by Ian Redman
“Collins take the left, Dunstan, the right.” Captain Peters’ commands were instantly acknowledged as he hastily crawled up to Piper. “The fast movers are approximately 250 clicks from position,” he whispered, “let’s do it.”
Piper nodded and proceeded to pull off the compact Laser Targeting Device strapped to his back. Looking through the LTD’s rangefinder and acquiring one of the tanks in the middle of the grouping of Iraqi vehicles, he prepared to project a beam of infra red light onto the rear of the armoured vehicle.
With two campfires glowing, the Iraqi soldiers down below the high-rise sand ridges knew nothing of the events unfolding thousands of metres away, as Captain Peters relayed further tactical information to his command centre. “Pathway Leader, this is Tourist One, we are now lazing target, repeat, now lazing target.”
High up in the cold night air, the lead pilot of the two F18 Hornets received his final instructions. “Vulture One, this is Pathway Leader. We are go for release, repeat, we are go for release.”
“Copy that, Pathway Leader.” Swiftly, the pilot made a few last second adjustments on his instrument panel then flicked a switch, the Hornet giving a slight judder as a 2000-pound, laser guided bomb left its mounting. “Pathway Leader this is Vulture One, the bird has flown the nest, repeat, the bird has flown the nest.”
“Copy that Pathway Leader, over and out.” Captain Peters glanced at Piper, now concentrating the red laser image onto the Iraqi tank, then at Dunstan and Collins. “Countdown has begun gentlemen,” he said, “sixty seconds to impact.”
The Iraqi soldier about to climb onto the T72 battle tank noticed it first, a quizzical, almost comedic look running across his face as he did so. He paused for a second or two, then walked over to where the red spot lay centred, the stark realisation of what he was viewing suddenly emerging as he froze in terror.
Swiftly, decisively, the stabiliser fins of the laser-guided bomb spun the cylindrical weapon at a phenomenal rate, down to its target. “THIRTY SECONDS,” yelled Captain Peters, “TAKE COVER!”
Panic stricken, the frightened Iraqi soldier spun around and began to yell a warning to his comrades. But it was too late! Like a hammer strike from the gods, the bomb fell right onto the tank and impacted.
The result was devastating.
As a ‘sonic boom’ blasted through the cool night air, a wave of flame, sand, metal, bone and blood blew up and outwards, the shockwave from the blast travelling at great speed across the desert.
Well away from the impact area, Peters, Piper, Dunstan and Collins lay curled up at the bottom of the large sand dune, holding their hands over their ears as the shockwave hit, sending various pieces of unrecognisable fragments crashing all around them. “Poor bastards wouldn’t have stood a chance,” muttered Collins.
Carefully, the four men crawled up to the top of the dune and surveyed the devastation they had wrought. A huge crater, sunk deep into the sand, with mangled machinery and broken bodies lying everywhere, engulfed in a sea of flame. “Job done! Let’s get out of here,” muttered the Captain, switching back to his Com-link. “Pathway Leader, this is Tourist One, be advised the vehicle problem has been erased, totally!”
“Affirmative Tourist One, good job! Move to checkpoint Orion for retrieval, over.”
“Roger Pathway Leader, we are on our…..”
Captain Michael Peters never finished his sentence as his right shoulder exploded into fragments, his blood splashing onto Ash Piper’s face.
Then it happened, the sound of automatic gunfire and the shouting of crazed men thirsting for blood.
“JESUS CHRIST,” yelled Billy Dunstan as tracer leapt across the desert, in front of them, behind them, seemingly everywhere, “WE’RE UNDER FIRE!”
Captain Peters lay writhing in agony, losing blood at a rapid rate from the stump that used to be his right arm as Chris Collins readied his M249 Squad Automatic Weapon.
“THEY’RE ALL AROUND US,” shouted Collins, “ASH, THE BASTARDS ARE EVERYWHERE!”
The five Iraqi Armoured Personnel Carriers had appeared quickly, their occupants hell bent on revenge. Heavily armed and ready to exact terrible, brutal revenge for the deaths of their colleagues, the Iraqi troops leapt out of their transports and spread out across the dunes.
Then hell broke loose.
“COME ON THEN, YOU FUCKING TWATS!” Chris Collins opened fire, his M249 sending a hail of 5.56 millimetre rounds slicing through the flesh of the lead Iraqi troops.
