words were harsh and his expressions were even harsher, and it always seemed as though he was about to unleash a torrent of blows on to any unfortunate soul in close proximity to him.
However, anyone who made the effort to get to know Marty soon realised that under the frightening exterior of pale skin, crooked nose, and glaring eyes, the tall Scotsman was a witty and friendly man. Fiercely loyal and extremely intelligent, he was a close and trusted friend to everyone on the team.
Marty placed his eye back on to the rubber cushion surrounding the sight. Nothing moved in the target area, but a quick glance at his watch told him that within the next thirty minutes, all that would change.
Directly ahead of them, exactly three-hundred and twenty-three metres away, was a small one storey building made from a mixture of orange and grey bricks, topped with a heavy thatched roof. To the left and right of it, three smaller structures of mud brick and corrugated iron completed the tiny farm complex.
They knew the exact distance, because Bull and Marty had measured it with the range finder, and set the sights on their weapons accordingly.
The ground around the farm complex was open and flat, with a number of small enclosures fenced off with barbed wire, containing herds of scruffy goats and emaciated looking cows sifting through the filth at their feet.
The ducks and geese had been the hardest obstacle. Over the previous week, the team had infiltrated the area, planting listening devices, tiny cameras, and even explosives. Negotiating their way past the ever vigilant poultry had been an achievement in itself.
Geese were always considered as a good alternative to guard dogs or sophisticated and technologically advanced early warning systems.
They were cheap, and very easy to install.
The final phase of the operation was about to begin. All the hardship, painstaking accumulation of intelligence and meticulous planning, was about to reach its climactic end.
Marty glanced down at his watch again.
“Fifteen minutes,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth.
Bull nodded and removed his woolly hat and scarf from around his head, and then stuffed them into the front of his jacket. Next, he pulled at his thick mittens, leaving his thin leather pilot’s gloves as the only protection between the delicate skin of his hands and the harsh, ice cold steel of his machinegun.
He turned his attention to the weapon in front of him. He knew it was in perfect working order, and he had shown more care and attentiveness to the machinegun than he had to himself, yet, he would still check it. It was a maxim that had become part of his instincts.
First my weapon, then myself.
Next, he began to flex his muscles to ensure his limbs had the circulation they needed. The pain in his frozen feet was almost unbearable, as he forced his blood back down into his toes and he grimaced at the sharp pins and needles that began to stab at his fingertips.
He had performed the same routine, ritual, a thousand times before, but it never got any easier. Bull had been a soldier for as long as he cared to remember, but there were certain hardships that his body could never get used to. Nevertheless, he never let them hamper his ability to perform his duties, and even more importantly, he never allowed anyone to see his discomfort.
Satisfied that everything was ready, he raised the butt of the gun and placed it against his shoulder, pushing forward against the bipod legs slightly to strengthen his firing position. Next, he set about ensuring that the long belt of ammunition entering into the left hand side of the weapon remained unobstructed so that it could flow freely through the feed-tray without stoppages.
With his thumb resting against the protruding safety catch that was built into the pistol grip, Bull settled himself into his fire-support position, and waited.
Marty could almost hear the seconds ticking by. It was the final moments before H-Hour that were always the worst. As the adrenalin would begin to pump through his body, and his mind would race, time would seem to stand still. The inevitable knots would form in his stomach and his senses would become more acute. His eyes would notice the smallest of details, and even the slightest noise would echo in his ears.
He was never afraid of dying. That was a risk that they had all faced on countless occasions and if it was to happen, he just hoped that it would be quick and painless.
His biggest worry, as with every other member of the team, was always that something may have been missed. He went through his mental checklist, ticking off each item as he confirmed to himself that everything was in place. If anything had been overlooked, there was nothing they could do about it now.
“Five minutes,” a raspy voice informed them through their earpieces.
It was their commander, Stan.
Neither of them needed to see him, but they knew that Stan was off to their right, just fifty metres away with an over-watch on the entire area from where he could command and control the operation.
Stan was a much older man, but his appearance was deceptive. He was immensely strong and fit, and many believed that he had absolutely no weaknesses. No one knew his exact age, but from his greying hair and hard weathered features, most people guessed that he was in his early fifties. Regardless, his agility and strength defied his years, and his watchful eyes and sharp mind never missed the slightest detail.
Legend had it that he could smell lies and that he had once worked as an interrogator for MI5, but getting the true account of Stan’s life from him was almost as impossible as getting blood from a stone. Instead, the men of the team had to amuse themselves with making up their own stories and tales about their leader’s past.
