“Is that it? What happened to the bird?” Stan asked.
“Nothing, she was safe. The moral of the story is, if you see a pram in the middle of the fucking road, run the bastard over or some axe murderer will come and chop your bleeding head off!” Joe was pissing himself!
We fell over ourselves laughing at Joe. The way he told it was hilarious. Stan was cringing!
Exercise OP Triangle
A one day navigation exercise: You will be required to pass this test, furthering your skills towards the final exercise late next week where you will work with live ammunition.
Day one: Map induction – Survival Induction – Building Shelters – Food – Hazards.
Day Two: Range work – 800m – 1000m – Start OP Triangle.
Day Three: Continuation Training.
Our first day on the ground, Joe and I were ready as ever, our kit packed. Joe jumped on board first. Mr Patel walked past me; I nodded over at him, and he smiled back. The truck left and within two hours we were in the middle of the training ground. The driver helped us with our kit. My Bergan was full of all kinds of shit, and Joe was already moaning. Throwing my Bergan over my shoulder, I located our first objective. It was nine kilometres from our current location and we had to get a move on. It was ten past ten when we arrived and our instructor had a brew on ready for us.
“Well done! Get your kit off and sit down, guys! Take the weight off your feet: nice to see you’re early, makes a change from the usual lot we get through here.”
We spent the next hour or so repeatedly going over bearings, grid references, mag to grid get rid, latitude and longitude, compass bearings: all rather eccentric; the map was our best friend in a survival situation. We finished off our brew and located our next heading, just east of here in a small valley, about five kilometres away. Before we knew it, our preparation time had passed and it was the start of OP Triangle. A night in the field alone, catching our own food, building our own shelters, navigating only by the North Star. No maps just the mark one eye ball and common sense – what little we had of it anyway.
“I wish I’d stuck a Mars Bar up my arse, though; they’d have never known. Ha-ha!” Joe was hungry. We sat up talking all night. I looked up at the stars. They were so clear. We did not bother hunting for food. We were only out for one night, and we couldn’t be arsed really. I was sure we would survive. The next morning we paced ourselves carefully, not rushing for anyone. We had hours to kill.
“Down!” Joe had seen something!
“There, can you see that?” It was just a goat, a fucking goat. Joe wanted to murder it: I told him to sod off. The exercise was over; we had passed, with excellence of course! The Sergeant thought otherwise. He wanted us on the ranges again before we stood down; he wanted to throw in one final test. He pushed us to 1100 metres, a long-range shot. Joe spotted: one shot. We hit the target with our first round, the Master Sergeant nodding in disbelief.
“Outstanding, soldier! Fucking outstanding!”
We were back in the bar. Joe was getting all cocky with this American officer, and she asked him if he wanted a threesome with her mate, the girl on the corner. He couldn’t believe his luck! Stan and the others enjoyed the rest of the night in the makeshift bar. We were pleased for Joe: it might have been his last chance!
Only Joe ever knew exactly what happened, and he kept it a secret ever after! He was asked back to the marine’s room for a threesome. Of course, our Joe jumped at the chance! On entering the room he found them both dressed in stockings, and playing with themselves. Two dildos were on display on the side-board. Joe’s ego was boosted. The girls started licking around his chest, touching his penis, caressing his balls: he was horny as fuck. One of the girls started slowly to go down on Joe. She took his cock in her mouth and started to suck frantically.
It wasn’t until Joe was fully aroused that the door opened from behind. The door was locked, and our Joe was stuck!
Early that day we were gathered up, rather rudely, by people charging about frantically in all directions. An American sergeant was stood at the door of our room barking orders at us!
“Guys, get your arses out of bed and get down the JFK building now! The Lt wants you, something’s happened.”
My head killed; I drank far too much.
“Joe, get up you plank! Come on, move it, soldier!”
“What the hell is this all about? Jesus H Christ mate!”
“Just get out your pit, you lucky sod! How were your two little fancies?”
Joe didn’t say a thing, just got up in a bit of a grouchy mood. They must have worked him hard: I smiled to myself, the lucky fucker!
