Assassin (John Stratton) (4 page)

The gunship appeared to jostle a little as the pilot fought
to lose height as quickly as he could while at the same time lining up on the target for optimum efficiency of the weapon. As Spooky passed over the fleeing fighters, Stratton thought he could hear the electric motors of the Gatling gun wind up before the bullets spat from the cannon at a rate of thirty thousand a minute. They all heard the terrifying scream of the weapon’s electric motors when they got up to full speed. It was claimed that on a single pass the Equaliser could place a bullet in every square foot of a piece of ground the width of a football pitch. Each of those rounds was over an inch thick. Just one alone made a terrible mess of anything it struck.

The combination of the roaring engines low in the sky and the screaming electric cannon must have terrified the men on the ground directly beneath it. The Afghans knew of such weapons. Those who hadn’t seen the devastation it caused first-hand had heard the stories. For the men running as hard as they could across the plain, the sight of the soil literally exploding as the rounds struck it in a broad swath a hundred metres wide, and tearing towards them like a steel curtain, would have been simply terrifying. To run, lie down or stand still, the odds of surviving within the storm remained low to none.

When the gunfire ceased, the killing ground was obscured by a huge dust cloud. It quickly settled. When visibility returned, dead bodies lay everywhere.

Spooky rose up a little and banked heavily to one side, its turboprops whining, and then sharply over onto the other side, turning tightly round as it dropped its nose to
come in for yet another run. Raptor reported that it had obliterated all the Taliban furthest from the house but there were more. Spooky was hungry to eat up the rest of them. It provided the ultimate illustration of time standing still for some while racing on ahead for others. The Afghans’ only advances in weaponry over the past two hundred years had been gifts from the West. But the West had kept the best for itself.

From the squadron’s perspective in the river, as the aircraft reached the line of houses the thunderous Gatling gun opened up again. The firing lasted barely seconds. In that brief time the gunship had cleaned up the rest of the fighters. It was a massacre.

Raptor reported some minor movement among the prone bodies in the open ground but it was clear enough for the teams to move in.

‘Now can we go?’ Wheeland asked, trying not to sound exasperated and coming off a little childish.

Stratton looked at Burns for his response.

‘Right,’ Burns said. ‘Let’s go and clean up. Stratton, lead off if you would be so kind.’

Wheeland rolled his eyes at the Britishness of the squadron officer.

‘Cease fire!’ the squadron sergeant major called out. The order went down the line and the machine guns that had been maintaining a minimum strike rate to encourage any lurking Taliban to run from the river went still.

Stratton looked over at Jones, Charlie and the others in his team. They were ready and waiting to go. He looked
at Wheeland and Spinter, who had their small packs on and weapons in hand.

‘Do you mind staying in the rear?’ Stratton asked. ‘We work as a team to clear the ground and then the buildings.’

‘Sure,’ Wheeland said. ‘I wouldn’t want to interfere with your routines.’ Stratton wasn’t sure if the man was being sarcastic. Not that he minded. He suddenly realised he was envious of the American’s enthusiasm. He suddenly felt like he was being the dick himself and that he ought to thank Wheeland, if anything.

Stratton stepped up onto the bank to look at the complex. Spooky roared overhead, so close to the ground he could see every detail. One of the howitzer gun crew standing by it on the open tailgate waved. When it had passed, and with it the diminishing roar of its engines, they could hear the sound of sporadic gunfire from beyond the buildings. Perhaps some Taliban had survived the Gatling gun and were taking pot shots at Spooky. If they were, it was of little consequence. The squadron had been outnumbered six or seven to one when they arrived. That had surely been reversed by now.

Stratton, Jones and the others in his team spread out in an extended line and advanced on the complex. The rest of the squadron made its way out of the riverbed and, in another extended line, advanced a dozen or so metres behind them.

The gunfire continued. Raptor reported no sign of life immediately around any of the buildings. A handful of
stragglers were making a late dash into the valley but showed no interest in the buildings – as if they knew the enemy was closing in. There were a lot of bodies lying on the plain. Their thermal images would remain warm for several hours. Light bundles on a dark background. A couple of them appeared to move, suggesting they were wounded. All of this information got passed through the communications system to the team commanders. But not even the Raptor could see inside the buildings, where the main caution was required.

