“Yes, grandfather.”
About two metres below the peak of the hill, Mark Andrews and Sergeant Henry Lee lay waiting to take their final safe shot against this ghost of Syria.
“All right Mark, this will be our final safe, shot. As we rise to this hill I would estimate it would take any keen observer ten to fifteen seconds to mark our presence and a further ten seconds to get an accurate shot off. He’ll know the lay of the land better than us and he will have known that we only have the east or west approach to fire from so he’ll be watching one and his spotter will be watching the other, let’s just hope the sniper’s eyes are to the west, which they should be, as it’s an easier firing position. Now, when..”
Just then a few miles in the distance there was a massive explosion followed by the unmistakable sound of a fighter jet flying low in the sky.
Lee smiled: “Typhoon!”
The earpiece in Mark’s ear came to life. “Sierra Lima, Sunray, over” said Captain Taylor.
“Send, Sunray.”
“Our pursuers are toast! What’s your Sitrep?”
“Still fighting, Boss, this guy’s good, real good, he’s taken out my primary so I am now using my trusty Lima One One Five. We’ve got one more shot at this guy. Over.”
“Roger that, we’ll give you five mikes before coming to get you, we don’t want to spook him out of there, with his buddies all burnt to hell, he’ll probably leave his weapon, blend in with other refugees and we’ll never see the bastard again. Over.”
“I agree, boss, one last shot. Over.”
“Good luck, gentlemen. Over”
The SAS sniper element then took the best part of three minutes planning their next move. Mark had identified two tents where he had seen muzzle flare and Lee had chosen his target.
“As per the training, I want you to confirm the kill and or identify the second muzzle flash and if either sniper has changed position, which I doubt given the fact that they may not be so welcome among the refugees while carrying weapons, I don’t need you to give me any other target information such as range, wind etc., I can do that myself.”
“Roger that.”
“Roger that ay, we’ll make a soldier out of you yet, Marky boy!”
Three. Two. One.
As Lee reached the top of the crest and brought his weapon into position he had his scope roughly where he had wanted it to be. He brought the reticle down and to the left of his starting position and quickly found the shadow of the tent within which he believed one of the snipers was positioned. He waited, one second, two seconds, three seconds and still no movement or flash of a sharpshooter’s scope, four seconds, five seconds, six seconds. Lee had to make a decision to fire in blind hope and old intelligence or pull back and lose the upper hand and withdraw as showing his position once more would be too perilous unless he moved position to the opposite hill by which time he was sure the enemy sniper would simply discard his weapon and melt into the mass of refugees before fleeing the border back into Syria. Seven seconds, fuck it, he thought, never in his career had he ever fired blindly at an unidentified target and he wasn’t about to now.
He almost began to withdraw his weapon when a shock of tiny light announced the presence of a sniper precisely where Lee’s crosshairs now targeted. And with a thrill he found doing nothing else on earth, Lee stopped his heart from beating for an instant, stopped breathing and slowly, joyously, squeezed the trigger of his Accuracy International .338 Lapua Magnum Sniper Rifle.
“Kill, confirmed direct hit” said Andrews while still looking through his spotter’s scope as he clearly saw his sniper’s round destroy the face of an enemy sniper.
A heartbeat later and Sniper Henry Lee felt an incredibly searing hot pain as another enemy sniper’s round ripped his right arm and with it his trigger hand clean off of his body. The large 50 caliber round had hit him in his right bicep and the sheer size and velocity of the speed at which the bullet travelled tore his arm clean off.
Lee passed out from the agony and shock to the system almost instantaneously.
A totally shocked and bewildered Andrews pulled his friend into cover and then put him on his large shoulders, taking him down to the foot of the hill and to the medical gear and other provisions in their quad bike and tried to stop the bleeding as best as he could, as he had been trained do so while on his extensive first aid training and immediately called the rest of the team for assistance. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Mark Andrews’s world had just been blown apart.
