SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6

by Casey Christie

  “Never mind” he said.

  Then they heard the other helicopter approaching.

  “Through the trees, around to the other side of the hill” said Taylor and they moved rapidly through the darkness of the dense wood.

  “Jibril got the message Sir” said Lee “and they are abandoning the vehicle.”

  They ran on and the sound of the second chopper got much louder and they heard it pass directly overhead and then a few beats later a loud explosion rent the air, followed immediately by another blast. The enemy bird circled three times and then headed off.

  “They have destroyed the van,” said Andrews. “Jibril and Iqbal are okay.”

  “We have to put out that fire” said Captain Khano. “We have to get back to our support vehicle. Follow me.”

  “I have just heard from Jibril, they are coming here. The van is toast but he took his comms with him” said Lee.

  They moved on through the trees and out across a field and then back into the wood. “It’s not much further” said Khano.

  Ayla, the Shining One, kept looking at Mark Andrews, mystified and intrigued.

  Chapter Five – Barrel Bombs

  General Yusuf Khan of the Iraqi National Army walked into the Ops HQ of the US Special Forces on the Turkish/Syrian border, near Kobane and headed straight for Colonel Walter Brow, a man with a crop of light grey air and contact lenses which made his sharp but amused blue eyes glint a little unnaturally. He was in a sprawling old farmhouse surrounded by several warehouses in which were various sleek new US Army vehicles and a dormitory for soldiers, male and female.

  “You’re just in time Bull,” said the officer warmly. “I’ve got a drone up and it’s having a look at that village that IS just barrel bombed. Take a seat.”

  General Khan, unlike many of his military colleagues, did not stand on ceremony and he was just Bull to his friends. He was built like a bull, heavily muscled, wide shoulders and slender waist. His chair creaked as it took his weight. He was wearing an Iraqi desert camouflage uniform without any indication of rank.

  “Assad’s people” Bull said with utter disdain. “They have no respect for anyone or anything. And not even for themselves. In a way they are just as despicable as IS.”

  “There may be a couple of IS guys hiding there but 99 per cent of the villagers are civilians” said Colonel Brow.

  The screen before them came alive as the drone hovered above the village and its high def cameras focused on the scene below and then zoomed in for a closer look.

  What the men saw was chilling. The barrel bombs* had dropped among people in the streets and on their homes.

  *FOOTNOTE: Barrel bombs are devised to create maximum casualties and can be any large containers packed with gasoline, nails and chunks of steel, that are typically thrown out of a helicopter. These improvised explosive devices are a cheap form of aerial warfare — but their rudimentary design means they can kill and maim anyone and anything in range of the circular blast. They have been described to the UN as "vicious things indiscriminately launched without any concern about civilians."

  Colonel Brow called out: “Go in closer Joe” to the soldier behind the console in the corner. Now the screen showed bodies scattered all along the street and in front of the shacks lining the road.

  Small groups were tending to the wounded and some people were being carried on improvised stretchers.

  “There are not many men” said Bull. “Mostly women and kids.”

  “The good news” said the American “is that a British SAS patrol was in the area and it brought down one of the two choppers. The mongrels went up in flames.”

  “British SAS hey? That’s a good outfit. How did they do that?”

  The American commander grinned. “Their team sniper, who from what I hear is loaded with tech, got it with armour piercing ammo.”

  “What? I don’t believe it.” Then Bull’s eyes brightened and he said: “That’s not Captain Taylor’s outfit is it?”’

  “Yes, with Henry Lee, the Shadow, the sniper.”

  “Well I’m Damned” said the big Iraqi. “I know them.”

  “Yeah, they’re good guys. They’ve just come in, by the way. I’ll get someone to show you where they are” said Brow. “Meanwhile let’s find that chopper they brought down.” He called instructions to the controller and the drone moved off to the west. After a few minutes they could see the burned wreck of the Syrian Air Force chopper.

