Bull looked unsure but in truth time was running out for them. The reporter’s cries were bound to draw the attention of the extremists sooner or later and the next execution was to take place in the morning.
“We will have to make him untouchable?”
“What do you mean?”
“We will have to make him so disgusting to touch that they won’t want to drag him out… and we’ll have to bring him a bit closer to looking like he is actually going to die if he does not get some attention” said Bull while giving Sharpe an almost embarrassed look -- “do you understand what I am saying my friend?”
Sharpe knew very well what the Iraqi army commander and former bodyguard to Iraq’s most feared and oppressive previous dictator was saying and nodded his understanding.
“Good, now, go do what needs to be done and I will start calling for the guards telling them that the British reporter is going to die if he does not get help immediately.”
Just then the only other prisoner in the pit, the oil worker who hadn’t said a single word to Sharpe since they were thrown together in this makeshift cell spoke.
“Can I help?” he said, barely audible and in a cracked and strained almost ghostly tone.
He had obviously been listening to their entire conversation which surprised Sharpe as both he and Bull had written him off as insane, a non present intellectual entity in the pit who had been driven to madness by being repeatedly raped hours earlier that late afternoon. It turned out that the IS men had desired a whiter meat after all. Thankfully and feeling totally selfish for even thinking so, Sharpe had been spared the same fate as the man who now kneeled before him because, according to Bull, he was not nearly as attractive as this soft skinned and child like man. For the first time in his life Sharpe had never been more grateful for being an ugly, short and squat, hard looking ex-soldier with unusually rigid and crocodile-esque sunburnt skin.
“Even Goats look softer and less prickly than you, my friend” Bull had told him.
As for Bull himself, well, Sharpe had seen him say something to the first IS extremist who seemed to take an interest in him and whatever he had said seemed to have been enough. Bull never did tell him what he had said though he thought it was the look in his eyes more than the words that dissuaded any more sexual advancement towards the former bodyguard. There was something about Bull that frightened even Sharpe.
Bringing himself back to the present and being careful not to let his eyes betray the pity he felt for the man he knew only as Angus, Sharpe said:
“Do you have a full bladder? If so, you can be of some assistance. Come.”
The man looking confused followed Sharpe toward the corner of the pit where King lay, still crying for help in between bursts of blood soaked coughing.
*****
The black clad and half drunk extremist loudly cocked his AK 47 while instructing another Islamic State insurgent to open the hatch to the prisoners’ pit.
He moved forward and hovered over the entrance to the cell and looked down at Bull who stood looking up while covering his eyes from the light that now flooded in. In his native tongue the abductor spat words at Bull who had been calling him frantically for the last 10 minutes.
“What do you want, dog?”
“The British journalist, he is dying, he needs medicine, he needs to get out of here.”
The terrorist looked at Bull carefully, examining him as if he were some odd insect then drunkenly gestured to his subordinate to go inside, climb down the ladder and see what was wrong.
The man did what he was told, carefully picking up the ladder that lay next to the entrance and lowering it into the pit.
“Move out the way, Infidel, get back!” he barked at Bull while slinging his rifle across his back.
Then once he had fully lowered the ladder to the pit floor he took one, two and then three steps down before quickly climbing back up and then vomiting with total accuracy on the superior terrorist’s shoes.
The drunk extremist back-handed his collaborator for his ill placed sickness and almost lost his balance in doing so.
Bull almost decided it was time to storm the ladder when he felt Sharpe’s hand on his shoulder.
“Not yet, Bull. The plan is working. Let’s get to their level first, even drunk men can shoot fish in a barrel.”
Bull admonished himself for his over eagerness and nodded his agreement with the Private Security Contractor.
The drunk fighter’s head appeared once more over the entrance to the pit and still speaking in his own language he shouted at the captives.
“It smells like piss, shit and guts down there – you are all pigs, swine that need to be slaughtered.”
He then raised his AK47, cocked it once again, ejecting an already loaded round from the magazine and pointed the weapon at Bull. “Now you will die, pig!”
Bull quickly moved back and while doing so pushed Sharpe back as well – both men then bumped bodily backwards into King who was being propped up by Angus. All four men fell to the ground while the drunk man’s AK47 fired three quick successive rounds into the ground where they had just been standing.
“Shit that was close” said Sharpe.
As the four men started to regain their composure and get off from the ground they heard a loud thwack and moments later the body of the drunk extremist fell through the roof’s entrance and crumpled to the floor in front of the hostages. His head was bleeding badly and he had been knocked unconscious..
“What the..” said Sharpe.
