He straightened up when he reached the Major, and the two men shook hands as the twin engines of the helicopter roared and it climbed back into the air.
‘I’m surprised to see you being given the VIP treatment, what with all the cutbacks and all,’ said the Major, as he climbed into the driving seat of the Land Rover.
‘There’s considerable time pressure on this one,’ said Shepherd, getting into the front passenger seat. ‘They didn’t want me stuck in traffic and I have to get back tonight. Then out to Pakistan tomorrow.’
The helicopter banked to the left and headed east. The Major started the Land Rover’s engine and headed towards the armoury. Their route took them past several large featureless metal-sided buildings. They had been aircraft maintenance hangars when Credenhill was an RAF station but had been converted into offices and training facilities when the SAS took over the base in 1999. They had all been painted green at the insistence of the local council, which wanted them to blend in with their surroundings. During the short drive Shepherd filled the Major in on what was happening. He finished just as they arrived at the door to the armoury. ‘You would have thought they’d have sent in the Increment,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what we train for.’
‘I suppose the Pakistanis want the credit,’ said the Major. ‘And you can see their point, can’t you? If there was a hijacked PIA jet at Heathrow, we’d hardly be letting Pakistani special forces handle it.’
The two men climbed out of the Land Rover. ‘Anyway, it might not be too bad,’ said the Major. ‘They do a fair bit of training with the Americans, at least they did until the Bin Laden business, and they’re much better than most of the Asian SF mobs. They’ve had a fair few successes over the last few years. They took out more than ninety extremists at the Red Mosque in 2007 and a couple of years later they saved the day at the Lahore Police Academy and the Pakistan Military Headquarters.’
The armoury door opened and a grizzled grey-haired sergeant appeared. His face broke into a grin when he saw Shepherd standing with the Major. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, in a gruff Geordie accent. ‘Spider bloody Shepherd. I thought we’d got rid of you.’
Shepherd grinned. Sergeant Pete Simpson was a Loggy, a member of the Royal Logistics Corps. The RLC made up almost a sixth of the British Army, and without the Loggys the army – and the SAS – wouldn’t be able to function. Simpson had been in charge of the armoury when Shepherd had been in 22 SAS and by the look of it had no plans to leave. Simpson knew more about guns than anyone Shepherd had ever met. There wasn’t a weapon in the armoury that the sergeant couldn’t field-strip and reassemble in less than two minutes – blindfolded. The two men shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Pete. How’s the lad?’
‘Passed selection three years ago,’ said the sergeant, his chest puffing up with pride. ‘Out somewhere hot and sunny as we speak.’
‘Pity, I’d have liked to have said hello,’ said Shepherd. Simpson’s son must have been about ten years old the last time he’d seen him at one of the family open days the Regiment had run at the old Stirling Lines barracks.
Simpson looked over at the Major. ‘I’ve got everything ready,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Pete, sorry about the short notice.’ The SAS, officers and troopers, were unfailingly polite when it came to dealing with the Loggys, in recognition of the vital role they played in the smooth running of the Regiment.
The sergeant held the door open for them and Shepherd and the Major went inside. They entered a corridor lined with wire-mesh cages where the Regiment stored the bulk of its weapons and ammunition. To their left were racks containing several dozen Heckler & Koch G3 carbines. ‘I’ve put the MP5s in there for you with the G3s,’ said the sergeant. He pulled open the door to the cage.
‘You’re a star, Pete, thanks.’
‘Give me a shout if you want anything,’ said the sergeant, and he headed back to his cubbyhole of an office. Gannon led Shepherd into the cage. ‘The SSG use a range of weapons, but like the SAS they’re big Heckler and Koch fans,’ said the Major. ‘They produce HK G3s and MP5s locally. Snipers use the Barrett M82, the HK PSG1 and occasionally the Dragunov. So far as shorts go, they favour Hecklers and of course the Glocks.’
‘Am I the only one who likes the SIG Sauer?’
