Attack State Red

by Richard Kemp

  The men were fitted with pre-prepared goggles blacked out with masking tape that the troops had got ready for prisoners. Alexander went from room to room questioning them, with his interpreter, Muhammad, and a Military Police NCO taking notes. He took their names and asked each man where he lived. If they weren’t from the village, why they were there? He asked about their background and whether they knew the people that lived in the compound with the chimney. And whether they knew of any Taliban in the area.

  Intending to spread alarm and uncertainty, and foster distrust within their own ranks if any had been Taliban, he told them that spies in their midst had provided information that led the troops to the compound.

  The whole process took an hour and a half, and, as Alexander had predicted, no one said anything that was of any use. Maybe I questioned the bomb-makers, he thought, but without any leverage, how would you know? Perhaps I’ve even spoken to the men that killed Daz Bonner!

  Once the interrogation was complete, in the village centre Biddick assembled the elders together with everyone who had been stopped and searched or questioned. Speaking through his interpreter, he explained what they had been doing. ‘We came here because there have been many mines laid to kill and injure British and Afghan soldiers who are working for your government and working to help your security and to improve quality of life here by trying to provide irrigation and electricity. There have also been many bomb attacks against innocent civilians and police in Sangin. We have information that the bombs were manufactured here, and we have found several items of bomb-making equipment and mines that have confirmed that our information was correct. But I know that those involved are a very small number of people. I have no doubt that most of your people do not support this murderous activity, and I know that even some from this village have lost limbs from these mines, and been blown up in bomb attacks. These attacks have been disrupting trade in this whole area, making people poorer and denying them the opportunity to buy and sell goods in Sangin. I hope you can understand why we have come here and done what we have done. I know we have inconvenienced some of you and we will now pay money to you for the time that we have taken. What I ask is that if you do hear of or see any insurgent activity, any bomb-making, laying of mines, or anything else of that sort, please contact us. You can inform the police or the Army, or you can tell us directly. We will distribute cards that show how to get in touch with us.’

  The engineer search teams bagged up the technical items that might help them counter future IED attacks.

  As Alexander’s section headed back to the drop-off point, with the Chinooks inbound, there was a massive explosion outside Objective A. The mines, the motorbike and anything else that would be of use to the bomb-makers had been rigged for demolition by the engineers, on a delayed safety fuze. The charge might have been on the large side, or the delay too short. Either way, debris landed all round them, and the motorbike engine narrowly missed van der Merwe.

  Four hours after they had landed, A Company lifted off in the three Chinooks, heading back to Sangin DC escorted by a pair of Apaches.

  Alexander walked off the HLS. Biddick spoke to him: ‘Well done, Corporal Alexander, your men did a good job there.’

  ‘Thanks, sir, pity we didn’t get those bastards that killed Daz.’

  ‘It is, that would have been the icing on the cake. But even so I see it as a success. We have probably disrupted their physical operation for a while, but as we all know there is no shortage of mines, shells and other bomb-making stuff around this country. Much more significantly I think we may have instilled fear and uncertainty into that group. We landed at a time and place of our choosing. We had accurate intelligence and we went straight in to where they were putting the devices together. That must worry them. How did we know? Who’s been talking to the enemy? Who can no longer be trusted in the team? Just dealing with those uncertainties may well reduce the effectiveness of their operation. Even if that only mitigates the threat from them to a small extent, I consider that to be a success.’

  Biddick was right. The company air assault disrupted the Taliban bomb-making operation, at least for a time. Up until the raid into Aghlegh, there had been an IED attack in Sangin every other day. After the raid there was not another IED for four weeks.

  7

  The Sangin shura was held on 12 July in the governor’s compound. Forty elders from the town and across the upper Sangin valley crowded into the long room. Several of them had walked many miles or travelled by motorbike to get there. The rows of chairs were reserved for the more important men, the others sat cross-legged on the floor. These were all people of influence hand-picked by the governor because he thought each of them was capable of making things happen in their communities – rather than just the normal well-intentioned but unproductive talk that was prevalent in Afghan local affairs.

  Among the gathering were two or three younger men, looking slightly shifty. The Taliban normally managed to get their plants into the shura to relay back what the governor and the British were discussing.

  Seated behind a table at the front was Governor Isatullah, flanked by Carver, Coleman, Biddick, the Sangin chief of police and Colonel Rasool, the local ANA commander.

  Isatullah spoke first. He was a gripping and expansive speaker. He spoke in Pashtu, and all the while the interpreter whispered a translation for the benefit of Carver and his officers. After an elaborate welcome, Isatullah spent some time telling those present how they should be grateful to the British and Americans for the help they had provided Afghanistan in fighting off foreign invaders. First the Russians, and now the terrorists sent into the country by Pakistan and Iran. This theme met with the visible approval of the elders, most of whom nodded vigorously and muttered their agreement. Pakistan in particular was considered by all present to be the greatest enemy.