My mouth felt like something had curled up and died in it, I swirled my tongue about inside, and it tasted disgusting, like something was crawling around inside.
“Sit down, guys! Sorry for getting you up. Is everyone here, Sergeant? Good, then I’ll start.” My head was throbbing.
“Our sources show that a bomb has exploded in Egypt, killing hundreds, and so far our sources are linking it to Al Qaeda. We don’t have all the details yet, gents, but we will and we’ll update you as soon as we hear anything further. Before you go, I want to remind you all of the importance of this mission, and why it is imperative that we stop these murdering bastards, ok! Oh, and Michael, can you stay behind for a second. Sorry.”
I hung around like a bad smell. I stank of alcohol, and fuck knows what they were going to say about it.
“Michael, follow me my friend, I need to show you something.” The others give me an inquisitive look as we are all herded our separate ways. We entered the boss’s office; it stank of stale smoke and coffee. Shutting the door behind us, he showed me to a seat and joined me, perching on his desk.
“This cannot go out of this room, do you understand?”
“Ok, no worries, Lieutenant.” Hmm, this sounded serious.
“They linked that bomb to a shipment that we suspect Killeen and his friends delivered through Pakistan eight weeks ago; it was exported from Syria into Pakistan and over the border into Afghanistan.”
“That shit is going to get some, Captain! I just need one shot, that’s all – one bloody shot, Boss.”
“Well, you’re going to get your chance, as the exercise has been officially cancelled. You are going in sooner rather than later, I am sorry for the short notice, Michael, but this needs to end now. They are shipping so much in from the North, it has become an expensive problem for us, and we need to take out both parties! In the meantime, we can figure out what to do next. The government is in crisis about this; we need Mohammed and this Killeen dropped, Michael, and soon.”
There was more!
Stan entered the room, his face dark, as if he knew what was about to happen.
“Michael! It’s not only the bomb that is bad news!”
“Ok, explain! This doesn’t sound good.”
“They lost Killeen last night! He was being escorted to the airport where a jet was going to pick him up to take him to Guantanamo bay, but his escort was ambushed. Three agents died and he got clean away.
I flared at Stan.
“If you had only let me in that room, you cunt!” Stan had nothing to say. He was feeling for me, but knew he had to be abrupt with me, for my own good.
“Michael! We’re going NOW. Get your shit together. Killeen is believed to be heading out to Afghanistan to Mohammed’s. We need to go now!”
As we left, Stan, Joe and I bumped into a black American marine. He was fucking huge and fucking black!
“Morning, Joe!” he winked.
Joe’s face was a picture; he had gone so red he was like a glow worm.
“Don’t say a fucking word!” Joe snapped.
Chapter Seven: Sabre Six – File 51
Pakistan 2013
What a grand picture one could paint of the brilliant stars above, or the silhouette of the Machetein Mountains below: extraordinary sights to be seen. Joe was comfortably seated on his Bergan eating a sandw
ich. I could taste the meat from where I was sitting, his salad topping so crispy and rough it made my mouth water. I bit down into a packet of crunchy biscuits, mentally weeping over his sandwich, foaming at the mouth as he took yet another mouthful!
“Where did you get that from?”
“Just over there, some fella just gave me a couple!”
“Didn’t you think to share?”
“You wouldn’t like them mate!”
“What flavour sarnies you got then?”
“Beef and salad I think, or dog and salad!”
“You wanker, give me one of those!” Joe started laughing.
Our ride arrived and I slung my Bergan over my shoulder, grabbed hold of my rifle and prepared to board the chopper.
Joe moved off first. I watched him stand up, then followed on behind him, my kit weighing a bloody tonne. I kept worrying at the thought of having left any kit behind, had I forgotten this, had I got that, playing it over repeatedly in my mind. The down-draft was surprisingly comforting, the heat sending goose bumps down my body. The door gunner held out his hand, pulling me inwards, and I took my seat and attached my seatbelt. The gunner raised his thumb to me, I repeated his action and we took off.
