by Luke Duffy
The left hand screen showed a grainy black and white flickering image that changed constantly. It was the live feed from the unmanned stealth drone aircraft that they had circling at high altitude. The land showed as different shades of grey and black and anything living, radiating body heat, showed up as white through the thermal imaging.
On the right, the screen that the General was focussed on, a digital overlay map, showing the main roads, rivers, and urban areas of the operational area. In the centre of the screen, a cluster of eight red dots sat grouped together in pairs, forming a rough triangular shape.
“See for yourself, sir,” Samantha nodded. “They’ve been in position all night. According to their bio-readouts,” she indicated a pile of paper stacked on a table to her right, “two of them were close to the early stages of hypothermia a couple of hours ago. The temperature dropped to zero during the night.”
The General did not bother to check the readouts. He knew the men and what they were capable of enduring. At that moment, he was more concerned with what was about to happen. He grunted his appreciation of the fact that the team was uncomfortable.
“What about video feed, do we still have it real time from the ground?”
Samantha shook her head.
“No, sir. The blokes pulled their cameras in last night. We have a lot of footage from the last five days, if you’re interested in reviewing it?”
She unfolded her hands from in front of her chest and indicated the hard drives containing all the camera data that had been collected.
“I need to talk to you after this, Sam,” he said without taking his eyes from the screens in front of him.
“About…?” Samantha was just as transfixed with the unfolding events and the digital clock that was ticking away in the top right corner of the satellite imagery.
“The Africa thing.”
This time, Samantha tore her eyes away from the live feed and glared at the tall pale man with burning eyes standing next to her.
“What’s happened?”
The General looked at her and shrugged, a faint smile creasing his thin lips.
“We don’t know. The MoD has only just been kind enough to inform us that they have lost comms with the section that was sent in.”
“And the doctor?”
He shook his head.
“How long has it been since they last heard from them?” She asked, searching his face for any indication of whether he was holding anything back from her. In the gloom, it was hard to tell what he was thinking.
“Nine days.”
“Bollocks,” she hissed, “does the WHO know about this?”
He nodded.
“They’re coming in to brief us. With the doctor missing, they’re presuming the worst.”
“Are they going public yet?”
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“With what? Without the doctor’s research, all they have is rumour and theory,” he replied dismissively.
“There’s the reports and footage from Belize and Haiti, what about that? You’ve seen it all yourself, sir.”
He shook his head again.
“Unreliable, I’m afraid. They can’t announce this thing to the world without having it all nailed down.”
“Well, they need...”
“Movement in the target area, ma’am,” a voice called to her from across the room.
She looked over to see the sergeant staring back at her from behind his computer, the light from the screen casting an eerie glow over his features.
On the large monitor, she saw the glowing white shapes of men moving away from the farmhouse.
“Right on time,” she murmured and turned to the man beside her. “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted, General Thompson.”
“Stan’s confirmed the target, Captain Tyler,” the communications officer reported to Samantha from the table behind her.
She made to turn away from the General and begin dealing with the immediate matters of the operation.
He placed his hand on her forearm, stalling her for a moment and leaned across so that his lips were close to her ear.
“As soon as they’re clear of the area, get them out of there. Don’t wait for them to be at the RV, pull them out.”
He stepped back from her and fixed her with a hard look.
“You know this is going bad, don’t you, Sam? We have to get them back and ready as soon as possible. I think we will be needing them again before the week is out.”
5
‘Fire…’
Before the order was completed, three rifles released their shots together.
Marty felt the recoil buff against his shoulder and his ears pop, as the round, almost silently, erupted from the barrel of his rifle. The suppressor did its jobs well, keeping any signature and sound to a minimum as the copper plated bullet sprang from the breach and raced towards its mark.
A split second later, Bassim’s head disappeared in a swirl of red mist and splintered bone as the three bullets ploughed through his skull, his body remaining upright for a moment before the muscles and nerves ceased to receive the signals from his obliterated brain. The headless carcass dropped like water, crashing to the dirt in a heap.
The men to the left and right of his body instinctively ducked as they heard the supersonic crack of the rounds that snapped by, displacing the air and smashing through the head of the terrorist commander. Dumbstruck for a second, they hesitated and stared at the body of their fallen leader, and then at one another.
That was all the time that the snipers needed before more high velocity rounds were sent down the range towards their next victims. Three more men fell, blood spouting from their wounds and silent screams becoming lodged in their throats as the life was snatched from their bodies in an instant.
Finally, the remaining man realised what was happening. With a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes blazing with fear, he turned on his heel and ran for the house. He had only moved a couple of metres when the ground around the dilapidated farm building exploded in a deafening roar, throwing debris and speeding shrapnel through the air, mixing metal, rock, and bone together in a fountain of annihilation.
