Spider Shepherd: SAS: #2 (11 page)

‘Like hell I will,’ The Rope said. ‘He’s family, I’m family. I’m in this with you.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘I thought you’d say that, but I had to make the offer!’

They chose a place where the track ran through a broad clearing and lay up in cover at the edge of the undergrowth, forming a linear ambush, all on the same side of the track, in a long line and spaced at twenty-yard intervals. Shepherd and Jock stationed themselves at either end with The Rope in the middle, flanked by Geordie and Jimbo.

As the first greying of the sky signalled the approach of dawn, they settled themselves, lying prone with their weapons at the ready and began the long wait.

About an hour after the sun had risen, Shepherd, closest to the terrorists’ camp, heard the first faint sounds of movement and a few minutes later, the first of them came into view, moving cautiously, the barrel of his gun tracking his gaze as he scanned the ground ahead and to either side. Shepherd lay motionless as the man passed, unseeing, within twenty yards of him. He could have killed him in an instant but that would have alerted the rest of the gang and instead he allowed him to pass by. He watched man after man move past in single file, with the two in the middle of the line carrying bulging sacks over their shoulders. Shepherd kept his finger resting on the trigger, waiting for the first shots from Jock that would trigger the ambush.

As the last gang-member came level with him, Shepherd heard the first whip-crack sounds of shots as Jock opened up. Shepherd began firing a heartbeat later, and heard the rattle of gunfire from the others in the same instant. Cool and methodical, Shepherd fired short, targeted bursts, killing man after man. Some returned fire but they lacked the SAS men’s discipline and accuracy, and most of the rounds merely shredded the undergrowth around them. Half a dozen turned and ran, three of them cut down instantly as they did so, but the others plunged into the rhododendrons and were lost from sight.

As the last of the remaining terrorists caught in the open was cut apart by simultaneous bursts from Jock and Jimbo, the SAS men leapt to their feet and sprinted across the clearing, diving into the undergrowth in pursuit of the escaping terrorists. The rhododendrons were almost impenetrable in places, but Shepherd could follow the track of one escaper easily by the bruised and broken leaves and stems he had caused as he ran for his life. There were bloodstains on the ground and a few leaves he had brushed against too, showing that he was wounded, but Shepherd was taking no chances. He checked as he came to an open area surrounded by more thickets of rhododendrons and began scanning the vegetation, using all his jungle fighting experience to refocus his eyes, looking through the foliage rather than at it. On the far side of the clearing, he saw a brief flash of fabric, pale against the dark green leaves and an instant later Shepherd’s rifle barked twice and the body of the terrorist crashed backwards, his own weapon sending a burst of fire upwards into the sky. Still cautious, Shepherd moved forward and made certain with a double-tap to the man’s head.

As he made his way back towards the clearing where the ambush had been set, he heard another double-tap away to his left.

He paused, calling to the others to warn them of his approach, before emerging into the open, rather than risk being shot by mistake. He found Jock, Jimbo and Geordie in all-round defence with one of the sacks on the ground beside them. ‘Where’s The Rope?’ Shepherd said.

‘He went that way, in hot pursuit,’ Jock said gesturing towards the undergrowth. A moment later they heard another double-tap and soon afterwards The Rope appeared, carrying the other sack over his shoulder. ‘I reckon it was the leader carrying that one,’ he said, ‘but I put paid to him.’ He opened the sack, peered inside and then brandished a fistful of hundred dollar bills at them. ‘Life can be a bitch sometimes,’ he said. ‘All through my entire career in the Army and then the Regiment, I used to pray that I’d get a chance to ambush a paymaster one day. Now I’ve finally done it and got my hands on a bloody fortune, and I’ve got no option but to give it back.’

‘Gul’s people need it more than you do,’ said Shepherd. ‘And let’s be fair, none of us are in this for the money.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ laughed Geordie.

PLANNING PACK

ARABIAN GULF.

November 1998.

