Gray Genesis

by Alan McDermott

  The three-pronged attack was probably not what the Taliban were expecting, but to their credit they maintained their discipline. They didn’t waste rounds, nor look flustered in any way. For Gray, it was like watching a training exercise back in Hereford.

  But they weren’t invincible.

  Gray switched out magazines and fired three bursts at the enemy, hoping to draw their fire and let his teammates get in closer. It worked, but Smart and Sonny were only able to move a few feet before bullets started flying their way. Gray took the opportunity to sprint behind a bulldozer, with Levine close behind him. It gave him a better angle on one of the Taliban, and he made his shots count. He fired another few bursts at another target, then hit the catch to release the empty magazine just as bullets pinged off the bulldozer next to his head.

  ‘Fuck!’ Levine shouted. ‘I’m hit!’

  Gray turned to face the threat and saw a young boy, no more than sixteen, running towards him. The kid raised his AK-47 and squeezed the trigger as Gray waited for the punch that would signal a hit.

  None came.

  The boy dropped his empty weapon and pulled out a knife, then hurtled towards Gray, who was fumbling in his webbing for a fresh magazine. He managed to get it out, but the kid was on him before he had a chance to slam it home. Gray stood and threw his rifle at the boy’s face, but the youngster easily deflected it and rushed at him, thrusting the knife towards Gray’s stomach. Gray parried the strike and caught the boy with a vicious right hand to the head, but the boy shook it off and came again, slashing wildly as Gray backed off. With the knife swishing closer and closer to his face, Gray took another step backwards and caught his heel on a timber beam. He tripped, landing heavily on his back. The Taliban youngster leapt on him; the blade high and arcing towards Gray’s face. Gray grabbed the knife arm near the wrist, confident that he had power advantage, but the kid seemed possessed. Gray didn’t know if it was the virus, or the boy’s natural survival instincts, but he seemed to have the strength of three men. Gray strained every sinew to keep the knife away from his face, but it inched closer with every breath he took. He could almost feel the cold blade as it searched for his left cheek, and for the first time in his life, he feared his moment had come. This wasn’t how he planned to go—defeated in one-to-one combat by a child. Brute strength alone wasn’t going to win this, but Gray had been around the block a few times. He coughed up a ball of phlegm and spat in his attacker’s eyes, and the moment the young Afghan jerked his head back, Gray twisted and threw the boy to the side. Gray rolled away, out of reach of the blade, then whipped out his pistol and fired twice. The bullets found their mark, but Gray didn’t have time to reflect on his personal victory. He picked up his rifle and inserted a fresh magazine, then jogged over to Levine who was still engaging the Taliban.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Levine told him. ‘Got hit in the leg. It’s just a scratch.’

  Gray fired at a head that had poked out from behind a pile of timber, but his snapshot missed. ‘Good. Let’s finish these guys off.’ There were only four remaining, the rest having been picked off by the 654th as well as Sonny and Smart. The infantry had managed to force their way closer, and the Taliban were in a hopeless situation. That didn’t seem to faze them though, as they fought resolutely for the next three minutes. But the odds were never in their favour. Sonny took out the last of them, but the fighting continued around the camp.

  Gray ordered the 654th to set up a defensive perimeter around the civilians, while he checked out the skirmishes taking place all around him. There were plenty to choose from, and the Taliban seemed to have the upper hand in most of them. They needed more boots on the ground, and fast. He radioed the base and asked when they could expect some help, but the news wasn’t good. Two more choppers were being fuelled to bring in a platoon from the Australian commandos, but it would be at least twenty minutes before the Chinooks arrived.

  Air support was out too. With the perimeter breached and everyone fighting at close quarters, there were likely to be as many coalition casualties as Taliban.

  They were going to have to clear them out themselves.

  ‘Balmer, what’s your situation?’

  ‘Engaged with three near the north-east corner, but they’re dug in.’

  ‘Get it done, then form up on me. I’m at the Caterpillar by the accommodation block. We need to co-ordinate our attack.’ Gray radioed Sonny and Jeff Campbell and gave them the same instructions.