Bull increased the pressure on the trigger and the machinegun barked loudly and juddered against his muscular shoulders. The long belt of ammunition twitched as it began feeding through the weapon’s chamber and the empty cases sprang from the other side, clattering on to one another and forming a small, ever growing, pile of brass.
Each time he squeezed, he silently whispered to himself, ‘I can fuck you before you can fuck me,’ the phrase he was taught all those years ago to help control the rate of fire for a belt-fed weapon. Then he would release his finger for a moment, adjust his aim, and then begin the process again.
The loud rattle of the gun was always comforting. To him, it sounded comparable to sheet metal being torn apart by giant hands like a piece of flimsy cloth.
He watched his fall of shot, seeing the bright tracer bullets sail through the air and smash their way through the rickety walls of the outbuildings around the farm complex. Even the goats and cows had not been spared. Hundreds of rounds punched through their bodies, chewing the flesh and bone to pulp and scattering them across the ground.
The column of debris and dust from the explosion fell back to earth. Large clumps of brick and steel crashed to the ground with heavy dull thuds, mixing with the organic material of the dead and dying.
The team had been well aware that women and children, the families of Bassim and his men, were inside the buildings. They had planted the explosives five days before, when the area had been empty, and two days later when Bassim arrived with his wife and five young children in tow, they had been caught in a dilemma.
“It’s collateral damage,” Nick suggested in his thick, almost unintelligible, Newcastle accent. “Why should we let those little bastards grow up to avenge their old man?”
“That reminds me,” Bull added
with an indifferent grin, “I need to get my ‘collateral’ checked by the Doc when I get home. I love takeaway, you see.”
Although it was a rather callous outlook, Nick’s opinion had been the general consensus. In the end, it was decided that they would stick to the plan, and the plan was to make it appear that Bassim and his group had been attacked by Syrian forces, or another rebel cell, who would not care for a minute that they killed women and children, as long as they got the terrorist leader with them.
Using a drone strike or smart bomb was never an option. They were not certain to kill the intended targets and they always left debris that could be identified. Finding a piece of circuitry or tail fin with traceable serial numbers on it would be difficult for western governments to explain.
“Close in, close in…,” Stan ordered, prompting the sniper teams on the flanks to collapse their positions and begin pulling back into the rendezvous with the rest of the team.
As they began to move, Bull continued to pour his long bursts of machinegun fire into the farm complex, covering their withdrawal and ensuring that nothing would be left alive amongst the ruined buildings.
Two more explosions detonated to the left and right. Much smaller than the first, they were the sniper teams sanitising their areas, leaving no trace behind of the positions that they had occupied.
Marty brought himself up into a kneeling position and began stuffing his thermal imaging sight and the spare ammunition for the machinegun into his small pack.
“Okay, Bull, good to go,” he said as he patted him on the shoulder, making sure that his friend knew that it was almost time for them to leave.
“Roger that.”
Bull fired one final long burst, the streaks of glowing tracer zipping through the air and demolishing the one remaining wall of the building to the left of the courtyard. Satisfied that there was nothing left, he jumped up into a crouched position and scooped up the heavy weapon in his arms, cradling it like a small child. He remained where he was, watching the ground to his front while he and Marty waited for the final call from Stan to close in.
“Marty, Bull, move to the RV.”
Together, they jumped to their feet and ploughed their way through the small bushes that had obscured them from view. Behind their position, they turned onto a small goat track and sprinted along it, headed for the rally point with the rest of the group.
As they approached the rendezvous, a small dip in the ground roughly two-hundred metres from their fire-support position, Marty slowed his pace, allowing them to get a view of the area and ensuring that they did not run blindly into an ambush.
“Marty coming in,” he repeatedly called in a hushed voice as he drew near.
A face appeared just a few metres ahead and grinned at him. It was Bobby, the medic for the team. He had been part of the sniper group on the right flank and it had been their job to secure the rally point once they were given the order to pull back.
Bull and Marty crashed through the underbrush and into the dip. The rest of their men were already there, spread out in a circle, covering their arcs and providing all around defence.
Stan was in the centre, kneeling on the frozen ground and adjusting his equipment, tightening his belt and checking that all his pouches were secure and that he had a fresh magazine on his rifle. His eyes locked with Bull, who bared his teeth in a rueful grimace.
As always, Stan’s expression showed no emotion at all, as he acknowledged him with a slight nod of his head. To Bull, it was as if their commander was incapable of feeling anything and was in a perpetual state of concentration on the job at hand. Even when they were back in the UK, the man never seemed to smile.
Bull moved to the far side of the dip and placed his machinegun down so that it was covering the direction they were about to head in. He knew that they had a hard slog ahead of them, through a narrow rocky pass and over a steep feature. It would be a tough few hours, but every one of them were well aware that they needed to put as much distance between them and the target area as possible, and quickly.
Inevitably, there would be a follow up. They had made enough noise to alert every rebel and Syrian soldier in the district, so it was paramount that they get away from the area. Now, their fitness and endurance would be the most important factor.
