Moving Targets_An Action-Packed Spider Shepherd SAS Novel Read online

  ‘Why?’ Shepherd said. ‘As we all know, he’s an infantry man himself and he bloody hates Special Forces.’

  ‘Nonetheless, that’s his order. Your task will be to man early-warning positions on the high ground above the infantry troops carrying out the sweep and search.’ He paused and made an effort to soften his tone. ‘I’m sorry, guys, this is none of my doing. If it were down to me, you would already be on a flight back to the UK, but I’m outranked on this. So just do the op and I promise I’ll get you on the first flight out afterwards.’

  They spent the next couple of days on preparations for the op, then on the third day the order duly came down that it was ‘Time for the Big Push’. As Jock drily observed, ‘the last time a British general used that phrase was at the start of the Battle of the Somme.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Shepherd said, ‘and we know how well that turned out, don’t we?’

  An imposing-looking force had been assembled for the general’s big show, with ground troops - an entire infantry battalion - supported by artillery, mortars, fast jets, attack helicopters and armoured vehicles. Two of the French military’s multi-role ACMAT trucks had again been co-opted to act as mother ships for the operation, carrying spare fuel and water and prodigious quantities of ammunition, together with a couple of GAZ-66s, the Soviet infantry’s 4x4 military trucks. Captured from the Soviets by the mujahideen, they were still going strong years later.

  The night before the launch of the op, Shepherd and his team, along with an infantry GPMG crew, were dropped off by a Puma helicopter on a spot high above the place where the operation was due to start the following morning. Learning from previous operations in Afghanistan, the infantry battalion had wisely ditched the Minimi machine gun preferred by other units for the heavier-calibre GPMG, which could put down fire and churn up the ground at a much greater range. That made the heavier weight of the gun and ammo a price well worth paying.

  However, the two-man gun crew were showing some signs of nerves at being so far from their comrades. They were used to working in large groups and would have liked to have been down on the low ground with the main body of troops. By contrast, Shepherd’s team actively preferred to be on their own, although on this op their designated role within the general’s master plan made them little more than ammunition carriers for the machinegun crew.

  Each of them had an SA80 over their shoulder, the standard-issue British Army rifle. They were carrying them because the brass had insisted that everyone on the op should carry the same weapons. Although this was contrary to the SAS doctrine that every man carried his own weapon of choice, the regimental hierarchy in country had bowed to the general’s wishes, even though they knew it would cause considerable controversy in the ranks. The weapons they had were not even the latest version; no one in the Regiment would willingly carry the SA 80 because of doubts about its reliability in combat and its tendency to jam, so none were held in the unit’s own armoury and they had had to be borrowed from the base armoury, where they were kept in reserve.

  Having set up their OP during the night, the patrol stood to around dawn and then spent the early part of the day watching the build-up. First, fast jets strafed the chosen landing zone. That was followed by an artillery barrage and then Chinook and Puma helicopters brought in the main force. Finally, when everybody else was in position, the two generals – ‘Sunrays’ in army code – arrived in their own Lynx command helicopter, their Redcap bodyguards in an escorting Chinook, the ground wash stirring up fresh dust storms as they landed.

  Shepherd watched through his binoculars as the two generals emerged from the Lynx. ‘They both look as if they’ve come straight from central casting,’ he said. ‘Immaculately tailored camo kit, lightly tanned and firm-jawed – they look like a Hollywood director’s wet dream of fighting soldiers.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jock said, focussing his own binoculars on them. ‘Just goes to show that looks can be deceptive. The senior general’s even carrying a holstered pistol as his personal weapon, though the junior one has clearly got slightly more smarts, he’s worked out that he’ll be making himself a target by looking like an officer, so he’s at least the sense to carry a rifle.’