Ash’abah, The Ghost of Syria, had won. And now The Shadow was at death’s door.
*****
The battered 4X4 sat across the street opposite the entrance of the Refugee Camp of Akçakale, Turkey.
The driver turned to his passenger, giving him a quizzical look. “We could be here for a very long time and we need to get him” gesturing behind him “to a hospital.”
Robert Sharpe spoke evenly as though it was just another day at the office. “You heard that shot, about five minutes ago, any minute now and that sniper, the man known only as Ash’abah is going to casually walk out of here as if he is just another Syrian seeking shelter from the war. And why wouldn’t’ he, why would he hunker down and wait, what does he have to fear - no one knows what he looks like, except of course, you, my friend.”
A look of complete surprise followed by a wicked grin and Bull was now pointing at an old man and boy who walked out of the main camp, having emerged from one of the central shelters.
“I know only that he travels with a young boy, his spotter and that he looks as hard as his rifle.”
Once Bull and Sharpe had made it out of danger in Syrian lands, the former SAS Trooper had made a telephone call to an emergency number known only to those elite few of The Regiment and had eventually been able to speak to his former commander who, as Sharpe had expected was in the field and on a mission, in Turkey, no less. Captain Taylor had quickly brought his former Sergeant up to speed on the current mission status and directed him to wait at the entrance to the camp and keep eyes on.
“That’s enough for me, you coming?”
“Of course, my friend, I am your ally now.”
The two men exited the old vehicle, with King safely passed out on the back seat, and approached Ash’abah.
“Tell them that we would like to speak to them, Bull.”
But before Bull could speak Aarzam had registered the presence of the westerner walking towards him and pulled a black pistol from his waist. Alas, he was nowhere near as efficient with his handgun as he was with a rifle and before he could inflict any damage Robert Sharpe had the old silver 9MM raised and sent three rounds into the centre mass of Aarzam the warlord and one half of the Ghost of Syria. He fell to the floor and the light in his eyes began to fade.
Aarzam brought his grandson close to his mouth and made the boy swear vengeance on this man the British SAS who had taken the life of his tribe’s leader.
“I swear grandfather, I swear that I will avenge your death.”
Aarzam sucked in his final breath and then he was gone.
The END.
SAS Para-Ops #5: Sniper’s Prayer
BY
Casey Christie
“As my breath leaves my body so does your spirit leave yours, go well my friend on to your next journey. May God have mercy on your soul, and mine.” Sgt Henry Lee – SAS Para-Ops Team Sniper
Chapter One – Enemy Close
Mark Andrews, special psychic consultant to the SAS Paranormal Activity Group, was exhausted. The images of violence which had been flooding his brain ever since he arrived in Turkey, on the border of Syria, had banished any serious sleep from his mind.
He and Sergeant Henry Lee, the super-sniper of the SAS Para-Ops Unit, had been tasked with neutralising the IS sharp-shooter, known as Ash'abah -Arabic for The Ghost, who had winged Henry Lee earlier in the year, resulting in Lee undergoing complex surgery to replace his damaged right arm with a new high-tech limb.
/> It was thought that The Ghost had been killed when operative Bob Sharpe shot dead an Arab carrying a sniper rifle but the assassinations had resumed within days and The Ghost’s renown was still widespread among IS forces. In recent weeks he had struck with lethal accuracy against militia leaders, blasting holes in their heads or puncturing their hearts from unlikely distances.
American technicians had calculated the angle of attack for the latest killing and found the source on a hillside three quarters of a mile away, with the footprints in the soft soil, of two men, one large, one smaller. There were cigarette stubs and two spent cartridges.
What had set alarm bells ringing at MI5 and at American HQ was the fact that the cartridges were for the brand new hyper-efficient version of the G36 which was not yet in use by the German Army which had commissioned the new weapon to replace the earlier version of the G36.
Defence Minister Ursula von der Leyen had declared that the weapon had "no future in the German army in its current state of construction.” Special Forces deployed in conflict areas were to receive replacement weapons, a new version of the G36, produced by weapons company Heckler & Koch.
