by Damien Lewis
As best they could the brothers squeezed in among some rocks, which provided at least a little cover from the enemy. The wounded were going into shock now, drifting off into a fitful half-consciousness and shivering uncontrollably. Every now and then, sporadic shots rang out from behind them, away towards the mountain, as the enemy must have been finishing off the odd stragglers.
‘That’s it, brothers,’ Commander Omer announced, breaking the eerie post-battle silence that had enveloped them. He had blood seeping from the bullet wound to his shoulder, and was clearly in a bad way. ‘By the grace of Allah – peace be upon Him – we are surrounded. They are behind us on the mountain and to our flanks, and they are before us on the river. Insh’Allah, this is where we will die.’
Ali thought about this for a moment. He was not one to go wilfully against his commander, but he was convinced that he and some of the other brothers still had the fight left in them. There had to be a way out of there and Ali wanted nothing more than to be able to live to fight another day. He searched desperately in his mind for a plan, a way to escape. And then he hit on something.
‘Listen, Brother Omer. Insh’Allah, some of us could make a break for it,’ Ali said in a hushed whisper, addressing his injured commander. ‘We could use the river, swim out and let it carry us away downstream. We could live to fight another day, brother. What do you say?’
‘But what about the wounded brothers?’ Omer replied, weakly. ‘Are you willing to abandon them? You have lived and prayed and fought alongside them on the front for many months now. Surely you should stay here and help defend them and, if Allah wills it, be martyred alongside them?’
‘Brother Omer, I can’t depart this world for Paradise with peace in my heart knowing I have not killed at least one infidel, preferably a cursed American.’ As far as Ali was concerned, his studies of the Koran had made it clear that it was his Muslim duty to wage jihad against the unbelievers, until injury or death prevented him from doing so. As of now, he was neither injured nor dead, so his priority had to be to carry on. ‘Brother Omer, it says of the infidels, in the Holy Koran: “Do you fear them? Surely, Allah is more worthy of your fear. If you are true believers, make war on them.” I am not yet ready to abandon the path of holy jihad.’
‘You must do what you feel is right, Brother Ali,’ Commander Omer replied, after several seconds’ silence. ‘And what you feel the Prophet – peace be upon Him – would want of you. As for me, I am finished. And you will be leaving Sadiq and the other wounded brothers here. That much is clear – they can go no further. For us there is no escape,’ Omer concluded, pulling a grenade from one of his chest pouches.
‘You are most gracious, brother,’ Ali said, quietly, his voice choked with emotion. ‘You know we do not do this – desert our brother warriors in their hour of need – lightly. We do this so that – insh’Allah – we get a chance to fight again and kill the kafir. Glorious Paradise awaits you, Brother Omer, have no doubt. And when you get there and when you have the honour of meeting the Nineteen Lions, embrace them for me, brother. Listen to their story of that glorious day. So that when we join you there in Paradise, then you can tell us all about their glory.’
‘Al-hamdu Lillah,’ Commander Omer replied. ‘Brother Ali al-Africani, the Lion Cub, get on your way. Take whichever of the brothers will follow you. Take command of them, Ali. Lead them well. I know that Ahmed will choose to go with you. Keep him always by your side, and heed his counsel. He is not a born leader, brother, but he is a tireless and loyal deputy. I pray that Allah blesses you with a safe journey … This is my journey to another place,’ Omer added, raising up the hand grenade. ‘And Brother Ali, if you do get the chance to get close to the kafir, kill one for me, will you? Slice off his cursed head. And write my name in blood across his infidel’s forehead.’
Quickly as he could, Ali gathered together the brothers who wished to join him and outlined the plan to them. Then, slipping his AK47 across his back, he led the way down towards the river. As the cold water lapped around his feet, he turned to take one last look at the brothers they were leaving behind – among them Commander Omer and Brother Sadiq, two of his closest friends. Then he let the freezing waters carry him off downstream. As he did so he heard a series of chants ringing out from behind him – ‘Allahu Ahkbar! Allahu Ahkbar!’ – followed by a massive explosion.
Finally, his brothers had found what they had come here for. Their path to Paradise.
