‘So did I, Spider, so did I. Turned forty last autumn, got myself a cushy little number back at The Lines, keeping my nose clean and counting down the days till I can jack it in. But there are so many of the Regiment away, with so much kit - and fuck knows what you’re all doing - that even old men like me, and babies like these boys, fresh from Selection - are being shipped out on active service now.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘As long as they can do the job. So... where’re we going then?’
‘Where d’you think?’
‘I’m guessing Afghanistan?’
‘You know what Spider?’ Spud said with a broad grin. ‘You’re not as thick as you look. But take your suncream, we’re going on holiday. The Defence Secretary stood up in the House of Commons the other day and said he doubted if British troops would even fire a single shot.’
He introduced him to the others. There were a couple of other older troopers he knew from previous ops but as Spud had said, the majority were fresh from Selection. There was also a contingent of Paras from the Special Force Support Group Battalion with the usual assortment of tattoos and shaven heads on display.
Spud beckoned to one of the Paras, a young-looking, sandy-haired corporal with a rash of old acne scars across his forehead. ‘This is Lex,’ Spud said.‘He’s going to be your spotter.’
‘What?’ Shepherd said. ‘Why not one of ours?’
Spud shrugged. ‘Not enough men. We’re thin on the ground, remember?’
‘What about Billy? Why’s he sat on his arse over there? He’s spotted for me before.’
Spud shrugged. ‘Ours not to reason why,’ he said. ‘All I know is Lex has been assigned to you.’
Shepherd glanced at Lex. ‘You know what spotters do, Lex?’
‘Bit of a clue in the name, isn’t there?’ he said. He had a Scottish accent and had a habit of thrusting his chin up as if looking for a fight.
‘Up to a point. You’re called a spotter and you may spot targets as well, but your prime role is to have your sniper’s back. My back. You protect me, so I can concentrate on what I’m doing.’
‘I get it,’ said Lex.
‘You’re sure?’ said Shepherd. ‘I have to trust you with my life out there. Literally.’
Lex’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything. As the two men stared at each other, Spud broke the silence. ‘Lex is good, I’ve worked with him before. He’ll be all right, trust me.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Trust me,’ he repeated.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Okay Lex. If Spud says your okay, that’s good enough for me.’
He settled down in a quiet corner, unpacked and sorted his kit and began cleaning his rifle.
Lex walked over and squatted down next to him. ‘That doesn’t look like a standard 7.62.’
‘No, this is the Rolls-Royce of sniper rifles, an Accuracy International .50 cal, made in the UK and going for twenty-three grand a pop.’
‘So what’s so great about it?’
‘It’s state of the art kit. The traditional sniper rifle fires a lighter round with an arcing flight that makes it less accurate. The .50 is heavier and has a flatter trajectory, so it’s a more accurate weapon, and it’s beautifully engineered.’ He flashed Lex a tight smile. ‘How much do you know about the Afghans?’
‘They’re ragheads, that much I know.’
‘They’re just about the toughest fighters in the world, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘And just because we helped them out against the Sovs a few years ago, doesn’t mean we’re best buddies now. We’re invading their country, don’t forget, and they’ve been fighting westerners pretty much non-stop since Queen Victoria was a nipper, so it’s not going to change now. Plus there are a lot of al Qaeda around. So a picnic it definitely won’t be.’ He paused as he checked the action of the rifle.
‘You know what the muj used to do to the Soviet soldiers they captured?’ asked Shepherd. Lex shook his head. ‘First they’d castrate them and then they’d flay the skin from them while they were still alive.’ He shrugged. ‘But you never know, you might be lucky. You might be captured and kept alive - a few Soviets were, some of them for years. It’s like medieval Europe if you’re captured. You become the property of your captor until somebody who outranks them comes along. But I wouldn’t be holding my breath for that. That’s why it’s so important that I know you’ve got my back. Because in Afghanistan there are no POW camps and no Geneva Convention.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ said Lex.
‘You’d better not, that’s all I’m saying.’