Dan “Spider” Shepherd was standing on the flight deck of an RAF Hercules C-130, leaning on the back of the pilot’s seat and anxiously scanning the horizon ahead of them in the first faint light of dawn. The plane’s two pilots and the flight engineer were also scanning forwards, but it was the navigator, head down over his instruments, his face lit an eerie green by the light of his radar screen, who was the first to break the silence. ‘The target should be on the nose now, range two and a half miles,’ he said. He had a soft West Country accent that made Shepherd think of sheep and rolling hills.

Shepherd strained his eyes even more, squinting into the growing glow of dawn light, and at last spotted it: the long sleek shape of a modern warship, its grey hull at first barely distinguishable from the water around it and marked out mainly by the curl of white water at the knife-like prow slicing through the waves. The ship had slowed as the Hercules approached and was now barely making headway through the waves. ‘I see it,’ he said. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

Shepherd watched the outline of the sleek, streamlined grey superstructure and the huge stars and stripes flag fluttering from the stern grow sharper as they closed rapidly on it. His thoughts were interrupted by the captain of the Hercules who was pointing at another C-130 that was already circling the almost stationary destroyer. ‘They’ve already started the drop,’ he said, ‘you’d better get to the rear and prepare to jump. Wouldn’t want you being late.’

The op had landed in their laps out of a clear blue sky just the previous day. Shepherd and his patrol mates - Jock McIntyre, Geordie Mitchell and Jimbo Shortt - had been making a leisurely return to Cyprus from Nepal, a journey that had begun on a sombre note with the funeral of their Gurkha mate, Gul, killed in an ambush by Maoist terrorists in Nepal’s “Wild West”. A few days earlier, Gul had been telling them about the Bagmati river that flowed through his native city of Pokhara - a holy river to Hindus and Buddhists alike - and the Hindu tradition of the dead being dipped into the river three times before being cremated on its banks. Only a few days later, they found themselves having to stand and watch as Gul’s own dead body was ceremonially bathed and then placed on his funeral pyre and burned to ashes.

Shepherd’s patrol had exacted a full measure of revenge on Gul’s killers - within forty-eight hours of his death, none of them remained alive - and the grief that the SAS men felt for their lost comrade was no less intense for having to be so brief. Like soldiers the world over, they had to put the loss of their comrades and mates behind them almost at once despite the bonds formed by men who had looked death in the eye together. To spend too long mourning lost comrades was merely to invite reflections on their own mortality, and in the crucible of close-quarter combat those distracting thoughts could all too easily lead to it becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Neither Shepherd, nor any of his patrol mates were in any hurry to return to twiddling their thumbs in the SAS compound at Akrotiri in Cyprus. When they were offered the chance to break the journey with a stay in a luxurious hotel in the Gulf, courtesy of the RAF, they did not need a second invitation. As soon as he got to his room, Shepherd’s first thought was to phone Sue in Hereford. It would still be early evening in England and he imagined her giving Liam his tea, spooning baby food into him. The phone rang and rang, and he was about to hang up when Sue answered. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’ve not been in touch.’

‘Where are you? England?’ He winced at the excitement in her voice, knowing that he was going to have to disappoint her.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘So where are you then?’ Her voice was markedly colder now.

‘I can’t tell you where we’ve been - need to know and all that, but let’s just say that communications weren’t the best, and as far as a signal for a mobile goes, forget about it. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘It’s all right, I’m used to it by now.’

He winced at the flat, faintly angry tone in her voice.

‘Will you be home for Liam’s birthday?’ she said.

‘I don’t know. I hope so.’

There was a pause. ‘Is this how it’s going to be, Dan? Liam growing up and his father never being there for his birthdays, his first words, his first steps, his first day at school, for anything at all?’

‘Come on, Sue. No, of course it won’t be like that.’

‘Are you sure about that? Because whenever it comes to a battle between Liam and me on one side and the SAS on the other, it seems to me that the Regiment always wins.’

