by Chris Ryan
‘Leave it, Willoughby,’ Palgrave interrupted in a menacing voice. ‘Just sit down and we’ll get on with the debrief.’
Willoughby sniffed, passed his palm over his greased hair for a second time and took a seat.
‘All right, Jack,’ Palgrave continued. ‘Let’s have it.’
The three of them listened carefully as Jack described what had happened since the cave raid.
You think you’d recognise this fucker again?’ Palgrave asked.
Jack nodded. ‘I’ll just check the fingers.’
‘Actually, gentlemen,’ Willoughby interrupted, ‘that won’t be necessary.’ He sounded a bit less sure of himself than when he’d first entered.
Jack gave him a sour look. ‘What are you talking about?’
The goon opened up a file that he had on the table in front of him, rummaged through some papers and pulled out a photograph. ‘Is this your man, Captain Harker?’
It was a grainy photograph, taken from distance, of a man with an assault rifle strapped to his body standing next to an armoured vehicle. Behind him, Jack could see snowy mountain peaks – this had obviously been taken during the winter – but there was no mistaking the face: the black beard, flecked with grey; the brown eyes; the look.
Jack laid the photo back down on the table. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’
‘We’re well aware of him,’ said the goon. ‘Let’s just say he’s high up on our wish list.’
‘Let’s just say he’s pretty high up on my wish list, too.’ He remembered the video footage of the American soldier screaming as he was being flayed. ‘What’s the bastard’s name?’
Willoughby seemed to regain his arrogance. Being the man in the know suited him down to the ground. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Farzad Haq. Iranian national, orphaned at a young age. He and his younger brother . . .’ The MoD man checked his notes. ‘. . . Adel were brought up by his grandparents, but they go off our intelligence radar when Haq was about nine years old – we don’t know how or why, and we don’t know how the boys managed without anyone in loco parentis. What we do know is this: when the Iraqis invaded Iran later that year, Haq’s younger brother was killed by Saddam’s forces. Scud missile attack on the border, I believe. There were a great many fatalities. This was in the days when we and the Americans supported Saddam’s regime.’ He smiled at Palgrave and Cooper. ‘Funny how things change, isn’t it?’
If the others thought it was funny, they didn’t show it.
The goon continued. ‘Haq next pops up on our radar about ten years later as part of an Al Qaeda cell. When the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan in ninety-six, they gave him sanctuary, and he was able to establish a number of terrorist training camps in the north of the country. We have pretty good intelligence that he was involved in some way with the World Trade Center bombings and 9/11, so we can assume he’s had some sort of direct contact with Bin Laden.’
‘Sounds like a textbook fundamentalist fuck,’ Matt Cooper said.
The goon shrugged. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘He’s certainly a major AQT player, and there’s no doubting that he’s ideologically driven. But he’s obsessed with our American cousins. Blames them for supporting the Iraqi regime that killed his brother. There’s a videotape somewhere in the archives of him promising to eliminate any American he comes across, just like they killed Adel. Makes for charming viewing.’ He turned to Jack. ‘You had a lucky break, old boy. If you’d have been an American soldier, Haq would have killed you immediately.’
Jack gave him a cool look. ‘Your idea of a lucky break, old boy, is a bit different from mine,’ he said.
Palgrave cut through the tension. ‘Jack, I’m going to send this intel upwards. If we get the shout, do you reckon you could lead a unit back there to destroy the cache? Immediate action.’
The goon interrupted, giving Jack a weak smile. ‘I’m sure the MoD’s stance will be that Captain Harker’s taken enough punishment for little while. Wouldn’t you agree?’
But nobody in the room paid any attention to him. Jack thought about his fallen mates, consigned to a fiery death by the weapons his captors had wielded; he thought of the things that the bastards had no doubt been preparing to do to him. Jack Harker wasn’t the sort of man to let things like that pass, no matter how much ‘punishment’ the moron across the table thought he had received.
‘Just say the fucking word,’ he told his boss.
