Soft Target 02 - Tank

by Conrad Jones

  “Pilgrim one, we have located our patient,” whispered Faz into the coms, “she is heavily sedated and will need assistance during evac.” It was the worst possible scenario because they couldn’t take her out undetected. Faz looked out of the first floor window, which was situated at the rear of the hospital facility, over what looked like a lunar landscape. The land to the rear was heavily cratered with shell holes, and scattered with razor wire at irregular intervals.

  “Pilgrim one, we need a pathway made directly beneath this room for approximately four-hundred yards in a westerly direction,” said Faz, “I can see the road at the top of the next ridge. If you clear the minefield and position an evac helicopter on that ridge we can get her out of here. You will have to keep our rebel friends busy at the front though.”

  “Roger that Pilgrim one, take cover,” Tanks voice sounded more guttural than usual, adrenalin was thickening the saliva in his throat, “attack will be launched on my mark, three, two, one.” An almighty explosion rocked the building and Faz dived for cover. Chen had the Saudi safely against the wall below the window. The explosion was a Hellfire missile fired from a circling unmanned drone, which destroyed the reception area of the facility and thirty of the Mujahideen that had occupied it were blown to pieces. Two more explosions rocked the building as heavy machinegun posts close to the hospital were destroyed by the drone. Faz heard the unmistakable rotor blades of an American Apache gunship approaching from the back of the hospital close to where they were. Two air cannon machineguns, which were attached beneath the Apache’s chassis roared into life. They sounded like two Harley Davidson motorbike engines as they unleashed an avalanche of red hot high velocity 50 calibre bullets. The expert pilot combined with an expert gunner raked the minefield behind the hospital creating a safe pathway across the wilderness. Huge plumes of dirt and dust exploded into the air as the machinegun bullets detonated buried ordinance. The hospital’s windows blew out, showering Faz and the Saudi girl with splintered shards of glass.

  The whooshing sound of air to ground rockets indicated to Faz that someone had foolishly started firing back at the Apache gunship. The gunship responded and half a dozen colossal explosions could be heard to the east of the hospital, where the road block was situated. She glanced out over the window ledge and saw a smouldering crater where the checkpoint had once stood.

  “Pilgrim one, it’s time to go,” Tanks voice boomed over the coms. They could hear machinegun fire in the background as if Tank’s position was taking fire.

  “Roger that, Pilgrim one,” Faz said as she headed for the window. She removed a synthetic knotted rope from her webbing and wrapped it beneath the Saudi’s armpits. Chen lifted her legs over the window ledge and they quickly lowered her to the dusty ground beneath them. She hit the floor with a bump and folded into an awkward position, but at least she was free. Chen and Faz vaulted the window and rested their weight on a narrow ledge just below the opening. They were perched twenty feet above the ground, too far to jump without sustaining an injury. Machinegun bullets smashed into the breeze block walls close to Chen, shattering the block into dust and splinters of concrete. A two inch shard stuck into his cheek and he cried out as it chipped the bone beneath, but he clung onto the ledge.

  “Pilgrim one, we are taking machinegun fire,” Faz screamed into the coms, their position was desperately exposed without support. The gun fire was coming from a machinegun nest, which was well hidden from view beneath a copse of trees. The nest was dug into the scorched earth, but Faz could see the dull metal of the huge 50 calibre barrel finding its bead on them. The machinegun nest opened fire and three rounds ripped into the ledge they were clinging to. Suddenly the machinegun nest erupted in a boiling plume of flame that climbed skywards before folding in on itself to form a huge mushroom cloud of flame. The Apache helicopter that had fired the Napalm missile roared overhead at low altitude, it almost seemed close enough to touch. The pilot banked the aircraft and hovered in the air for a moment, and he waved a thumbs-up sign to them. Faz and Chen dropped from the ledge to the ground and grabbed the girl. They had to cover four-hundred yards to make it to the ridge.