Shepherd swallowed what he was about to say, realising that it would only fuel the fires, and instead said ‘It’s my job, Sue, but once I’m back in the UK, it’ll all be different, I promise.’

‘And when will that be?’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Can’t you ask someone?’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘Someone must know? An officer?’

‘They’re moving us around. As soon as I know something concrete, I’ll let you know.’

‘But even then, you and I both know that nothing will change. As long as you’re in the Regiment, it’ll always be your first priority.’

Shepherd didn’t argue with her because he had a feeling that she was probably right. There was a long silence and when Sue spoke again, her voice was even more flat and expressionless. ‘I’ll have to go, the baby’s crying.’

Shepherd had not heard any sounds of crying down the line, but he didn’t challenge her over it.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said again. ‘Just let me know when you’re coming home.’

‘Of course I will….’ he started to say, but the line had already gone dead. He swore loudly to himself as he slammed the phone down, then went down to the bar to bury the memory of the strained conversation with a few beers.

He slept fitfully and woke early, taking his customary six-mile run at dawn. Afterwards he showered and relaxed over breakfast by the pool, drinking coffee and eating croissants with his patrol mates. As usual in hot countries and fierce sunlight, Geordie’s skimmed milk complexion was turning pinker by the moment and he was continually arranging and rearranging the strands of his pale, thinning hair, trying to cover his scalp.

‘Will you stop fiddling with that comb-over,’ Jock said. ‘If you need to cover your bald patch, I’ll buy you a yarmulke.’

‘I haven’t got a bald patch,’ Geordie said, as his mates stifled laughs and snorts of disbelief. The patrol medic and an unchallenged expert in battlefield trauma, Geordie’s wispy hair, pale skin and general air of diffidence sometimes led men to underestimate him - always to their cost, for he was as tough as the sole of an army boot, and in a fight, almost as skilled as inflicting injuries as he was at healing them.

‘You’re right,’ Jimbo said, stretching to his full six-foot plus height to peer down at the top of Geordie's head. ‘It’s more of a hair patch on the edge of a bald desert.’

Jock took a bite of his croissant as he stared out over the hotel’s palm-fringed gardens, watching the streams of high-end Mercedes and BMWs speeding along the motorway towards the gleaming steel and glass towers of the city. ‘It’s amazing,’ he said. ‘I came here on a job years ago and none of this was here at all. There were no buildings taller than three stories - and most of them were built from mud bricks. The roads were dirt or potholed concrete, and the airport was a landing strip with a so-called terminal that was just a prefab building and a cluster of Portakabins. Now look at it.’

‘I know, it’s incredible isn’t it?’ Geordie said. ‘Mind you, Maryhill, where you come from, is the same. It was a complete shit-hole a few years ago and now look at it: a complete shit-hole.’ He ducked as Jock launched the half-eaten croissant at his head.

‘I’ll tell you something about Maryhill,’ Jock said. ‘A Geordie git like you would never…’ He broke off and his face darkened as he caught sight of a familiar figure making his way towards them. ‘Look what the cat just dragged in,’ he said, his voice showing his contempt. ‘Is there no bloody escape?’

Tall, urbane-looking and wearing a linen tropical suit and a panama hat, no one would have mistaken the newcomer for anything but an Englishman. He had a nonchalant, slightly distracted air, but those who watched him closely would have noticed that Jonathan Parker’s sharp eyes missed nothing going on around him. His cover was as a businessman - ‘a little import-export, old boy,’ as he liked to say - played up to the stereotype of the gentlemen amateur Englishman abroad, but in reality he was an MI6 agent. Shepherd and his mates had already crossed paths with him more often than they would have wished, including having to repair the damage from a botched MI6 operation in Sierra Leone. His arrival was always greeted by them with groans, for they knew it was almost invariably the harbinger of difficult and dangerous work for them. More often than not - as in Sierra Leone – it involved clearing up a mess that Six themselves had created.

