‘Ta for that.’
Shepherd began to scan the battlefield again, when Lex suddenly grabbed his arm and pointed ‘What the fuck is that?’
Shepherd followed his gaze and froze. ‘And where the hell did it come from?’ he said.
An armoured vehicle, like a miniature mediaeval castle on tank tracks, was rumbling towards the attackers, its turret swivelling as its heavy machine gun sprayed them with fire. Along each of its armoured steel sides there was a row of five small gun ports and the barrels of AK47s poked from them, spitting more fire. One of the SAS men fired his M203, but the grenade bounced harmlessly off the armour and exploded. A burst of fire from one of the gimpies was no more effective. The attacking troops were scattering as it roared towards them, and when Spud came on the net, Shepherd could hear the urgency in his voice, tinged with what might have been fear. ‘Sunray, Alpha 1. Russian BMPI, tracked, armoured troop carrier. 76 mm gun, ten men firing AK47s from inside. We need support. We’re pinned down and we’ve no Milans or even M72s. Who knew they had armour up here?’
‘Sierra 5,’ Shepherd said. ‘Any weak points?’
‘The tracks,’ Spud said, ‘but we’ve nothing can damage them enough. And the fuel tanks.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Bulbous shapes on the rear doors, but they’re armoured too.’
Shepherd was already loading his .50 rifle with APTI incendiary rounds. As the BMPI halted, raking the SAS positions with fire, Shepherd took aim and began firing at the rear doors. The shots were marked by white streaks of tracer, and almost at once they drew answering fire from muj fighters, but Shepherd was shielded by the rock ledge and at maximum killing range for their weapons, though well within his. His first shot struck the top of the doors, the armour piercing round punching a hole in the plating. His next was a couple of inches lower. ‘What are you doing?’ said Lex, ‘aim for the bottom where the fuel is.’
‘You can’t ignite the liquid fuel,’ Shepherd said calmly, firing as he spoke. ‘I’m aiming for the gap where there’s a fuel and air mixture, not pure fuel.’ He fired three more rounds and had a sinking feeling as each one failed to ignite the fuel.
He lowered his aim another couple of inches and fired again. The round struck home and in that instant, the armoured vehicle disappeared from sight, engulfed in a cloud of flame. As the inferno began to ease, he could see the vehicle ground to a halt, its machine gun silenced and tongues of flame licking from the gun ports. The hatch was half-open and a blackened limb, barely recognizable as a human arm, protruded from it. Shepherd could think of few worse deaths, but he closed his mind to that thought and raised the scope to his eye again, already seeking fresh targets.
The muj and Taliban fighters were pressing hard and the SAS and Para Support Group’s flank was dangerously exposed, with the Delta Force troops pinned down as they tried to advance alongside them.
‘Where the fuck are the rest of Delta?’ asked Lex.
‘They’re inserting on foot,’ said Shepherd.
The Delta Force troops who had survived the Blackhawk crash were pinned down by heavy enemy fire, and must have called in support from mortars, because two rounds came crashing down. They fell, not on the enemy, but close to where the SAS were.
‘Stop-Stop-Stop!’ Shepherd said. ‘Abort mortars. They’re hitting our guys.’ He fell silent, horrified, as another pair of mortar shells fell. One dropped in dead ground twenty yards from the SAS position, but the other struck the rock they were using as cover and exploded at once. Shepherd saw a body thrown in the air, come crashing down several yards away. It lay exposed and Taliban rounds chewed the ground around it and struck the body, as a dark pool of blood spread around it.
Over the net, he heard the words they all dreaded: ‘All stations. Minimize.’ That meant ‘Shut up, there’s a crisis,’ and was normally used only when there were casualties. It was followed at once by ‘Oboe! Oboe!’, SAS-speak for everybody get off the net right away. It was confirmation, if any were needed, that men were down. ‘We have casualties. Alpha 1, Alpha 4, Alpha 7, Alpha 9. Two KIA. One serious trauma of the lower left limb. One major abdominal trauma. Request immediate casevac. Repeat two KIA. One serious trauma lower left limb. One serious abdominal trauma. Vital signs deteriorating. Request immediate casevac.’