I praised the gunner as he leant from his harness into the darkness below. He was hanging out the side passage, fighting against the elements, the biting, freezing, frost clutching at his weakened, narrow face. He shut the side door, and we were once more cocooned in warmth. I felt weary, sleepy, fragile, ecstatic, and frightened: in fact I’m not really sure what I was feeling in that moment, it’s hard to explain.
I gripped on tight to my rifle; my M24 was ready in my hands, and I felt as one with it. I felt safe, powerful, and incredible, knowing that I was going to get a shot at the scumbag across the border. And that was all I was going to need.
Joe was asleep, obviously sleeping off that banquet of a sarnie he had recently gorged on, his little head bouncing all over the place. He looked in a right state, bless him!
I pulled the map from my smock, checking our route and location once again. The flight would take roughly two hours. We were expected to land just North of Albia, about fifteen kilometres west of Galina Village. Our plan was to head west towards the border and cross over into Afghanistan, using the mountains as cover. From this grid reference, all being well, we should get a clear shot into the camp. I was hoping to lie up no more than 800 metres distant. If it went our way, we’d take the shot, and then bug out to the RV (which would be 17 kilometres north) into the mountains until everything quietened down. Then we would skip back across the border and catch a ride home.
I joined Joe and got my head down for an hour. Soon we would land and so would begin our little war.
“Get ready, men! We’re going down.” The gunner opened the side door. Joe held on tight. He was not smiling any longer; Joe had now put on his serious head.
“Joe, can you hear me, buddy?” I had to shout, it was so bloody noisy.
“Joe, can you hear me?”
“Yeah! What’s up knob-head?”
“Are you ready, mate? You got everything squared away?”
“Yeah, ready to go brother, all ready to go!”
“Good, good! Let’s do it!”
The door gunner directed the big bird down. It was pitch black outside, and I couldn’t see a thing. “One hundred, fifty, ten, ground – Go! Go! Go!” He slung us out like bad rubbish, and our kit soon followed.
Before I even got my first breath, the gunner had shut the side door and was on his way home for breakfast.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“After you!”
“No, after you, Kind Sir – well?”
“If you insist, then. I would be honoured, Young Sir.”
I took off my warm kit, packed it away in my Bergan, sorted myself out, checked our location on the map, and we set off. I took a compass bearing heading west towards the border, while Joe waited patiently for me to pull my finger out of my arse.
“Let’s go!”
The terrain was a lot harder than I first expected. My feet were taking a pounding, and I could feel a blister or two forming. I was fuming. Joe was still powering behind me, legs like pistons. We were averaging about 5ks an hour. At the sight of anything that moved, shone, or looked suspicious, we dropped to the ground. This leg of our journey was the easiest part; the further in we went, the harder things were going to become.
Joe told me to drop. I did, and I never said a word: I couldn’t move, due to the weight of the Bergen on my shoulders, so I fell rather awkwardly face down in the rocks and gorse.
“It’s ok, it was nothing. I thought I saw something. Sorry, dude,” We continued with caution.
We reached our first RV ten miles from the border. It was getting lighter, so time to rest up until it became dark again. Joe dropped his kit and wandered about looking for somewhere to bunk up for the day, out of sight and thus out of harm’s way. On his return, he grabbed his kit and told me to follow.
“Well, what do you think? Not bad, hey mucka!”
“I suppose it’ll do.” It was top notch actually, but I couldn’t let him know that, or his head would get even bigger! Joe had found us a small opening in the rocks to bed up for the day. It was completely out of sight to anyone unless they lived around here. The nearest person or village was miles away: it was good enough for me. Joe and I threw our kit in, got on our belt buckles and crawled inside. Joe gave it a good sweep out, and our home was done – simple! It wasn’t too bad actually. I took first watch, as usual. I held the binoculars to my eyes and scanned about, checking the terrain to the west. It looked hard going from here, more so than when we debussed the chopper. Maybe it would be easier on foot; we’d find out soon enough. I told Joe to rest for another hour. I needed to check my bearings and sort a few bits out. Sleep was the last thing on my mind. I had seen a motor vehicle to the west. It must have been at least four miles away, easily. It seemed to be a commercial vehicle heading towards the border, an articulated lorry carrying food maybe? Who knows?
