“And it goes viral. Sick but incredibly effective PR” said Mark Andrews. Ever since Mann had walked in he had detected bad vibes among the SAS men. Mann was intensely disliked and Mark could see why. He gave off an aura of contemptuous superiority barely concealed behind a mask of educated sophistication.
“Why on earth in West Syria, Colonel?” asked Sergeant Lee.
“It is a tranquil, beautiful and isolated spot,” said Brow. “I have been there myself. It was sheer bad luck that a small IS cell found out about the meeting and pounced at the right moment.”
“Really Colonel,” said Captain Taylor. “A bloody camera crew? We don’t want any excess baggage.”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, John” said the American. “My guys have been around, believe me. They’ll be no trouble.”
Brow got up and pointed at the screen against one wall and it came to life and showed an aerial view of the topography of part of Western Syria. “It’s on the Mediterranean coast and it is a balmy atmosphere. But what is important for you is that it is mountainous. We have drone footage pinpointing where they have these two guys in a small farmhouse. This London thug is due there tomorrow afternoon with his execution team and the video crew. These beheadings are always carried out in the open and I see no reason why this one will be any different.”
Lee, the sniper, said: “Will I have a vantage point?”
“A good one” said Brow. “There is a hilltop with good foliage 600 yards from the farmhouse. That should be a doddle for a marksman like you!”
Lee grinned. American flim flam. But it was true.
The American continued: “My camera team have got amazing zoom capacity. They will be looking down those bastards’ necks and they will capture every second of your incredible expertise, Sergeant Lee!” and the sharpshooter had to smile.
The other members of the SAS team all clapped and made raucous rude noises and the two Kurds burst out laughing. Captain Mann contrived a tentative smile.
“When do we leave, Colonel?” asked John Taylor.
“At 4am tomorrow. By chopper.”
The men looked around them, their eyes alive with anticipation.
“Can we join the team?” asked Captain Bhutin hopefully.
Captain Taylor smiled at the two Kurds. “Unfortunately no, Captain. Not this time.”
Colonel Brow said: “I want you guys to meet the video crew. They’ll join us for a meal this evening.”
“But what about the IS mission” asked Sergeant White.
“It’s the next thing on our shopping list,” said Brow and at that point Mark Andrews stood up and said: “I would like to remind us all that the air strike that eliminated that bastard thug Jihadi John was a joint effort by the UK and the US. Our Prime Minister described Jihadi John as a barbaric murderer and he reminded the terrorists that we have long memories and unwavering determination and a very long reach. He also said that America was a trusted and always reliable ally of ours.”
Then he sat down.
Colonel Brow beamed and said: “That is the perfect note to end this meeting on” and they all got up and left, enthused and confident. Only the Kurds looked a little downcast because they would be left behind.
Chapter Nine - Target
Abdul was feeling unusually relaxed as he leaned back in his easy chair, the only comfortable piece of furniture in their bleak room. It was the sense of relief which followed the completion of a mission. But the glow of achievement was always chased away by a nagging sense of futility which inevitably rose to ask if what he was doing was worthwhile. You cut off a few heads now and then. But when you turned your back, others, just as full of evil schemes, would arise.
He followed his customary thought pattern of self-assurance: You have been given a role to play. This is your duty and your Destiny, for the moment anyway. But then came the equally inevitable question. Why this senseless brutality being carried out by the Islamic State? He accepted the need for violent action to enforce authority, even to create a public relations image of Cruel but Divine Justice and Retribution in this digital age. But in his own recent experience there was little justification for some of the executions they had been ordered to carry out.
He lifted his coffee cup and looked across at his young charge, Ali, who was finishing his daily routine of physical exercise. He had just completed 50 push-ups and his brow was moist in the dim light falling through the darkened window. Abdul noted the fact that the lad’s musculature had greatly improved and his biceps and triceps were clearly defined. He had a lean and rangy look which indicated strength and stamina.
The sudden baring of the boy’s soul had touched Abdul who had his own family tragedy and remorse to scar his teenage years. But his mother was still alive, and he revered her for she was a good, kind woman and a dutiful wife. His father had been a stern and sometimes savage disciplinarian, whipping Abdul for imagined offences—which created a festering sore of resentment against injustice. This attitude still coloured his life-view and his hatred for the Americans for their political meddling and their arrogant attempts to make the world an economic colony of the USA.
Now he had a deeper understanding of his charge and he was able to feel a degree of sympathy for him, although the boy’s manic attack on that young girl was a sign of profound mental disturbance. But at heart he is just a lonely kid who is trying to understand and control his natural sex drive. And what he has been doing for these many months has made him insensitive to killing.
Adul found this thought disturbing. Was there a way back for the boy?
Ali got up and went to the small bathroom to freshen up.
There was a strong triple rap on the door. Abdul was surprised. Was it Habab (the Affable) again?