  Isatullah handed over to the chief of police, who continued the governor’s theme. Then the ANA commander spoke. He had lost many of his men to Taliban attacks in the north of Sangin, and his speech had a much harder edge. A huge man with the largest beard in the room, he berated the elders for allowing IEDs to be laid. He told them they had to stop this happening. He looked threateningly around the room as he concluded that, if the attacks continued, those present would all be held responsible.

  The elders shook their heads in concern, but many shrugged as if to say, ‘We can do nothing.’

  Carver took the floor. He spoke in English, pausing frequently for the interpreter to translate his words to the gathering. Carver had wanted to demonstrate to the shura the work that his men had been doing to improve life for the people of Sangin and the surrounding area. The elders had often been briefed on the various reconstruction projects, but most hadn’t seen them. And they were frequently told by the Taliban propaganda machinery that no progress was being made and the British were doing nothing to help them. In a town without newspapers, and with such low literacy levels, the people understandably didn’t know what to believe.

  Carver had managed to get a projector into Sangin. In normal circumstances an unremarkable achievement, but this had taken considerable effort against the vagaries of the military supply chain. His words were accompanied by Powerpoint pictures thrown up on the wall behind him, showing the Jusulay irrigation project, electricity pylons being repaired and work on schools. The audience was enthralled. Most hadn’t seen any of this before, and few had ever seen projected images of any kind. As Carver went through the presentation the excitement grew, especially when the pictures showed people and places they recognized.

  Then Carver flashed up a photograph showing the devastation in the market place a few days earlier. ‘And this is what the Taliban are doing. They are attacking you. They don’t want you to have a market. They don’t want you to have the prosperity that the market brings you. They want to destroy your market.’

  He threw up more gruesome photographs, of the wrecked phone-card cart, the destroyed police vehicle, of wounded and panicking local
s, and finally, the remains of the dead twelve-year-old boy.

  ‘You have seen everything that we are doing. It is all taking you forward, to greater security and prosperity. But this is where the Taliban want to take you. They want to take you back. Back to the time before May when there was no market. They have even stooped to using a child to destroy your market, killing this young twelve-year-old boy in the process.’

  The elders were shocked. They were muttering and tutting loudly and shaking their heads vigorously at the visual evidence of what the Taliban had done in their town.

  Carver continued, ‘If my words and these pictures are not enough to convince you, then listen to one of your own people. He was there. He saw the whole thing happening.’

  The eyewitness that Gardner had found after the attack stood up and told his story. He was clearly nervous, both at speaking to such a distinguished audience and because he knew the dangers of a simple man like himself speaking publicly against the Taliban. The elders were visibly shocked and impressed by the grisly description he gave.

  When the man had finished Carver concluded. ‘So what can you do to help stop these atrocities and to prevent the Taliban taking away your market? He paused, then continued, ‘You can spread the word about what happened last Saturday morning, what you have now seen with your own eyes, and what you have heard from this brave man who witnessed the terrible bombing. Tell your families and your friends and neighbours and your colleagues and your communities the truth. Because, as you know, the Taliban are spreading the word in the town that it was our soldiers who killed the boy. You can see that it was not and you have heard from our friend here that it was not. And please tell your people to tell us if they see or hear anything about attacks being planned. If we know about them in advance, we can try to stop them and prevent more of your people dying unnecessarily. This is most important. If we are to protect you and your people, we must have this information, we must know who is plotting to kill you, and how, when and where they are trying to do it. It is only by your people and my soldiers standing together, shoulder to shoulder, that we can prevail over the Taliban.’

  8

  The Sangin DC hotline number, used for passing information on Taliban and other criminal activity, was publicized at every opportunity and had become well known to the locals. Before the 12 July shura, however, the battalion received only about one call a week on the line. After the shura, with Carver’s powerful message to the elders, the number of calls went up dramatically, to an average of four or five a day. And the number of people prepared to come to the base in person to pass on what they knew also increased significantly.

  While much was just gossip, misunderstanding or even mischief-making, some turned out to be useful information that helped Coleman and the A Company intelligence staff build up a clearer picture of what the enemy was doing and planning. Carver’s well-timed message had hit the target.

  One evening Coleman took a call from an unknown number on the Sangin DC hotline. In his rudimentary Pashtu, Coleman said hello and asked the caller to wait. He handed the phone to Ahmad, the interpreter. ‘Captain Coleman, this person is called Salaam. He is a taxi driver in Sangin and he wants to come and tell you some important things tonight. He would like to meet you at the back gate at eleven o’clock.’

  Two hours’ time. Coleman agreed. A night-time meeting at the south gate to the DC would be risky. Obviously Salaam knew enough about the base to realize that it was unlikely anyone would see him coming in that way, especially under cover of darkness. But a set-up was also a possibility.

  Just before eleven, Coleman strapped on his Browning pistol, went and found Shah, then spoke to Biddick. ‘Dom, I’m going to meet someone at the south gate. Could you let the guard know a lone man will be approaching shortly from the town – don’t shoot him. But let me know if there is more than one person or they see anyone following or shadowing him. And can I borrow one of your guys to come out there with me?’

