3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  ‘You’d never think this stuff would stop bullets.’

  ‘Science doing the soldier a favour for a change. Once it’s on, you don’t have to think about it.’

  Richmond threw Ashe a green sleeveless garment. ‘This is the Dowty Armourshield General Purpose Vest 25, Toby.’

  ‘What’s this one got, apart from an extraordinary name?’

  ‘It’s got a blunt trauma shield.’

  ‘Purpose?’

  ‘The rest might stop a bullet from piercing your body, but you need the shield to lessen the trauma of being hit. Weighs four kilogrammes, which you’ll notice after a while.’

  ‘Better than being dead.’

  Richmond smiled. ‘That’s the idea.’

  Ashe slipped on some grey baggy trousers and a buff-coloured light cotton jacket while Richmond helped him with a blue-and-white-striped turban.

  ‘Important thing is to get its tail to flow backwards, not in your face.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Now, in this pack you’ll find a survival kit, some stun grenades, an SF10 respirator, a specialised helmet adapted to it, some plastic bags to put your shit in, a few other things I’ll talk about later – and a map. Important thing. Never mark the map or fold it in such a way as to give anyone finding it a clue about anything that matters.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘That’s where they’d find it. Right. Weapon. As this sort of trek is new to you, I thought you might like to get to grips with this.’

  Ashe admired the factory-fresh submachine gun. ‘Heckler & Koch MP5 SD. Silenced version.’

  ‘Very good. Don’t want to frighten you with loud noises. If you’d prefer an assault rifle to the submachine gun, just say so.’

  ‘This is fine.’

  ‘Here’s the ammo belt. The holster carries a 9 mm Browning High Power pistol. You can keep your boots.’

  ‘I should think so. Cost a bloody fortune.’

  Ashe and Richmond emerged from beneath the camouflage netting to find themselves surrounded by a ring of human steel. This mission clearly had high-priority status.

  100

  Simon Richmond was in command of sixteen men from 22 SAS Sabre Squadron G, Mountain Troop, and a further sixteen men from D Squadron’s Air Troop: a formidable force.

  Each man carried at least 100 kilogrammes of equipment, but the combined muscle did not hang lead-heavy as Ashe might have expected; rather it seemed to shimmer in the rain, bristling like a porcupine and ready to take its cargo of death right into the unsuspecting face of the enemy.

  ‘Where the fuck did they all come from?’

  ‘These are the invisible men, Toby.’

  ‘Quite a sight for invisible men.’

  Richmond addressed them. ‘I hope you’re all comfortable. Any outstanding issues or questions about equipment, this is your last chance. Good. Before we go, I want to introduce you to Toby Ashe, whose name you have just forgotten. He’s with intelligence, and the higher-ups want him here to help with identification and interrogation procedures.’

  Ashe looked somewhat apologetic, only too aware that he owed his place on the operation more to Crayke’s insistence than strict operational necessity.

  ‘Toby’s not undergone specialist training, but take my word for it, he has distinguished himself in field operations. Bastard even saved my life.’

  Richmond awaited the expected mild amusement; it didn’t come.

  ‘Right. He doesn’t expect anyone to wait for him, or carry him. He’s aware that if he’s incapacitated, he will have to make his own way to the RV. Needless to say, we’ll take a diamond formation on the open stretches, and single file when we reach the foliage.’

  There was a murmur of ‘Needless to say, Major’, and ‘Tell us something we didn’t know’.

  ‘As we discussed this morning, there is a high risk of anti-personnel mines and booby traps closer to the target, so bear that in mind. OK, we shall depart RV at five-minute intervals. Note there is to be no Morse or any electronic signalling whatsoever within five kilometres of the target area under any circumstances. Before that, high-speed transmissions may be used. It’s likely the enemy has direction-finding equipment installed in their facility. Signalling may resume in the event of engagement. I think that’s it. Good luck.’

  There was some good-natured nodding from some of the troops, but most had their minds fixed firmly on the operation objectives. The men, divided into groups of four, would each follow a different route to the target area. Each route had been planned meticulously to offer a consistent strategic arrival pattern. Each group of four had a specific set of objectives to accomplish before the attack on the facility proper began.