  Both generals had followed a similar career path, attending the same public school a couple of years apart, followed by Sandhurst military college. They had seen a little action in Northern Ireland as subalterns, and then done various staff jobs around the army, making sure they were close enough to any action to share a little reflected glory without actually being part of it. That meant they were able to pick up a variety of medals without exposing themselves to any danger. Now that they had one foot on the pinnacle, nothing was going to stop them from attaining the ultimate prize: a place on the General Staff in Whitehall. To any outside observer, they were exactly what the military needed: brave, decorated, steady and stable officers. The fact that the troops under their command regarded them both with varying degrees of contempt counted for nothing.

  As he squinted at them through his binoculars, Jock’s expression showed that, as usual, he was taking senior officers’ promotions, medals, gold braid and expensively tailored uniforms as personal affronts. ‘Bet they both “married well”, as well,’ he growled. ‘Because in the modern army that’s essential too. Back in the day, generals were almost always aristos, but now they can be from almost any background.’ ‘Except yours,’ Geordie said.

  Jock ignored the interruption. ‘So they need something else to help them fit in, including a wife who knows which fork to use and how to make small talk.’

  Geordie grinned. ‘And who doesn’t have tattoos or work in a lap-dancing club,’ he added, determined to have the last word, ‘which rules out your missus for a start.’

  The senior general was loathed throughout the ranks. He was nicknamed ‘the Count’, which, as Geordie noted, ‘is the closest anyone can get to calling him a cunt without ending up in a military jail.’ His officious and equally arrogant military police bodyguards were likewise detested, and their misuse of their boss’s power was legendary.

  Geordie whistled through his teeth. ‘Look at all the high-tech kit down there though, just for the general’s fancy dress parade. It’s bloody ridiculous. There’s millions of quids worth of kit lined up, probably more than the GDP of the entire sodding country. We’ve got the capability to fight day and night, 24/7/365 against the most sophisticated enemies, and yet we’re using it against a bunch of ragged-arse peasant farmers who are just the meat in the sandwich between foreigners like us and the local warlords. We don’t or won’t understand what motivates them, because it’s easier just to blame everything on their religion, though the real reason is probably that they are being forced to fight by one side or the other.’

  ‘That’s Commie talk, you pinko sonofabitch,’ Jimbo said, putting on his best Texan accent. ‘You’d better shape up or ship out, ’cos we don’t like your kind around here.’

  ‘Would you ladies mind finishing the discussion group later and focusing on the task at hand?’ Shepherd said. ‘Looks like it’s showtime.’

  While the SAS men maintained their watch on the high ground, scanning every ridgeline and hillside for suspicious movement, the infantry sweep began, the troops advancing steadily over the terrain but meeting no armed resistance at all. For about forty minutes everything appeared to be going fine, until they reached the fields full of ripe crops surrounding the local village. Then there was a sudden burst of fire and a couple of soldiers in the leading section of infantry fell down wounded as their comrades scrambled for cover.

  The whole of the operation now became focused on this incident, with medics tending to the wounded and Forward Air Control Officers calling up casevac choppers and fast-jet strikes. The infantrymen found cover wherever they could; meanwhile, the whole advance ground to an inglorious halt. In the melee, the senior general stood out from everyone around him both because he was still standing upright and because of his lack of a weapon other than the pistol at his hip.
As a result, he became the main target for the Afghan fighters.

  His lack of combat experience was apparent to everybody around him. Uncertain of what to do, he remained standing until he finally hit the ground in a cloud of dust when a burst of fire passed millimetres over his head. His resulting head-first impact with the ground caused a tremendous nosebleed and the medic from his BG team, thinking the general had been hit, risked his life to get to him and tend his wounds, only to be violently pushed aside as the general realised the indignity of his position. As he looked around, he became aware that the troops nearby were sniggering and muttering among themselves. The realisation did nothing to improve his temper. With his grand farewell now in danger of falling apart at the seams right in front of his successor, the general at once began casting around for something – or someone – to blame.

  Just then, when everyone was distracted and their guard down, Jock spotted movement further along the ridge. Shepherd at once tried to call up their Head Shed to check if there were other friendly units in the area, but he found the radio net swamped with administrative traffic so that it was impossible to verify if the movement was friend or foe.