Joe took his turn on stag, (we took three hours each). I stripped down and prepped for movement. I needed minimum kit on – no warm kit, just jacket and short-sleeved shirt to collect up the sweat. I shoved everything else inside my Bergan, did an ammo count, and measured our water intake. Fluids weren’t a problem; there was water everywhere, lots of small streams.
I spent the next hour or so cleaning my M24, oiling its working parts and preparing all my kit ready for battle. I unloaded my pistol, gave it a bloody good once-over, and then placed it back inside its holster.
“Stand down now, Joe! It’s getting dark out, stand down!” Joe pulled away and sorted his kit out. I told our Joe to wait as I dragged my arse up and under, finding myself alone outside the cave. It was bloody dark out, a good time for us to get a move on. Joe threw our kit out, I grabbed my Bergan and off we set.
I dropped to one knee. The ground was somewhat different to what I’d expected. I took another bearing, stood up and moved off west as instructed. The ground was rocky, with few areas of vegetation, and no wildlife at present, just mounds of dirt and jagged cliff edges. I needed to decide whether to take the easy and safe way, or an uphill struggle into the mountains, dropping down into Afghanistan later. I decided on the latter and headed upwards. Bloody hell did I get some stick from Joe for it! I trod carefully, continually slipping on the jagged rocks, and losing my footing. With no sight of the summit quite yet, I dug in, and made myself grin and bear each footstep. Reaching out to grab hold of anything that could help me, I cut my hand on a jagged edge, and cursed as I sucked on the blood. Joe was below me: I stopped to look down at him. He looked tired, but I knew that it was the right choice, though; we had more chance bumping into locals on the easy route, hence our going up instead of down. If my bearing was correct it wouldn’t be long before we started dropping down into Afghanistan. I turned round just in time to see Joe tumbling over and smashing his
head on the rocks; he put his hand to his head, sat down and clenched his fists.
“Bloody Hell, Joe! You ok, mate?”
“Yeah, I have cut my frigging head open, man! That shitting rock!” He punched the ground with his fist.
We spent the best part of the day climbing the mountain until, five thousand feet later, we reached the summit. I was exhausted.
My head, ribs, hands, and knees were in agony. Joe’s head was still bleeding. It was a minor cut, but he was acting like a big girl’s blouse.
I told him to rest up where he was. I was going to scout about looking for a shelter; it took me a while before I found somewhere suitable. Our next shelter was in between three rocks on a cliff’s edge looking south-east back into Pakistan. I went in and cleared the area for us both.
“Don’t you worry, Joe! I’ll sort you out, buddy; it’s just a little cut. I’ll put a plaster on it and kiss it better! Now fucking man-up, you pussy!”
I did wonders with my butterfly stitches – I should have been a doctor instead of a soldier, I would have been better suited. Well, that’s just my opinion, others would disagree! Joe was all sorted. I took the next stag and let Joe sleep.
“Joe, are you awake, mate?”
“Yes, mate! I got one hell of a headache, mate!”
“Good! You cry like a girl’s blouse. It’s only a little cut, buddy. God, you’ve gone on like your head fell off! Ha-ha!”
“Fuck off, Michael, you cock!”
“Just a quick question, Michael my old china.”
“Go on then, out with it!”
“Saying we make it to the other side, how on earth are we to know if our target is actually at that camp, at that time, waiting for us to take the shot?”
“Now that’s a very good question, Sir Joe! And I have an answer for you.”
“Would you like to share it with me then, please?”
“If you insist. Intelligence, satellite, comms and informants all confirm that our man is on site for the next two weeks. It’s payday for our main man, you see. He’s expecting a shipment, so he’ll be on site to collect his stash, and then he’ll depart once all is completed. It’s simple really; don’t you think, dear Watson?”
Sabre Six : File 51 Page 12