  Richmond and Ashe set off first, with the four men from Squadron G Mountain Troop who had brought Ashe in from Mosul. Already, Ashe’s shoulders were beginning to ache. Richmond turned round and noticed his discomfort.

  ‘It’ll improve, Toby. Now, before we spread out, I think I’d better explain what’s been going on.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Simon.’

  ‘Yes. The planning stage is usually like that. We don’t like to dwell on an operation. Just get on with it.’

  ‘Feet first, is it?’

  ‘Deep end.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention it, Toby. But that submachine gun you have there is not a fashion accessory. I’ve lost four from my allotted force.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the Ken Bigley kidnap?’

  ‘Al-Tawhid wal-Jihad group.’

  ‘Yeah. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. He’s threatened to execute the poor chap. All on video. It’s one of those Iraq stories that newspapers really go to town on.’

  ‘Presumably why the kidnaps keep happening.’

  ‘Yeah, well. The PM has pulled out as many stops as possible. So I’ve lost a unit trying to find him. Of course, if they get to Bigley in time, they’ll also get the most-wanted terrorist in the region, so it’s worth the effort.’

  ‘D’you think our effort will make headlines?’

  ‘Rather doubt it, don’t you? Still, this operation makes sense. Remember last time you and I looked over a map of the region?’

  ‘In Shariya. You said there was the possibility of joint Turkish special forces and Ansar al-Sunna activity – weird though that sounded.’

  ‘Jolo’s men picked up one of the Ansar al-Sunna men in the area.’

  ‘Picked up?’

  ‘Abducted. Borrowed. Lifted. Took bloody prisoner. Anyhow, they got him talking. And he started gabbing about a bearded Yezidi brought in from Europe. Special hostage. He also identified a photograph of this Sami al-Qasr guy we and everybody else seems to have as a high-priority target. I’ve got to say though, Toby, it’s weird him turning up in these parts, given my briefing about him.’

  ‘Did the prisoner mention anyone else?’

  ‘Only a senior Turkish officer.’

  Ashe felt a rush of excitement. He tried to sound unmoved. ‘Name?’

  ‘Didn’t know the name.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Seems, Toby, this guy’s been running a special operation of his own.’

  ‘I’ll bet!’

  ‘Know this guy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, he’s something special. He’s apparently turned about fifty captured Ansar al-Sunna volunteers into his own private force. They’re targeting PKK rebels operating inside northern Iraq. Some of the rebels are cooperating with American special forces, some are just hiding out in places the Turkish special forces can’t find. The Turkish justification is simple. It’s the war on terrorism.’

  ‘Of course it is. But Turkish style. Using Ansar al-Sunna volunteers distracts terrorists from killing Americans, while assisting the global war on terror by locating and/or liquidating Turkey’s internal enemies. Clever.’

  ‘And it keeps to a diplomatic minimum the number of Turkish special forces operating o
ver the border. Now, Toby, you can answer a question of mine. We’ve been told this isn’t a simple blat-and-splat mission. There’s the hostage-release aspect.’

  ‘That’s just part of it, Simon. I presume you know that if this comes off, your command will have found the only significant WMD in the Iraq conflict.’

  ‘That aspect’s been rather muted. We can’t be sure what we’re going to find, if anything.’

  ‘So what’s your question?’

  ‘Why no US forces? Does Blair want the honours – save his career and trounce his enemies?’

  Ashe laughed. ‘I doubt it. Maybe the prospect of US forces going out to hit Turks is embarrassing for all parties. On the other hand, a regular mission against Ansar al-Sunna forces by Kurdish irregulars, albeit with some SAS backup – which also happens to locate some Turkish forces – I suppose that could be dressed up rather differently. But there’ll be diplomatic problems if the Yanks find we’ve gone after al-Qasr without telling them. Success will be our proof.’

  Richmond squinted, not entirely convinced. ‘Is that the only reason our allies are in the dark on this one, Toby?’