‘The P226? You’re old-school, Spider. So I’m thinking we get in some practice with the G3 and the MP5. That’s what you’re most likely to be given.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Four weapons had been laid out on a wooden trestle table, two G3s and two MP5s and several boxes of ammunition.
‘We won’t bother with the shorts, I’m assuming you’re fine on that score.’
‘If we’re reduced to pulling out shorts then the shit will really have hit the fan,’ said Shepherd.
Gannon picked up a black G3 and handed it to Shepherd. ‘This is the G3A4, with drum sights and a collapsible stock. It’s the one they make under licence in Pakistan.’
Shepherd took the rifle. The G3 had first been produced in the 1950s but had undergone many changes over the years. The one he was holding was state-of-the-art and had been designed as a modular system so components could be changed easily to produce a variety of configurations.
Gannon picked up the second G3. ‘They make a version of this, too. The G3A3. Drum sights and a fixed plastic stock and a plastic handguard.’
They both put their G3s down and picked up MP5s. The MP5 had been developed after the G3, a 9mm sub-machine gun with almost zero recoil. It was the weapon that Shepherd was most familiar with and during his years with the SAS he had fired tens of thousands of rounds. The name MP5 came from Maschinepistole 5, and there were more than a hundred variations of the weapon. It had been the weapon of choice of the SAS since the late 1970s. Gannon slung his MP5 over his shoulder on its nylon sling. Shepherd did the same, then they both picked up their G3s again, and shared the ammunition between then.
‘Any idea what they’ve got planned?’ asked Gannon as he closed the gate and they headed down the corridor to the exit.
‘No idea at all, that’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s been held under guard so probably a building. I don’t know if it’ll be a daytime or a night-time assault, or if it’s full frontal or from helicopters.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m the ultimate mushroom at the moment, and you can imagine how happy that makes me.’
‘Nothing changes,’ said the Major with a grin. ‘We’re off, Pete,’ he shouted at the sergeant’s office.
‘Have fun!’ the sergeant called back.
They loaded the guns and ammunition into the Land Rover. ‘I thought we’d spend a couple of hours in the firing range and then I’ll run you over to the killing house and we’ll rehearse a few entry scenarios,’ said the Major.
‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd.
The climbed into the Land Rover and the Major drove them to the outdoor range. He parked by the door and produced a key to open it. ‘Get me the flag from the glove compartment, will you?’ asked Gannon as he unlocked the door.
Shepherd opened the glove compartment and pulled out a red flag. He climbed out and handed the flag to the Major. As Shepherd began to carry in the guns and ammunition, the Major tied the flag and ran it up the flagpole, letting all and sundry know that the range was live.
Inside was a brick-built shelter open to the target area. Shepherd put the G3s and the MP5s on a wooden table, then went out to fetch the ammunition. The G3 used 7.62 × 51mm rounds and the MP5 took the smaller 9mm cartridges.
When he returned with the ammunition, Gannon was out on the range fixing Figure 11 targets, the standard army outline of a soldier holding a rifle with a white circle in the centre the size of a saucer. He fixed four targets at fifteen metres from the table and another four at thirty metres then walked back to the table and picked up one of the G3s. ‘We’ll do the G3 at thirty and the MP5 at fifteen,’ he said.
‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd. The MP5 was generally used for close-quarter battle situations, while the G3
was better suited for longer distances.
The Major quickly and efficiently field-stripped the G3, then watched as Shepherd did the same. Shepherd smiled as he worked, knowing that he was much slower than the Major. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said when he finally finished, a full forty-five seconds longer than it had taken Gannon.
‘Let’s reassemble them and do it again,’ said Gannon. ‘You don’t know how good the gear is they’re going to give you, so I want you familiar with both weapons.’
Shepherd nodded. The Major, as always, was talking sense.
They spent a full thirty minutes stripping down and rebuilding both guns, and by the time they’d finished Shepherd was able to keep up with him on the G3 and beat him by a few seconds on the MP5.
They then moved on to the range, starting with the G3. They fired clip after clip at the targets and by the time they had finished Shepherd’s eyes were burning from the cordite and his ears were ringing, but he was able to put every shot in the white circle.
