Sharpe takes great courage from Bull and instantly regrets not having the opportunity to get to know the man better.
“Wait!” shouts London. “Not him. That Iraqi whore is different, we will find other uses for him. Take him away and throw him in the pit, we will get to him later.”
Sharpe surprises himself at how relieved he is that a man he met only minutes earlier will continue to live in this world even if his own life is about to be snuffed out.
Bull is quickly cut down and taken away.
“Now for the main attraction, a triple, infidel kill. And you will not be granted the dignity of a bullet. You all shall have your throats cut, like goats. And later your heads removed from your filthy bodies and placed on spikes at the centre of our great Islamic Caliphate.”
London and two other Islamic State soldiers move behind the three prisoners, each taking position behind one of the captives as they place a cold blade across each of their necks.
London speaks once more, this time from directly behind Sharpe.
This is Sharpe’s chance he thinks to himself. If he can at least kill this bastard his life and time in Syria will not be a total waste. He can stand, quickly, he thinks, and drive the back of his head into the face of London. Then possibly take the man’s own blade and drive it through his heart. It’s now or never.
Then, as he is about to make his final stand he hears King begin to sob, to cry, to beg for mercy.
“I beg of you, oh great gods, please spare my life, oh god, I want my mother, oh please spare my life, I am only a reporter, I, I came here to talk to your.. great and powerful leader, to give you more of a voice, I am on your side, I am always on the side of the strong, please I beg you. I beg you, show mercy, kill the others, but show me mercy and I will make you all famous.”
At this London begins to laugh, loud, uncontrollable laughter. His grip on the knife and Sharpe’s throat loosens enough for the highly trained security contractor and former SAS man to make his move. He tenses his legs and is about to jump to his feet sending his skull crashing into the man standing above him when he sees it. The blade now hovering just below and in front of his jaw and directly in his line of sight. It’s blunt, completely harmless.
This is one of the most commonly used tactics in manipulating prisoners into being executed so easily. It’s a mock execution. Repeated time and time again so that when the real execution does actually happen, there simply is no fight from the hostages.
Sharpe relaxes his muscles and decides to bide his time. Not yet, not yet.
“Okay, Mr. Journalist. This time you have our mercy. Cut them down and take them back to their hotel” London laughs out loud at his own wit and the prisoners are let loose and taken away to their pit.
Chapter Six – The Ghost
Raqqa, Syria.
Young Ali and old battle hardened Aarzam lie still on the 3rd floor of a disused and bombed out building on the outskirts of Raqqa in Syria. The eastern front of the building is shattered, missing as if cut off by the blade of a skilled surgeon. Torn off by a precision bomb. It provides the perfect platform to snipe from, to kill from.
Rubble and dust are scattered all around the two hired ISIS killers. They lie under cover of the fallen ceiling material. They have been here for six hours, waiting for their target.
Aarzam slowly chews on dry goat’s meat while looking through his binoculars -- nothing advanced like a rangefinder or spotter scope but as good as he’s going to get out here. He has been surveying the land for hours and nothing yet, no sign of their prey.
“They’re late” said Ali.
“They’re always late. They are not military, real military, so it is to be expected. There is no discipline amongst these men.”
Directly below the two fighters is a scene of devastation but relative calm. US-led airstrikes against the Islamic State de facto capital all but flattened this area of the city two months previously. Black ISIS flags are everywhere, on rooftops, on moving vehicles and across shop windows. The majority of citizenry are wearing black in support of the Islamic State, out of fear or out of a brain-washed belief in the coming of the Islamic caliphate.
The focus of Ash'abah and his mentor Aarzam is a vehicle roadblock known as a “Dignity Checkpoint” set up by the fanatical state – the purpose of the roadblock is to ensure that people entering the city are appropriately dressed and behave according to strict sharia law, for example, they cannot smoke or bring cigarettes into the city and they cannot have western style haircuts. The checkpoint lies directly in front of the sniper team and just under half a mile distant on the main road leading into Raqqa. Their target is an ISIS commander who leads a small but ferocious fighting force of “religious police”. His unit is scheduled to take control of the checkpoint for the next 12 hour shift and he is 30 minutes late. He has been sentenced to death, for breaking Sharia law, by the leader of the Islamic State, the order given to Aarzam by Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi himself.
“Why do they want us to kill one of their own captains, grandfather?”
“He is condemned to death for drinking alcohol.”
“But he is very popular, I hear the men talk of him often. They see him as one of their most powerful religious leaders, grandfather, and I hear that he is a good fighter as well.”
“Indeed, Ali, then that is probably the very reason Bakr al-Baghdadi gave me the order himself. A good lesson in times of war: do not become too popular and influential among the men of the army if you are not supposed to be so popular and influential, it can get you killed..”
“So it’s not because of alcohol?”