  Ashe thought it best to avoid the question. ‘Of course, there’s the capability factor.’

  ‘Capability, Toby?’

  ‘I’m told cave-bashing operations like this normally get US AC-130 Spectre Gunship support with deep-penetration bombs targeting the cave entrances. But in this case, we can’t risk killing either the hostage or those in charge of holding him.’

  ‘That’s been made clear. Who’s the hostage?’

  ‘They didn’t tell you?’

  ‘It was made clear there was no guarantee the hoped-for hostage would be there at all. Crayke suggested you would know.’

  ‘And this mission was okayed on that basis?’

  ‘That’s how it is sometimes. Uncertainty complicates things, Toby, but sometimes you just have to go.’

  ‘I presume hostage release is nothing new to you.’

  ‘Never done it from inside a bloody cave in the mountains before! It’s the worst of two worlds.’

  ‘That’s life.’

  Ashe found the going easier now the blood was flowing and his mind was active. As the men curved round the brow of the mountain and headed towards a stunning serpentine valley of gentle serrations, streaked by a gushing tributary of the Great Zab River, the autumn sun poked out from behind the clouds. Its cleansing beams flooded the valley.

  Richmond turned to Ashe. ‘Know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  101

  The day wore on like a heavy sack. The mountains that had seemed so brown now looked blue in the distance. As he placed one weary foot in front of another, Ashe noticed that the rocks were not brown either, but covered in a rusty-red lichen. The Martian character of the mountain suited the operation, but just as Ashe had got used to the redness, psyching himself up for the unknown that lay ahead, the troops rounded the base of a low mountain and entered a lush gorge.

  On either side of its bank grew may bushes, terebinth trees with jade-coloured berries rotting on the boughs, oleanders, poplar trees, rock roses and sturdy little oaks. The stony ground was pocked with thistles and weeds. This route had been traced by tired soldiers since the days of Alexander the Great.

  Richmond had told Ashe that four SAS men were already in the target area, establishing OPs. These observation posts were known as bashas – damp, desperately uncomfortable holes that were more suited to ascetic hermits of extreme persuasions, or psychopaths.

  The men had been told that in addition to their minimal rations, they might, at night, also pick an edible weed called khubbaz. This could be supplemented by the milky-white kivar thistle, which could be warmed up on their elementary stoves but was best chewed cold since cooking smells were to be avoided so close to the target.

  Richmond signalled for Kev Norton to approach with an update from the entrenched advance party. The long Afghani dagger flashing under Norton’s vest explained why his oppos called him The Blade. Norton noticed Ashe’s interest and quickly covered his personal weapon.

  Hayes, Tongue and Scrabster darted over rocks into foliage on opposite sides of the stream, gripping their Colt Commandos and covering the distracted major, who was bent over Norton’s PRC 319 radio system. Ashe knelt on one knee, his submachine gun at the ready, ten metres in front of the major.

  Two minutes later, Richmond signalled Ashe to join him, then signalled the other three men to climb as far up the banks as possible, making use of the trees and bushes. It was perilous to be so close to the target area in daylight, but the strike had been agreed for dusk, after dinner, when the enemy was likely to be least alert.

  A dead-of-night operation had been discussed but was rejected because the enemy also had night-vision equipment provided by Turkish special forces. Furthermore, the entrance to the cave facility was already extremely dark due to rock overhangs and dense forest.

  Complete surprise would be their trump card, and the mist that rose off the streams at dusk would also help. It had also been observed that night guards were posted to the facility’s perimeter just after nightfall.

  Two of the advance group were sniper specialists, trained to kill at up to 1,000 metres. Geoff Barrow and Tim Blakeley carried Accuracy International L96A1 rifles with Schmidt & Bender telescopic sights. They had already spent thirty-six hours dug into the dampness and cold, monitoring the positioning of facility guards. When the time came, ice-cold nerve and steady hands would ensure success.

  Some three kilometres north of Richmond’s position, four groups of four from D Squadron’s Air Troop had advanced to assess the enemy’s likely escape routes and set up a maximum of two ambush sites. The plotting of potential routes had been assisted by Jolo’s men. They had discovered four possible paths. Available troop numbers ensured only the two most likely routes would be covered. Should things go badly at the target site, they could respond to calls for reinforcements.