  There were several charred bodies among the wreckage. As the camera zoomed right in it was clear that the men were all dead, killed if not on impact, by the instant blaze that sprang up. The craft had come down on top of some low trees and clearly had burst into flames which had spread among the surrounding timber.

  Around the wreckage stood several members of the new Peshmerga Kurdish Brigade with fire fighting equipment. Their faces were blackened by soot.

  “Who are these people?” asked Bull. “I don’t recognise the uniforms.”

  Brow looked at him, puzzled. “You don’t know? They are part of the new outfit. The US has just provided over $180 million worth of equipment and ammo to the Peshmerga. There will be six brigades to start with, growing to 12 brigades.”

  Bull said: “My ignorance is because I have been undercover and then captured by DAESH and then for the past few months I have been in hospital recovering from a virus I picked up in that stinking hellhole where I was being held. I only got out of there with the help of a SAS Sergeant, Robert Sharpe. I haven’t had a de-briefing. When I heard about you I came straight here.”

  “Bob is here with us, he is the liaison between us and the SAS para-ops team. I’d better fill you in on what’s going on. The new brigades will be far better trained and armed than existing units.

  "They will be the basis for a new professional army standardised in terms of military structure, training and weaponry. It’s a joint venture by the Peshmerga and our government. The idea is to build 12 brigades across Iraq to confront IS. The first few Kurdish brigades will have just over 6,000 soldiers. The US will provide complete brigade sets. These include individual soldier equipment, helmets, body armour, first aid kits, rifles and machine guns and vehicles to move troops and equipment."

  “Good news indeed,” said Bull.

  “I’ll tell you something, Bull” said Col. Brow. “I know we worked together a year ago when I first arrived here, but you disappeared almost immediately and then you walked in here yesterday, unannounced and I have been doing the obvious checks on you, and at the last minute I found out that although you are Kurdish, you are indeed actually an Iraqi general.”

  Bull gave a knowing Arab smile and said: “My second cousin at one remove is Jalal Talabani, who was the President of Iraq until last year. The Iraqi Kurds still have a lot of power.”

  Colonel Brow shook his head and said: “This part of the world just baffles me.” Then he let out a guffaw: “This is a new take on the law of relativity.”

  Bull was briefly silent then said: “We have had to learn how to survive, just like any other human group, but perhaps the tactics here are a little different from the Mid-West.”

  “I’m from the Deep South pal” said Brow, accentuating his drawl. “Don’t talk to me about those foreigners.”

  A phone rang on Brow’s desk and he snatched it up.

  “What?” He listened intently and then said: “Keep me posted Dan” and rang off.

  He looked at Bull. “The Turks have just bombed a Peshmerga patrol 20 miles from here. All 12 of them are dead. A Turkish plane gunned them down and then dropped a bomb and blew them into mincemeat. Those Turks must really hate the Kurds.”

  The Iraqi General’s mood changed and his features froze. “The Turks are going to suffer from civil war at this rate, and let me tell you—they will lose! Now that Erdogan has won his new majority he is power drunk. He has said in public that he wants to liquidate every Kurd.”

  The drone operator called out: “D’you want me back
home Boss?”

  “No Stan, go a bit further on. I want to see what happened to the SAS vehicle.”

  The drone tracked on and there came into view the wreckage of a white van. It had been flattened by a direct hit.

  “Just look at that vegetation” said Brow. “It has been shredded by the shrapnel.”

  He called to Stan: “Okay. I’ve seen enough. Bring her back.”

  He said to Bull: “I need to eat something. Come with me and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

  Col. Brow went to speak to his 2IC, Captain Collins, at a desk nearby and told him where he was going. Then they walked downstairs and across to one of the warehouses where Bull was pleased to find a well equipped canteen in the officers’ mess. He was famished.