“If it were then surely he would have made an example of the man. Executing him publicly, humiliating him first. No, this is another move on the chessboard. Flexing his muscles as leader. The sniper is one of any general’s greatest precision tools, Ali. We kill him, from a distance. And panic will spread amongst the men, first they will blame the Americans or the British or even the Kurdish but then they will realise that is highly unlikely as we are in the great Raqqa and only ISIS fighters are here. Then when the time is right al-Baghdadi will announce that it was he who ordered the death. It is an effective way to keep some form of obedience, is it not?”
“But they will resent him, they will fear him”
“Exactly, they will fear him. What can be more frightening than being killed by the bullet of one of your own, unseen, snipers if you become too popular or too powerful within the ranks of the Islamic State? Death by the invisible, the unheard, the Ghost of the army, Ash'abah. ”
Ali was about to speak when Aarzam raised his hand in signal to silence him.
“It is time, the convoy is moving in to position. Ready yourself, ready your mind.”
Aarzam looked through the binoculars and could see a column of half a dozen double cab pick-up Ford and Toyota trucks, each with a mounted weapon on the back, an anti-aircraft gun, and four fighters inside the cab of each vehicle and two on the back manning the weapon system. These “technicals” are the backbone of the IS force.
They travel at speed down the highway and their comrades quickly move the improvised obstacles they used to create the roadblock, out of the way to allow the vehicles through.
One by one the vehicles park and the occupants begin to jump out.
“Go to the third vehicle, Ali. These commanders like the safety of being in the middle, this is usually the securest place to be.”
The fifteen-year-old boy once known to his mother and father simply as Ali takes a deep breath and prepares to become Ash'abah once more.
The story of Ash’abah is not a straightforward one. As a very young boy little Ali hated war, he hated violence and spent most of his time playing silly games with his best friend, a young girl from his family’s neighbouring village. He was particularly skinny and very small. The other boys teased and bullied him and often called him nasty names. In fact he looked a lot like a girl with his exceptionally thin and long hair. But he didn’t care
. All he ever wanted to do was play football and he dreamed of one day making it to the English Premier League – he often watched it on the black and white televisions at his local supermarket. Though he knew that as much as he dreamed of it that it would never happen. For he was awful at football, his spindly legs were too weak and his small frame provided no challenge to the other boys. His coach thought he would make an ideal striker or winger and that he would be fast as he was so light but this wasn’t the case. Ali was unusually slow and uncoordinated and at times he felt that the more he tried to control his limbs the less control he actually had – this led to Ali’s first and last schoolboy nickname amongst his friends, The Clumsy One, they called him. The Clumsy One always got picked last. So little Ali gave up football and took to herding the goats instead. By the age of 12 Ali was an outcast and a head shorter than the shortest boy in his village his age. So he spent most of his time with Abu, his favourite goat.
And that is how life was for little Ali and he was relatively happy, his overactive imagination kept his mind occupied. Until one day it all changed. He returned home to find his mother, father and two sisters had been killed. Killed by a bomb that flattened his house and wiped out his family, a bomb delivered by a US warplane.
He never remembered much from that day. His only real recollection was waking up what he was told was four months later in the home of his grandfather, the great warlord, Aarzam.
Since that day his life and his soul have never been the same.
“Okay, Ali, I see him. I was wrong, he was travelling in the fourth vehicle not the third. Do you see him? He is wearing white, unlike his men, and he has on a brown ammunition vest, long hair with a scar running across his face above his right eye?”
Ash'abah carefully moves the scope of his M99 rifle across the convoy of vehicles beginning with the first truck. Unhurriedly with complete control and precision he floats the cross hairs towards his target. First over an armed black-clad terrorist who greets a friend he sees at the check point. Then another extremist who barks an order at someone, and another then another until finally his reticle rests on his target.
Ash'abah feels his heart slow and exhales the last of the air in his lungs. His mind clears of all distractions, the only thing he lets in is the sound of his grandfather’s voice, the words of his spotter.
“Do you have him?”
“Yes, grandfather.”
“Wait until I give you the order.”
“Yes, grandfather.”
Ash'abah sees the ISIS commander take a cigarette packet out of his breast pocket, he taps the box against his free hand to help remove a single cancer stick and watches him move it to his lips, he can see the man he is about to kill take out a zippo lighter and ignite the flame which he moves to the Marlboro now safely pursed between his lips. But before he can light it the flame dies and he tries to strike it into life once more.
“Wait until he lights that cigarette, as he will wait until there is little or no wind to do so, let that be the last breath of life and tobacco that he ever has. Fire when ready.”
“Yes, grandfather.”
The sharia law enforcer suddenly pauses, the cigarette still unlit and in between his lips, and looks around him as if searching for some unseen enemy. Then as if satisfied that no ghosts stalk him he raises his zippo and lights his smoke.