  As he approached the darkness of the south gate, Coleman looked up and waved at the sangar sentry whose job was to scan the area for approaching enemy. With Ahmad and the A Company escort, Coleman walked through the gate and out on to the dirt track that ran along the side of the canal beyond. Visibility was virtually nil, with hardly any ambient light from the base or the town.

  Coleman couldn’t help feeling slightly apprehensive. He pulled back the slide on his Browning pistol, chambering a round, and then returned the weapon to its holster. Fifty metres away was a line of razor wire that ran across the canal, and 100 metres beyond that the woodline where Corporal Bryan Budd VC from the 3rd Battalion The Parachute Regiment had been killed a year earlier in a firefight with the Taliban while on a routine patrol around the base. Coleman fingered his pistol, while at the same time realizing that it wouldn’t be much use to him if he was about to be the victim of a pre-planned set-up. He hoped Biddick’s escort was on the ball and at least a half-decent shot by night.

  From the south, Coleman heard footsteps, moving slowly towards him. He could see nothing. He pulled out his weapon and pointed it towards the noise, finger on the trigger, thumb on the safety. Seconds later a figure emerged from the darkness, just a few feet away. ‘I am Salaam,’ he said, using faltering English.

  With the escort close by, Coleman walked over to him, switched his pistol into his left hand, and shook the man’s hand. He may be Salaam, he thought, but is he really here just to talk? Coleman searched the man, with the escort covering. It would not have been the first time someone had attempted to bring a bomb into a British base in Afghanistan.

  He was clean, and without delay Coleman led him through the gate and into a small shed just inside the perimeter fence. He thanked the escort and sent him back to his duties. They sat down at a small wooden table. Salaam was tall and very thin, with a dark-coloured kurta and the standard black beard. He was a shy man and was clearly trying desperately to hide his nervousness at coming to the base. There was no question that in coming here he was taking a big personal risk. He could easily be killed for his trouble.

  Salaam accepted a can of Coke and then, through the interpreter, Coleman asked him what he had to say.

  Using Coleman’s interpreter, the man rambled for about five minutes, saying there were some very bad people in Sangin who wanted to kill all the British and the Americans and were trying to turn the locals against them.

  Tell me something I don’t know, thought Coleman, as Salaam went on and on. Well this is obviously going to be another waste of time, but at least he’s prepared to come in and talk, so I suppose that’s something.

  Salaam mentioned two local Taliban leaders, and Coleman’s ears pricked up. He knew about them from other intelligence. He knew how deeply involved the two were – this wouldn’t be common knowledge; at least the man must know something. Salaam continued on with more generalizations for several minutes, with Coleman making a few notes. But nothing new, nothing earth-shattering, nothing of real value. As he had expected.

  Then Salaam said, ‘And Haji Bowadin is going to attack you with rockets tomorrow.’

  Coleman sat up sharply in his chair. He had heard of Haji Bowadin. A known Taliban leader, his name had come up in reports about mortaring FOB Robinson, to the south of Sangin. He asked Salaam, ‘Do you know when and where he’s going to attack from?’

  ‘I know these things, yes.’

  Coleman had brought in some air photos and maps of the Sangin area in case he needed them. He spread a large-scale air photo on the table, showing most of the upper Sangin valley.

  Salaam turned the map round on the table and started moving his hand across it, pointing at various features, apparently trying to pinpoint exactly where the attack was coming from. This went on for some time before Coleman realized the man had no idea what he was looking for, or even what the map represented. He said, ‘Salaam, do you know whether the attack will come from the north or the south?’

  The response confirmed that the man had no co
ncept of the points of the compass any more than he had about reading a map. And why should he? Coleman reflected. He’s a taxi driver, not a soldier or policeman.

  He got the man to describe the area Bowadin would attack from, and by deduction pinned it down to a place 6 to 8 kilometres north of Sangin in the Musa Qalah wadi. This was slightly odd, as Bowadin was normally thought to operate in the south, and this would be out of area for him. But still possible, and Salaam seemed pretty certain.

  Coleman hadn’t been to the Musa Qalah wadi. It was still very much bandit country, and the battalion hadn’t yet attempted to clear it of enemy. The Taliban effectively had free run, so it would make sense for them to launch an attack from there.

  But Coleman had studied the northern section closely and knew a lot about it. After a good half hour of painstaking questioning and checking his maps and air photos, he managed to pin down the attack position to a single compound, near a village, next to a river. His confidence increased when Salaam told him that just across the river was a large clearing in a wooded area. The air photo showed the feature Salaam was describing, in just the right place.

  Now the question was: when? Salaam had said tomorrow, and he was now saying tomorrow afternoon. What does that mean? Coleman wondered. The Afghans usually go to sleep in what we call the afternoon, and when they get up it’s the evening. Coleman asked whether it was going to be before or after lunch. Salaam said it would be about lunchtime.

  That means about 1300 or 1400 hours. Not precise enough.

  Coleman was already thinking of trying to launch an air strike against Bowadin and his rocket team, and to get that he would need an exact time. He decided to go for 1330 hours. Pretty much a guess, but he couldn’t do any better.