The approach to the complex was stony. Stratton did wonder if the ground might be mined – always the biggest concern anywhere in Afghanistan. The concept had been discussed in the operation’s planning stage but had been discounted. The Taliban were not beyond booby-trapping their own facilities. On the contrary, several special forces operatives had died in recent times and many more had been severely injured by such devices in encampments that were detonated while in the middle of an attack. From the information they had received about the complex, Stratton had accepted it would not be the case here. Communications and eye-in-the-sky monitoring had revealed a laxness in the Taliban’s security procedures, suggesting a confidence in the remoteness of the place. It was never something you could predict for sure, so it remained at the back of his mind.

As he walked across the open ground he felt for his pistol in its holster at his hip. Then he checked his chest harness, by feel, making sure the grenades he carried were
where they needed to be. Conventional ops usually required a standard shrag grenade. But due to the need to preserve the interiors, Stratton’s entry team also carried stun grenades. It was useful not to get them mixed up. Wheeland for one would be most displeased if Stratton destroyed the Taliban operations room.

Stratton led the approach to the corner of the first building. His team spread further to his flank so that they didn’t bunch at the corner. Wheeland and Spinter were only metres behind.

He turned the corner as Spooky flew past a few hundred metres away and let rip another long burst onto the valley floor to clean up the few individuals crazy enough to be taking pot shots at it.

Smoke drifted along the front of the complex towards Stratton, mostly from the burning trucks destroyed by Spooky. He could see half a dozen Hilux pick-ups among the wreckage, all totalled. Dead bodies lay around. All wore Afghan clothes: long shirts, cotton trousers, heavy wool scarves and shawls. Turbans. Pakuls. Sandals. Boots. AK-47 assault rifles lay scattered among them. He saw charred and burning bodies inside several of the vehicles.

Outside the main building the Taliban had erected a tall pole, topped with an array of antennas. A thick coaxial cable led from its base, along the ground and into the end house through a window. Stratton moved slowly along the front of the building under the windows, which were so high he barely had to duck to pass beneath them without exposing himself to anyone who might be inside.

The large front door was ajar. Jones moved in closer in support and Stratton let his assault rifle hang from its harness as he took hold of his pistol. It didn’t have the same penetration power as the rifle, but in room-clearing, he preferred the speed of engagement a pistol gave him. Jones preferred the rifle for its stopping power.

Charlie and the others came in tightly behind them.

Stratton took a moment to listen. It was hard to hear anything above the sound of the fires burning all around. Nothing was coming from inside. He stepped in through the doorway and moved away from the opening so as not to be silhouetted. Jones did the same a second behind him.

The two of them found themselves standing in a lobby. They saw several toppled chairs. A couple of AK-47 assault rifles on the floor, along with discarded magazines and several bullets. Two doors either side of the lobby led into opposite rooms. A soft noise came from one of them. A hissing sound. Like an out-of-tune television set.

Stratton stepped to the doorway and Jones followed. Charlie and the other operators moved quietly into the lobby. Two of them went to the opposite doorway. Stratton stepped through the half-open door, closely followed by Jones, their guns at the ready while they scanned every inch of the room. It was a mess. All the signs of a hasty evacuation. Totally void of man, dead or alive. Against a wall a long bench covered with communications equipment, several laptop computers, a printer and scanner, and bits and pieces of things Stratton didn’t readily recognise.
On a shelf above, DVD players, CD copiers and a couple of digital video cameras.

There was a safe on the floor directly in front of him, its door open. Money spilled out in front of it. A few thousand US dollars and euros. There were some papers inside. Boxes of spilled paperwork were everywhere. A radio scanner was on. The static noise they’d heard from outside was coming from a speaker beside the scanner.

Spooky flew low past the building and the single remaining unbroken window rattled. A moment later the sound of its 40mm cannon stuttered in the distance, followed by explosions. Communications over the network revealed it was still chasing fleeing Taliban.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ Wheeland said, putting his gun down onto the bench. ‘You can leave. Now. If you don’t mind.’ His tone was suddenly far harsher than it had been.

