by Chris Ryan
The sound of heavy weaponry on the outskirts of the village was relentless now. The Taliban had clearly started engaging the enemy. Haq and his men burst into a nearby compound almost at random. A man stood by the door, shaking his head, his face full of panic. ‘No,’ he said, unable to hide the fear he felt at standing up to a man of Haq’s reputation. ‘If you come in here, the enemy will follow. My family—’
Haq didn’t hesitate. He carefully laid his carrying case on the ground, unsheathed his knife and thrust it into the man’s belly. His victim’s eyes widened as he pulled the blade outwards and upwards, feeling it slide along the meeting point of his ribs. The man fell to the floor and a woman’s voice shrieked – Haq hadn’t even noticed her before – followed by the wailing of children. Haq located the woman.
‘If your children are not immediately quiet, they will be the next to die.’ He brandished his bloodied knife in her direction to emphasise his point.
The woman quickly gathered up the children and hustled them into a room. Haq and his men entered another room on the opposite side of the compound. It was deserted, small, dark and relatively cool. The dusty floor was covered by a shabby old carpet and someone had propped a scythe and a hoe up against the wall. This was clearly the home of farmers. There were two low cots covered with thin mattresses and a couple of soiled dishdashas draped over the end of each of them. Haq slid his carrying case under one of the cots and instructed his men to do the same.
And then they took up positions, pointing their assault rifles out of the door. Farzad Haq did not expect anyone to find him here. But if they did, he would be ready.
At the northern edge of the village, the firefight was blazing. The Paras’ ears were ringing, their bodies covered in sweat. Tracer rounds hissed around them; the .50-cal and gimpy thundered at the enemy position and the air was thick with the stench of cordite. RPGs blasted towards them from the enemy position, but although the noise they made when they exploded was loud enough to send a shock through the soldiers, the enemy’s aim was off and so far, without exception, the warheads had fallen no less than thirty metres short of their positions. They were getting closer, though, as the enemy got their eye in. It wouldn’t be long before they took a direct hit.
A shout from behind. The Regiment liaison guy. ‘Three Alpha have eyes on. Icom chatter confirms enemy advancing from the side. I’m calling the assault team in.’
And in an instant the firefight that had only been blazing to the north had surrounded them as 3 Alpha and 3 Bravo rained their fire down on the enemy trying to outflank 1 and 2 Platoons. There would be a lot of dead Taliban to plant before sundown.
Their manoeuvre was working. They’d drawn the enemy out.
Any moment now, the assault team would be ready to insert.
Jack felt a sudden lurch as the Black Hawk straightened up from its holding pattern. Instructions from the ground through the comms: enemy engaged, bring in the birds.
One of the loadies shouted over the noise of the engine. ‘One minute to insertion! One minute to insertion!’ He turned his attention back to the Minigun as the rest of the team prepared themselves. The ten men divided themselves into two groups, five on either side of the aircraft. Two thick, sturdy ropes were clipped to the interior of the chopper, one by each side door, and they lay curled up like sleeping snakes as the aircraft flew low over the southernmost edge of the village. From the open doors, Jack could see the compounds whizzing by just metres below. No civilians, of course – they were hiding from the brutal noise of the Paras’ distraction. They’d lived in a war zone for long enough to realise that this wasn’t a courtesy call.
And then the helicopter was just hovering – height, about twenty metres – and Jack recognised the compound. The dust below them kicked up in swirling clouds of confusion. The loadies, leaning out of each side of the chopper, fired their Miniguns into the compound, spraying rounds in short bursts and taking out any targets they could get their eyes on. Jack saw two guards by the main entrance go down. Then the guns fell silent and the order came. ‘Go, go, go!’
Two of the team kicked the ropes out of the side doors and, in a manoeuvre they’d all executed more times than they could count, the ten men slid down. It took two seconds for them to hit the ground between the two mulberry bushes and the well, then peel off into their positions. The moment they were all down, the two ropes tumbled to the ground with a flat thump – it would be too dangerous to leave them hanging in case they got caught on anything as the chopper moved away, which it did immediately.