Of average height, but powerfully built, Stan cut a figure that many a man would side step if they saw him approaching in the street. He walked with purpose, and his unblinking eyes always seemed completely focussed on what was ahead of him.
His face was perfect for playing Poker, because his expression never changed and most people struggled to tell whether he was happy or sad, and instead, judged him as apathetic to everything around him.
To the left of their position, another two of their men, Nick and Brian, lay still and silent in the cold morning air, waiting for the final words of command to be given. They were a sniper team, and Marty knew that at that very moment, they would be going through their final checks, calculating the wind strength and direction, and confirming the range to their target.
Far off to the right, another sniper pair lay in wait, watching the minutes slowly tick by and preparing themselves, mentally and physically.
Their prey was a Syrian terrorist named, Ali Hussein Bassim.
Believed to be a high-ranking member of Al-Qaida, Bassim had launched his own campaign of terror throughout the region, attacking rebel factions and the Syrian army alik
e. His brutality knew no bounds and he never distinguished between military and civilian targets.
His attacks were completely without prejudice, and in a video sent to Al-Jazeera television, he once stated, “It is not for me to decide who lives and who dies. It is the will of God. I am just a weapon of Islam. It is for the mighty Allah to pass judgement, and I will continue to send the infidel and the faithful to him until he tells me to stop.”
Whether he was planting explosives in busy market places, or launching ground attacks against armed militia and soldiers, the aftermath would always be a scene of destruction and slaughter, the like of which had not been seen since the days of Al-Zarqawi in Iraq.
Prisoners were always executed. Every week, there was fresh footage circulating through the internet of captured soldiers, Red Cross workers, Christians, and suspected collaborators, being beheaded by Bassim and his men.
For a long time, the western governments failed to act, but when the peace talks began, and Bassim increased the ferocity of his attacks in order to disrupt the negotiations, it was decided that something needed to be done.
However, the west was reluctant to be dragged into another Middle Eastern war, but despite numerous attempts, Bassim always seemed to survive the ambushes and strikes that were launched against him by Syrian forces and rebel groups.
The war against Iran and North Korea had already stretched the western armies to their limits. When China entered into the war, the western allies had suffered a number of setbacks and defeats, only recently managing to retake the initiative and go back on to the offensive, and then, being halted once again.
Overtly intervening in Syria could have catastrophic consequences, destroying the already fragile peace agreements with Saudi, Lebanon and Jordan, not to mention the Russians, and opening up a completely new front for the western allies to fight on.
Instead, the British government had sent in their most deniable operatives to ‘take care’ of the Bassim problem.
The team, which they were a part of, was a clandestine and completely deniable branch of the British military. The only reason the team and their operations had never been classed as illegal was as one senior member of the army had once considered,
‘For something to be illegal, it first needs to be acknowledged.’
Very few people knew about them and their operations, and those who did, wished that they knew nothing at all. At the mere mention of their unit, politicians and high-ranking military personnel in Whitehall would become intensely uncomfortable.
They were completely below the radar and used in the most politically sensitive theatres around the world. When a job was far too delicate for even the conventional Special Forces, such as the SAS or Delta Force, ‘the team’ would be sent in to do the job.
Since the turn of the millennium, governments in the west had found themselves in constant need of soldiers to do their dirty work, but at the same time, deny any knowledge of them. Stan and his men, and other units like them, were ideal for the sensitive feelings of the various western powers and were used in many different roles, from assassinations to intelligence gathering.
Even stealing foreign government secrets was nothing new to the men.
On one particular mission, they had been sent to Brussels to retrieve a dossier containing diplomatic information about a meeting between the American and French Presidents on the subject of Iran on the eve of the invasion. The operation had lasted for two months and Stan had discovered much more than was expected. On his return, as it was rumoured, he was treated very handsomely by the British government in order to prevent a scandal.
No one ever knew what it was that was found along with the dossier, but Bull always claimed, ‘it was a pile of photographs of Tony Blair, wearing a gimp suit and playing hide the sausage with Osama Bin Laden.’
Their earpieces crackled again.
‘One minute. Stand by, stand by…,’
With precision timing, the door to the small farm house was pushed open. A number of men emerged from the dark interior of the building, each carrying a bundle under his arm and moving towards the open area at the front.
Leading the way was a short, rounded man with a thick beard and shaved head. He moved with short rapid steps, as though his shoes were tied together and he was struggling to remain upright. To the unknowing eye, there was nothing much to him.
