Gray Genesis

by Alan McDermott

  ‘What’s the source?’ Balmer asked, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘Sentinel,’ Durden said.

  ‘The same guy who told you about the attack on FOB Tork?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  That gave Balmer a little reassurance, but not total confidence. The guy had been right before, but it didn’t mean he would be on the money every time. And while Durden might trust his informer, it didn’t mean Balmer had to. He was wary before any mission, but more so since the SAS patrol had stumbled into a trap. If he was going to avoid a similar fate, he had to be proactive.

  ‘What route are they expected to take?’

  Durden got up and walked over to a large map pinned to the wall. He pointed to a spot on the Afghan-Pakistan border. ‘Here, at the Jebbel al-Jabr pass—about forty-five klicks south of the Angoor Ada border crossing. The ultimate destination is unknown, but it’s believed to be a cache within five klicks of the border.’

  ‘So our only option is to take them at the crossing in the mountains,’ Balmer said. ‘Does it smell like an ambush to anyone else, or just me?’

  ‘I see your point,’ Durden said, ‘but you have to appreciate that Sentinel isn’t at the top of the tree. He can only pass on the information he’s able to gather.’

  Or that’s fed to him, Balmer thought.

  Durden’s problem was that he thought money was the be-all and end-all. Throw a few grand at some poor soul and hope he rats on his family, friends and neighbours. Balmer knew it wasn’t as easy as that. He had studied the local culture intensely, and he understood that loyalty and religion were the cornerstones of the Afghan ethos. While there might be a few willing to abandon those principles in the pursuit of material gain, they were by far the exceptions.

  ‘Just to be sure, I’d like to set out early. If they are planning a trap, we’ll be there when they show.’

  ‘I concur,’ Bridges said. ‘Take seven men tomorrow night. That’ll give you plenty of time to dig in.’

  Two nights camped out in the mountains wasn’t Balmer’s idea of fun, but it beat walking into a barrage of lead. He took down the co-ordinates of the crossing point, then asked about transport.

  ‘I’ll arrange for a chopper to drop you off seven klicks from the base of the mountain.’

  That meant ten kilometres on foot, the last three uphill. Just a Sunday stroll for Balmer and his men.

  Once he had all the information he needed to brief his men, Balmer made to leave. But when he reached the door, he paused and turned back.

  ‘Any news on the Dagher woman?’ he asked Durden.

  ‘Not yet. Sentinel is still working on it.’

  ‘But when do we expect her virus to be in play? Any day now? A few weeks?’

  ‘I expect it’ll be soon,’ Durden said. ‘If it works as she predicts it will, they’ll want to test it out as soon as possible.’

  Balmer sucked on his lips.

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ he said.

  * * *

  When the crew chief gave the two-minute warning, Balmer picked up his pack and threw it on. It weighed close to eighty pounds and had enough supplies to see him through the next two nights out in the open. They would be tucking into nothing but MREs—meals ready to eat—but had prepared for it by taking double portions at chow time. It had added a few pounds to their frames, but they would burn that off in no time.

  ‘One minute!’

  Balmer checked the chamber on his weapon and pulled down his NVGs before he and the seven other men from the Operational Detachment Alpha descended the ramp. The moment the bird touched down he was out, running at a crouch for twenty yards before throwing himself to the ground and sweeping the horizon. Behind him he heard the pitch of the rotors change as the helicopter climbed rapidly into the night.

  He waited until silence fell once more, then radioed his team members. All reported in—none had enemy sightings to report. Balmer ordered Lomax to take the lead, and they followed in single file, leaving twenty yards between each man. After a quick course check, the big man set off.

  Lomax set a moderate pace, but by the time they reached the base of the mountains, most of the team were already blowing hard. Balmer allowed them a five-minute rest as he shed his load and checked out the surrounding hills.

  It all looked quiet, but then the Taliban were hardly likely to advertise their presence.