Problems with the weapon first came to light when a study showed its capacity to hit a target fell to only 30 percent when the surrounding temperature reached 30 degrees Celsius or when the gun became hot from constant use.
At Aleppo, in northwest Syria, the average summer temperature is about 30C. In the central region at the edge of the Syrian Desert, it is 31C.
But how did IS, of all people, get their hands on a new version?
Captain Taylor had decided to send his sniper element, Lee and Andrews, to find The Ghost and eliminate him. The task would provide Sergeant Lee with an opportunity to avenge his injury. Their primary task was to disrupt IS in every possible way, mainly by eliminating key operatives like Ash'abah. It would be a bonus if they found out how the new German weapon had fallen into their hands.
Now as he lay in the sunlight on the roof of a derelict building next to Sergeant Henry Lee, the super-sniper for whom he was a “spotter,” Andrews felt himself lapsing into a welcome torpor and he did not fight it
His breathing slowed and deepened. Then, in an instant a clear image invaded his mind. He was looking down the barrel of a rifle with its site centred on the figure of a woman. A sudden gust of wind had thrust her clothing against her body, revealing the rounded lines of her bold bottom and her swelling thighs. The rifle barrel trembled and the sight moved to the woman’s backside and Mark’s mind was invaded by a frightening surge of lust and murderous hatred.
Kill the bitch, kill the dirty bitch! The words screamed in his mind and then he heard the cold words of an older man: “Ali. Ali!” and a burst of Arabic words and the rifle barrel dropped and the image vanished.
“My God!” The words escaped from Mark’s mouth as he sat up, wide awake.
“Be quiet, man!” whispered Henry Lee. “Are you seeing things again?”
Mark moved closer to the sniper. “I got in the mind of that murderous bastard. His name is Ali. And he nearly shot a woman just because he saw her round ass and it turned him on.”
Sergeant Lee grinned. “So, you’re going pornographic.”
Mark did not smile. “It’s the pornography of violence.”
Sergeant Lee moved to a shadowed corner and put down his rifle and Andrews followed him.
“Listen,” said Lee. “Does this mean the bugger is near us?”
“Yes. It was a very clear image. He has a very strong—and twisted—mind. And he is very young, a teenager! And I heard the voice of an older man, a man of authority. And that jells with the earlier image I had from the POV of a man being shot in the head, I caught a fleeting glimpse of an older man with a rifle.” He paused for a long while, deep in thought.
“But I made the obvious mistake of assuming the adult man was the sniper. Meanwhile, that demon sniper is a kid! And the older man I saw was shot and killed by Bob Sharpe, remember? Now that boy must have a new man working with him.”
“And a youngster was seen with the older man when Sharpe shot him—and he ran away, not so?”
The two men looked at each other askance. How could a kid have such expertise?
“Does this mean that you will be able to tune into that mind again?”
Mark Andrews smiled. “It’s not like a bloody radio station you twit. I don’t have a dial I can turn. But I sensed a rawness there and a lot of hurt and resentment. I thought it was just a bitter old bastard giving off waves of naked hatred.”
“There you are, going porno again. Naked!” said Lee.
“Shut up mate! This is serious.”
The two comrades were silent for a moment, then Andrews said: “The one thing that encourages me is that his mind, his presence, is very specific. His aura generates a strong signal which probably means that when he is wound up, excited, intense, I should be able to pick it up again. He is in this general area.”
Sergeant Lee pulled up his right sleeve, revealing that the arm was artificial. His own arm had been partially ripped off his body by a bullet from, Ash’abah, arabic for “The Ghost,” so named because he would manifest unexpectedly, kill, and then vanish.
Sergeant Lee had undergone months of high-tech, state-of-the-art repairs. Now he had a fortune of expensive equipment embedded in his new arm.
“I have to report to the Captain.” He handed his rifle to Mark: “Keep an eye on things.”