He raised his hand and gestured to the other four men to follow him. They hurried after him, falling into line behind the short fat man as he led them to the dusty courtyard.
Bassim stopped and the others fanned out to his left and right, positioning themselves on his flanks. He issued another set of commands to his men and together, they pulled out their bundles and began to unroll their prayer mats.
“Brilliant,” Marty whispered with glee, clicking off his safety catch. “One thing you can always rely on when fighting Islamic extremists…, they never fail to say their morning prayers. You can set your fucking watch by them.”
The terrorist leader positioned himself at the foot of his rug, glancing up at the horizon and checking that his angle to the rising sun was correct and that he was facing towards Mecca. Underneath his thick coat, he wore a green canvass vest with a row of pouches containing magazines for the AK-47 that he unslung from across his back and placed down onto the dusty ground by his feet.
They were ready to begin their morning prayers.
Bull tightened his grip on the gun and pushed his thumb against the safety catch, hearing and feeling the light, barely audible click, as it was set to ‘fire’.
Everything faded into the distance.
The cold seemed to lift itself away from him, no longer biting at his hands and feet. The songs of early morning birds evaporated from the sky, and the only noise in his ears was the sound of his own breathing and the rhythmic thud of his beating heart. Nothing else mattered now, except the foresight of his machinegun and the five figures in the distance, lined up, ready to say their final words before he helped to send them off to Paradise.
‘Target confirmed…,’
At that moment, Marty knew that Stan would be sitting in his position, staring at a small LED screen in front of him. On the readout would be three boxes and they would be lit with either green or red lights.
Each box represented a sniper and on their rifles, each of the shooters had a small button where their thumb rested on the grip. If the box was green, it meant that particular sniper had a clear shot on the target. If it was red, then they had no shot.
Only when two or more of the boxes were green, Stan would give the order to fire.
Bull made a final check for ‘windage’. He watched the long blades of grass swaying beside the farm buildings and the length of cloth they had fastened to the fence post of the animal pen, confirming the strength and direction of the wind.
“Left, three,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Marty made a slight adjustment and slowly released a breath until his lungs were half deflated, then paused. The telescopic sight of his rifle stabilised and the crosshairs remained fixed in the centre of his target. His aiming mark; the lower part of Bassim’s face. A shot placed into that area would, in less than a microsecond, destroy the brain stem, dropping him instantly, with no chance to scream, let alone survive.
Far off to the north and south of their position, the other snipers would be aiming at the target’s earlobes. Bobby and Taff were on the right, with Brian and Nick taking up positions on the left flank.
Ali Hussein Bassim was about to be taken out from three directions, simultaneously.
There would be no need for any further talk or instruction from Stan. The three snipers would sit and wait until he gave the word, ‘fire’, once he received the green lights.
Bassim and his men continued their prayers. They raised their hands, muttering their holy words and then bowed to their rugs, making their promises to God and offering Him their complete devotion.
A final bow a
nd Bassim raised himself to his feet, crossing his hands in front of him and lowering his head.
4
The Operation’s Room was silent. Literally, quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
Samantha crouched down and run her fingers across the smooth linoleum floor, searching for the hairclip she had been nervously playing with in the dimly lit command centre, as she stood, staring at the huge monitors attached to the wall in front of her.
The room was a large oval shape, crammed with sophisticated communications and surveillance equipment that enabled them to have a real-time insight into whatever was happening with their operations and the men on the ground from all over the globe.
From that one room, they could gain high level intelligence on anyone, anywhere in the world. CCTV cameras from all over the planet, police radio and computer data, and diplomatic information could be tapped into without anyone knowing.
Phone records could easily be retrieved, bank accounts accessed and scrutinized. Personal computers and online data, even with the most up to date firewalls and anti-intrusion programmes, were no match for the skilled technicians that sat in the semi-darkness, drinking their body’s weight in coffee and suffering from a severe deficiency of vitamin-D.
“How’s it going, Sam?”
She did not notice him arrive at her side, and his sudden deep rasping voice almost made her jump.
“I think we’re about to get an answer on that, sir,” she said, rising to her feet, having found her clip and nodding towards the large screens. “I picked the wrong time to give up smoking, I’ll tell you that much for sure.”
The General smiled faintly, acknowledging that he understood and sympathised with her tenseness.
“How are the boys?” he asked, his glaring eyes narrowing as he studied the monitors.
In the centre, the main screen showed a high definition colour image of a landscape, taken from one of the many satellites orbiting above the Earth. On either side, smaller screens displayed the same patch of ground, but from different sources.