In that instant, Jack took in his surroundings. By the entrance, the bodies of the dead guards were bloodied and contorted. Apart from that, no one in sight. Of course, that didn’t mean the place was empty, and the unit proceeded to conduct a swift compound clearance as the second Black Hawk containing the remaining ten men appeared above them. They fast-roped in just as quickly and efficiently, and the chopper disappeared.
‘Compound clear! No targets!’ Jack heard Fly’s voice from the other side of the compound. Was it Jack, or did Fly sound a bit disappointed?
He ran into the weapons cache. Four guys were already in there, laying explosives among the weaponry and rolling out lengths of fuse, a metre for each four seconds. Jack let them get on with their work. His eyes were looking out for just one thing: three long green carrying cases with white military writing on the side.
But they weren’t there. Instead there was a bloodied flexible saw blade. His saw blade. Jack understood the message. That bastard Haq had removed the Stingers. The Paras’ diversion had started thirty minutes ago. The fucker could be anywhere.
He felt a hot surge of frustration. Part of him wanted to go after Haq, right now. Find the fucker. But he knew that wasn’t an option. This was an in-and-out job. Go out on a limb and he’d be putting everyone’s life in danger, not just his own. The guys were rolling the fuse out of the door now, and from the centre of the compound came two loud explosions in quick succession. Jack knew what that meant: some of D Squadron had wrapped det cord round the base of the mulberry trees and exploded it to bring the trees down and make a safe landing zone for the Black Hawks to set down and exfiltrate them.
Out in the sunlight he saw the trees on their sides. He ran up to Dukey, who was i/c the sat phone.
‘Call them in,’ he said curtly.
Dukey raised an eyebrow. ‘What about the Stingers?’
‘Fucking gone,’ Jack spat. ‘Call them in.’
Dukey’s face hardened, but he followed Jack’s instructions. Moments later the air was filled with the deafening sound of rotary blades and the dry, heavy dust on the ground of the compound kicked up into thick, impenetrable clouds as one of the Black Hawks touched down.
The first ten men loaded themselves in as quickly as they’d fast-roped out. Jack gave the pilot a thumbs-up and the aircraft instantly lifted into the air and flew away. The dust barely had time to settle before the second chopper descended. The remaining men sprinted to the two open side doors. All of them except Jack and Fly, who was attaching a detonator to the end of the fuse leading into the cache.
‘I’ll do it,’ Jack said curtly.
Fly looked as though he was about to protest, but one stern glance from Jack and he gave a nod of understanding. He handed Jack the detonator and bundled back into the Black Hawk, leaving Jack alone in the compound, the dust kicking up all around him and his camo rippling in the swirling air.
Jack hesitated for a moment only – a moment in which he saw Farzad Haq’s face and heard his voice. Your instruments of war are no match for our cleverness . . .
Jack frowned as he dealt with the fact that Haq had, indeed, outwitted them. Then he clicked the detonator and hurled himself into the chopper.
The loadie’s voice – ‘Go!’ – and the aircraft rose into the air. It peeled away from the compound, but Jack just managed to catch a view out of the side door as the explosives detonated.
One bang followed another, then a huge bar
rage of quickly repeated cracks as the ammo within the cache exploded. A massive cloud of dust and shrapnel mushroomed up from what had once been Compound 32, the shock waves jolting the chopper even as it sped away. Jack gripped the webbing inside the chopper as the ground below changed quickly from compound to green zone to open desert. It was all he could do not to yell with rage.
They were on their way back to Bastion. The cache was destroyed. The whole compound was destroyed. No doubt the Paras had managed to nail a good load of Taliban. But that wasn’t enough for Jack.
Haq was still on the loose. And what was worse – much worse – was that he had the Stingers with him . . .
17.30 hrs.