  Once they were seated and they had ordered (steak for Brow, chicken for Bull) the American Commander leaned back in his chair and looked appraisingly at his friend. He regarded him as a friend even though their encounter had only lasted for a week. But General Yusuf Khan was one of those men who generated an aura of authority which was benevolent, not threatening. He evoked trust and respect. As Brow regarded himself as a student of human behaviour and was particularly aware of the hazards of leadership, he found this offbeat Iraqi most intriguing.

  “So, have your people found you a command post, Bull?” he asked.

  The Iraqi smiled. “That’s not my function, Walter. I don’t enjoy sending many men to their deaths. I prefer the intricacies of plot and counterplot. I’m now in charge of Counter Intelligence. Finding out what the enemy is planning and then putting a gigantic spanner in their works. When I find out who is the key personality in any particular scheme against us, I like to have him taken out. I sometimes use a sniper for that purpose. And that’s one of the reasons I’m here. There is one particular IS sniper who is remarkably good at his job and in the past few months he has eliminated some very good men. I am going to find him.”

  “What, and turn him?” Brow looked puzzled.

  “Maybe, if he is turnable. If not, eliminate him.”

  “You must be talking about Ash’Abah, the Ghost.”

  “The very same. And I have it on very good authority that he is active in this area.”

  “Really?” The American looked sceptical. “What authority are you talking about?”

  The big man grinned. “A Madame of a brothel.”

  Brow laughed out loud. “You must be kidding me! How can you trust an old whore like that? They’ll do and say anything for a few bucks!”

  Bull’s grin grew even wider. “This whoremonger, or whore mistress, whatever the correct term is, happens to be very astute, with a high IQ, and she has given us a lot of good info. What’s more she happens to be one of my many cousins. I’m going to visit her tonight.”

  When the American stopped laughing he said: “Bull, one day you must let me see your family tree!”

  Chapter Six – Child Assassin

  Ali’s mentor was not sure what to do about his problem. It was unusual, he granted that. He had a brilliant sniper who hardly ever failed in his allotted task and who was eager to go about his work. Too eager. That was his problem. He wanted to slaughter people. IS people, sexy females, ill-mannered men and women, people who sang in public, men who were not conscientious about their prayers (although Abdul had never yet seen young Ali at prayer).

  He made up his mind. He had to consult the tribal elder. He picked up his phone and dialled. Then he heard the voice of Farouk, the 76-year-old who had become the leader when Ali’s previous mentor had been shot.

  He got to business quickly, as soon as good manners had been observed.

  “The youngster is causing me a lot of worry.” Names were never used in phone conversations.

  “Oh. Is he not well?”

  “His physical state is good although he is underweight. What concerns me is his mental state. I think he has become a bit …deranged?”

  “You mean he has gone mad?” Farouk was a man devoid of subtlety.

  “Not yet, but he is behaving a bit strangely. He has already killed a young woman with a knife for no valid reason, just acting on his own. She upset him because, he said, she was too vulgar.”

  Farouk was silent then said: “Perhaps he was right?”

  Abdul nearly broke the connection but decided to persevere.

  “That’s not the point. He is supposed to act solely at my discretion. If he just starts killing people he will blow his cover. He will soon be dead, useless. A waste of time and effort.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?” Farouk said testily.

  “I hoped you would have some advice. You know his background, his family.”

  Farouk was silent and then said: “His parents wanted to disown him because he was small and weak and afraid -- so he will have no feelings for them. Anyway they are both dead now. You have to take action, one way or the other. If the boy becomes a problem instead of an asset I suggest you kill him. Let me know what happens” and he ended the call.

  Abdul, angered by the man’s crudeness, got up and went to see what his charge was doing. Ali had been sleeping a lot and one night Abdul had heard strange moaning sounds coming from his bunk and went to investigate. He could just make out in the dark that the boy was masturbating. Well, teenagers masturbated. But then he heard those sounds two or three times a day. Sex was obviously a problem for this youngster. Were those the sounds of agony or ecstasy? Was it bliss or was it torment? And the boy also groaned and moaned in his sleep. Abdul thought back to his own teenage time, with testosterone roaring through his blood stream. For him, it was simple. He wanted to have sex, to find out all about it. And to have a lot of it. But after this boy’s murderous response to a sexual opportunity in Fayha’s Palace of Pleasure it was clear that his sexual awareness was swathed in violence – and probably guilt.