  Having studied a map of the area in detail prior to setting off, Balmer knew the scale of the climb ahead. Several trails had been worn into the mountain over the years, but he was keen to avoid them, preferring to cover the rocky ground where it was harder to lay mines.

  After taking a bearing to the spot where they would set up camp, Balmer picked up his pack and threw it on again. ‘Let’s go... Liebowitz, you take point. We’re heading for the base of that outcrop.’

  Liebowitz nodded and set off. Balmer gave him a small head start, then followed.

  It was hard going. The lower slope of the mountain was a soft shale that sapped the strength from Balmer’s legs, and by the time they got to the rockier part he was drenched with sweat. They still had a couple of kilometres to climb to reach the summit, but time wasn’t pressing on them. Balmer gave them another rest.

  He was in the middle of drinking from his water bottle when the mountain erupted in small arms fire. The canteen jumped from his hand as a round struck it—Balmer ducked behind a boulder and brought his rifle up. Through his NVGs he could see muzzle flashes from higher up the mountain—roughly two hundred yards from his position. He answered back just as the rest of his team opened up, firing three-round bursts up the slope.

  The incoming fire was as precise as he’d ever come across, and the enemy fighters weren’t wasting ammunition as they usually did. None of them were spraying and praying, but sending short, accurate bursts Balmer’s way. These were seasoned professionals holding the high ground, and they had his men pinned down. Retreat was impossible, and pushing forward would be suicidal.

  ‘Jacobs! We need air support!’

  More bullets pinged off the rock Balmer was using for cover. He heard Jacobs scream instructions into the radio as the enemy fire intensified, but the sound was drowned out as an explosion shook the ground. Shale was thrown into the air and came down in a thunderous rain.

  ‘Twelve minutes!’ Jacobs shouted.

  We’ll be lucky to last two, Balmer thought as he sent more rounds up the mountain. His reservations about the mission were now justified, and he cursed himself for not demanding air support from the start. If a plane had been in the sky from the moment the chopper touched down in the desert, the fight would be over by now.

  He spotted a figure breaking ranks and climbing slowly down the hill to his right.

  ‘They’re trying to flank us!’ Balmer snapped off a three-round burst and watched the enemy fighter fall, but another was soon heading in the same direction. Balmer was just taking aim when another grenade detonated just yards from him.

  ‘Harper’s hit!’

  ‘How bad?’ Balmer shouted back.

  ‘I’m okay,’ Harper responded, though Balmer could hear the strain in his voice.

  Harper was as tough as old boots—they all were—so his wound must be pretty serious. Whatever it was, it would have to wait until the battle was over.

  Balmer returned his attention to the guy who had tried to get down their left flank, and took him out with his second burst. But it wasn’t enough to deter the attackers. Two more men started down the same route, while the grenade attacks became more frequent. If they were going to get out of this, Balmer knew he had to go on the offensive.

  ‘Lomax, I’m going right. Cover me.’

  Balmer chambered a round in his underslung M203, then took two smoke grenades from his webbing. He pulled the pins and tossed them in the direction he was about to move in before firing the grenade launcher. The projectile arced into the air and came down above the dug-in Taliban, but it was enough to giv
e him a couple of seconds of breathing space. He ran to his right while the rest of the team laid down suppressing fire, then threw himself behind a rock to gather his bearings.

  The two Taliban were still making their way down the mountain, and Balmer picked them off before edging farther right and beginning his climb. He immediately came under heavy fire, and had no alternative but to hunker down behind a rock and mount a lone defence.

  ‘How long on the air support?’ he shouted into his throat mic.

  ‘Nine minutes.’

  Fuck!

  ‘Tell Hubble to keep an eye on the left flank. We can’t let these bastards get around us.’

  More smoke grenades exploded, throwing a thick grey blanket over the battlefield, but they hadn’t come from his men. Balmer knew it had to be a prelude to an attack. The enemy would be advancing on his position at this very moment, probably hoping to neutralise the threat of air cover by being up close.