Two heart beats later and a bullet enters his mouth along with a small dose of nicotine, though unlike the nicotine the bullet is not interested in remaining in the man’s body to poison, infect and kill him slowly, but rather smashes its way through teeth, gums then brain and skull and leaves the man’s head through a fist sized hole sending hair, blood and brain matter through the air. The ISIS commander slumps to the ground. Dead.
The Islamic State men around him take a moment to realise what has happened and slowly begin to panic and shout, shout at each other, shout at the unseen enemy, and of course they begin to shout that God is great…
“Allahu Akbar” “Allahu Akbar” “Allahu Akbar.”
They fire wildly into the night, in all directions, indiscriminately. The leaderless men empty their ammunition into the night. But not once does their fire threaten the life or safety of the young Ash'abah or his grandfather.
“Good shot. Our target has been eliminated. As usual we will wait here for a few hours and leave when it is safe to do so. Rest now, Ali. Sleep and I will keep watch. You have done well, my boy. Rest now” said Aarzam.
“Yes, grandfather.”
Chapter Seven – Mission Briefing
Captain John Taylor and his SAS Paranormal Activity Tactical Operations Group are gathered in their briefing room at the Joint Sniper Training Establishment in Sennybridge, Wales. Four hours to mission go.
Captain Taylor stands in front of his men, who are seated before him, with a “NATO standard” cup of tea in his right hand which he slowly swivels while looking down into it as though it is a crystal ball. Out of respect the men have not said anything yet but three minutes of silence and tea swivelling and it’s getting uncomfortable.
Sergeant Vince White finally breaks the silence by clearing his throat and instantly regrets how loudly he did. Captain Taylor looks up and directly at sergeant White.
“Very subtle, White.”
“I apologise, Boss, it seems my throat-clearing-to-end-an-awkward-silence-skill is lacking the desired result of gracefulness.”
“Just like the way you shag then, Sarge!” said Corporal William West.
“Fuck off, Westie! You prick, you couldn’t get laid in Bangkok!”
“Enough, gentlemen!” commanded Taylor.
At once the group of highly disciplined soldiers end their good natured banter and are fully focused and alert.
“The mission has changed, or, put more accurately our mission is still on with the same parameters, but our primary target has altered.”
“So our main mission objective is no longer getting Sharpe out?” asked White.
“That’s correct. New orders came in this morning. As I am sure you are all aware the suits in Downing Street are looking for some political gain out of this whole ISIS affair and they made it public through their media lapdogs that SAS and Delta were forming a kill team. So they want that kill team on the rescue mission. It will make for incredible headlines if a joint US and UK Spec-Ops group make the rescue, and kill that bastard London.”
“It seems old Johnny boy has become quite the trophy hasn’t he, Boss” said Lee.
“Indeed he has and as much as I would have liked to have got that little shit it’s the fact that we now don’t directly have a viable option or opportunity to get our man out, that bothers me most”
“Which troop is forming part of the Delta/SAS Team, Captain? Couldn’t we ask their commander to make sure they get Sharpe out?” said Andrews.
Unusually for the SAS commander his response is not immediate. After a brief pause he finally answers the question.
“It’s Captain Mann’s troop.”
The SAS troopers collectively let out a breath of air at this news. A couple start to laugh. The type of laugh mixed with nerves and humour.
“Ah, now I understand the tea swivelling Captain. Isn’t life a bitch!” said White while leaning back into his chair and putting his hands through his hair.
“It’s called Karma, White, Karma is a bitch!” said Lee.
Mark leans over and whispers to Lee, asking what he’s missing.
“I’ll tell you after the briefing, but you’re going to piss yourself when I do.”
“All right lads, we’ll just have to play it by ear and think on our feet, we’ll get him out one way or another. Now, gentlemen, remember that sniper I told you about, the one they call Ash'abah?”
“The sniper they call The Ghost, Captain?” said Lance Corporal Daniel Jones.
“Yes, Danny, that’s what Ash’abah means in English, you nonce.”
“I knew that, yeah, that’s what I meant” said Danny while blushin
g.
“Well he is our new primary, apparently he recently killed one of our inside men – a commander in the religious police of ISIS. At least that’s who they think it was. And that’s pissed off command no end. Apparently they had invested tens of thousands of pounds turning the man into an informant, over many months of incredibly dangerous meetings, thinking it was a safe investment because he was so revered and popular among the men of ISIS. Now he’s dead, taking all future Intel with him. So they want this “Ghost” eliminated. Additionally it seems that the Islamic State commander is using this sniper as his own personal assassin so his elimination is now paramount.”
“On the bright side, Boss, going after one sniper without too much worry of collateral damage certainly seems easier than launching a rescue mission for civilians and ego crazed journalists” said West.
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6 Page 19