7
MOUNTAIN INFERNO
SOME TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after the cancellation of the Naka Valley bombing Mat, Sam and CIA Bob found themselves driving into the valley to meet the locals. In one of those crazy, flip decisions that define the madness of war, it was decided by the powers that be that they’d put a team in to do a ‘feel for it on the ground’-type mission, as they weren’t going to bomb the place. So, along with some of Commander Jim’s 10th Mountain troops and the Delta patrol, Mat, Sam and CIA Bob found themselves heading into the valley to meet the people they had at first been sent in to bomb back into the Stone Age. Overhead, there were a couple of Predator UAVs providing top cover, and just to make a show of strength they had some F-18s roaring across the sky with their afterburners.
As soon as their convoy pulled up at the ‘parade ground’ – which turned out to be the village square – it was mobbed by a bunch of raggedy kids who came rushing out of the mud-walled buildings. Mat got down from one of the Humvees and spotted a bright-eyed Afghan boy of about nine years old holding out his hand towards him. As he had a couple of boiled sweets still in his pocket from the OP, he placed them in the kid’s hand. Pretty quickly, all of the soldiers were handing our toffees and Hershey bars and there was something of a carnival atmosphere in the village.
With the help of Ahmed, one of Commander Jim’s translators, Mat tried to engage the Afghan boy in conversation. As he did so, CIA Bob decided to play a trick on them. With his laser-gun sight he put a red dot on to the kid’s chest and began moving it around in a figure of eight. Realising what CIA Bob was up to, Mat had to think of an explanation fast. He told the Afghan kid that it was one of the F-18 jets overhead that had put the mark on him. Mat was quick to reassure the youngster that he was in no danger. He explained that he could talk to the aircraft without the kid even being aware of it and tell it exactly what to do. The Afghan kid went wide-eyed with amazement.
Just then, Ahmed told Mat that they had been invited into the village proper to meet the headman. Together with Sam, CIA Bob and CIA Shorty, Mat was led over to one side of the square where a rough shelter of branches provided shade. Four battered plastic chairs had been placed in a semicircle, and a group of ancient Afghan men were seated opposite on a carpet on the ground. Mat reckoned that one of the Afghan elders was the old goatherd that he and Sam had run into up on the mountain. He nudged Sam in the ribs, and indicated with his eyes the suspected goatherd, and from Sam’s reaction he knew that he was right. After some formal introductions, the old man pointed at Mat and Sam and began speaking.
‘He says he has seen you two before, up on the mountain,’ Ahmed translated. ‘Three days ago, he was with his goats. Strange men with guns up in the mountains are often dangerous, he says, so he tried his best to avoid you.’
‘Yes, we saw him, too,’ Mat said. ‘Tell him he did a good job of pretending not to notice us.’
‘The old man asks what you were doing up there?’ Ahmed continued. ‘He says you looked like you had been living up on the mountain and no one in their right mind does that.’
‘Tell him we’re not complete nutters,’ Mat replied, grinning. ‘We were doing a recce of this area from a distance, in preparation for paying the village a visit. But ask him who he thought we were and what he did about it?’
‘The old man says he didn’t know who you were, but he felt uneasy,’ Ahmed said. ‘So, he came down and told the other village elders what he’d seen. They decided not to say anything to anyone, because they don’t like to get involved in the
war.’
‘Tell him that sounds very sensible,’ Mat replied.
After they had been served with hot, sweet tea in tiny glasses, the village headman began speaking. He appeared very earnest and had a spirited glint in his old eyes.
‘I have a question for you,’ Ahmed translated. ‘You come here with your vehicles and your guns. You have your aircraft flying overhead. They have their bombs. Is all of this directed against us? What have we done to you? I have never even met you before. I have never met any American before. I have never hurt your country or your people.’
‘We’re not all Americans, actually. I’m British,’ Mat said. ‘But tell him there were reports that al-Qaeda and Taliban soldiers had been gathering in this area to attack us. So we came to check if it was true.’