“One minute and we’re out of here,” Stan announced as he stood up and moved into position beside Bull, ready to lead the way and set the pace for their withdrawal. It was fifty kilometres to their extraction point, and he intended for them to be there before nightfall.
At a pace that defied their appearance and loads, they raced off through the gorge and towards the high ground.
Thirty minutes later, as the men approached the top of the ridge, a resounding boom echoed up to them from the valley floor. They turned to see a large column of smoke and dust reaching high in to the air, a kilometre to the north of the wrecked farm buildings.
“That’s the follow up, boys,” Stan grunted as he increased his stride towards the summit.
Along the road, leading into the complex where Bassim and his men had been hiding out, Stan and Danny, the youngest member of the team, had planted a surprise for anyone who came to investigate.
An Improvised Explosive Device, IED, made from three 105mm artillery shells, attached to a pressure release pad, would be enough to destroy any vehicle that triggered it. Anyone else wishing to follow would be more cautious on their approach, slowing them down and allowing Stan and his men to gain as much ground as possible.
Once they were clear of the high ground, Stan turned south, contouring the feature as they continued at top speed towards their anticipated extraction. They were making good progress and they now had a gigantic pile of rock and dirt between them and the scene of their crime, the hill acting as a physical and psychologically comforting buffer from any potential danger and prying eyes.
The sweat was pouring from Bull’s head, running down his back in rivulets and accumulating at his waist. His soaking belt was already starting to chafe his skin and he knew that he would have a few uncomfortable nights ahead as a result. His heavy feet pounded at the dusty slope as he forced himself forward with the agility of a mountain goat, bounding from one rocky outcrop to the next.
All of them puffed and panted as they drove themselves onward, carrying their heavy equipment and weapons, never letting up on the tempo. The terrain was extremely uneven, with sharp rocks jutting up from the ground that threatened to trip them at any moment, but no one could afford to fall. An injury would slow them all down and hinder their ability to react to a threat that could spring at them from any direction.
Stan adjusted their direction and steered them towards the foot of the hill, paralleling the fast flowing river that coursed along below them. Once they were on flatter ground, he pushed a few hundred metres further on and then led them into a small re-entrant that was surrounded by thorny scrub.
“Go firm here,” he panted as the others followed him in and took up defensive positions. “We’ll do a quick map check, and then crack on. One minute…,”
As Stan and Danny began confirming their location with their compasses, maps, and GPS, the remainder took in some much needed water. Despite the freezing morning temperature, they were all soaked to the bone with sweat from the hard and fast climb over the steep feature and they needed to quickly replace the fluids that they had lost.
Bobby reached across, and without a word, stuffed a large piece of chocolate into the mouth of Stan, knowing that their leader did not have time to see to himself, as well as checking their bearings.
“Get that down you, old man. You look like you’re on your chin-strap, mate,” Bobby grinned at him.
Stan grunted his thanks and continued his confirmation with Danny.
Bobby, slightly built but as strong and determined as any other member of the team, was always quick with a smile. Regardless of the situation, he had a natural ability to lighten the mood with just a few flippant remarks. He had spent
most of his army career as a medic in an infantry unit, but with just a few years to push before his retirement date, he had grown bored and developed a severe case of itchy feet, feeling unfulfilled with the career he had led. After being approached by Stan, he had jumped at the chance to be recruited into the newly formed unit, providing that he passed the rigorous selection course first.
He had first met their commander in Afghanistan, when Bobby’s battalion had been attached to the same SAS squadron as Stan as a support group. His knowledge, strength, and ability had not gone unnoticed by the attentive veteran, and when the team was put together, Stan wanted Bobby on board as the medic.
Since then, they had been close friends and reliant on one another.
Twenty kilometres further on, and Stan was satisfied that they had gained enough distance. No one would be looking for them so far away in such a short space of time. If there were a search, it would probably be localised to the area around the farm complex and the roads leading in and out of the valley to the west of the ridgeline that they had crossed. It would take some time before their firing positions were discovered and the team hoped to be long gone and back in the UK by then.
They slowed their pace a little, patrolling and using the ground to their advantage for both cover from view and fire. The men knew that they were still not out of danger, and complacency in the last leg of an operation had been the downfall of many soldiers throughout history. It was now that they had to be on their guard, more than ever.
The hours passed and the team pushed on, the sun making its slow journey across the sky, remaining close to the horizon in its winter track.
The village was just a kilometre away.
Using a dried up riverbed to conceal them, the men spread out, watching the area and searching the ground for any sign of a waiting ambush. Everything was quiet, and nothing moved. Even amongst the buildings, nothing stirred and Stan felt unsettled by the unnatural calm.
Their intention had been to follow the riverbed between two small settlements, using the steep banks as cover as they pushed through and towards the north. From there, close to the border, they would be picked up by helicopter and taken out through Turkey.