  With the civilians relatively safe, it was time to clean up—the best way to do that was as one large unit instead of small teams dotted all over the battlefield. Four-man patrols were ideal for covert incursions behind enemy lines; it was what the SAS were best known for. It wasn’t the only song in their repertoire, though. First and foremost they were soldiers, not averse to a good-old, straightforward firefight.

  The base was too big to move line abreast and clear it from north to south; they would be spread out too thinly. Instead, Gray decided to head to the hole in the west wall, deal with anyone still trying to get in, then get the 654th to set up defences in case the Taliban committed more men to the assault. After that, they would join each engagement, using overwhelming fire to their advantage.

  Balmer and his men joined Gray and Levine moments later. He shared his plan, and Balmer simply nodded before leading the way.

  A tented village stood between them and the west wall, slowing their progress as they had to check around each corner before moving to the next row. Sonny was on point, and when he reached the end of the second tent he checked the alley way and saw an enemy combatant on the run. Sonny already had his rifle up and got the drop on him, and after a few seconds indicated to the others that the coast was clear.

  Gray noticed a lack of gunfire coming from the direction they were heading, and when they reached their destination he saw why. The only infantry they could see were lying still on the ground, their battles fought and lost.

  Gray looked through the hole and out into the night. There was no sign of anyone, which suggested that all of the protagonists were already inside the base. No point wasting resources by leaving someone to guard the ersatz entrance. Instead, he followed his ears and indicated the direction the closest noise was coming from. All fifteen men followed Gray, who ran around the back of a coffee house until he reached the corner. Poking his head out, he saw a handful of Taliban fifty yards away. They had their backs to him, firing at two men from the 654th who were trying to pull an injured trooper to cover. One of the infantrymen took a bullet to the leg and the other was killed instantly. The Taliban immediately swarmed the two wounded men, shouldering their rifles and drawing their pesh-kabz—Afghan knives that were eighteen inches long. It was clear how they intended to finish the vulnerable men off.

  Gray moved forward and to the right, allowing Sonny to follow him and get a bead on the Afghans—they opened up just as the first of the Taliban raised his weapon. All five fell, and Gray ordered Smart—the patrol medic—to help him deal with the casualties. Smart gave them a once over. They would survive, but only if they got to a hospital in the next thirty minutes.

  A huge explosion lit up the night, and a second later the ground beneath Gray’s feet juddered violently. It had come from the south of the camp, and from memory Gray knew it had to be the fuel dump where thousands of gallons of gasoline had been stored. He watched a colossal black cloud mushroom into the sky, blind to the swarm of Taliban emerging from behind a burning building until they were firing. With no immediate cover available, he threw himself to the ground and replied, his efforts soon joined by those of the men with him. Gray rolled to the side and took out another enemy combatant with a burst to the chest, then jumped to his feet and got between the Taliban and the casualties.

  ‘Get them out of here!’ Gray screamed at Smart, who used the cover fire to pull one of the injured men behind the hut. Lomax used one hand to drag the other while firing his rifle at the enemy. The hut’s flimsy buil
d offered no protection from the incoming rounds, so they lifted the casualties onto their shoulders and retreated towards the centre of the base.

  The remaining seven men of the SAS continued to lay down suppressing fire while Balmer’s team retreated twenty yards. Then they swapped disciplines; the Delta Force members allowing Gray and his men to pull back. Once they were all among the tents, Gray told Balmer to fall back to the accommodation block. They would set up their defences there and try to hold out until the Aussies arrived.

  As they ran to the RV point, bullets whistled past Gray’s ear. The Taliban were fearless, following the more experienced soldiers, keen to take the fight to them. Gray thought that perhaps they didn’t know who they were up against, but it was more likely that they simply didn’t care. He turned and let off a couple of bursts to slow their progress, but it only bought a few seconds of respite.

  As they turned a corner, Gray spotted the body of a young American soldier. Instinctively, he picked up the man’s rifle and took the magazines that were sticking out of his pockets. They would need all the ammunition they could get their hands on.