‘Bloody hell, Jonathan,’ Shepherd said. ‘We didn’t even know ourselves that we’d be here until yesterday evening. How did you track us down?’

‘You seem to turn up everywhere,’ Geordie said. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’

‘Like a bad dose of the clap that even antibiotics won’t shift,’ said Jimbo.

‘Nice image,’ said Shepherd. ‘But appropriate.’

‘Pure coincidence old chap,’ Parker said, ignoring the insults. ‘I just happened to be out here on business.’ He smiled as he saw their looks of contempt. ‘Business that won’t involve you, you’ll be sorry to hear. But something else has cropped up which will require your urgent attention.’

Geordie scowled at him. ‘I thought you said it wouldn’t involve us.’

‘My business won’t. Today I’m just a messenger boy for someone else, but I’m afraid it still means that your sunshine holiday is about to be interrupted. You are to report to the British Embassy immediately. A car is waiting outside to take you there.’

‘What’s that all about?’ Jimbo said.

Parker raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely you know better than to ask? Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. But I’m sure your “Head Shed”, as you so charmingly put it, will enlighten you.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now chop, chop, chaps, tempus fugit and all that.’

‘Tempers what now?’ Geordie said.

‘He means time’s pressing,’ Jock said, whose carefully cultivated image as a monosyllabic Glaswegian hard case was rumoured to conceal a mind sharp and well-tutored enough to be able to read the Classics in the original Greek and Latin.

It was Standard Operating Procedure for Shepherd and his patrol mates always to leave their kit ninety per cent packed and ready so that they could make a fast exit whenever a call to action came. Within a few minutes of Jonathan Parker’s unwelcome arrival, the SAS men were in a car with smoked windows and diplomatic plates, speeding towards the British Embassy.

It was an old stone colonial-era building with a fountain playing in its manicured gardens, but the perimeter wall and the gates had been reinforced against the perils of a more modern age, with coils of razor wire along the top of the wall and arc lights and CCTV cameras at regular intervals. There was a group of heavily-armed guards manning the gates. Even though the SAS men were travelling in an Embassy car, they still had to wait while the guards ran a mirror on a steel pole underneath the vehicle, looking for bombs. The guards then scrutinised their IDs minutely before allowing them through. Even though the country was a long-standing British ally, it also played host to its share of potential jihadists - any one of whom would happily launch an attack on the embassy.

As soon as they had announced themselves at the reception desk, they were taken to the secure communications room, a windowless concrete box, deep in the basement below the building. ‘528 to speak to Sunray Ops,’ Shepherd said to the signals technician manning the equipment - his personal Operations Number and the radio codename for the Ops Officer at Hereford. Shepherd then entered the sound-proof booth, preventing even the technician from overhearing anything that was said. When the technician had made the connection, Shepherd found that it wasn’t only the Operations Officer who wanted to speak to him. The Commanding Officer was also on the diplomatic secure line. There was no preamble, no enquiries about his health and well-being, no wasted words at all. ‘A situation has developed which you and your patrol will have to deal with,’ the Operations Officer said. ‘The Hercules you came in is waiting to fly you to an RV with a US warship at the following co-ordinates.’ Shepherd scribbled down the latitude and longitude references, noting immediately that it was somewhere in the southern Mediterranean. ‘You are to make a water para-drop to RV with the warship, and will then carry out your assigned task. The operation is being planned for you in Hereford by the Operations Oversight Team.’

Shepherd frowned to himself. The Operations Oversight Team was a group of respected elder statesmen from the SAS ranks whose usual job was to ensure that the patrol planning for active service operations was robust and professional enough to give the patrols carrying them out every chance of being successful. Over the years the system had saved many lives by reining in the more gung-ho patrol commanders and concentrating on efficiency and results. He knew that any plan they came up with would be fine, but he would still much rather have been in control of his own destiny, planning the op with his own patrol rather than relying on the input of outsiders, no matter how skilled and experienced they might be.