  ‘Hit ’em with the 203s,’ Balmer shouted into the radio. ‘One hundred and seventy yards.’

  Moments later he heard the crump of the first grenade firing, followed shortly by the explosion. Balmer added his own rounds into the mix, and was rewarded with the sound of enemy screaming. His guess had been right, but whether the barrage was enough to deter the Taliban remained to be seen. Until the smoke cleared, all they could do was keep firing blindly in the hope of hitting targets.

  ‘Bring it in, a hundred and fifty yards!’

  More shells shot into the sky, falling onto the rocks and lighting up the night. There were no cries this time, so Balmer told his men to hold off on the grenades. Rounds continued to pour down from above, but the smoke worked both ways, and the incoming fire was now ineffective.

  Balmer wanted to move his men, but options were limited. To retreat meant relinquishing cover, and advancing would put them within spitting distance of the enemy—not good if they planned to call in an air strike.

  Before he could make a decision, the smoke began to clear and the Taliban once again laid down intense and accurate fire. A scream erupted from farther along the lines, and Hubble reported that Johnson had been hit in the shoulder. Not a life-threatening wound, but it meant they were another man down.

  Balmer found a target and put a burst into the enemy soldier’s chest, then ducked back behind cover as more bullets flew his way.

  ‘Jacobs, how long?’

  Balmer fired at another Taliban target as he waited the reply.

  ‘Six minutes!’

  It didn’t sound like much, but it was plenty of time for the enemy to get in close enough to ruin his day.

  More smoke grenades popped seventy yards from the Delta Force lines, signalling another Taliban advance. If they carried on like this, they’d be on top of Balmer’s men before the cavalry arrived.

  You wanna get up close and personal? Fine by me!

  ‘Move up, now!’

  Balmer was already advancing when he gave the order, flitting from rock to rock as he sprinted up the hill. From the corner of his eye he could see the huge silhouette of Lomax making short work of the terrain, leaping up the incline like a gazelle. Five yards from the dissipating line of smoke, they both stopped. The remaining active members of the team were close behind them.

  Between the spurts of automatic rifle fire, Balmer caught the sound of loose pebbles being crunched underfoot. The Taliban were closing, fast. He hunkered down behind a rock and swapped his magazine for a full one, then aimed up the hill as the last of the smoke curled away in a gentle breeze.

  The enemy were a lot closer than Balmer had envisaged. They were still advancing when the smokescreen cleared, making them easy targets. Balmer opened fire, and his men joined in. Fifteen of the enemy fighters fell within seconds—easy targets at just thirty yards. The remaining handful dived for cover.

  ‘Cover me!’

  Balmer broke away and ran forward as the others laid down suppressing fire. A head appeared over a rock twenty yards from Balmer but before he could take aim one of his team mates blew a hole in it. Balmer jogged on, getting level with the last of the Taliban. He shot one through the side of the head as he cowered in a small depression, then sought out another kill.

  The moment he turned he was punched in the chest and thrown onto his back by an invisible force. He knew immediately that he’d been shot, and his hands went to his rib cage in search of blood. They came up clean. The Kevlar in his jacket had served its purpose—and not for the first time—which left him still in the fight. He spun onto his front just as his assailant was fumbling with a new magazine.

  Balmer put an end to his struggles.

  ‘One minute out!’ Jacobs announced, but Balmer knew the plane had arrived too late to make a difference. There were only three Taliban left, and while half of his men kept them pinned down, the others crept closer until, inevitably, the battlefield fell silent.

  ‘Call them off before the tardy fuckers mistake us for the bad guys,’ Balmer told Jacobs. ‘And call in transport.’

  After assigning two men to take care of their wounded, Balmer began the task of ensuring there were no fakers among the dead. He went from body to body, kicking them to elicit a reaction, but all had been sent to their maker. What he did notice was that none of them were the veterans he’d imagined they were during the onslaught. These were… kids. A few might have been in their twenties, but most looked like teenagers. To have fought so well meant only one thing.