He opened the door and in walked the IS man and went straight to the only table and sat down. Abdul sat opposite him and Habab said: “We are very pleased with you” and he produced another bulging envelope and dropped it on the table.
“Coffee?” queried Abdul.
“No. Our new Commander,” he said “likes haste and obedience and the fact that you complied instantly with his order gave him great satisfaction. We now have another task for you” and he produced two photos of men.
“We want you to remove these American infidels as soon as possible. This one,” and he put it on the table, “is Colonel Brow, the American in charge of that nest of vipers in the farmhouse ten miles from here. But it is no use trying to get him there. The place is well defended and their electronic awareness is immense. We have nothing like it. Not yet, anyway.”
“So where do we find this man?”
“He never leaves their base except when he flies out and then flies back in. But we have someone watching him and we will let you know if an opportunity occurs.”
Now he put the second photo on the table. Like the other, it was not crisp and had been taken from a distance but the man’s features were recognisable.
“This is Captain Sam Collins the second in command and he also is not usually seen in public but my information is that he will be going to the bordello, the Pleasure Palace, tomorrow night. So prepare yourself.”
Habab got up and was heading for the door when he stopped abruptly.
“Oh yes. You must phone the Emir at once.” And he was out of the door and gone.
Abdul thought: “What’s wrong?” If you heard from the tribal leader it was usually trouble. Then he picked up the envelope and checked the contents. He got up and placed the envelope with the other one in a safe place. He already had enough cash on him to last a week.
He sat back in his good chair and found his phone. He took a deep breath and called the Emir.
The rasping voice of Farouk, the tribal chief said: “Yes. I have some information for you about the other matter. We found a woman who worked in that home. She says that your subject’s father was very hard on him because he was short and thin and cowardly so that he turned to his mother for affection.”
The
old man gave a throaty chuckle. “And then the boy was sent off sick from school early one day and walked into his mother’s bedroom to find her lying on her back and being fucked by one of her husband’s brothers. The boy went hysterical, screaming and locked himself in his room and when his father came home he told him what he saw and his father kicked the woman out of the house. Then the boy would not say a word for three weeks and then…” The old man’s laugh rumbled again. “The father went out to kill his brother but his brother killed him first.”
The Emir paused and then spoke in a mock-sombre voice. “It is a real family drama, not so? And no doubt that’s why the boy likes to kill girls—because he can never be sure they are not being fucked by other people.” And he let out of a roar of laughter. And then he said, in seriousness; “That is a good life lesson for a man, is it not?”
Abdul had to make an effort to keep his voice calm. “Thank you for the information. The more I know about him, the better I can control him.” He was going to say “help him” but realised that would strike a wrong note with this man.
The tribal head said: “If I were in your shoes I would kill him in his sleep. You can’t trust someone with that background. He could turn on you for some remark you make. But then, he is your responsibility. And if he goes bad I will want answers from you” and he ended the call.
Abdul sat in silence and then he heard the toilet flush. He hoped the boy had not heard any of that conversation but at least he had not been in this room.
No wonder he is what he is. He looks at a pretty girl and he is attracted to her and then he thinks of his mother and he suddenly sees this girl as someone who will betray him and make him feel that awful disappointment again and he lashes out at her.
He thought deeply about Ali for a while and reached a decision.
When this job is done, I must do some straight talking to him about whores and explain what their function is. They are just bodies which you use to get rid of your desire for sex. You cannot start to think of them as people. After all, you know that when you get up and leave them another man is going to come in and do exactly what you have just done. Use them and forget them, that’s the way to do it.
And then he thought about the callousness of his tribal leader.
I wonder if it occurred to him that he was talking to me about the man, Bassam, who killed the boy’s father in an argument over a woman. I never realised until now that the woman in question was Ali’s mother, my sister. This is a very strange life.
Chapter Ten - One Shot, One Kill
Captain Bhutin and Lieutenant Ayla, his aide, were ushered into Col Brow’s rooms, their faces alight with expectation. They had been summoned urgently.
Col Brow gestured to them. “Come.” They sat down and he smiled at them. “You are both on.”
“What has changed Sir?” asked Lieutenant Ayla, beating her boss to the punch.
“We have been told to capture the other members of the IS team and therefore we need additional manpower, and you both have the advantage of being fluent in the language. Having to bring them back alive complicates things.”
He glanced speculatively at Ayla and her face brightened in a smile.
“You, especially, could be of great help.”
“In what way?” she asked, trying to look innocent but failing.
Brow laughed. “You know very well. These guys are all sex mad and if they set eyes on you there will only be one thing on their mind. This could create an attention deficit we can exploit. But that will have to be worked out at the scene. One can’t plan this kind of thing in advance.”
Then Brow looked at Captain Bhutin who was about to say something. “I’m ahead of you Captain. Your aide will have to agree to whatever is planned. We can’t let her fall into the hands of those devils.
“Now, to the task at hand, we leave at 4 am, in a Sikorsky S-65 heavy-lift chopper.”