  Jolo’s enthusiastic irregulars covered remaining routes using M16s with attached 40 mm M203 grenade launchers. The D Squadron troop had also carried two 81 mm mortars to the anticipated contact area – an amazing feat of strength, given the weight of operational loads.

  The ascent of the gorge had been gruelling, but the last half-kilometre was even worse: the men now had to crawl through the scrub on their stomachs, negotiating the rocks and endless thistles in complete silence.

  The plateau ended abruptly at a mossy slope that ran down into a narrow gorge. God knew how Jolo’s men and the advance group had been able to position themselves there without being caught. As the sun hovered over the western horizon, Ashe heard noises.

  Below Ashe and Richmond, at the foot of the gorge, some thirty Ansar al-Sunna terrorists had gathered round a large fire and were eating goat, raisins and rice. Some wore black combat suits with full-face balaclavas rolled up over their foreheads. Others wore blue cotton thobes, the male robe common in Arab countries, under green combat jackets. Many sported the Palestinian headscarf, folded on a diagonal, with tassels at the corners. Others wore red Arabic headscarves with the familiar zigzag pattern. All sported bandanas, side pistols and belts laden with AK-47 magazines.

  The timing was perfect. Hardly any of them had their hands on their guns. Above the sharp voices of the terrorists, Ashe barely heard the two sniper shots that took out the two tired guards positioned on the sides of the gorge. From further up the lip of the gorge, short bursts of GPMG fire, lethal shots from M16s and Colt Commandos and a sudden barrage of grenades turned the dining party into a mangled, bloody mess. Some more snipers’ shots, a brief strafing of machine-gun fire, and the gorge was quiet, but for the flow of the tiny stream as it flowed red over its stony bed. Smoke rose like a veil over the scene.

  Richmond whispered, ‘Fucking good. Stage one done. Wait here.’

  As Richmond eased his way gently down into the gorge, there was a brief wait. At the end o
f the gorge was a dark rocky overhang, with dripping moss and ivy cascading down. That was the entrance to the cave. Whoever was inside would be very confused.

  There were groans from the gorge. One of Jolo’s men hurried around the massacred corpses and delivered swift death to the wounded.

  The first four seconds of a hostage-release scenario always belong to the SAS.

  An explosion at the far end of the gorge. The demolition guys were on the job with PE4 plastic explosives. The outer door to the cave was now twisted metal. Two Remington 870 pump-action shotguns blew the hinges off the inner doors. The SAS entered with stun grenades, CS gas and deadly shots from handguns. Dazed guards came tumbling out of the cave entrance, scraping their eyes and crying, wildly firing rounds from Kalashnikov submachine guns. Hayes was hit in the leg. His body fell onto his bleeding stump, which trailed the shattered limb. Scotsman Andy Tongue ran to Hayes’ aid with his medicine bag and reached for morphine. Hayes had passed out.

  Richmond screamed to Norton, ‘Check arrival time for the Chinook! We’ve got wounded.’ Richmond was knocked backwards as two shots bounced off the ceramic plates in his Kevlar suit.

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘Just send the message!’

  Norton checked the coordination digits with his handheld GPS receiver. Richmond got back on his feet as the last of the main-gate guards fell to sniper fire.

  Scrabster, his face encased in a helmet and respirator, emerged from the cave entrance. ‘Ready inside, sir. We got a brace.’

  ‘Hostage?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Looks like the Turkish SF reserve have taken to the tunnels.’

  Richmond reached for his Acme Thunderer and blew a piercing whistle that resounded across the gorge. The remaining SAS force and a dozen of Jolo’s irregulars emerged from the undergrowth.

  At that moment, heavy machine-gun fire sprayed across the gorge from a ridge in the side of a deep gully.

  ‘Christ! It’s the suicide squad!’

  Richmond blew his whistle again. The firing stopped. There were casualties.

  ‘Get that bloody position!’