  And Abdul also worried about the effect of this emotional turmoil on Ali’s sniper skills. It was only after tedious study and hours of silent concentration, day after day, guided by his previous mentor Azhaar, that he had been able to slow his heartbeat and control his breathing for the all-important crucial split second when he depressed the trigger of the rifle and sent a high velocity mini-missile at great speed to head or heart across an impossible distance.

  He found Ali sitting at a window looking out at the street scene. Just then Abdul heard a loud triple rap at the door and went to see who it was. He opened the door to see his IS connection, Habab (the affable). The man pushed past him and sat down and said: “Coffee.”

  Abdul called Ali to make coffee and he came out of his room and went to the hot plate.

  “I have work for you” said Habab.

  “Good” said Ali.

  “I am not talking to you” said the affable one brusquely. “I am talking to the adult.”

  Abdul saw Ali stiffen as he held a cup in his hand.

  “This man has become a Russian agent.” He handed Abdul a small slip of paper. “This is all you need to know. He has been bribed by the Russians. We are not sure how much he knows, but we can’t let him live. Do it quickly.”

  Ali brought the coffee over and put it on the small table. Habab said nothing but picked it up.

  Abdul said: “I’ll look into it right away and perhaps we’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Tonight would be better” said the IS man and drank from the coffee cup and put it down. He got up. “As soon as you have done it, inform me.” He was leaving without a backward glance when he suddenly paused, felt in his jacket pocket and produced a brown envelope which he threw on the table. “For the last assignment.” Then he walked out. Abdul opened the bulging envelope. It was full of American dollars. One thing you had to give the IS organisation. It had plenty of cash.

  Ali sat down at the table and picked up Habab’s coffee cup and drank from it. Then he looked at Abdul and said: “He’s next on my personal list.”

  Abdul felt anger flare but suppressed it. He could not permit this kind of indis
cipline which could mean his downfall as well as the juvenile’s. But he would deal with one thing at a time. He looked at the slip of paper. It had a name and an address. That was all.

  But he knew the named man, Pedro Yimenez, a South American Marxist who had been in Turkey for two years and had recently been inducted into IS after he provided important information gleaned from his contacts in the Turkish military. In fact, Abdul had played poker with him only a month ago. Abdul had liked him for his quicksilver sense of humour and his friendly nature.

  Now we have to kill him. Abdul could not help wondering precisely why? In recent months some of the kill orders had struck him as bizarre. Why kill the barber, old Josip? And the woman who had a florist shop? Were the top men in IS getting their own back for long held personal grievances? These men who were now calling the shots in IS had just been ordinary members of the public until recently. Now they secretly wielded the power of life or death over their former fellow citizens.

  It numbed his mind, the increasing complexity of life under this new dispensation.

  Well, they had a job to do. He called Ali. They must prepare for the task. They would find a vantage point. Ali’s special skill was execution from a distance, the greater the better.

  He showed Ali the slip of paper with the address on it and Ali said with a quick grin which radically improved his expression: “That’s only three blocks from Auntie’s Palace.”

  Again, Abdul had to stifle a smile. Auntie’s Palace of Pleasure! This bloodthirsty teenager was still calling the brothel-keeper Auntie!

  “Yes but so what?”

  “I have been thinking, Uncle Abdul. I heard Auntie telling one of the girls that some American soldiers go there and I thought it would be a good idea to find a place nearby and then pick them off as they came out after being with those filthy females. So let me find a spot where I can do a kind of two-for-the-price-of-one.”

  Abdul spoke sternly: “No you can’t do that. There’s no point in killing ordinary American soldiers who are of no real importance. I have to use you for special targets only.”