“Weren’t they known in the Vietnam era as the Jolly Green Giants?” said Bhutin.
“Correct. You know your military aircraft, Captain.”
xxxxx
They gathered in the ops room next to the airstrip for a final briefing. The Sikorsky chopper was a looming presence in the dark. Captain Bhutin made it his business to find out more about the helicopter and the Communications man, Lieut. John Pride, a man with an easy smile and a friendly disposition, had obliged.
Pride said, proudly: “It’s a later version of the CH-53 Sea Stallion, the Sikorsky S-65 family of transport choppers. The Air Force operated the so-called Jolly Green Giants. Now this is the CH-53E Super Stallion, an improved version.”
“Improved?” asked the Kurd. “How?”
“Its third engine makes it more powerful than the Sea Stallion, which it has replaced in the heavy-lift mission. The three engines generate 12,000 horsepower. She’s a beauty, as you’ll see. She can carry 55 combat troops, cruises at 173mph and has a range of 62l miles which is more than enough for this mission. If needed, we can refuel in flight. There’s a naval vessel handy for that.”
Captain Bhutin stood in silent admiration of this technological marvel. Then a worrying thought struck him: “Surely it must make one helluva noise? You can’t creep up on anyone in this thing!”
Pride grinned. “It’s not as noisy as you might think. It does give off a kind of muffled roar. But I guess we’ll be dropped off some distance from the target and then make our own way there.”
The members of the special unit had been swollen by six members of the US Marines and the video team of three. Colonel Brow introduced the team to the SAS Para-Ops members and Mark Andrews had immediately liked them—the leader, Lieutenant John Pride, camera, with two Corporals, Pete Cavendish, camera and Anne Field, sound. Their auras were slightly different from most of the others in the gathering. They were not killers, they were observers, keen to show in the clearest way, exactly what was happening around them.
The Marines were cheerful and confident but there was a cold determination about them. They were veterans of Afghanistan.
Col. Brow got everyone’s attention: “Let us be clear about what we are setting out to do. The mountainous terrain works very much in our favour, giving us cover to observe and function without being seen. Our primary aim is to eliminate the new IS executioner, who we believe to be Rafik Patel, the London-born son of Pakistani immigrants to England.
“That assignment has been given to specialist sniper Henry Lee” and he indicated Lee and heads turned to see him. “We have offered Henry some technical help in the form of our latest handheld ballistic computer that calculates the effects of air pressure and other atmospherics on a bullet's trajectory.” He smiled and added: “But I don’t know that he needs it, what with his astounding kill rate so far.”
“Every little helps Colonel,” said Lee. “It can warn me if I need a raincoat.” There was a ripple of laughter.
“I don’t think it’s that complicated Sergeant” said Brow, grinning. He continued: “An all-important aspect of this mission is that we are making a record for propaganda purposes. IS have struck some telling blows against the Allies, notably with the massacre in Paris but we had a brilliant propaganda coup by removing Jihadi John. As a result, our intel is that their members are not keen to be seen in more public beheadings but this Patel guy is as much of a fanatic as Jihadi John and he probably welcomes the chance to get bumped off and become a goddam martyr. Well, we’re going to oblige.”
He paused for effect and then said: “As John, Pete and Anne will be recording everything, we must only intervene at the last and most dramatic moment. So the very first warning the IS will get is when Henry’s round takes Patel out. He will be shooting from 600 yards away. By then we have to be close around them and you will have powerful darts to knock them all out. Live ammunition will be the last resort.” Looking at the Marines he said: “Hold your fire unless under direct order or life threat. I don’t want a trigger happy guy screwing things up.”
He added: “The two
VIPs will be taken care of by Captain Taylor and his team.”
He looked about him and then at his watch. “It’s time. Let’s go.”
xxxxx
The helicopter rose slowly higher as it passed over the arid countryside and approached the mountain range before it. The pre-dawn glow softened the green outlines of the hills and valleys. Mark Andrews felt an electric charge of delight as over the crest of the mountains he saw tall trees and verdant greenery. On that side of the mountainous barriers the sea breeze brought ample rain and the fertile ground responded with glowing life.
In the cockpit the two pilots were assessing the area before them and consulting their geographic orientation guide. They pinpointed the small farmhouse in the far distance, low on a hillside and then they searched for a possible landing spot. The chopper dropped down, hovering barely above the treetops, so close that the powerful downdraft from the craft’s seven rotor blades made the branches sway and bend. Startled birds flew out and up into the brightening sky.
The chief pilot said to Col Brow: “My instruments show there’s a suitable LZ just ahead, over that knoll. And that will be just over one mile from target. Is that okay sir? Our heat sensors indicate that there is no human life in the immediate vicinity, only small animals.”
“Do it” said Brow. And the chopper lifted swiftly, up and over the hill just ahead and settled down on an open area near a small stream. The pulsating rotors stopped moving and there was a brief, deep silence and they all began to leave the aircraft.
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6 Page 30