  Tank opened the door to the armoured Land Rover that he was in, and dived out. They were taking heavy machinegun fire from a ridge two-hundred yards to his right. The wheels of the vehicle had become trapped in the shifting sand dunes that blow across the border regions. They were sitting ducks for the machinegun team. There was a Task Force man firing a turret mounted 50 calibre machinegun at the ridge, but the insurgents were too well dug in. Tank sprinted behind a rock outcrop, keeping low and moving quickly for a big man. Air support was tied up providing cover at the hospital, and he had to sort this problem out on his own. The Land Rover was a sitting duck. His other units all seemed to be in similar positions taking heavy incoming fire all along the ridgeline. Tank circled the rocks and flanked the machine gunners. He could see three men. One was firing the 50 calibre, while one loaded the bullet belt into it to stop it from jamming. The other was the spotter using binoculars to locate targets. Tank carried a 40mm, M16 machinegun, which was fitted with the M203 grenade launcher beneath the main barrel. He chambered a grenade and fired, aiming for the middle man who was loading the bullets into the troublesome machinegun. The grenade left the rifle with a whooshing sound and landed right on target. The three rebels had heard the grenade launching, and turned in fear to look behind them. Three sets of terrified eyes looked into Tank’s for just a second before the grenade exploded. Before the dirt had settled Tank emptied a magazine of thirty bullets into the dead men, just to make sure. The directional effect of rifle grenade’s shrapnel was erratic, and many a soldier was killed because his targets had survived the blast and returned fire. Best to be sure, kill them twice, that was Tank’s motto.

  He ran to the ridge and waved to the driver of the Land Rover. The men exited the vehicle and pushed it clear of the sand. They drove up the ridge and picked up Tank. He was sweating and covered in sand. He grabbed a metal flask of water and gulped greedily.

  “Let’s move out,” said Tank over the coms.

  Up until ten minutes ago you would have been forgiven for thinking today would be a normal day at the office. The early morning ride across the mountains was tranquil enough. The Baby Bird helicopters had taken Grace and Chen ahead as the reconnaissance team. Tank and the others had driven slowly across the border in the Land Rovers bringing the main strike force with them. The air was filled with dust, which seeped into the vehicles through every aperture. Within minutes of being in the country the dust had invaded your nose, mouth, underwear and socks. The vehicles were cramped to make room for extra ammunition and water, but Tank already wished that they had brought more. They weren’t expecting to encounter aggressive resistance so soon in the operation. They had ten vehicles carrying eight men apiece. Four of the vehicles had turret mounted 50 calibre heavy machineguns, which could bring down aircraft, and destroy enemy armoured vehicles. At the top of the ridge Tank signalled the Land Rover to stop. He counted only nine vehicles, so one was missing.

  “Beagle one, sound off all Beagles,” Tank ordered over the radio, “request a drone on a search mission, we are one vehicle down.”

  The Land Rovers cleared the tree line onto the ridge, one at a time.

  “Beagle two, clear.Beagle three, clear.” The other platoons sounded off in numerical order. All except Beagle eight, who were positioned nearest to the town, about half a mile west of the hospital.

  “Pilgrim father here, the drone can’t find any trace of Beagle eight,” came the voice from mission control, “its trackers can’t be found.” Each vehicle was fitted with a chip so that mission control could locate them at all times in case someone became separated from the main battle group.

  Tank was becoming worried when his thoughts were interrupted by a rocket propelled grenade exploding underneath Beagle six, one-hundred yards to his left. Two more exploded close to the vehicles along the ridge and at least a dozen AK-47�
��s and Kalashnikovs opened fire on their position. The convoy was exposed and coming under increasingly heavy fire.

  “Pilgrim one, I think they know that we are here,” Tank boomed jumping from the vehicle, “evasive action and full assault.”

