Stinger

by Stinger (retail) (epub)

  ‘One more thing,’ Dave said. ‘The potential cover offered by the sides and bed of the river as the water level continues to drop; we’re well past the main snow melt and in the middle of the dry season now.’ He tapped the images with his pointer. ‘We’re picking up detail down to four feet on these and you can see the size of these boulders. The banks of the river will give you some screening from the valley sides too. You’ll need to recce it though. If the river bottom’s covered in slime and weed, you’ll be struggling to stay upright, never mind stay in cover.’

  Dexy glanced from the satellite image to the map. ‘With the gradient in that gorge and the force of the river, even those boulders must have trouble staying upright.’

  ‘Intelligence brief.’

  Rami stood up and began to speak in his soft, accented English. ‘Nothing to add from Afghanistan, but we have an Intelligence report from the States. Two men and one woman of Arab appearance entered the United States by road from Canada eleven days ago. They were travelling in a Buick with New York plates, bought for cash at an auction in Buffalo three weeks before.

  ‘The three were put under surveillance and tailed to a motel in Utica. There they abandoned the car and transferred to a Winnebago, purchased locally, once more for cash, by an as yet unidentified fourth party. A clandestine search of it revealed two Stinger missiles concealed in a compartment beneath the bunk seats.

  ‘The three were arrested and interrogated. One is a Palestinian member of Hamas, one is Sudanese, the other of Saudi origin. He fought in Afghanistan during the war against the Soviet Union. All three have a record of terrorist activity, but a sustained and thorough interrogation has produced no stronger direct evidence of a link to the Movement for Islamic Jihad than that.

  ‘Intelligence estimates that it will take the MIJ not less than ten days and not more than fourteen to select another target and carry out surveillance to find a launch site. It will take them four days to transport a further shipment of Stingers from the caves to the vicinity of the target. Since that may be done to coincide with the end of the surveillance phase, your own fail-safe deadline to destroy the target is therefore six days.’

  ‘Wasn’t arresting them pretty short-sighted?’ I asked. ‘Throughout our training you’ve all been stressing how vital it is not to give the MIJ any indication that they are under suspicion, and now three of their operatives carrying Stingers have been rounded up.’

  He favoured me with a patient smile, a teacher indulging a slow learner. ‘The same day they were arrested, it was reported in the press that a Winnebago had suffered a brake failure on a mountain road in the Adirondacks. It had crashed through a barrier and plunged into a ravine, bursting into flames. Three bodies, two men and a woman, were found in the wreckage, too badly burned to be identifiable.’

  ‘And the Stingers?’

  ‘They were neutralised, but left inside the campervan before it took its fall. They’re still there among the wreckage for anyone who cares to look.’

  ‘And the three suspects?’ Amica asked.

  ‘Are still under interrogation.’

  * * *

  We walked out into the night. I paused, savouring the cool breeze on my face as I looked up at the sky, bright with stars. Then the thudding beat of the generator slowed and dropped an octave as the arc lights flared, throwing the shapes of the Hydra and the Herc into sharp relief.

  Amica and the guys walked up the loading ramp of the Herc. She turned, saw me watching her, and raised her hand and gave a half-smile before disappearing inside. The door rumbled shut and a few moments later the Herc accelerated down the dirt runway and took off into the night.

  We climbed into the cockpit of the Hydra. I pulled on the flying helmet and connected the cables. Jeff and I ran the checks, then I pushed the starting switch on the left engine. I heard the high-pitched whine of the turbine and the cracking of the igniters. Seconds later, as the heli began its ascent, I looked down to see a circle of faces staring up at us, pale in the reflected glare of the arc lights. I held up a gloved hand in farewell before the clouds of dust from the downwash obliterated them from sight.

  I headed almost due east, passing high over the coast of Oman and out across the Arabian Sea, parallel to the coast of Iran, aiming into the red heart of the dawn.

  We held that course, seeing nothing but the blue-green waters of the ocean and an occasional tanker or tramp steamer, until the beginnings of the Makran coastal range marked the frontier between Iran and western Pakistan.