His words were interrupted as another extremist appeared at the top of the stairs. This man was older with greying hair and a beard that seemed to Sharpe he had been cultivating for most of his adult life. Without a word the older extremist got on the ladder with his back facing the prisoners and climbed down. Once two thirds of the way down he jumped off the ladder with the agility of a man half his age. He looked at the four prisoners who now stood stock still with their backs to the side wall of the pit.
The silence was unnerving and Bull felt he had to speak. “The British journalist is dying, look..” he said while gesturing at the sick reporter who now hung off the shoulders of Angus and Sharpe. “He needs…” he continued but was sharply cut off by the older fighter.
“Be quiet” the man said calmly in good English. He then produced a silver 9MM pistol from a holster on his side and cycled it expertly, the handgun looking as old as the man himself.
He then turned the pistol on the unconscious terrorist on the floor, put the barrel against his head and pulled the trigger, twice. The contents of the man’s skull exploded onto the floor, the double tap of lead to the head killing him instantly.
The old man then walked within a couple of feet from King and eyed him suspiciously, his mind seemed to have been made up that the reporter was at death’s door when the sudden violent smell of urine and human excrement assailed his senses. King’s normally pale features even more ghostly with blood oozing from his mouth and nose seemed to convince him even further.
“Get him up the ladder, slowly.”
The men followed their instructions without comment.
Bull was first to climb the ladder followed by Sharpe and then King who was hoisted up by Angus and then carried through the entrance by Bull and Sharpe. The old man followed soon after.
Things were going well as far as Sharpe could determine, apart from the old fighter who had handled his weapon expertly, pulling the pistol closer to his own body to shield it from a grab attempt when moving nearer the prisoners and had never once taken his eyes off of Sharpe and particularly Bull.
The younger fighter who had earlier been sick on and struck by his now dead associate stood wide eyed next to the entrance of the prisoners pit clutching his weapon inexpertly. The only other guard Sharpe could see sat at the top of a makeshift tower eyeing the prisoners with his AK47 on his lap.
“Why did you kill him?” the young extremist said.
“He was drunk and he was dr
unk on duty, this is not only against Sharia law but also against the laws of the Islamic State army. I executed him for his sins” the old warrior replied and after a few moments of glaring at the young upstart looked at the prisoners. “Now, wait there” commanded the older man to the men who now stood a couple of metres away.
The four prisoners did as ordered and stood still awaiting their next instructions while gratefully sucking in the comparatively fresh desert air.
The older man turned to the young Islamic State fighter and said something in his own language.
Sharpe silently looked to Bull for a translation.
“He told him to stay here and burn the pit. Apparently they are moving us to a new location”.
Strangely Sharpe noticed Bull turn to face the IS commander and give him an almost imperceptible nod.
Moments later and they were following the IS commander through a cluster of trees and out to a dirt track where an empty weather-beaten 4X4 stood waiting with its engine idling. The man atop the makeshift guard tower had followed behind with his AK47 never being taken from the prisoners’ backs as they walked. He now stood a few paces back and looked quizzically at his apparent superior.
“Where are Tariq, Mohamed and Riaz?” he demanded of his commander in his native tongue.
Bull turned to face the man as he realised the danger.
“Did they not tell you? They have gone with our International brothers to the new location, we’ll meet them there before the British Special Forces arrive here to try and free our prisoners” responded the older man while walking calmly towards the rebellious fighter.
Sharpe looked at Bull and mouthed the words “Now”
To his surprise Bull put one of his hands on Sharpe’s shoulders and said more loudly than Robert thought wise. “Not to worry, my friend. All is in hand.” And then nodded in the direction of the two ISIS men.
The older man had now reached his young comrade who was still remonstrating and put his left arm over his shoulder and turned him around as if to have a more private conversation.
“We must make our move now, Bull” said Sharpe while lowering King onto the floor.
Sharpe took his first step towards running at his two captives who had their back to him when he saw the silver glint of the 9MM in the right hand of the commander who swiftly brought it up, across his own chest, and pressed it against the temple of the younger ISIS man. He pulled the trigger twice, killing him expertly with another CIA standard Double-Tap to head.
The man’s body fell to the floor.
The older man turned around once more and strode over to Bull while putting his 9MM back in his hip holster. As he reached Bull he put out his arm in greeting and Bull responded with “Assalamu Alaykum”
“There is no time for greetings, General. You must leave immediately. The international IS fighters and their escorts will be returning to camp any moment now. There are two rifles in the boot along with water, dried meat and plenty of ammunition and enough fuel in the tank to get you to Akçakale, the border town, and then from there you will need to refill and get yourself to Bozova in Turkey. The Americans passed on information to our army that the British have sent in a very small team of…”
There was a crack, the unmistakable sound of an AK47. Then the man standing before General Yusuf Khan of the Iraqi National Army crumbled to his feet, dead into the dirt, blood oozing from his mouth.