* * *
During the night they flew in a Hercules to Bagram airbase, 25 miles north of Kabul. Built and named by the Russians, it was the only airport in Afghanistan that could accommodate the huge C5 Galaxies that Shepherd had seen taking off from Doha, and one was landing every five minutes. Men swarmed around them unloading ton after ton of supplies, while trucks and armoured vehicles rumbled down the ramps from the vast holds of the aircraft. The night was cold and, fresh from the searing heat of Doha, Shepherd pulled his jacket close around him as Spud, Shepherd, Lex and two other SAS troopers who had joined them walked across the dusty compound and found a place to bed down for the night in a draughty tattered tent.
Everyone was up before dawn and Shepherd, Spud and the others were sitting on folding stools eating their breakfast of naan bread and grapes as they watched the sunrise inching down the western face of the mountains. Shepherd took a sip from his mug of watery instant coffee and grimaced at the taste. ‘Any idea why we’re here?’ he asked Spud.
‘I went to see the Major first thing,’ said Spud. ‘Nothing specific, they just want more bodies on the ground. The Yanks are keen to show that this is a joint effort so they want to embed us in whatever Delta Force are doing.’ He looked up as an Afghan boy approached. He walked with a limp, his left foot twisted inwards. He could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, but the expression in his eyes, so dark they could almost have been black, suggested that he’d seen a lot of life, good and bad. He broke into a broad smile as he caught Shepherd’s eye, ‘Salaam alaykum, Inglisi. You want cigarettes?’ He pulled two packs out of his sleeve. ‘Only two dollars.’
Spud glanced up ‘Fuck off kid.’
‘Leave him be, Spud,’ Shepherd said, ‘He’s just trying to make a living, like the rest of us.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘No smokes thanks, kid, but what else have you got?’
‘Anything you want, Inglisi: grapes, mulberries, tea, sugar, songbirds, gold jewellery, a pesh kabz - an Afghan knife - or if you want to dress like an Afghan man, I’ll give you good price on a beautiful salwar kameez. Or I can get you a Kalashnikov. Just tell me and I’ll get it for you.’
‘A Kalashnikov?’
‘Sure. Cheap, too, same price as a half-kilo of sugar.’
Shepherd glanced at Spud. ‘What have we got ourselves into here - a country where you can get a Kalashnikov for the price of a bag of sugar?’
He turned back to the boy. ‘No guns, thanks, and I suppose a decent espresso is out of the question?’
The boy’s face fell. ‘That might be more difficult, but I’ll try.’ He paused. ‘What is espresso?’
‘I’m pulling your chain, but a mint tea would be good.’
‘At once, Inglisi. At once.’ The boy turned and ran off as fast as his limp would allow. Shepherd shouted after him ‘And go easy on the sugar, no more than six spoons, okay?
‘Be careful with the locals, Spider,’ said Spud. ‘You don’t know who you can trust.’
‘He’s a kid.’
‘They use kids as suicide bombers here.’
‘He’s okay,’ said Shepherd.
‘That’s a dad talking, isn’t it?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘How’s your boy? What is he, four?’
‘Four next birthday,’ said Shepherd.
‘Never wanted kids,’ said Spud. ‘Or a wife. Didn’t want anything or anyone to tie me down.’ He sipped
his coffee. ‘How’s the lovely Sue?’
Shepherd put a hand to his forehead. ‘Shit, I still have to call her,’ he said. ‘She’s expecting me back this week.’
‘Talk to the Major, he might let you use his sat-phone,’ said Spud. ‘Still giving you grief, is she?’
‘It was bad enough before this Afghanistan thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now she’s really on my case. Wants me out and back in Civvy Street.’
‘Women huh? Can’t live with them, can’t put a bullet in their heads.’
‘That’s not funny, mate,’ said Shepherd.
Spud held up his hands. ‘I take it back,’ he said. ‘But I’m serious about the Major’s sat-phone, he’s let a few of the guys call home.’
‘Cheers, I’ll give it a go,’ said Shepherd. He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. ‘This is foul,’ he said.
The boy was back within five minutes with a cup of hot, sweet green tea. Shepherd took it from him and tossed him a dollar bill, which he tucked inside his shirt. ‘I can’t keep calling you kid,’ Shepherd said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I am Karim, son of Qaseem,‘ the boy said, touching his hand to his heart in the traditional Afghan gesture of greeting.