Spinter stepped in behind him. ‘The other room’s clean,’ he said.

‘This is the operations room,’ Wheeland said.

Jones looked at Stratton, waiting for the word from
his
boss.

Stratton headed for the door, and Jones followed. Spinter moved aside to let them pass.

Stratton paused to look back at the spooks. They were already focused on the room. Spinter glanced back to see Stratton watching him and closed the door in his face.

Stratton stood in the lobby, annoyed with Wheeland’s sudden aggressive attitude, not really listening. But they weren’t trying to hide what they were saying.

‘It has to be in here,’ he heard Spinter say.

‘We know it’s here,’ Wheeland said, correcting. ‘Rohami made a call from this room yesterday. He told the general that he had the codes and would deliver them to Bagram.’

Stratton felt a tad guilty for eavesdropping – Wheeland would be justifiably pissed off if he knew. Stratton walked outside.

Jones and the others were waiting for him. The rest of the squadron were clearing the other buildings. It would appear that none of the Taliban had remained inside the complex. They all knew the consequences of not fleeing. The Taliban showed no pity to Western forces whenever they captured any alive. And they had learned over the years that as a result of their own ruthlessness, some Westerners had grown less inclined to take prisoners themselves, unless they specifically wanted to.

Spooky remained in the far distance. Flying low, following the inside curve of the mountains. It had only one thing left to do and was waiting for the ground forces to move out before completing its mission.

‘That was short and sweet,’ Jones said. ‘Hardly worth it, if you ask me. I thought it was all about wasting a Taliban command structure, but now I reckon that was secondary. These spooks are the real reason we’re here. Isn’t that right?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Charlie piped up. He never spoke much. Not just because he was junior to Jones and Stratton. He wasn’t much of a talker at the best of times. But when he did talk, he usually had something useful to say. ‘We never
lost anyone. Not even a twisted ankle. And we wasted a lot of Talibuts.’

It was a valid enough point that no one could argue with.

‘Aye,’ Jones said. ‘It was a good couple of days out. A nice walk. A bit of fresh air. And a little bit of horse play at the end of it.’

Stratton walked away from the building into the open ground and looked out over the plain. The sun was easing its way over the jagged mountains to his left, the light bathing the valley floor and the dozens of dead bodies spread out in front of him. The hard ground had been chewed up by the gunship.

A gentle wind blew, toying with Stratton’s clothes and those of the dead men around him. Most of them looked like they’d been hit by at least a couple of the rounds from Spooky’s Gatling gun. A bloody mess.

He noticed a metal box lying beside one of the dead Afghans, his eyes attracted to the flapping paper sticking from it. He took a few steps closer. The box looked robust, the size of a shoebox, with large brass hinges. It had been hit and the lid was partly open.

Stratton crouched to get a better look. He picked it up. Inside the box was a booklet. The pages fluttered in the breeze. It was a typeset document written in Urdu. He couldn’t read the text but he’d seen it often enough to be able to tell the difference. He began flicking through the booklet, seeing in the middle a page of letters and numbers in bolder, larger font than the rest. It looked like a code of some kind.

As he examined the document he was aware of footsteps approaching. He looked round as a hand shoved him forcefully away while another grabbed the box and booklet at the same time.

‘Where the hell did you get that?’ growled Wheeland. ‘Did you take it from the operations room?’

‘You know I didn’t,’ he said, squaring up to the spook. Spinter appeared and raised his weapon, aiming it at Stratton’s face.

Stratton’s blood came up at Spinter’s audacity. ‘Lower your weapon or I’ll shove it up your arse,’ he said.

‘You stick your nose in places you shouldn’t, Stratton,’ Wheeland said as he examined the papers. ‘You should know better than most that’s not a wise thing to do.’

Jones placed the end of his assault rifle inside Spinter’s ear. ‘If you don’t lower your weapon away from my friend, there’s going to be a sudden case of death by friendly fire.’