Sharpe and Khan looked ahead to see the young fighter who had been ordered to burn the pit standing there with as much of a look of shock on his face as the now dead men. They were all frozen.
Suddenly Angus burst into life and roared at the top of his lungs swearing blindly and charged the ISIS killer. He only got to within a metre of the man before half a dozen bullets ripped into his body and tore the life from him but it was enough as it had given Robert Sharpe enough time to reach down and grab the now dead Iraqi soldier’s silver pistol. By the time the IS killer saw the weapon in Sharpe’s hands it was too late as the ex-SAS operator had emptied the clip into the man’s centre mass. He fell face first onto the ground, his last breath escaping noisily as his chest hit the ground.
The two men stood there in surreal realisation of what had just happened before Bull finally spoke.
“We’ve got to go my friend. I’ll compliment you on your fine shooting later. For now pick him up and put him in the back and I’ll get the car into gear.”
“No, you get him into the back and I’m going to recover Angus’s body. There is no way I’m leaving it here for those bastards to dismember.”
Bull respectfully did as Sharpe had asked and moments later they were all in the vehicle, with Bull driving.
Sharpe took a long deep drink of the cold water that they gratefully found in the vehicle’s boot. Bull did the same with his bottle.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a General for god’s sake man and why didn’t you tell me that you had a man on the inside?”
“Would you have told me?” replied Bull with a grin and continued “Besides what good is rank in prison and we have spent years imbedding our men with the Jihadi and now ISIS and sometimes we lose them, they turn for good. So I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t risk telling you that I might have a man on the inside in case when the time came you might think he was an ally when he wasn’t. No, it was better like this, it worked out well, I think. Well apart from Ahmed being killed, but he did his duty well and died with honour – I will make sure his family know of his services and are well taken care of.”
There was a solemn silence and Sharpe was incredibly grateful to Ahmed, whoever he may have been. He was glad Bull broke the silence because Sharpe wasn’t quite sure when a respectful amount of time would have passed while their freedom was given to them by a loyal soldier who had now given his life for them. A thought that made him think about Ahmed’s body and why Bull didn’t seem to even think about recovering it for his family? A question for another time perhaps.
“It also explains the three burst of rounds we heard earlier now doesn’t it” said Bull as his mouth turned into a wide smile.
“Bloody well did. Now, what do you think are the chances of us making it to this border town, what did they call it, Accolade?”
“Akçakale. Slim at best but as long as we stop for nothing and Allah willing we might just make it.”
Chapter Twelve – Quad Bikes and Sniper Rifles
Approximately half way between Bozova, Turkey and the Turkish border town of Akçakale.
The five men under the command of Captain John Taylor that made up the highly mobile SAS Para-Ops Kill Team looked at their commander while sitting on their five Quad bikes that had been delivered to them by Chinook helicopter under the cover of darkness.
Mark was still in shock at first hearing and then seeing the Chinook helicopters appear seemingly from nowhere out of the night sky and then gracefully lower these itinerant attack vehicles.
The three hour ride that had begun first thing that morning had been one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life. Mark rode seated behind his sniper while the Captain, Sergeant White, Corporal West and Lance Corporal Jones had taken one bike each. Fuel was the main passenger of the other riders and if they needed more room for rescued prisoners they would be able to all double up on the bikes, allowing room for four more people, if needed.
Truth be told, Mark was happy to be a passenger and was feeling more and more out of his depth as the mission continued, even after a lengthy discussion with his commander who had assured him that his main purpose was to give them a heads up if he foresaw any danger or ambush ahead. And in typical form the harder he tried to see future events the more pathetic he felt as he simply saw nothing, like normal, non-afflicted, people, he thought to himself.
Now Captain Taylor was giving his final mission briefing and Mark was struggling to contain his nerves.
What on earth am I doing here?!
“All right lads, I don’t know how you feel but that ride w
as worth the trip out here alone!”
The men cheered in unison, their faces a mask of dirt and dusk around their eyes and mouth where they had all been wearing riding goggles and scarves for protection. The sun was shining but, for the time being at least, the temperature bearable in the early morning. Perfect weather for maneouvers.
“As you know our fixer buggered off when we first arrived and as I am sure, or at least hope, you thought, it was all part of the plan. It had been arranged with our Delta brothers to use these quads here so I knew we didn’t need local transport and besides just the look on Andrews’s face here when he saw our birds come in with them was worth keeping it on a need to know…”
All the SAS troopers for whom Mark had so much respect and admiration, turned to him and smiled warmly, nodding their heads, even Sergeant White.
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6 Page 22