Jack was tired. More tired than he’d ever been. His body hurt and his mind was blurred and blunt. He felt brutalised by the events of the past few days. Hammered by them. But even though half of him wanted to collapse in his bunk and sleep for a week, he stood outside in the overpowering heat, counting the Chinooks back into Bastion and watching the Paras spill out on to the landing zone. Their faces were streaked with dirt and sweat and they lugged their heavy weaponry with them, but they’d extracted safely and there were the same number of men returning to Bastion as had left it earlier that afternoon. A cause for relief, if not celebration. But word that the Stingers hadn’t been in the weapons cache had travelled around the Regiment. Everyone knew that the missing weapons would have the bosses shitting bricks. And when the bosses shat bricks, they did it from a great height.
Jack was still staring at the Chinooks, hazy in the sun, when Palgrave approached him. ‘Jack, debrief.’ His eyes said it all.
Willoughby was waiting for them in the ops centre. His well-greased curls were dishevelled, as though he had been clutching his hair and it had stayed in that position. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip and the lines on his forehead were more pronounced than before. He gave Palgrave and Jack a nod as they entered, and indicated that they should take a chair. Neither man did. Jack perched on the edge of a table; Palgrave remained standing.
A tense silence.
‘I suppose I don’t need to tell you, gentlemen, that the loss of these Stingers is an acute embarrassment to the Regiment.’
Jack and Palgrave glanced at each other. ‘The Regiment didn’t lose them, Willoughby—’
‘Major Palgrave,’ Willoughby snapped. ‘Your man,’ he waved one hand dismissively at Jack, ‘your man claims to have been in the same room with these blasted weapons and yet somehow, and I confess myself startled as to how this might have occurred, somehow they remain in enemy hands. I hardly need to remind you that the SAS is highly regarded around the world. This kind of . . . this kind of balls-up is likely to reduce our standing—’
Jack didn’t know what came over him. For days now, he’d been working at the limit of his ability. Now there was nothing left in him.
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Willoughby?’
The goon narrowed his eyes. ‘Careful, Jack,’ Palgrave murmured.
‘Kindly remember, Captain Harker,’ Willoughby hissed, ‘that in my job I hold the equivalent rank of colonel. You do realise that insubordination of this kind—’
He didn’t finish his sentence, because the next sound to come from his face was the cracking of his jaw.
‘Jack!’ Palgrave shouted as blood from the MoD man’s face spattered against the back wall of the Portakabin. He felt his OC restraining him from behind, but shook him off with ease and bore down on Willoughby, who had his hands pressed over his bleeding mouth and nose as he stepped backwards and cowered in a corner. From behind him, he was vaguely aware of Palgrave opening the door. ‘Get in here!’ the OC roared outside. ‘Now!’
‘Listen to me, you little piece of shit,’ Jack said. ‘In my job you hold the equivalent rank of a turd I did in a bucket when I was captured. Men died because of you. Burned to death. Ever wondered what that feels like, Willoughby? Burning to death?’
Willoughby didn’t reply.
‘No,’ Jack pressed. ‘I guess not. Because you just stay here safe and snug while the rest of us are risking our arses on the ground. Well if you think you’re going to get us to take the rap just because you’re getting heat from the pen-pushers who tell you what to do . . .’
He raised his hand again, one vein on the side of his neck pulsating with anger. But Willoughby cowered so pathetically that Jack just let his fist fall and stared at him with total contempt.
Jack looked over his shoulder. Palgrave was there, and so were Fly and Dunc Forsyth. The OC’s face was stern, but the other two looked confused.
‘All right, Jack,’ Palgrave said, his voice full of authority. ‘Step back . . .’
‘Take it easy,’ Jack spat. ‘I’ve finished with him.’
Nobody in the room moved.
‘You two,’ Palgrave addressed Jack’s mates. ‘Take him to his bunk.’ He looked over at Willoughby. ‘I’ll smooth this out.’
But Willoughby had straightened up now. He moved his hand from his bloodied face and shot Jack a look of pure poison. ‘There’s nothing to smooth out,’ he stated. ‘Captain Harker will be on the next flight back to the UK. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time with the Regiment, old boy, because it’s at an end. Bodyguarding celebrities for you from now on.’
He put his hand back up to his bleeding nose, pushed past the soldiers and left the room, dripping small spots of blood on to the floor as he went.