‘And he’s Spider, son of a bitch,’ Spud said, laughing loudly at his own joke.
‘Pleased to meet you Karim,’ Shepherd said, ignoring the interruption. ‘I’m Dan, but everyone calls me Spider.’ He held out his hand and the boy solemnly shook it.
The boy’s brow furrowed. ‘Spider? Like an insect?’
‘Yeah, I ate one once for a bet.’
‘And not just any spider,’ Spud said. ‘He ate a fucking tarantula.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I killed it first though, so it couldn’t bite me before I bit it.’ He grinned. ‘Tasted like chicken.’
‘Really?’ said Karim. ‘Spider tastes like chicken? I didn’t know that.’
‘I was joking,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anyway, what are you doing hanging around Bagram?’
‘My father is here working for the Americans as a translator. He used to be a teacher. But before that he fought with you Inglisi against the Russians.’
‘That’s why your English is so good? Your father taught you?’
Karim nodded. ‘He is a very good teacher. I shall be one too when I’m older, but for now I am a businessman.’ He paused. ‘You want a watch?’ He pulled up his sleeve to reveal four or five watches strapped to his forearm. The cyrillic lettering on the face of each one showed their Russian origin.
‘I’m not even going to ask how you got hold of those,’ Shepherd said.
Karim shrugged. ‘The previous owners had no further use for them.’
‘No watches, thanks Karim,’ Shepherd said, patting his arm. ‘But you can keep the mint teas coming if you like. One every half hour till I tell you to stop.’
Karim grinned and then limped off in search of fresh customers. Shepherd began checking his rifle, cleaning it and wiping off the dust. Spud studied him for a moment. ‘You keep rubbing that like you hope a genie’ll appear,’ he said. He was about to say something else when they heard a booming shout from across the compound. ‘Spud! Spud my friend!’
A huge, black-bearded figure in a flowing, striped robe and a round cap lined with black lamb’s wool was bounding towards them, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth in a broad grin.
He embraced Spud, planting a smacking wet kiss on both cheeks. ‘It’s been a long time, my friend.’
‘And you’re still an ugly bugger, Taj,’ said Spud, entangling himself from the man’s arms. ‘And didn’t I lend you a hundred bucks last time I saw you?’
Taj gave a piratical smile. ‘Surely that was a gift, not a loan, my friend, and anyway it’s long since spent.’
‘Spider, this is Taj,’ Spud said. ‘He’s one of us, I trained him and his men back in the late eighties when they were fighting the Sovs. Taught him to use Stingers.’
‘Great days,’ Taj said. ‘We killed many, many Russians together.’
‘You shot down a few helicopters, too,’ Spud said. ‘You know the Yanks are offering a reward for the return of the remaining Stingers, don’t you? Any idea where they might be?’
Taj’s expression was deadpan, but there was a glint in his eye. ‘Why? Are the Americans worried that we will do to them what we did to the Russians?’
‘Maybe. So you know where they might be? It’s a very large reward. I’m serious, Taj. Be a nice bonus for you if you could bring a few in.’
‘I heard rumours that perhaps the faranji fighters, the Arabs, may have some,’ said the Afghan. ‘I know no more than that, but I do have other information, Spud, valuable information.’ The tip of his tongue moistened his lips.
Spud gave a cynical smile. ‘How valuable?’
‘The man the Americans seek? I know where he may be hiding.’ He paused, glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot, then beckoned Spud and Shepherd closer.
‘You remember the White Mountains?’ He pointed away to the southeast, where a range of towering, snow-capped peaks filled the horizon. ‘That was our kick-off point and our main base when we made our raid on Bagram.’ He laughed and slapped Spud on the back. ‘A whole squadron of Mig 21s - their best aircraft - destroyed on the ground. What a day! From that moment we knew, and the Russians knew too, that they were beaten.’
‘Aye, that was one hell of a scrap,’ agreed Spud. ‘We gave them a right bloody nose that day.’
‘What about the White Mountains?’ asked Shepherd.