  The Land Rovers deployed their men and spun their wheels in tight circles heading back into the cover of the tree line. The 50 calibre machine gunners opened fire and laid down a deadly covering fire. Empty brass cartridges showered the dusty earth as the Task Force returned fire. Tank approached the Land Rover that was hit by the RPG and discovered its occupants returning fire from behind the cover of the machine. One man lay prone being attended to by a medic, and he was holding a bloody swab to his abdomen. As Tank approached the medic shook his head and removed the swab to reveal the wound. Intestines were clearly visible and he was bleeding profusely.

  “We need to get him to that evac helicopter or he’ll not make it,” the medic said.

  “Roger that, Pilgrim one, we need air support east of the hospital. We have one more passenger for that evac,” Tank ordered, “All units prepare to follow my spearhead. I repeat, follow Beagle one.”

  Suddenly over the coms came an Arabic voice, and then what sounded like a reply in the same guttural dialect. Tank looked to his Lieutenant and they exchanged concerned glances. Someone had captured one of their coms units.

  “I guess we know what’s happened to Beagle eight,” the young officer said, “poor bastards.” Tank nodded as the Apache gunship roared overhead. It hovered above their position and its weapons carriage thundered into life. Hellfire missiles screamed across the sky heading toward enemy positions unseen from the ground. Air cannons pounded out thousands of rounds every minute, stripping the trees and vegetation from the earth like a huge invisible strimming machine. Tank pointed an empty hand forward and his Land Rover jerked toward the evac point, followed in an arrow formation by the other Task Force units.

  Chapter 51

  Roman Kordinski/ RIP

  Roman’s case was adjourned while psychiatric reports were compiled. He was diagnosed as a recessed paranoid schizophrenic. He was capable of blending into society normally until emotional pressure was applied, and then the repressed violence surfaced. This type of personality is completely driven by whatever motivates them, and they would focus obsessively on achieving their goals, to the extent that nothing else had a value, including human life. Roman had mentally imploded, losing his businesses, his riches and his football team, which was put into administration when his bank accounts were frozen. He just couldn’t cope mentally. He sacked his long time legal advisor Alan Williams in favour of a Jewish firm. He also refused to communicate in English with the police or legal representatives from the courts. Translators were being brought to assist, but he had already attacked two of them because they had not translated what he had said exactly.

  Now he was sat at the back of a special high court in Liverpool enclosed in a bullet proof compartment. The protective prison dock was made of thick clear plate-glass, which is used to glaze limousines. The agency that was tasked with helping him was struggling to find translators who were willing to work with Kordinski.

  Natasha Rasht was sent to try to get near Roman to assess the chances of sending an assassin to kill him. She was a Muslim from Kosovo. Kosovo was a satellite state of Serbia, which in turn was part of the old Soviet Union. The Serbians were Christians, while the Kosovan people were Islamic. After the breakdown of the Soviet Union in 1991 Kosovo declared its independence several times from Serbia. Each time Serbia responded by invading Kosovo and enforcing rule upon them. Ethnic cleansing and the wholesale slaughter of Muslims was commonplace. The United Nations eventually intervened by providing a protective umbrella using American and British Air Forces. The air cover attacked Serbian ground forces repeatedly until they withdrew its soldiers from the tiny country. Natasha was a small child orphaned by the war and given refuge in Britain. She grew up in foster homes, a foreign orphan in a foreign land. Her hatred of Christians festered over the years. When she left the social service system things became worse. She had failed miserably at school and had no qualifications. She couldn’t find a job and soon realised that the only skill she had was attracting men. Her new found occupation was well paid, although not the most hygienic career. She became involved in a Chechen prostitute ring and finally felt part of a family. They were subversive, and sent finance for the Muslim rebels at home to purchase arms with. There were several Chechens being hidden amongst them who were called sleeper cells. Suicide bombers just waiting for the order to strike. Natasha wasn’t one of them though, she had no intentions of killing herself, but she was more than willing to use her sexuality to gather information that aided the global Jihad. She had acquired a press pass by giving its previous owner a blow job, which gave her access to the courtroom, where she had spent two days thinking of ways to reach Roman behind his bulletproof screen. The only other people inside the dock were two burly armed policemen, and his interpreter, when they turned up. The courtroom door opened and in rushed a young woman, who was very red faced and flustered. The young woman was a part time interpreter sent by an agency, in the employee of Roman Kordinski. Natasha recognised her but she couldn’t place where she had seen her before. The interpreter removed her jacket as she was ushered into the plasti-glass dock and Natasha saw the blue insignia on the pocket of her white blouse. It was the ‘Golden Arches’, the most recognised brand in the world. The interpreter worked full-time for McDonalds Restaurants as a shift manager. That’s where Natasha had seen her before, and it was the opportunity that she was looking for.