Shepherd felt his heart lurch. Alpha 1 was Spud. He listened to the traffic on the net as, like an automaton, he continued to monitor the battlefield, even dropping another muj commander as he showed himself for a moment to urge his men forward. The mortars had stopped. When they resumed, they were landing among the muj and Taliban defenders, giving the Delta Force men enough respite to regroup and advance to close up with the Paras and the remnants of the SAS teams.
The light was beginning to fade - the battle had lasted all day - but it was now turning in the favour of the coalition forces. Delta Force Support Group were bringing up more and more heavy weapons and mortar shells were now raining on the enemy positions. The muj and their Taliban allies had already lost many men dead and wounded, and the remainder were slowly being driven back towards the caves.
As the battlefront moved away, Shepherd saw medics stretchering three SAS men away from the crater where the mortar shell had detonated among them. One lay motionless, face masked in blood, the other two were moving, but obviously badly wounded. ‘Sunray, Sierra 5. Our guys were displaying ID markers I could see through my scope. We’ve lost four good men, wounded, crippled or killed, because some trigger-happy American fuckwit who thinks he’s John Wayne fired first and thought afterwards.’
‘Sierra 5, Sunray. This isn’t the time for that. I understand your feelings, but we still need you to do your job.’
‘Sunray, Sierra 5. Roger that. But when this is over…’
He broke off as Taj tugged at his arm. He had been a frustrated, peripheral figure throughout much of the fighting, firing his AK 74 at Taliban targets from near-maximum range, but he was now gesturing frantically at something further up the valley. Shepherd tracked his gaze, and through his scope he saw a small group of figures slipping out of a narrow fissure in the rock about two hundred yards from the main cave mouth, and making their way in single file along a narrow rock ledge leading away up the valley. Among them was one man well over six foot tall, who towered over his companions. He was grey-bearded and wore a camouflage jacket, with a white turban wound around his head, but he was moving away from Shepherd, so he couldn’t make a definitive ID.
‘Sunray. Probable Muj 1. Clear engage?’
‘Negative,’ said the Major.
‘I can’t see his face, but I’m certain it’s him.’
‘Negative. Permission refused. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.’
As Shepherd watched, the tall figure and the rest of the group rounded a buttress of rock and moved on out of sight.
Taj pulled at his arm again. ‘Follow me.’
‘Wait one,’ Shepherd said and spoke into the net. ‘Sunray, Sierra 5. Permission to move.’
‘Negative. Hold position.’
Shepherd looked at Taj, then said ‘Fuck it.’ He turned to Lex. ‘Follow me and keep my arse covered.’ He slid back from the ledge, slung his sniper rifle on his back and, holding his AK47, followed Taj away from the battlefield, moving at a diagonal up the slope towards the ridge. A bitter wind was blowing snow flurries over the slopes and they battled against it up to the ridgeline, then turned east into the teeth of the wind, following the ridge through the gathering darkness. He looked over his shoulder. Lex was close behind him.
They paused to put on their PNGs and moved on with Taj still leading, picking his way among the rocks, as sure-footed as a goat. Some way ahead they could see movement, dark figures moving steadily upwards, outlined against the snow-covered screes close to the head of the valley. Shepherd thought about a shot but decided against it. He wanted to shorten the range to be certain of a hit.
They were now hidden from the battlefield and the sound of firing had f
aded, carried away on the wind. As they moved on, the upper reaches of the valley opened up to them and he could see a notch in the skyline, a narrow pass towards which the group was heading. As he stared towards it, Shepherd saw two figures waiting by it, holding the reins of a group of mountain ponies. ‘Faster Taj,’ he said, quickening his own pace. He looked back. Lex was falling behind but he didn’t have time to wait for him.
Taj and Shepherd moved on at route march speed, no longer attempting to conceal their pursuit, the gap steadily narrowing. At last, Shepherd called a halt, trying to calm his laboured breathing as he took the sniper rifle from his back and once more sight-zeroed it, begrudging the time it took, but knowing the jolting it had taken on the march along the ridge would have thrown it off. He studied the group through the scope as they reached the horses and began to mount. The tall figure showed his profile as he was helped on to a horse and Shepherd made a positive ID. It was Muj 1 - Osama Bin Laden.