The burial of the Taliban dead near the poppy fields on the edge of the village was a swift, unsentimental affair. They had been called to the next world, that was all. Farzad Haq had no time to mourn foot soldiers or mercenaries. He had more important things to attend to.
It was after dark that he oversaw the loading into an old Toyota truck of the missiles from the compound he had commandeered during the assault. The drivers were men he could trust. Loyal. Devout. He had contacted them two days ago and they had just arrived. If the British had waited until now for their assault, they might have troubled him. But they hadn’t, and now his men would see to it that Haq’s hard-won missiles successfully made the dangerous journey west out of Helmand, into Nimroz Province and across the border to Iran. From there, their transport would be easier. The missiles would reach their destination in just a few days. He watched the truck disappear into the Afghan night with pride.
He, in the meantime, had a different journey to make. South. Into the mountains of Pakistan where his people would be waiting for him. God willing, they had made the necessary arrangements.
Farzad Haq unconsciously stroked the stump of his thumb with his good hand. It was a habit of his. As he stood there under the cover of darkness, he thought back to a night thirty years previously. The image of himself, and Adel, and his grandfather, together for the final time, caused him pain as it always did.
But Haq smiled. Grandfather would be proud. He gathered his robes around him and started to make preparations to leave.
29 JUNE
10
In London the following morning, the sun was shining. Habib Khan stepped down from the bus that had brought him all the way from his small home in Muswell Hill to the shabby office in West Kensington where he spent his working day. His suit was old-fashioned – a pocket watch would not have looked out of place – and his beard was trim and neat. He looked a little smart for this part of town, but it didn’t seem to worry him.
Situated just above a pub that Habib Khan wouldn’t have considered stepping into even if he drank alcohol, the poky network of rooms that housed the office of the Islamic Council for Peace were far from glamorous. But that was OK. The organisation didn’t exist to make its members comfortable. It had a higher purpose than that.
Khan punched in the code on the keypad of the office’s front door, then headed up the dimly lit stairs. Walking into the main reception room, he greeted with a gentle smile the young woman who sat typing at her desk.
‘They’re all waiting for you, Mr Khan,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mariam.’
Mariam was only eighteen years old, but the council couldn’t operate without her cool efficiency. She had been granted asylum only a year ago after her family had been forced to flee Iran, and Khan had employed her soon after she arrived in London. How thin she had been back then, how black the rings under her eyes. Now, though, she looked like a different woman. Her lips were full and plump; her skin glowed. The freedom of the West suited her, but she remained a devout Muslim. Mariam worked with the enthusiasm of someone who was not only grateful for her job, but who truly believed in everything this organisation was trying to achieve.
‘Perhaps I might ask you to join us, Mariam,’ Khan suggested, peering at her through his little round glasses.
Mariam looked flustered. ‘But Mr Khan, the phones—’
Khan held up one hand. ‘It won’t take long, my dear. What I have to say involves all of us. Please.’ He indicated a door on the other side of the room.
Mariam put one hand to her short brown bob, clearly nervous at the thought of sitting with the members of the council – all of them men – whom she thought of as her superiors. But she stepped towards the door and allowed Khan to open it for her.
There were eight men in the next room, which had the faint smell of mildew. They were a selection of imams and businessmen who shared a common interest in promoting the peaceful observance of Islam. They all looked a good deal older than Khan, and although they all wore Western dress – it was the policy of the council not to don more traditional garb for fear of alienating people – there was an aura of quiet wisdom about them. Sitting quietly at a round table that was empty apart from a jug of tap water and a few glasses, they looked mildly surprised at Mariam’s presence. She stood uncomfortably by the door. ‘Have a seat, my dear.’ Khan said this in the tones of an affectionate uncle, but she looked no more at ease once she had sat down.
Khan remained standing. ‘Gentlemen,’ he murmured, then took a moment to gather his thoughts as he looked at each of them in turn. ‘Gentlemen,’ he repeated. ‘Thank you for being here. We have congregated at short notice, and I appreciate you all making the time.’