  They reached the area where the civilians had been gathered. Gray saw that only half a dozen men remained from the 654th. The sounds of battle that earlier reverberated around the base had now faded, which suggested they were the last coalition forces alive. Sixteen members of the special forces and a handful of infantry against an unknown number of chemically-enhanced Taliban.

  These were the moments Gray had trained long and hard for.

  ‘Get them inside,’ Gray told Smart and Lomax, who carried the injured to the nearest hut. Gray joined Sonny and Levine who were crouching behind the body of the yellow Caterpillar. He got on the radio to update Kandahar on the situation and when he asked about reinforcements Gray was told that they were twelve minutes out. As bullets started to fly, Gray just hoped the Taliban didn’t have any heavy weaponry, otherwise that would be ten minutes too late. He asked for a medevac to be put on stand-by, fearing the casualties could soon mount up.

  They came in a swarm. The ones chasing Gray arrived on scene first, but moments later it seemed as if every Taliban in the region wanted a piece of them. That also made it a target-rich environment and so Gray helped himself to a few kills right off the bat. Those that fell, though, were quickly replaced. Gray estimated that they were up against at least eighty, and with those numbers and an ounce of tactical knowledge, they could easily flank his men. There was no alternative but to go on the offensive before the enemy managed to evaluate the situation and take advantage of their superior resources. Gray was at the point of the defensive V. He got on the radio and told Balmer to work on their left flank and Campbell to attack the right. If they could concentrate their fire on the outer edges of the enemy ranks, it should deter them from trying to get in behind.

  The tactic worked like a charm. Balmer and Campbell bombarded the Taliban flanks with grenades from their underslung M203s, and the enemy fighters edged away from the onslaught so that they were concentrated in front of the V formation—like a shoal of mackerel forming a ball to protect themselves from predatory sharks. All they did was make it easier for the coalition forces.

  Gray plucked a grenade from his webbing and ripped out the pin. The enemy were fifty yards away, which was much farther than he’d ever thrown one. His personal best in training was thirty-seven yards, but with the dry ground he reckoned he could get ten yards of bounce out of it. He got to a standing position and hurled it with all his strength at the closest Taliban before shouting a warning to his own men and throwing himself back behind cover. His aim was slightly off, but the grenade skimmed off the parched ground and landed between two enemy fighters. The explosion, five seconds after it left his hands, ripped them apart.

  Those with M203s took his lead and rained munitions down on the Taliban, who had nothing similar in their arsenal to respond with. Bodies and body parts flew into the air as round after round fell among them. The survivors scattered, a dozen fleeing figures acting as target practice for the marksmen of the SAS and Delta Force. The last of the Taliban managed to find a hiding place behind a stack of corrugated iron sheets, but his brief stand was ultimately futile. When he ran out of ammunition, he bravely drew his knife and ran at his enemies only to be taken down by the bullets from four men simultaneously.

  The sounds of battle dissipated, replaced by the screams of the wounded and the crackling of burning wood from several raging fires. Gray told everyone to stay frosty until they were sure the last of the enemy had been dealt with. They waited in position for a couple of minutes, until the rapid chop of helicopter rotors grew louder.

  An incoming radio transmission asked what the situation was and Gray proceeded to update the captain from the Australian commandos. He suggested they land by the breach in the west wall and make their way in from there.

  ‘Talk about a slaughter,’ Balmer said as he walked over to Gray.

  It was, and both sides had suffered huge losses. Campbell and Smart were already organising medical assistance for the wounded, while the rest of the men were checking to make sure none of the Taliban were able to re-join the fight.

  ‘The scary part is, there’s more of this to come,’ Gray said. ‘Dagher said there was enough for about ten thousand doses.’

  ‘They’ll have to beef up security at every base from now on,’ Balmer agreed. ‘And you and I can kiss any R & R goodbye.’