‘Sunray, Sierra 5. Muj 1. Positive ID. 100%. Permission to fire.’
‘Negative,’ said the Major. ‘Do not engage. Do not disobey this order.’
‘What? I have him cold. He’s the reason we’re all here.’
‘Negative. Permission refused. Do not engage.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘The Yanks want to do it. 9/11 gives them that right. We’re the junior partner here.’
‘So where are they - waiting for their helmet-cams so George Dubya and the boys back home can watch?’
‘Delta Force are now in the caves but they can’t find him.’
‘That’s because he isn’t there. Muj 1 is almost out of the head of the valley. I’ve got him in my sights. I can take him right now.’
‘Negative. Permission refused. Do not engage.’
Shepherd cursed under his breath, then dropped to the ground and lay still, calming his breathing as he brought up the rifle until Bin Laden’s head filled the scope. He was in the middle of the line of horsemen and now almost at the summit of the pass, in a narrow defile between two rocky crags. It was now or never. He took up the first pressure, exhaled and fired. Bin Laden’s head disappeared from the scope but there was no spray of blood. Instead, the rider in front of him now filled the scope, his back arched and arms flung wide as he slumped from his horse.
Shepherd swung the scope down. Bin Laden’s horse was on its knees. It had stumbled in the instant that Shepherd had fired. Muj 1 was now scrambling from the saddle, stepping over the prone body of his comrade and scrambling for the summit. Three of his escorts ran with him. The others, heedless of their own safety, stood in the open firing at the point from which the muzzle flash had come.
Shepherd ignored the incoming fire. He found his target again in the scope and fired in one movement, but Bin Laden was already diving for the cover of the rocks at the summit, and he disappeared from sight as the round struck the rock face and ricocheted away.
Shepherd scrambled to his feet and he and Taj set off at a run, using fire and movement to keep the muj heads down, but they had gone a couple of hundred yards when the wind strengthened still more and the snow flurries became a blizzard. They struggled on but eventually Taj put his hand on Shepherd’s arm. ‘Even I cannot find my way in a white-out, my friend. We have to turn back.’
Shepherd hesitated then gave a grudging nod. ‘Sunray, Sierra 5,’ he said for the benefit of his radio. ‘Call off the dogs. Muj 1’s gone. He’ll be in Pakistan before daybreak. Oh, and Sunray, be sure to thank Delta Force for me, won’t you? There’ll be a price to pay for this fuck up.’ He switched off his radio and cursed under his breath.
Taj patted him on the back. ‘You did your best, my friend.’
‘It wasn’t good enough,’ said Shepherd bitterly.
‘We’ll get another chance one day, insh’allah,’ said the Afghan.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ said Shepherd.
DEAD DROP
AFGHANISTAN
July 2002.
Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd shifted position slightly, trying to ease the pressure from the rocks beneath him and the ammo belt pressing into his chest. He lay prone, scanning the terrain through his sniperscope. A rough dirt road ran along the foot of the hillside below their observation post, leading to the village away to the east, a cluster of mud-brick buildings, surrounded by terraced fields, thick with the vivid pink blooms of opium poppies. The heat was ferocious, rising in waves from the stony hillside around them, while high above vultures were circling on the thermals, the feathers at their wingtips extended like claws as they flexed in the updraft. Shepherd could feel beads of sweat trickling down his brow, the salt and the moisture attracting still more of the flies that had been buzzing around them since they set up the OP.
‘Instead of lying there scratching your arse, Geordie,’ Shepherd said. ‘Can you not use your ninja skills to catch a few of these bloody flies?’
Geordie Mitchell, lying next to him on the rock ledge, gave him a sideways look. ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Your flies, your problem.’ He was in his early thirties but looked older. His pale blue eyes seemed as sun-faded as his fatigues and the stress of continual active service had etched deep lines into his face.
‘They’re attracted to rancid smells,’ Jock McIntyre said in the gruff Scottish growl that made every sentence sound like a declaration of war. ‘So it’s not surprising they’ve gone for you.’ His round face and open features gave him a guileless look that had led many to underestimate him. It was a dangerous mistake to make for he was as hard as Aberdonian granite. ‘Anyway, pal,’ he said. ‘Look on the bright side: if they’re buzzing round you, at least they’re leaving us alone.’