‘There are no roads there, but there are a handful of tracks and passes into Pakistan,’ said Taj. ‘The valleys are steep, twisting and very narrow, and a few men on the ridges above them can hold up an army. In the heart of one of the most narrow and inaccessible valleys of them all, there is a complex of caves. The main one is called Tora Bora in Pushtu, the Black Cave. We used it as our base. Russian aircraft and helicopters dared not penetrate those narrow valleys and those who did, we shot down. We could fire down on them from above. Then they sent ground troops against us, but we retreated before them, luring them on ever further into the mountains and then we struck. They sent five hundred men against us and we killed them all, except one.’ He paused. ‘The last one, we cut out his eyes so that he could not see the caves we used, or the passes and tracks to reach them, and we cut off his manhood, so that he should father no sons to seek blood revenge against us. Then we sent him back to the Russians as a warning of what would happen to any more they sent against us. There were no Russians in the White Mountains after that.’
Shepherd could see that Taj enjoyed telling stories, but he needed the man to get to the point. ‘And why are you telling us this now, Taj?’
‘Because no one moves in those mountains without me hearing of it, and recently many faranji - Muslims, but Arabs and Chechens, not Pushtuns, Tajiks or Uzbeks - have been seen there. Many pack trains of supplies have come through the mountains and a satellite dish has been installed on a ridge near Tora Bora.’
‘So the Taliban are bedding in? Is that your big news, because that’s no surprise. They’re taking a pounding from American bombs and missiles on the plains, so why wouldn’t they be retreating to the mountains?’
Taj shrugged. ‘Because there are very few Taliban in the caves, according to men I trust. The Taliban are guarding the approaches to the mountains, but the valley itself is heavily guarded by faranji fighters, not Taliban, and they’re fortifying it to resist a siege.’
‘Any heavy weapons?’ Shepherd said.
‘They have RPGs, of course, plus heavy machine guns, mortars and perhaps even tanks.’
‘And Stingers?’
‘I do not know. It is possible.’
Shepherd thought for a moment. ‘So what are you saying? You think they’re protecting something - or someone - of high value?’
Taj crushed him in a bear hug, filling Shepherd’s nostrils with the acrid stink of sweat and the oily smell of lanolin from hi
s wool clothes. ‘Exactly my friend,’ he boomed. ‘And who is worth that kind of protection, if not our honoured guest? He was with us when we fought the Russians but now, how do you say it? He has overstayed his welcome.’
The Afghan was talking about Bin Laden, Shepherd realised. The most wanted man in the world, the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks.
‘That’s one hell of an assumption you’re making,’ said Shepherd.
‘Who else would merit such activity?’ said Taj. ‘But if you do not believe me, let’s go and we can look for ourselves.’
Shepherd studied him for a few moments. ‘Why is this important to you Taj? Are you after the bounty on Bin Laden’s head, is that it?’
Taj shook his head fiercely. ‘You have heard of Ahmad Shah Masood?’ he asked.
‘The Northern Alliance guy who was killed by a suicide bomber? Sure.’
‘He was a great man. I served him and my brother Mirzo served him. Mirzo was at his side when the bomber struck. He tried to shield Masood and….’ His jaw clenched. ‘He also was killed. So for me this is a blood feud. I shall not sleep until the blood debt has been repaid. They killed our leader and insh’allah, we shall kill theirs, even at the cost of my own life.’ He looked at Spud and Shepherd. ‘No man alive knows those mountains, and the tracks and paths through them, as well as I do. At Tora Bora we will have our revenge.’
There was a long silence. ‘Give us a minute, Taj,’ Spud said. ‘Spider and I need to talk.’
Taj nodded and walked away across the compound.
Shepherd watched him go. ‘You trust him, Spud? He looks like he’d sell his own grandmother for a few bucks.’
‘Taj is okay, Spider,’ Spud said. ‘I’d trust him with my life - or yours.’
Shepherd gave him a dubious look. ‘I’m hoping I won’t have to, but if he’s right about Tora Bora...’
‘We’ll need to take him with us,’ Spud said. ‘He knows the place like the back of his hand. He can lead us in and out.’
‘I don’t know Spud. He’s on a one-man mission for revenge. That makes him a pretty loose cannon.’
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