‘So, you are British,’ Ahmed continued, translating the village headman’s reply. ‘You British come back again? You have waged war on us many times before, and yet you come back to attack us again? You don’t remember what happened the last time? You lost. Every time we defeated you. You had better guns, aircraft, vehicles – but still we beat you. You didn’t learn the lesson then?’
‘Tell him Afghan memories are long and it’s a fair point, but we haven’t come back to fight him,’ Mat replied, with a grin. He had a soft spot for the belligerent old devil already. ‘Tell him we have no desire to get beaten for a second time. But we would like to ask him about any AQT movements in the region.’
‘The village headman wants to correct you. He says if you British lose again, it would be for a fourth time.’ Even Ahmed was enjoying translating the conversation now. ‘And even if you are British you look just like the Americans, he says, only you are more scruffy and untidy.’
Mat couldn’t stop himself from letting out a chuckle. The headman was running rings around him.
‘Tell the headman that we’ve just spent a week living on top of his mountain,’ he said, once he’d recovered his composure. ‘That sort of accounts for our appearance. We were up there trying to get an idea of what goes on in his valley.’
‘The headman says he doesn’t understand why you wanted to spend a week on top of the mountain, where it is freezing cold and there is no water. It would have been much easier just to have come here and asked him. Nothing goes on in this valley without his knowledge. If you had done that, you could have at least come here looking clean and respectable. He says that in the old days when the British came, at least they took pride in their appearance.’
Mat turned to the others in exasperation. But all he saw was a line of smirking faces as Sam, CIA Bob and CIA Shorty joined in the peculiarly light-hearted moment – one of Britain’s finest special forces soldiers getting upbraided by an unarmed Afghan elder. With a mischievous glint in his eye the village headman carried on.
‘He says he has seen many Afghan fighters – Taliban – going through his valley over the past few weeks. They are running from attacks by your warplanes in the Shah-i-Khot. They travel through here to Pakistan, where they know you cannot reach them. They do not stay long. Three or four days ago, several dozen men passed through in vehicles. They camped the night, and then moved on to the border with Pakistan. And one patrol passed through the hills on foot.’
‘Yeah, we saw them,’ Mat remarked.
‘When the headman first saw your warplanes flying over, he thought you had come to bomb the Naka Valley. He says this would be a very bad thing to do, for all you would achieve is to make more enemies among the Afghan people. And he says that you are right, Afghan memories are very long.’
‘Exactly,’ Mat said. ‘Which is why we’ve come here to talk to him, face to face, as friends.’
‘He says in our tradition you do not come to someone’s village, to the door of his house, bearing weapons – and expect a warm welcome.’
‘Yep, I can appreciate that,’ said Mat. ‘But tell him we are in a strange country and we need to protect ourselves.’
Once Ahmed had finished translating Mat’s last words, the village headman nodded, rose to his feet and swept his cloak around his shoulders. Then he strode away across the square, several of the other elders following him. As he did so, he muttered something over his shoulder.
‘What did the mad old bastard say, Ahmed?’ Mat asked.
‘He told you to follow him. He will show you where the terrorists hid their weapons before they crossed the border into Pakistan.’
‘What? After all he just said he’s going to help us?’ Mat grinned. ‘Bloody hell, I’m warming to this old bugger. Doesn’t beat about the bush much, but I can handle that.’
Over the next half an hour, Mat and the rest of the team did a complete 360-degree tour of the village. In deserted mud buildings they were shown massive caches of weapons, including RPGs, AK47s, Degtyarev and RPK light machine guns, grenades, and cases and cases of ammunition. There was enough weaponry hidden in the village to equip a good-sized army. At the end of the tour, the headman spoke again.
‘He says, as he told you, there are no Taliban here,’ Ahmed translated. ‘You should know that they are regrouping in Pakistan and that they will keep fighting from there. He says that the Taliban killed his eldest son, because they caught him playing a tape of Western music. He says he would fight the Taliban tomorrow, if he had the means to do so, but up until now they have been too strong. He says there is one last thing he would like to show you.’