  ‘Who put together the comms plan?’ he said. ‘Any idiot knows to keep operational and administrative traffic on different channels.’

  Jimbo shrugged. ‘Must have been the Brigade Signals Officer, because any other signals guy would have known not to do it that way. The problem is, those senior guys never get out into the field, so they know the theory, but not the practice.’

  Leaving the other two in charge of the gun crew, Shepherd and Jock changed position, crawling along the ridge to a point where they could get a better view. After moving only a few yards, they were startled to see a force of a couple of hundred Afghans taking up positions, ready to engage the troops down in the valley. From their clothes and weapons, they appeared to be mostly local tribesmen, stiffened by a few Taliban fighters. Without firing, the two SAS men pulled back again, quickly briefed the others, and then all of them, including the GPMG crew, moved to a point from where they could attack the enemy. They wormed their way forward, using every scrap of cover provided by the scrubby vegetation, loose rocks and boulders, and crept into firing positions in a broad arc, two SAS men on either side of the GPMG crew. On Shepherd’s signal, he, Jock and Jimbo opened up with their SA80s while Geordie directed the fire from the GPMG. As ever with the SAS, their rate of fire and the way they constantly changed firing positions gave the enemy the impression that they were facing a far larger force than just half a dozen men. Several of the enemy were cut down by the initial burst, but the others swung round to face their attackers and began returning fire.

  The sudden explosion of firing from the ridge caused consternation among the already jumpy main force on the valley floor. From their reaction, they appeared to be unaware that there were friendly forces above them, but before anyone could make sense of what was happening, fresh bursts of fire came from enemy fighters on the high ground all around them, wreaking havoc and panic among the troops below.

  Shepherd’s patrol could now do nothing to help the main force, because they were in desperate straits themselves. They were heavily outnumbered by the enemy, who were trying to outflank them, a few of them creeping through the rocks and scrub. Meanwhile, the rest of the enemy fighters tried to keep the SAS men pinned down with a few RPGs and a barrage of automatic fire. Most of the enemy carried AK-47s, but some of the senior Taliban were using the more modern version, the AK-74.

  Faced with those kinds of numbers and that weight of fire, the SAS patrol had little choice but to ‘pepper-pot’ backwards, with two men giving covering fire while the other two fired and moved, then switching roles to provide cover while the other two withdrew. However, they were far from beaten and whenever the Afghans thought they had them on the run and broke cover to push home their attack, the SAS men at once counter-attacked, each time killing several enemies and driving back the rest.

  Although the locals still outnumbered the patrol many times over, their heavy losses had given them food for thought, and since they showed little appetite for fighting at close quarters, the SAS men were still able to hold them off. The fight went backwards and forwards until late in the afternoon, when the GPMG took an indirect hit from an RPG rocket that bounced off the ground before hitting the machine gun, completely destroying it, wounding the two members of the gun crew and wrecking the patrol radio. Fortunately, the GPMG and the radio absorbed most of the force of the blast and shrapnel and the crew suffered relatively minor wounds. Although both of them lost a lot of blood, they were still able to walk.

  ‘This is getting serious,’ Shepherd said, seizing the chance to talk offered by a brief lull in the fighting. ‘We’re down on ammo, we’ve got two wounded men and no comms. If we stay where we are, we’ll eventually run out of ammo and then we’ll be over-run and I don’t have to tell you what that means - we all know what Afghan fighters tend to do to any prisoners they take. I don’t know about you, but being castrated and skinned alive is not high on my list of priorities.’

  His patrol mates nodded in agreement.

  ‘I’m not going to sit around and wait for that to happen, so unless anyone’s got any better ideas, here’s what we’ll do,’ Shepherd continued. ‘Geordie will take the two wounded guys down the hillside to the nearest subunit. We will cover them until they are out of sight and then we’ll use our remaining ammo to charge the bastards, the last thing they’ll be expecting. If we survive, as we go through them we’ll each pick up one of their AKs and as much ammo as we can carry. There’ll be no point in trying to backtrack to link up with the rest of the force after that, because we’ll have to run the same gauntlet of hostiles. Since we haven’t got a radio, even if we manage to get through them again, when we try to link up with the main force we’ll stand every chance of being mistaken for the enemy, and targeted by the infantry and the close air support. So our best option is to go deeper into country and then try to link up with the Army either in one of their outlying bases or if necessary, we can walk all the way back to Bagram.’