  The plains and deltas of the coast passed below us, vivid green against the turquoise waters of the sea. Then we were climbing over the forested foothills of the coastal ranges, towards Bangur in the parched interior of Baluchistan.

  I descended steadily as we approached the rendezvous point. The Herc was drawn up alongside the dirt runway. I put the heli into the hover close to it and Jeff talked me down through a cloud of dust that rose to obscure everything from view. I lowered the collective inch by inch, sweating with the effort of holding the Hydra in the hover near the now invisible mass of the Herc. Then the wheels touched down.

  I slowed the engines and waited, then taxied slowly towards the back of the Herc. The guys positioned and repositioned me until our loading door was directly behind the Herc’s ramp.

  I ran my gaze over the gauges and shut the engines down, drank greedily from my water bottle, then unstrapped and climbed out of the cockpit. I pulled off my helmet, and ran my hands through my hair. It was soaked with sweat.

  Amica was sitting off to one side, and I walked over to her, easing the stiffness from my muscles. ‘How was it in the Herc?’

  She glanced round. ‘About what I expected: uncomfortable, noisy, smelly and dirty.’

  I smiled. ‘It’ll be all of those, only worse, on the next leg, I’m afraid. We’ll be close to maximum load and the engine will be really labouring crossing the mountains.’

  She nodded and turned away, her gaze travelling towards the mountains shimmering in the haze to the north of us.

  The guys had already swung down the improvised roller track inside the Hydra and bolted it into position. The Herc’s loading ramp began to drop, so close to the heli that its shadow darkened the roof. It stopped parallel to the ground and its crew began to extend the ramp, bridging the gap between the two aircraft.

  They began manhandling the first pallet along the ramp. The Hydra settled low on its springs as the full weight of the ten-ton fuel bladder was transferred. The pallet and its load disappeared inside the heli and I heard the rattle of chains as it was secured.

  We took off again at 13.00 local time. Amica, Dexy and seven of the other guys flew with us; Dave stayed with the rest of them, guarding the Herc and its precious cargo. They watched, impassive, as I hauled on the collective and we rose into the sky, the engines bellowing under the load we were carrying.

  I swung away to the north, coaxing the Hydra up in a gradual, fuel-preserving ascent, and a desert vista opened ahead of us, stretching far to the north. We flew on for an hour, low over the desert floor. Then ahead of me I saw a dark line across the sands, the highway running west from Quetta to the Iranian border. It skirted the foot of the Chagai Hills, their summit marking the border with Afghanistan.

  My skin prickled and my heart began to pound as I set the heli into a long climb towards the ridgeline shimmering in the heat haze. As we cleared the summit, I thumbed the intercom switch. ‘We’re crossing into hostile territory now. Any sight of ground fire, a missile launch or anything suspicious, call it at once, even if you’re not sure. Better a few wasted flares than a Stinger knocking a hole in us.’

  I saw Jeff’s hand tighten on the grip that fired the flares. My finger had moved by instinct to touch the trigger of the Hydra’s guns before I remembered the futility of the gesture.

  To the north I could see the first wave of mountains rising above Qandahar. I checked our position, then paddled the right rudder, steering us wide of the outlying mud-brick
suburbs, on a course bisecting the twin, steeply rising ridges of the mountains enclosing the Tarkan valley. We tracked the Tarkan river to the north-east, keeping the width of the valley between us and the Kabul–Qandahar highway. I saw lorries and a handful of tanks moving along it, but there was no fighting to be seen and no muzzle flashes from the wooded slopes.

  As we approached Kabul, I reached for the radio. ‘Kabul Centre, this is AMCO flight AM98.’

  ‘Flight AM98 you are clear to land at Kabul airport. No other traffic.’

  ‘Centre, our destination is the AMCO compound.’

  ‘Negative AM98, you must first land at the airport to obtain clearance.’

  ‘He must need the practice,’ Jeff said, trying to bury his nerves under a layer of banter. ‘He can’t get too many opportunities here.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s all it is.’ I called the tower again. ‘Roger that, Centre. On finals now.’