9
13.45 hrs.
The Regiment base was alive, like a bolt of electricity had crackled through it.
Palgrave had put the call through to Kandahar, and four Chinooks, two Apaches and two American Black Hawks were in transit from the main US base to Bastion. This time they were going in mob-handed. Outside the SAS compound, the green army guys knew something was going down – word spread quicker than shit on a blanket in this place – but nobody involved in the upcoming op could worry about that. Matt Cooper, chewing furiously on his gum, was liaising with the OC of 1 Para who were in-country to support the Regiment. The fifty boys from the Parachute Regiment already knew they were required for immediate action, and were preparing themselves and their weapons for insertion into the combat zone.
While that was happening, Jack carefully scanned the most recent satellite images of the town from which he’d only recently escaped. They were incredibly detailed, and it didn’t take long for him to pinpoint the compound where he’d been held – he recognised the well in the centre, the trees between the well, the room where they’d imprisoned him, and of course the long, low building that was home to the weapons cache and the Stingers. The only difference was that at the time this image was taken, the outside wall of the compound had still been intact.
Palgrave entered the Portakabin. ‘They’re ready for you,’ he said.
Jack nodded. ‘Boss,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and keep that MoD numpty out of my face.’
‘Roger that,’ Palgrave said in a low voice that made it clear he shared Jack’s views. ‘Willoughby’s gone to ground anyway. We’ve had to fess up to the Yanks about the Stingers and they’re ripping the arse off him right now.’
The troops were seated and waiting for them in a tented area. There was a tense buzz of conversation among the fifty Paras and the twenty-odd men of D Squadron, but that fell to silence as Jack, Cooper and Palgrave strode in.
Palgrave addressed them. No greetings. No niceties. There wasn’t time for any of that. ‘Listen up. Your target is a Taliban weapons cache here in Compound 32.’ He turned to a map of the village and indicated the compound where the Taliban had held Jack. ‘Our intel is that three missing Stinger missiles are stashed there. I don’t need to tell you what sort of damage they can do in the wrong hands. D Squadron, your objective is to retake the Stingers and destroy the weapons cache. Compound 32 is in enemy territory, and we expect there to be a Taliban commander, name of Farzad Haq, in the vicinity.’ Haq’s face appeared on an OHP behind Palgrave. ‘If Haq’s there, you shoot on sight. Captain Harker’s leading the op and he’ll brief you in a minute.
‘Parachute Regiment, your objective is to cause a distraction to the north. The Taliban can’t resist a fight, so our expectation is that as soon as they realise you’re attacking they’ll be drawn away from the location where D Squadron are going in. You’ll be inserted by Chinook on the northern boundaries of the village, approximately one klick from Compound 32. There’s a demolished compound here that offers a firing line on to what we suspect is the Taliban’s main northern defensive position. The moment you’re on the ground, 1 and 2 Platoon advance to contact. We expect the Taliban to engage you, then use their SOPs to outflank you to the west and the east. We’ll be monitoring their Icom chatter, so we should have a good fix on them. Fire support split into two groups: 3 Alpha and 3 Bravo. Lie in wait and hit them when they come at you. Gentlemen, we want this to go noisy. Remember: you are a distraction. We need every last enemy combatant to think it’s a concerted
attack on their defensive positions so their numbers are reduced when the assault team goes in. Draw them out then suppress their fire. There’s a high density of civilians in the area and you can expect the Taliban to make use of them. So keep civilian deaths to a minimum, but collateral damage is – repeat is – acceptable. Any questions?’
Nothing. Just serious faces, full of sweat and concentration.
Palgrave continued. ‘D Squadron. Fast rope into Compound 32 in two units. First unit to secure the compound and locate the Stingers; second unit to lay the charges and prepare the ground for exfiltration. Any questions?’
A guy at the back put his hand up. It was Frankie McBride, whom Jack had sent back to Bastion with Professor Stenton. There was a menacing glint in his eye. Palgrave nodded at him. ‘Are we hitting the fuckers that brought our lads down?’ he asked.