Then he pressed something in his arm and there was the soft crackle of radio communication and Lee began to whisper discreetly.
Andrews moved to the edge and placed the rifle barrel in the convenient, wide crack in the cement ridge. The building had been shattered at some point by heavy weapons, creating the perfect eyrie for a sniper element.
He began to scrutinise the street below. He saw the normal noon day traffic of a town. He moved the scope around, up and down the pavements and along the rooftops.
Then he saw her, coming out of a shop door. The woman who had been in the sights of the killer child.
There was no mistaking her. The modest Islamic clothing, designed to conceal the sexuality of women in order to curb the lust of men, could not resist the voluptuous swelling of her female form. Her face was not covered and she had regular features and a generous mouth.
Just then Andrews felt the artificial hand of Sergeant Lee on his shoulder. “Let me have my baby.”
The psychic passed over the weapon and then said with urgency: “I just saw the woman that Ali nearly shot. You know what that means…”
“He’s very close.”
“And like us he’s on a rooftop. It was a similar angle for his rifle.”
There was silence. Then Lee reached with his left hand to the controls along his new arm. Again he went to the back of the roof. After a few minutes he came back.
“The Captain says we can’t go rushing from roof to roof. Can you try to pick him up again and make note of the environment. Then we’ll get support.”
Mark Andrews gave a little grimace and said: “Well, I can only try.” He moved into a shadowed corner and leaned against the wall and closed his eyes while Sergeant Lee went back on post.
Mark’s gift as a visionary who had insights into the future as well as current events, was random and difficult to control. The gift had been more of a curse for most of his life until the mental turmoil which had saddened and confused him as a teenager and had made him turn to alcohol as an adult, threatening his career as a banker, had finally come to fruition and it was unmistakable that he was not an emotional cripple but had a mental advantage over ordinary mortals.
He was a seer, and this fact had been recognised by his friend, the mysterious John Taylor who proved to be an undercover officer in the SAS. Taylor believed Mark could have an important role to play in Britain’s national security. It was a lifeline which had been grasped by Andrews. The opportunity had brought a profound change to his life.
xxxxx
/>
Abdul-Nur (Servant of the Light) ran his fingers over his cheeks in a gesture of thoughtfulness and looked at his nephew Ali, sitting on a box and chewing a sweet. Just a normal fifteen-year-old, but shorter than average, thin and wiry with pinched features? Not so. Not by a long chalk. And now the moment his uncle had been worrying about had come to pass. The boy’s sex drive had been awakened. Another serious issue to give Abdul more grey hairs.
When the boy’s grandfather, Aarzam, who was the warlord of a tribe of military mercenaries and Ali’s mentor, had been shot dead by Robert Sharpe from the SAS, Ali had fled the scene and had waited for three days before contacting his uncle. A family conclave had been called to discuss what should be done about Ali and Abdullah was appointed as his new mentor, for he was a hardened soldier and a skilled sniper himself. They deciced to continue contracting their sniper team to ISIS despite several concerns from a number of the elders– the money was simply too good for them not to continue providing their services to the death cult.
Abdul, as he was known to his comrades, realised at once that Ali was no ordinary teenager. Ali had sworn to his dying grandfather that he would wreak vengeance on the SAS and now Abdul could see the signs of obsessive behaviour in the young man.
The fifteen-year- old would be 16 in two months’ time. So far Abdul had been relieved that the boy did not seem to be preoccupied with the things that occupied the minds of many teenage lads, like sex. Revenge was always foremost in his mind – he said he would slaughter every SAS soldier he ever came across. The words were like a religious mantra for him. “I’ll kill the lot of them,” he kept saying. In Ali’s lonely life only Aarzam had ever shown him affection or respect and Abdul recognised that the disappearance of Aarzam from his life was very unsettling for him. That was why Abdul had kept him busy, insisting he follow a daily exercise regime to build up his scrawny body and giving him literature to make him aware of the strategies of war.
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6 Page 25