  I pushed the cyclic forward and trod on the left rudder, forcing the Hydra into a steep, spiralling dive towards the airfield below us. Only when we were below the minimum height for a successful Stinger launch did I slow the angle of turn and the rate of descent a fraction. I set down on the cracked and cratered concrete some distance from the terminal, and ran the final cross-checks with Jeff. Then I shut down the engines.

  The blur of the rotors slowed and stopped, and the dust cloud of the downwash blew away on the breeze.

  A red Toyota pickup truck sped away from the terminal building towards us, the back of it bristling with armed men. I glanced behind me. Amica had already shrouded herself in a pale blue burka. I saw only the glint of her dark eyes behind the lattice of her veil as she handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘Our permits and safe conducts.’

  The Toyota screeched to a halt in a flurry of dust. The soldier monks jumped down from the back and formed a circle around the helicopter, the long black tails of their turbans fluttering in the wind. Most held Kalashnikovs; a couple had rocket-propelled grenade launchers across their shoulders.

  The commander waved his hand, indicating we should get down from the heli. A crumpled bullet hung on a thong around his neck and the now-familiar scar showed white against his sunburned face. His men were all younger, some beardless boys. Their faces showed little interest, only a dull hostility as they stared at us.

  Salan addressed me directly, but gave no sign that he recognised me. ‘You have brought nothing into Afghanistan that is forbidden by our Islamic law?’

  ‘We are carrying only fuel for the helicopter and equipment to help us with our work.’ I pointed towards the open door of the cab. ‘See for yourself.’

  Three of his men walked towards the heli and climbed inside. Amica shrank back and averted her gaze, staring at the side of the helicopter as they passed her. One of them prodded the fuel bladder with the barrel of his Kalashnikov, then began fixing his bayonet.

  Jeff let out a yell and was lunging for the helicopter when I held his arm. I turned to Salan. ‘Please excuse my friend; he is afraid that your soldier may hurt himself and the rest of us. That container holds twenty-five thousand litres of fuel.’

  Salan’s eyes widened. He took a step back, shouting furiously at the soldier, then swung round to face me. ‘Show me.’

  We climbed inside. I unscrewed the inspection cap, sniffed and then gestured for him to do the same. He did so, then glanced around the interior of the cab. He prodded a couple of our bags with his toe, then climbed out again. ‘Is the helicopter armed?’

  I shook my head and pointed to the black holes in the fuselage from which the guns would normally have protruded. ‘They were removed as soon as we bought it. We are men of peace.’

  ‘Men of peace?’ He could not hide the contempt in his eyes. ‘A man who does not fight to defend his home, his people and his religion is not a man at all.’

  He made a show of flicking through the papers, but either could not read or could not be bothered to do so. Then he handed them back and shouted to his men. Without another word, they got back into the Toyota and drove off across the airfield.

  We clambered back inside and I cleared us for take-off with the tower. As we rose into the air I saw Salan’s red Toyota bouncing its way along the rutted streets towards the centre of Kabul.

  * * *

  Leaving Amica and the guys at the compound in Kabul, we flew back to Bangur at dawn the following morning.

  ‘No regrets that you’re on the mission?’ I asked Dave as his men transferred the fake fuel bladder from the Herc to the heli.

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll be my last one. I’ve had to smile and take the flak for a few screw-ups over the years – Eagle Claw, Grenada, Somalia. I’ve had Dexy rattling my chain about them ever since. This is the chance to do it right: show what my boys can do.’

  We overflew the southern deserts and passed Qandahar without incident, but a full-scale battle had broken out further up the Tarkan valley towards Kabul. Tanks were rocking in their tracks among the trees, blasting salvos of shells into the valley. Several buildings were already in flames, but I could see the bright flashes of return fire from around them.

  There was a sudden yell from the back. ‘Incoming! Evade! Evade!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Jeff said. ‘It’s only ground fi— Shit! Look out!’