  Balmer took out his spare canteen and drank the contents, then called Lomax over.

  ‘Give me a hand with this one.’

  He instructed Lomax to hold the dead kid up by his feet, then crouched down and put the canteen up against the corpse’s neck before making a small incision. Once a small amount of blood had trickled into the flask, he screwed the lid back on and told Lomax to drop him.

  ‘Looks like the virus is in play,’ Balmer told Lomax. ‘There’s no way these guys learned to fight that well in a training camp. I’ll take this back to camp and have the captain analyse it.’

  The big Texan spat on the ground. ‘What concerns me more is that the fuckers knew we were coming. I think Durden’s mole is playing us.’

  Chapter 18

  From his vantage point five hundred yards north-west of the ambush site, Farhad Nagi observed the virus in action for the first time. He was shielded from the skies by an overhanging rock, lying underneath a thermal blanket dyed the same colour as the surrounding landscape. It provided the perfect camouflage. Through green-tinted binoculars, he watched the battle unfold.

  It started off badly. The young men were patient as the enemy patrol approached, and when the distance closed to within four hundred yards, he willed the leader of the group to open fire while the targets were stuck out in the open.

  It didn’t happen. Instead, they let the Americans get close to the cover of rocks before they decided to engage them.

  A fatal mistake.

  What the boys lacked in tactical knowledge, they more than made up for in aggression and determination. Their weapons handling and discipline was exceptional for such novices; they didn’t waste ammunition. And the use of smoke to advance on the Americans was also a smart move. But in the end it was all for nothing. They did manage to inflict a couple of injuries, but from what Nagi could see, none were serious.

  It was a pity that they hadn’t managed to secure at least one kill, but that wasn’t the purpose of the exercise. Nagi had witnessed some heroic actions, tactical discipline—for the most part—and resolution from a bunch of boys who just a couple of weeks earlier had never even seen a rifle, never mind taken on some of the finest soldiers the West had to offer. All in all, it was a pleasing demonstration of the Dagher woman’s gift.

  He was keen to report back to Abdul al-Hussain, though he would have to remain in position until the Americans were clear of the area.

  Twenty minutes after all the gun fire had stalled, a helicopter came to whisk the enemy away, and he waited until the
thudding of rotors faded into the distance before creeping out from his cover. He did so slowly, moving like a sloth with the thermal blanket still on his back. He expected the enemy to leave a drone high in the sky to monitor those who came to claim the dead, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught in its sights.

  It took three hours to crawl a kilometre to the east, which he considered to be well outside the scope of view of any airborne cameras. He finally stood, but still moved deliberately as he walked towards the lower slopes of the mountain. Once he reached the desert floor, he knew it was just another two kilometres to the wadi. That’s where he’d hidden his motorcycle.

  When he finally threw his weary leg over the machine, Nagi wished he had a faster mode of transport. He couldn’t wait to tell al-Hussain what he’d seen.

  It was almost lunchtime when he arrived at the market. He parked the bike outside a café and went inside, ordering a tea and glass of water. He was an hour early for his pre-arranged meeting with al-Hussain, and spent that time reading a newspaper provided by the owner.

  Nagi was on his third tea when al-Hussain appeared. They were both immediately shown into a back room, and the owner promised to bring refreshments before leaving them alone.

  ‘How did it go?’ al-Hussain asked.

  ‘Beyond our wildest expectations,’ Sentinel grinned. ‘Our boys fought courageously to the very end, and they acted like seasoned professionals throughout. I had only one negative observation to make.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘If they had engaged the enemy sooner, the outcome might have been more favourable.’

  Nagi explained how the fighters had let the Americans get too close before launching their attack. ‘If they had opened fire at four hundred yards, we would be celebrating a great victory. As it is, the Americans were able to find cover and launch a counterattack. It was… devastating.’