With the sounds of rattling gunfire and the pitiful screams of men echoing across the dunes, Trooper Ash Piper desperately tried to stem the blood flow from Captain Peters’ wound. But he knew the situation was hopeless, for the man whom Piper had the utmost respect, was dying in his arms.
“WE’RE GOING TO GET FUCKING SLAUGHTERED IF WE DON’T DO SOMETHING FAST,” shouted Billy Dunstan, firing off rounds from his M16 Automatic Rifle.
With red-hot tracer zipping across the dunes, punching into the sand near them, the three men quickly dived for cover. “THEY’RE CLOSING IN!” screamed Collins, firing again at the Iraqi soldiers running towards him.
“PATHWAY LEADER THIS IS TOURIST ONE!” Ash Piper’s voice was barely discernable above the hellish din, “WE ARE UNDER HEAVY FIRE, REPEAT WE ARE UNDER HEAVY FIRE. THE CAPTAIN HAS BEEN SEVERELY WOUNDED, WE REQUIRE URGENT ASSISTANCE. DO YOU COPY, OVER?” Piper continued shouting in sheer desperation, his heartfelt plea for assistance falling on deaf ears as he looked down at the man whose life was rapidly ebbing away. “PATHWAY LEADER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, DO YOU COPY?”
Meanwhile, the same US satellite that had been assisting with operational transmissions had caught the predicament of the four Special Air Service combatants through its high-powered camera lenses. Locking onto their co ordinates, it quickly began relaying data and images back to Pathway Command.
But for Piper, Peters, Dunstan and Collins…time was running out!
“CHRIS, BEHIND YOU!” Hearing Piper’s cry of warning Trooper Collins turned around and let loose a volley of lead into three Iraqis.
“THEY’LL BE ON US IN SECONDS,” shouted Dunstan.
The hell of the firefight continued with tracer repeatedly flying in all directions as Piper’s bloodied hands applied further pressure to Captain Peters’ terrible wound.
“SIR, CAN YOU HEAR ME? HOLD ON SIR, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE HOLD ON!”
The Captain’s vacant, cold eyes looked up at Ash Piper, then slowly, painfully, rolled up into the back of his head. Cradling the Captain close to his chest, with heartfelt disbelief at the loss of his commanding officer, Piper looked up to the heavens and screamed into the night. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
For Trooper Ashley Piper, his time with the Parachute Regiment and the Special Air Service had sent him into situations where fear itself had become a close friend, for it was fear that had kept his instincts for survival on full alert. But now, his fear was different. Very different! For deep down inside something was calling to him. With his heart now full of anger and revenge, his mind calling for retribution, to kill and to keep killing, Ash Piper looked out across the firelit, blood soaked dunes as at least thirty Iraqis dodged in and out of the low rolling sands, their shadowy forms streamlined as they dodged their enemies relentless fire.
“HERE THEY FUCKING COME,” Chris Collins yelled as loud as he could as both he and Dunstan readied themselves for close quarter combat.
Then…something terrifying began to happen to Ash Piper. His sweating started to intensify, his eyesight becoming blurred then blood red, the sounds around him becoming incredibly painful to his ears, the spitting machine guns, molten hot tracer and the screams and shouts of men. Suddenly, without warning, a world of nightmares engulfed Piper’s mind and body.
“HEY ASH, I’M GOING TO MAKE A RUN ACROSS THAT CLEARING…”
To Ash Piper, Chris Collins’ voice was mumbled, unclear. “…I’LL CUT THEM DOWN FROM A HIGHER ANGLE! WHATEVER, I’M GOING TO HAVE TO GO FOR IT! COVER ME!” With a look of grim
determination Collins dashed across the dunes, spraying automatic fire towards his antagonists as Billy Dunstan threw two frag grenades, one to the left, then to the right. Within seconds, further screams assaulted the night.
But Ash Piper was on his hands and knees, vomiting, oblivious to the chaos and mayhem around him.
“ASH, FOR GOD’S SAKE KEEP FIRING, KEEP…” Billy Dunstan, a hail of tracer slashing past his face, never finished his sentence. With his eyes wide open in disbelief, he gazed at Piper who stared directly back at him, the whites and pupils of his eyes now a lurid shade of red. “Oh, sweet Jesus…” muttered Dunstan as Piper’s desert camouflaged uniform, unable to contain his enlarging limbs and torso, began to rip open, the seams of his jacket parting, his body writhing and twisting with the agony of his transformation. With a look of intense shock running across his sweat soaked face, Piper screamed a long, mournful scream, then a terrifying roar, the likes of which Billy Dunstan had never heard before, even in his darkest nightmares.