Palgrave looked tempted to answer him, but he was too professional for that. He just turned to Jack. ‘Captain Harker will give you the low-down now.’
It didn’t take Jack long to explain the layout of the compound and to walk D Squadron through what was required of them. Even as he spoke, the sound of the fleet of American choppers hit their ears and he could sense everyone start to get twitchy. When he’d said his piece, Palgrave took the floor again. ‘All right, gentlemen. You have your instructions. Let’s put those bastards in the hurt locker. Go.’
It took ten minutes for 1 Para and D Squadron to get their kit to the LZ and load up. The mid-afternoon sun was crushingly hot, like a furnace, but hitting the village at this time had its advantages. In Helmand there was always an afternoon lull in hostilities while both sides sheltered from the sun. Hit them now and you’d be going at them when they didn’t expect it.
At least that was the theory.
Jack piled into the Black Hawk that was transporting him back into the desert with nine other guys, plus the SF flight crew. The pilot was practically enshrouded in Kevlar to protect him from small-arms fire, and the loadie – who doubled as a side-gunner – was at his Minigun station.
‘So what’s the craic, Jack?’ one of the boys from D Squadron demanded. ‘Are we going after the fuckers that downed Red and the others?’
Jack looked at him and nodded. ‘And they properly mashed up that missing Yank a few days ago. Crucified him. Took him three days to die.’
No word of response.
Theirs wasn’t the first chopper to leave. That pleasure was left to the Chinooks carrying the Paras, along with one SAS sergeant who would act as a liaison between the men on the ground and the assault team hitting Compound 32. But within five minutes Jack’s team was in the air.
Flight time fifteen minutes, but as they approached the village, the pilot peeled the chopper off to the left. D Squadron would be circling nearby while the Paras started their attack. For the distraction plan to be effective, the assault team needed to wait out of sight while the Paras did their bit.
The Black Hawk circled over the west side of the Helmand River. Through the side door of the chopper, Jack saw the other Regiment chopper doing the same. And they would keep on circling, he knew, until the word came through to attack.
On the northernmost edge of the village, where the Paras were to make their distraction, three Chinooks descended with their Apache chaperones hovering above. 1 and 2 Platoon and the Fire Support Group spilled out. As well as their personal weapons, two men carried a ground-mounted .50-cal, while another two lugged its tripod and ammo boxes. Three men moved a Javelin anti-tank missile launcher; and there was a selection of 66s, Minimis, HK40s and gimpies. The company of Paras moved swiftly to set up their positions behind the rubblised walls that gave them both cover and a firing point. The guys carrying the .50-cal set it up on a well-protected section of wall. The Chinooks rose up from their impromptu landing zones, sharp and fast so as not to give any of the militants time to take a potshot. In seconds they were high up, immediately clearing out of the airspace above the village.
The Fire Support Group quickly moved from the firing position: 3 Alpha 100 metres to the west, 3 Bravo 100 metres to the east, ready for the Taliban counter-attack, which they knew was bound to come. When it did, the FSG would fuck them up; until then, 1 and 2 Platoons could expect fierce contact. The bosses were shoving a stick into a hornets’ nest. The Taliban were the hornets; 1 Para were the stick.
Activity all around as they set up the remaining weaponry. Within ten minutes the Taliban village would have enough firepower aimed at it to put the shits up any normal person. But they knew that the enemy they were fighting in Helmand was far from normal. Most people, when you showered them with .50-calibre rounds, would run or cower. Not the Taliban. For them it was a call to arms.
A shout from twenty metres behind. The Regiment liaison guy, crouched down at his TACSAT. ‘3 Alpha and 3 Bravo in position. Assault team ready. 1 and 2 Platoon advance to contact! Advance to contact!’