  Christina Renilsonski was a Polish immigrant. She had travelled to the UK when the European Union had dismantled Britain’s borders, along with a tidal wave of Eastern European migrants. Christina settled in Liverpool and began her search for work. Her first two weeks were bitterly disappointing, as she was refused work at every place that she asked. Every day she bought the city’s daily newspaper, the Liverpool Echo, and every day she trawled through the situations vacant section. Every day she received the same disappointing response, and she was beginning to wonder if the long journey west was the right move. After a particularly gruelling day job hunting around the city, in freezing rain and high winds, she walked into the city centre McDonalds on Lord Street. It is situated just a few yards from the road that the Beatles made famous, Mathew Street. She ordered a hot cup of tea to warm her weary bones, while she dried off. The restaurant was bright and warm. The atmosphere was vibrant and exciting as tourists and locals came and went through the busy doors. Large murals of local historic tourist attractions adorned the walls, which gave the store a strong identity. It was proud to be part of the city in which it traded. Christina watched the staff working on the front counter and was amazed by the synchronicity of the operation, as the service team worked in unison to serve hundreds of hungry customers every hour. The staff seemed to be having such fun. It made Christina feel all the more isolated.

  As Christina was finishing her tea a hostess approached her dressed in a red waistcoat, and carrying a tray.

  “Would you like a top up dear?” said the smiling hostess whose badge introduced her as Rita. “You look soaked through, you poor thing.” Surprised and impressed by the kindness she was shown, Christina struck up a conversation with the hostess. She was told that there were several vacancies available in the restaurant and a week later she started her first shift as a McDonalds’ employee. Christina worked all the overtime that she could. She was amazed at the structured training that everyone was given, and within three months she was qualified to work on every station in the restaurant. McDonalds is a company that returns whatever is put into it tenfold, and Christina learned quickly. Within twelve months she had completed health and safety training, food hygiene programmes and management training courses. She spent the next six months learning to be a shift manager. A month after that was the proudest day of her life when she opened the restaurant’s do
ors with her shift running manager’s keys. Managing her first day shift she had to fire up and calibrate all the major pieces of equipment used in the preparation of food. She checked the use by dates of every item of stock, and checked that all the cooking and refrigeration temperatures were correct. There are a myriad of regimented systems applied to every restaurant that operated under the Golden Arches brand. That was the secret to the food giant’s success, motivated staff with enthusiasm and passion. Christina positioned all her staff, checked that the trading tills all had the right money in them, and then she proudly opened the doors to her hungry public. All this was achievable at the dizzy age of nineteen. Christina loved her job and had a great relationship with her regular customers. It was whilst chatting to one regular customer one morning that she was offered extra part time work acting as an interpreter. Polish was her first language but she was also fluent in Russian. Her grandmother was Russian and spoke to her in Russian from an early age. She worked regularly for the agency as migrant numbers were steadily rising. The need for interpreters grew accordingly, and the money was a welcome supplement to her income.

  The job of translating for a Russian criminal at the Crown Court was offered to her at short notice, but because it was situated just a hundred yards from the restaurant, she agreed, finished her breakfast shift at McDonalds, and headed to the court with her coat on over her work uniform. Christina was five minutes late when she rushed into the courtroom.