What was once Piper’s face, now bore a long dog like snout, with canine teeth rapidly protruding at different lengths, his ears growing to large, furred points, a mass of animal hairs sprouting swiftly, protruding from his naked, powerful body.
With Piper’s horrific transformation continuing, Dunstan started to crawl backwards, terrified out of his wits, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the dog like creature rising up on its furred, muscular hind legs, directly in front of him.
The creature was well over seven feet tall, with clawed hands and feet nearly twice their normal size, its snout curled back, baring hideous, razor sharp canine teeth, its body covered in thick, dark animal hair, its tail swishing dementedly and its pointed, triangular ears twitching back and forth, hearing sounds no human could ever hear.
For Billy Dunstan, what now stood before him, was a vision from hell! Suddenly, the beast, now growling intensely at Dunstan, threw back its head, pointed its snout to the night sky and began to howl…a long, mournful howl.
At that precise moment Trooper Billy Dunstan knew for certain he was looking at something from the world of nightmares and legends. A creature that to him, couldn’t possibly exist…or could it?
As Dunstan cowered away from the werewolf standing in front of him, Chris Collins, his ammunition supply fully depleted, gripped his coveted Sykes Fairbairn Commando dagger, tossing the knife from hand to hand, glaring in defiance at the seven, well armed Iraqis surrounding him. “COME ON THEN, YOU FUCKIN’ TWATS,” he yelled, his body taut like a coiled spring.
With hate etched in their suntanned, sweaty faces, Collins’ adversaries had grown fully confident of exacting a terrible revenge on the SAS Trooper. With a mixture of loud shouting and laughter, the Iraqis threw down their AK47 Automatic Rifles into the sand behind them and pulled out their own combat knives. “WE KILL YOU NOW BRITISH MAN! WE CUT YOU DEEP! WE MAKE YOU BLEED!”
The tone of the lead Iraqi’s voice showed Collins they were going to enjoy carving him into pieces, as just to the side of him, on top of one of the dunes, another group of six stood silently watching the spectacle unfolding below them.
For Chris Collins…there was no escape.
The tallest Iraqi made the first move, lunging with his blade at the SAS combatant.
Collins parried the blow and sliced upwards, catching the Iraqi’s chin, making him squeal in pain. Cautiously, the others surrounded him, their knives held at waist height, pointing towards their sweating, bloodied enemy.
“KILL HIM, KILL HIM!” Up on the dune the six Iraqi soldiers cheered and shouted, their focus completely set on the spectacle below, totally oblivious to the large canid shape moving stealthily towards them from the rear.
With the insidious yells of his enemy invading his ears, Collins said a silent prayer and lunged at two of the Iraqis surrounding him. Feinting to the left, he kicked to the groin of the larger of the two as the man squealed in pain, dropping to his knees. Pressing his advantage, Collins slashed, kicked and punched as blood and sweat flew in all directions.
“KILL HIM, KILL THE PIG!” The chanting became louder and louder as Collins winced in agony from a sudden slash across his back. Ignoring the pain, he rolled to the right and kicked out, smashing his boot into his antagonist’s kneecap as across the dune he heard Billy Dunstan battling on.
And at precisely the same time, with a terrifying, hideous roar, the beast moved in for the kill.
The six Iraqis on the dune didn’t know what hit them. As the unholy form of the wolf rose to its full height, one of the Iraqis, suddenly sensing a new threat, quickly turned around. The sight he beheld momentarily unhinged his mind. He began to scream, the same scream abruptly ending in a gargling sound, his larynx being slashed open, the beast’s lethal claws lunging again, ripping his head from his shoulders. In an instant the man’s blood spurted out across the sand, spattering his comrades and soaking the beast’s fur.
With fear in their eyes the terrified Iraqis grabbed their weapons as the wolf, standing solidly on its hind legs, outstretched its thick furred, blood soaked canid arms and claws, ready to strike again.