The .50-cal gunner had already fed a 200-round belt into the weapon. It was primed and ready to go. They fired towards a copse of low trees that surrounded a compound about 200 metres away. There was a short burst of deafening fire that sucked in a quarter of the ammo belt, the spent cases dropping into the dirt below the weapon. In truth the gunner wasn’t really aiming at anything or anyone. It was a statement of intent.
Protected by the rubble, those who weren’t operating heavy weaponry were crouched behind defensive positions with their assault rifles ready. A burst of fire from the gimpy, then a second burst from the .50-cal.
No doubt about it. If the Taliban were enjoying an afternoon snooze, they’d have woken up now. And everyone knew they’d return fire.
They just didn’t know when.
In Compound 32, all was quiet.
One Taliban fighter – a thickset young man in a dirty smock – stood guard at the main entrance; two more watched over the hole in the wall that the accursed British soldier had blasted two days previously. They did not dare stray from their positions. But the sun was particularly hot, and the village was silent. They were not, truth to tell, as observant as they might be, although they were a good deal more observant than the eight others inside the compound, who were sleeping in the shade of the mulberry trees.
Their commander was also in the shade of the trees. But he was not sleeping. Farzad Haq had trained himself to survive on very little sleep, to keep his mind focused and alert. He sat with his back to one of the trees and by his side there was a flexible metal saw blade, still stained with dried blood. Haq had removed it from the throat of the man killed by the infidel who had called himself Jack Harker. The memory of it angered Farzad Haq. Angered him deeply. He was not a man who liked to be outmanoeuvred, and he kept the saw with him as a reminder to himself not to let his guard drop. In his four-fingered hand he held a large flat stone; and in the good one, a long knife. With great precision he slid the blade slowly along the length of the stone. It made a hissing sound, regular and monotonous, which only stopped when Haq held the knife up to test its exquisite sharpness.
It was as he tested the blade for the third time that the thunder of gunfire hit his ears.
By the time the second burst of fire filled the air, the Taliban under the tree were on their feet. They started shouting at each other and collecting their weapons. Two of them entered the arsenal and came back out with a rocket launcher and an armful of warheads. They continued to bark at each other as they headed towards the exit.
Haq did not move quickly. He sheathed his knife, then slowly rose to his feet, his mind ticking quickly.
‘Wait!’ he commanded.
The others stopped and looked at him as if he were mad. They could hear shouting now from other compounds as their fellow militants got themselves together and started rushing towards the northern edge of the village where the gunfire was coming from. Haq selected four men at random. ‘You and you,’ he said to two of them, ‘come with me. You two stay here and guard the compound. The rest of you, go and fight.’
Fig
ht and die, he said to himself. Because that is what will happen.
One of the men he had ordered to stay started to complain. ‘But the enemy are not here. There is no point—’
One dangerous look from Haq caused him to fall silent. The commander didn’t feel inclined to explain his thinking to these subordinates, but he was enough of a tactician to recognise a diversion when he heard it. He nodded at the two who had received instructions to follow him, and led them into the long low room containing the weapons cache. The two men started to help themselves to another rocket launcher, but Haq turned to them. ‘Leave them,’ he instructed, before pointing at three long, green carrying cases stashed at the far end of the room. ‘Those,’ he said. ‘One each.’ He grabbed one of the cases himself.
A slow grin spread over the face of the man nearest him. ‘We will use these weapons against the Americans?’ And then, his expression slightly puzzled: ‘What are they?’
‘Idiot,’ Haq muttered under his breath. ‘They are not Americans. But these weapons we will use to catch bigger fish. Take them and follow me.’
The men did as he said. Once they had removed the weapons from the shelves, Haq ran back outside to where the flexible saw was still lying in the dust, picked it up, then returned to the cache and placed it in the spot that had just been vacated.
He smiled. A message for Captain Harker and his idiot companions.
Haq barked another instruction at the two men and they hauled the carrying cases, not back into the compound, but through the hole in the wall at the end of the room. Once outside they turned right. There was no getting out of the village. Not yet. But the enemy would not be here forever, and in the meantime . . .