Mat and the others followed the village elder a good distance out of the village, into the foothills of the mountains. The path led past a massive boulder, behind which lay the opening to a cave. As Mat’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realised that he was standing at the entrance to a huge, cavernous space which was stuffed full of arms. This was obviously where the AQT forces had hidden their prized weaponry: the Dushka heavy machine guns, heavy calibre mortars and boxes of mortar rounds, plus several Metva bazookas and what looked like crates of rockets from Soviet-era multiple rocket launchers. It was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of weaponry.
After discussing with the village elders what to do about the arms caches, Mat and his men rigged the cave and the other weapons stores with plastic explosives. Once they had cleared all the villagers from the danger area, they proceeded to blow the arms dumps, a series of massive explosions ringing out across the Naka Valley. It wasn’t quite how they’d imagined the climax to their mission playing out, when they’d first been briefed about it back at Bagram. But it was a more than satisfying – if unexpected – outcome to the mission. Before Mat, Sam, CIA Bob and the others made their departure, the village headman spoke to them one last time.
‘He says that if you leave Afghanistan, the Taliban will return,’ Ahmed said. ‘It is like a cancer – you have to treat it all, kill it all. He says that if the Taliban come back and discover what you have done here today, you do not want to know what they will do to the people of his village. He wishes you a safe journey and he hopes that you may soon return. Next time, he says, come directly to his house and stay with him and his family. Don’t spend a week on the mountaintop first, watching them and deciding whether it would be a good idea to drop bombs on his valley.’
‘Can you believe it?’ Mat said, as they drove away from the village. ‘The headman knew what we’d been up to all along. He knew we’d been up there about to call in the JDAMs.’
‘Ain’t you glad you called off them air strikes now, buddy?’ Sam asked.
‘Too right, mate,’ Mat replied. ‘Weird, ain’t it? One moment we were just about to mallet the place and the next we’re sitting down having a chinwag with them. One minute you’re thinking you’re going to drop the whole world on them and then you’re having tea together. Bloody bizarre.’
‘Say, that old boy sure ran the shit out of you though, didn’t he, buddy?’ CIA Bob said. ‘Next time you go a-visiting, you’d better be wearin’ your Sunday best, or he’ll whup your ass again.’
‘You guys reckon that old boy was genuine?’ one of the US soldiers drivi
ng the Humvee interjected. ‘You know, like he wasn’t AQT? Or was he just shit-scared of the air attacks?’
‘They got far more reason to hate the Taliban than we have, buddy,’ CIA Bob replied. ‘With 9/11, we just been attacked by them once is all. These guys have had to live with them every fuckin’ day of their lives.’
‘He was genuine all right,’ Mat added. ‘You don’t need to worry none about that, mate. It’s our side you need to worry about – whether our politicians are genuine about keeping the Taliban wankers out of this country long term. Cos if they aren’t, his village is fookin’ toast.’
That evening, back at the fort, Mat, Sam and the rest of his team said their goodbyes to CIA Bob, CIA Shorty and Delta Commander Jim. A Chinook was arriving shortly to take them back to Bagram, where they were to be retasked to other missions. Mat, Sam and the Team 6 lads had all bonded with CIA Bob. They’d warmed to his enthusiasm for the job and his strength of character. In a way they’d enjoyed looking after him, too, as he’d always been wide-eyed and fascinated by what Mat and his men were up to. CIA Bob was also full of riveting stories about Afghanistan and its people, which had made for a far more interesting mission. And they would miss his biting sense of humour.
Mat felt that he’d learned something important from working with the little CIA spook. As the two men walked out to the LZ, it was as if CIA Bob had been reading Mat’s mind.
‘Funny, ain’t it, buddy,’ CIA Bob remarked. ‘But when we first met I reckoned I needed to teach you somethin’ about the people you came here to kill. Cos you sure knew jackshit back then. Well, you ended up killin’ no one. Instead, you ended up savin’ a lot of innocent lives. And the fact is, it’s just as tough savin’ people as it is killin’ ’em. Wagin’ the war in this country’s the easy part: winning the peace is gonna be the challenge. It’s been a real privilege serving with you guys. If the S-B-S ever need a good spook on any of their ops, just you guys go givin’ me a call, y’hear?’