The two men then loaded the clips of the MP5s and began shooting at the closer target. Shepherd was much more familiar with the MP5 and right from the start he was able to keep his grouping tight.
The Major smiled across at him. ‘Like riding a bike,’ he said.
Raj’s left arm had gone numb but he was too exhausted to roll over. He could taste blood and one of his back teeth had become loose. With every breath he felt a searing pain in his chest and he was fairly sure that at least one of his ribs had fractured. He had lost track of time while they were beating him and lost count of the blows.
When they had dragged him out of the room where Mahmud had questioned him, Raj’s first thought was that it was over, that they had come to kill him. He’d struggled but they were too big and too strong, they had taken an arm each and dragged him down the corridor. He’d screamed, more out of frustration than anger, sure that he was going to be beheaded, and then he’d begun to pray, in Arabic, begging Allah to help him, hoping that by hearing his prayers they would realise he was a good Muslim.
They’d stopped outside his cell and one of them had pushed open the door. Raj continued to pray. The words tumbled from his mouth on autopilot as his mind raced. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to die like this, killed by fanatics devoted to a cause that made no sense. If Raj had to die he wanted to die for a reason, a good reason. Being beheaded by fanatics was as pointless a death as there could be. And the images painted by Mahmud kept flashing through his mind. A wicked blade cutting through his flesh, hacking through his spine. His head held high, blood pouring from the severed neck, his eyes wide in terror, dead but not completely dead.
The men had kicked Raj into the cell and he’d fallen face down on to the concrete. Before he’d had a chance to get to his feet they’d rushed him, kicking him hard in the ribs and legs. Raj had curled himself up into a ball and protected his head with his arms as he’d begged them to stop. They’d ignored his cries and he lost track of how long the kicks had continued. They’d stopped eventually, but only after they’d kicked him unconscious, and when he had eventually woken up he’d had no idea of how much time had passed.
Every muscle in his body ached, but at least the pain meant that he was still alive. The fact that they had beaten him and not taken his life meant that either he was still of use to them or he had information they had needed. Mahmud had made it seem as if he knew everything, but if that was the case then there would be no need for an interrogation or beatings. Raj had something that Mahmud wanted, and so long as that was the case he would stay alive. His survival depended on not talking, he realised. So long as he stayed silent, Mahmud would keep him alive. Raj took a deep breath but grimaced as a sharp pain lanced through his chest. The beatings would continue, he knew. He wasn’t sure how much more he could stand, but he knew that he had no choice; the moment he broke, they would kill him.
Shepherd crouched low, his finger on the trigger of his MP5. The Major was to his right and there were two troopers to his left. They were facing a door and the Major was counting down on his fingers. Shepherd had no idea what was on the other side of the door but if the previous sessions were anything to go by there would be at least one hostage and a minimum of two captors. The captors could be armed with anything from a machete to an AK-47, but whatever the weapon they were the targets and had to be taken out. They were all armed with MP5s but instead of the regular ammunition the weapons had been loaded with paint bullets. The low-velocity rounds were nowhere near fatal but they could hurt soft tissue so the men all wore full protective gear and shatterproof goggles.
The killing house was away from the main Credenhill barracks on the outskirts of a village called Pontrilas, midway between Hereford and Abergavenny. It was actually a collection of buildings, hidden from the nearest road by high walls. The building they were using was two storeys high with a main door, a rear door and small windows on both floors. The roof was flat, and it was typical of the structures found throughout the Middle East. The walls inside were lined with rubber and Kevlar panels which would absorb any rounds without ricochets, and there was a projection system which meant that live rounds could be used against the virtual targets. But the Major had wanted to use live targets and paint ammunition so that Shepherd could practise close-quarter battle techniques while under fire. The projection system was fine for rehearsing entry scenarios and for tightening up target sight acquisition but projected targets couldn’t take evasive action or fight back, which was what tended to happen in the real world.
The Major counted to three, drew back his right leg and kicked the door open before moving to the side. One of the troopers rushed in through the door, bent low. He headed right and almost immediately fired his weapon twice. The Major followed, moving left. Shepherd was third in through the door, followed by the last trooper.