  The Australians arrived in the camp, and Gray and Balmer sought out their commander—a captain named Wilson. They told him that medevac had been called in, and transport had been arranged for the civilians that were safely secured in their barracks. In turn, Wilson informed them that men from the 667th were en route to shore things up, and that once they arrived, the special forces teams could stand down.

  Gray was glad to hear it. He went around to check on his men, stopping first at Carl Levine who was sitting on a box.

  ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Hurts like a bitch,’ Levine told him. He rolled up his trouser to show off his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it would leave a nasty scar; a lifetime reminder of his exploits in the Afghan desert.

  ‘I’ll get Len to look at it when we’re on the chopper.’

  On checking on the rest of the team, Gray found that no-one else had suffered as much as a scratch—a testament to their skill and training but also down to a huge slice of luck. They couldn’t expect to be as fortunate the next time they were called into action against such a disciplined enemy.

  Twenty minutes later, three Chinooks arrived and the civilians were led out of their huts and straight on board. The first two choppers departed, then Gray and Balmer led their men aboard the third.

  ‘I bet Sentinel knew about this attack,’ the American said as they took their seats.

  ‘He had to,’ Gray agreed. ‘First thing I’m gonna do when I get back is ask Durden what the fuck he’s playing at.’

  Chapter 30

  Lance Durden wished the CIA would get with the times and come up with some decent phone tracking software. The one he’d uploaded to Sentinel’s cell was the best they had to offer, but it left him playing catch-up. By the time Sentinel had spoken to Abdul al-Hussain, the file of that call uploaded to Langley, queued for action and then analysed, the conversation had long ended. What he wouldn’t give for the ability to identify the other phone and pinpoint its location.

  Fortunately, the meeting they’d arranged was hours in the future, enabling Durden time to get assets in place. He’d chosen two women for the job, simply because they were less likely to arouse suspicion. Both were brown-eyed soldiers from the 1-24 Signal Battalion, 4th Infantry Division; one a lieutenant, the other a corporal—both picked because they spoke Pashto. Dressed head-to-toe in black burkas, they had been dispatched to the market near the café where Sentinel would meet his boss. They’d spent their time shopping and were waiting for their targets to arrive when he received word that Sentinel was there
. All he had to do now was wait for al-Hussain and his assets could fulfil their mission.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Gloria Gayle was as nervous as she’d ever been. When she’d first heard she was shipping to Afghanistan, there had been butterflies, but now the sensation in her stomach was more akin to tremors. As a soldier, she’d been prepared to fight for her country should the need arise. She hadn’t been expected to be seconded to the CIA for an undercover mission.

  Undercover being the operative word; the burka was suffocating. How women could wear it day in, day out, she would never understand. The tiny lace window limited her vision, swamping her in a feeling of vulnerability and the padding around her body made her feel like she was auditioning to be a Thanksgiving centrepiece. She had her sidearm should she need it, and five clicks on the radio attached to her hip would summon the cavalry. But Gayle still felt oddly naked—despite being dressed head-to-toe—as she walked the streets of the small town.

  In contrast, Corporal Karen Jones seemed to be in her element. She’d been the epitome of composure since they got into the truck at the base. And while it was Gayle’s job to guide and reassure her subordinate in stressful situations, it proved to be the other way around. Gayle drew confidence from Jones, determined not to be upstaged by someone from the lower ranks. That still didn’t make her totally comfortable masquerading as a local in a hostile environment.

  ‘We need apricots,’ Jones said in Pashto, the only language they were to use on the mission.

  ‘Here,’ Gayle said, pointing.

  They ambled over to a market stall and checked out the wares, to see if the fruit was ripe. Gayle let the corporal do the talking as she spoke the language like a native; another reason she was glad Jones had been chosen alongside her. They settled on a kilo of apricots, along with some potatoes, eggplant and tomatoes. Jones paid for them while Gayle kept one eye on the café that Sentinel had entered a few minutes earlier. Although they didn’t have a recent photograph of Abdul al-Hussain, they’d been told to expect a man in his early sixties who would likely be accompanied by a small—probably armed—entourage.