  Jock and Jimbo had already reached similar conclusions, so the only dissent came from Geordie. ‘There’s only one problem with that plan,’ he said. ‘You bastards can’t leave me out of this. I know that after a contact our SOP would be to move out at top speed and put a lot of distance between the enemy and us, so there’s risk in you hanging fire to RV with me. However, there’s a greater risk for me in taking those guys down to a subunit and then coming back up to the ridge and picking my way round the enemy to RV with you. If I’m willing to take that chance, so should you, because we’re a patrol, we’re mates, and we stand or fall together. So unless anyone has any objections?’ He paused and eyeballed each of them in turn. ‘No? Good. So we’ll make a visual RV point now that we can all find. I’ll take these guys down and then we’ll meet at the RV at 23.59 when it’s nice and dark. If there are any problems for any of us in making that RV, then we’ll meet up twenty-four hours later at the War RV we were given at the patrol briefing. If I’m not there either, then I won’t ever be making an RV again. And if you lot don’t make it, I’ll know that none of you beat the clock this time.’

  That drew a grimace from Jock. ‘Beating the clock’ was the SAS euphemism for staying alive. The names of SAS men who had died in training or on active service were always engraved on the base of the regimental clock at Stirling Lines, the SAS base in Hereford.

  Shepherd was hesitant about agreeing to Geordie’s plan but, against his better judgement, allowed himself to be persuaded. Unwilling to give voice to any forebodings, the remaining three just nodded to Geordie as he set off down the hillside with the wounded men. Picking their way among the rocks, they were all crouching low or crawling whenever they had to cross open ground, presenting the smallest possible target to any watching Afghan fighters.

  The three SAS men watched them until they disappeared from sight and then Shepherd took a deep
breath. OK, guys,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on the other side. No time like the present, so on the count of three, here goes fuck all … One … two … three … Go! Go! Go!’

  The Afghan fighters were astonished when three ragged British soldiers suddenly rose from among the rocks and, instead of retreating, charged fearlessly towards them, unleashing a torrent of fire as they ran. Several of the farmers conscripted by the Taliban simply threw down their weapons and ran. Others snatched up their rifles but were cut down before they could bring them to bear, and the fire that was returned by the others was mostly high and wild.

  With Jock and Jimbo at his heels, Shepherd kept sprinting and swerving across the open ground in front of the enemy, keeping up a stream of fire as he ran. He vaulted over a rock, drilling a double tap into an Afghan fighter crouching behind it, and shot two others who tried to bar his way. He dived and rolled to change magazines – his last one – double-tapped another enemy crouching in a dip in the ground, and then loosed off a last burst from the SA80 to keep enemy heads down as he dived into the same dip. Ditching his own weapon, he snatched the AK-47 from the dying man’s grasp, his fingers slippery with the blood spouting from the fatal wounds. Shepherd tore the ammunition belts from the man as well and then burst from cover, still firing double taps and short bursts as he ran on through the last of the enemy. The whip-crack sound of AKs firing behind him showed that Jock and Jimbo had also switched weapons and were still taking a heavy toll of the enemy. Shepherd paused twice more to scoop up magazines and another ammunition belt and then was out beyond the last Taliban fighter, though still dodging and weaving to throw off the aim of any enemy targeting his fleeing figure. He dived into cover, twisted around and laid down covering fire as Jock and Jimbo sprinted towards him, then flattened themselves in cover alongside him.

  ‘Both OK?’ Shepherd said, shouting to make himself understood above the rattle of enemy gunfire and the ringing in their ears from their own firing. ‘Scratches, nothing more,’ Jock said, his face speckled with spots of blood where rock splinters had needled his skin.