Shepherd kept low as his eyes swept the room. The hostage was sitting on a wooden chair, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and with a sack over his head. There were two targets, one left and one right, wearing long robes and black and white keffiyeh scarves. They were wearing the same protective goggles as Shepherd and holding AK-47s in gloved hands and had on black armoured vests.
There was a doorway to the left and another doorway straight ahead. The two targets began screaming in Arabic and swung up their weapons, their fingers already inside the trigger guards.
A third target appeared in the doorway, wearing a heavy sheepskin jacket over his armoured vest. He was holding a machete in his left hand and a Glock in his right. He began screaming and waved the machete over his head.
Shepherd’s mind raced. Three targets. One hostage. All targets armed, all posing an imminent threat. He mentally divided the room into four quadrants. Left, mid-left, mid-right and right. The Major had been tasked with the left quadrant, he was to cover the mid-left as his primary target area with the left and mid-right as secondary areas. The two troopers to his right were covering the right-hand side of the room.
Shepherd looked through the sight and swung his MP5 to bear on the chest of the target to the left of the hostage. All of the targets were screaming at the top of their voices. He fired two shots in quick succession and they smacked into the target’s chest, leaving two red splodges on the man’s armoured vest. At almost the same time two shots hit the target to the right, missing the sitting hostage by inches. Both targets slumped to the ground.
Shepherd grinned. It was a textbook rescue. As he lowered the gun a round smacked into the centre of his chest and blue paint splattered across his armoured vest. ‘Shit,’ he said. A second shot quickly followed, making a dull thump in the chest that left another blue splodge just above his heart.
He looked up at the man who’d shot him. He had moved to stand with his back against the wall and was still holding the machete high above his head while he aimed the Glock at Shepherd’s chest.
‘End ex!’ shouted the Major, and the target lowered his Glock. The two targets who had been shot sat up and f
licked on the safeties of their AK-47s.
Shepherd made his MP5 safe and turned to look at the Major. ‘I thought you’d take out the target on the left,’ he said.
‘And on any other occasion I would have,’ said the Major. ‘But the guys you’re going to be working with are unknown factors. With the best will in the world you can’t depend on them. You must never put yourself in a situation where your safety is in their hands.’
One of the targets took the hood off the hostage. He was a young trooper who had volunteered to help out and his face was bathed in sweat. Playing the hostage was never fun but it had to be done to make the scenarios as realistic as possible.
Shepherd looked down at the two blue splodges on his chest. In fact the shots wouldn’t have been fatal if they had been live rounds as his armoured vest was more than capable of dealing with 9mm rounds. But in the real world the shots could well have been to his head and the Major was right. They trained hard so that when it came to a live operation they worked as a well-coordinated team. Every individual trooper knew what his role was and what his colleagues should be doing. They worked as a team. But when Shepherd was in Pakistan he’d have to think as an individual. His first priority would be to rescue Raj, but his own safety would have to come a close second.
‘Remember, you never want a guy with a gun behind you,’ said the Major. ‘There’s nothing friendly about friendly fire. Ideally keep your back to a wall. It’s doubtful they’ll have you going in first, but if you’re not last make sure you get straight out of the line of fire.’
‘Got it, boss,’ said Shepherd.
‘And never assume that someone else is going to take out an immediate threat to you. If a target is a direct threat to you, you take out that target yourself. You have to put your safety above everything. No matter what’s said at the briefing, no matter what the tasking is, you protect yourself at all costs.’
Shepherd nodded. That was the mental adjustment that he was having trouble with. When he’d stormed rooms in the past, each member of the team would be pre-assigned his own area. Generally the man who went left would handle any unfriendlies on the left and the man who went right would take care of the right-hand quadrant. It didn’t matter where the unfriendlies were aiming their weapons; by working as a coordinated team they would be eliminated before they could return fire. But Shepherd wouldn’t be able to rely on the men he was with when he was in Pakistan.
Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies Page 12