Down below the dune, away from the hellish, seething maelstrom of carnivorous brutality, Trooper Collins lay panting in the sand, bleeding heavily from several deep cuts across his chest and arms. Swiftly, calling on every ounce of his energy, he rolled sideways, his body soaked in sweat and blood, his knife slashing cloth and tendon as yet again, he desperately tried to defend himself. Then, quite suddenly, he noticed the apparent lack of concentration on the Iraqi’s faces. Gone was the look of hatred, the look of bloody revenge. Now, a look of stark bewilderment lay set in his opponent’s eyes as they gazed up at the dune towards their comrades.
Or what was left of them.
Savagely the beast struck again, its clawed hand defleshing the face of one Iraqi as it held another by the throat.
“Jesus, fucking Christ,” breathed Collins.
The six Iraqis on the dune had been ripped to pieces by the towering, flesh hungry, blood lusting wolf in less than a minute. Now, growling viciously, it turned and looked down at Collins and his antagonists. Dropping to all fours, the wolf ran swiftly as the terrible screams of mutilated men assaulted Collins’ ears. In an orgy of wild, untamed bloodshed, one Iraqi was swiftly disembowelled, the head of another, ripped off as throats were slashed open. Running for his life, the last Iraqi gripped his AK47 and fired, the bullets hitting the beast in the chest and arms. “DEMON, DEMON,” he yelled hysterically. The overly large, gore ridden wolf roared in pain and stopped in its tracks, its eyes glowing blood red with rage and hatred, its bloodied, furred chest rising and falling visibly with each snarling breath. With savage intensity, the beast roared again, its blackened lips curling back, its semi white, blood soaked canine incisors clearly in view, with human flesh hanging loosely between them. With a low, guttural growl, the beast rose on its two hind legs and moved slowly towards the soldier, its huge, hair-laden, muscular form towering over him. Like a striking cobra, it reached out and grabbed the terrified Iraqi by the throat, lifting him off his feet in a neck-breaking grip. The soldier was already in shock as the creature bit into his face, crushing his skull, his body twitching in its final agonised death throes.
Bloody and broken, the Iraqi was thrown to the ground as Chris Collins started to shake uncontrollably, emptying the contents of his bowels into his trousers, for never in all his life had he seen such chaotic savagery.
Such hellish, brutal bloodshed!
Slowly, with its ears twitching from left to right, its tail vertical, dominant, the wolf turned towards Collins. Then, as if by instinct, it started to sniff the air. A deep growling emanated from the wolf’s throat as its blood red eyes scanned the broken, mutilated, twisted forms lying in the sand, its long, red tongue licking its lips. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?” yelled Collins, desperately staring at the beast, now just metres away from him. But the wolf just growled, once again dropping to all fours. Cautiously, panting hea
vily, the bloodied beast moved forward, its surreal, canid body drawing closer to Collins as he crawled away, trying to keep his distance, his face now frozen in heart stopping terror.
Then, as if sensing something was wrong, the wolf stopped and leaned its head to one side, this time towards the sounds of the Iraqi night. As Chris Collins continued to stare at the nightmarish vision from hell, now so close to him he could hear its deep, guttural breathing, the beast suddenly growled loudly, distinctively, then leapt across the sand, into the darkness and out of sight.
Feeling utterly exhausted, Trooper Billy Dunstan staggered weakly over to his shaking friend and colleague. Battered and bleeding, he slowly dropped to his knees.
“Chris…Chris, hey mate, are you okay?” Dunstan whispered, fearing for his friend’s sanity.
At first Collins didn’t reply. He just stared blankly into the blackness of the Iraqi desert and the dimming flames around them.
Not knowing what else to do, Dunstan shook him, “Chris, bloody hell, snap out of it mate, c’mon, hey…Chris….”
“Billy,” Collins whispered, his voice shaky, feeble, “you…you saw it too?” His grip on Dunstan tightened, desperation set firmly in his eyes, “please Billy…tell me you fucking well saw it!”
“Oh god…yes, I saw it Chris, and what it did.” The two soldiers glanced across the darkened sandy terrain as the distant thumping sound of oncoming helicopters scythed through the night air. “Here comes the cavalry,” said Dunstan with a smile of relief on his bloodied, sweat sodden face. With the din of rotor blades growing ever louder, the two SAS Troopers staggered to their feet, surveying the carnage around them as two US Marine Corps, Huey Cobra Helicopter Gunships came into view.
“Where’s Ash?” asked Collins, his voice still weak, his body still trembling.