  Ugly bursts of flak peppered the air around us as an anti-aircraft gun opened up from the ridge. I threw the Hydra from side to side, ramming the cyclic upwards for maximum power. There was a rattle and a screech of metal as shrapnel ripped into the fuselage.

  I heard the side door slide open and we gave a torrent of return fire. Sweat pouring down my face, I kept up the gut-wrenching pattern of evasion, up and down, left and right, the engines screaming in protest.

  Heart in mouth, I waited for Jeff’s voice, calling an emergency. It never came. The shrapnel had missed the fuel and hydraulic lines and buried itself in the armour plating beneath us.

  The black puffballs of smoke were no longer opening ahead of us. I maintained the evasion for another five seconds, then levelled and eased down on the cyclic.

  ‘All right back there? Anyone hit?’

  ‘No one’s hit, we’re just bruised to hell,’ Dave said. ‘Who taught you to drive?’

  I laughed, high on adrenalin. ‘The same wankers who taught you to shoot. You did know you were out of range there, didn’t you?’

  ‘There’s no such thing when you’ve got gravity on your side.’

  ‘You’re right. Not if accuracy doesn’t matter anyway.’

  Boon interrupted. ‘Listen, wise-ass. You stick to flying this heap of crap. We’ll stick to shooting. That way we may all get out of this alive.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a bet on with Jeff that I can get down from three thousand feet to the ground in less than twenty seconds.’

  I lost the bet, but not by much – and for all their assumed nonchalance I could tell that a few of them were very glad to feel solid earth under their feet again.

  Tank already had the forklift truck waiting by the time I’d wound down the engines. The fake fuel bladder was unloaded and stacked, still on its pallet, among the real ones.

  We were sitting in the canteen, getting some food and a brew before the flight up to Konarlan, when we heard the sound of a revving engine and raised voices.

  We ran outside. An ancient flatbed truck, decorated with vivid images of eagles dismembering their prey and warriors brandishing swords and guns, was parked in the middle of the compound. Salan and his group of Taliban soldiers stood next to it.

  I hurried across the compound with Dexy. ‘What’s up?’ I said.

  Amica moved away from the soldiers before she answered. ‘They’re trying to take some of the fuel.’

  Salan strode across to interrupt the conversation. ‘Our people need fuel for their lamps and stoves. You have plenty. You will give some to us.’

  ‘But this is aviation fuel,’ Amica said. ‘You can’t burn it in lamps.’


  He stared at her for a moment then backhanded her to the ground and turned on his heel, yelling orders to his men.

  Dexy and I started after him, but Amica’s warning shout stopped us. ‘Wait! If you interfere you risk everything. I’m all right. Leave it.’

  I helped her to her feet. A few spots of crimson now stained the mauve burka just below the mesh of the visor. ‘Our time will come,’ she said, her voice so low I had to strain to catch the words.

  The roar of an engine broke the silence. One of the Taliban soldiers had started the forklift truck and was driving it across the compound. The others fanned out, covering us with their weapons. I checked the serial number on the bladder he was heading for, and relaxed for a moment – then let out a yell. The man had lowered the forks as he rumbled towards the pallet – but not enough.

  The steel prongs caught on the lip of the pallet, which rose a couple of feet into the air before crashing down with a sharp, splintering crack. The extended forks pierced the skin of the bladder as it dropped, and a tide of pink fuel gushed out.

  Everyone froze. I shouted at Salan in Farsi, ‘The engine! Cut the engine!’

  He gave me an uncomprehending stare, then his face drained of colour and he screamed an order. The soldier killed the engine just as the tide of fuel lapped around the forklift, hissing as it touched the hot metal of the exhaust. No one moved. We all stared, waiting for it to become a wall of flame. The spark never came. The fuel spread wider across the compound, staining the ground around my feet and sinking into the parched earth.

  I strode over to Salan, ignoring the rifle barrels trained on me. ‘That is our only spare fuel for the helicopter. It is useless for anything else, you cannot use it and you cannot sell it. We are here to clear minefields on the express authority of Mullah Muhammed Omar himself.’