The fourth member of the group, Lex Harper, a Para who acted as Shepherd’s spotter - part target-spotter, part-bodyguard - whenever he was on sniper ops, smiled to himself but didn’t join the banter, keeping his gaze ranging over the terrain, alert for any movement or anything out of place.
Shepherd settled himself again, gently placing his sniper rifle on the rock. He’d already zeroed the rifle and scope but the least knock could throw it off a fraction of an inch which would be more than enough to turn a kill into a miss.
Mitchell gave a theatrical sigh. ‘You’re so precious with that bloody rifle it’s a wonder you don’t raise your pinkie when you fire it.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘You’d be precious with it, if I was ever dumb enough to trust it to you,’ he said. ‘It’s state of the art kit and it cost the Regiment well over￡20,000 but it’s worth every penny. I could drill you a new arsehole from a mile and a half away with it.’
‘For fuck’s sake don’t do that,’ McIntyre said. ‘He does enough farts with the one he’s already got. I don’t think I could stand them in stereo.’
Harper and Mitchell chuckled. Banter and swearing was the norm in the Regiment – it was the glue that bound them together.
Shepherd put the spotter scope back to his eye. A temporary checkpoint had been set up on the road directly below them, manned by two Afghan troops and four of Harper’s mates from the Para Support Group, who always supported the Regiment on ops. The site for the checkpoint had been well chosen. It was set in dead ground, where the road dipped down to ford a river that had been a torrent of snow melt in the spring, but was now as dry and lifeless as the landscape around it. Hidden in the dip, the checkpoint was invisible to people approaching from either direction until they were almost upon it. If, as the Intelligence suggested, Taliban insurgents were planning a raid on the village to kill or kidnap the local headman, they would have no more than a few seconds warning of the checkpoint and no time to take evasive action. If they then tried to shoot it out, they would be cut down in the cross fire from the SAS and Para Support Group troops on either side, or the close air support that they could call on.
So far only a few men on foot and a handful of vehicles - and most of those were farm carts - had passed along the road. Mitchell yawned. ‘Quiet out there, Tonto.’
‘T
oo quiet, Kemo Sabi,’ McIntyre said.
As they watched and waited in the OP, an old man passed through the checkpoint, herding a small flock of scrawny goats, followed a few minutes later by a peddler with a donkey cart piled with cooking pots, bowls and water vessels, cut and hammered out of scrap metal. Shepherd noticed the faint markings on one large bowl and nudged Mitchell. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘We’re fighting a war that even environmentalists would approve of - the muj are recycling the bombs the Yanks drop on them.’
‘The VC used to do something similar in Vietnam,’ said Mitchell. ‘They turned shell casings into lamps for their underground bases. Waste not, want not.’
Two Afghan men carrying AK47s provoked a brief heightening of tension as they approached the checkpoint, but it was far from an unusual sight - every Afghan male carried a weapon of some sort - and after being searched they were allowed through the cordon and walked on towards the village.
The road was now empty save for a heavily pregnant woman in a faded blue burqa, carrying a bundle wrapped in a shawl in her arms, and making her slow way on foot along the road towards the checkpoint. Shepherd’s gaze had moved on, scanning the area relentlessly, eyes never still, always searching for potential threats. Then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. ‘Hold it. An Afghan woman traveling alone?’ he said. ‘Something’s not right.’
Mitchell followed his gaze. ‘Doesn’t walk like a woman either.’
The woman – if it was a woman - was now close to the checkpoint.
Harper tapped Shepherd’s shoulder and gestured back along the track. Shepherd shot a glance that way and saw that a Toyota pick-up had appeared on the brow of the hill a mile and a half away. The pick-up stopped but the engine was still running because they could see the blue-grey haze from its exhaust. The driver was making no move to continue along the road. Shepherd swung his scope onto it. Four figures were visible in the back of the pick-up, the barrels of their weapons outlined against the lapis blue of the sky. As he peered into the shadowed cab of the pick-up, Shepherd saw twin discs of reflected light as the man in the passenger seat trained binoculars towards the checkpoint ahead. Shepherd barked into his throat mic. ‘Abort! Abort! Abort! Suicide bomber!’
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