‘Maybe,’ said the man in the left-hand seat. He was Steve Morris, the flying officer in command, in his early forties with greying hair. Sitting next to him was Pilot Officer Denis Donoghue, in his thirties with ginger hair, cut short. ‘What do you think, Denis?’
‘The sniper was moving just before it hit. If he was quick enough he might have made it out. We got your two guys, guaranteed. Don’t think they knew what hit them.’
‘What about IR?’ asked Shepherd.
Donoghue reached out and clicked a switch. The image on the main screen changed to a greenish hue. They could just about make out the ruins of the building. ‘Not much help, I’m afraid,’ said Donoghue. ‘There isn’t a lot left when you get a direct hit from a Hellfire.’
‘Can we scan the surrounding area?’
Morris turned his joystick to the right. ‘No problem,’ he said. The drone banked to the right and so did the picture on the main screen in the middle of the display. The two screens to the left of it showed satellite images and maps, and above them was a tracker screen that indicated the location of the Predator. Below that was the head-up display that showed a radar ground image. But they were all staring at the main screen. Donoghue pulled the camera back, giving them a wider view of the area, still using the infrared camera.
The drone was an MQ-9, better known as the Predator B. Hunter-killer, built by General Atomics Aeronautical Systems at a cost of close to 17 million dolalars. It had a 950-shaft-horsepower turboprop engine, a twenty-metre wingspan, a maximum speed of 300 m.p.h. and a range of a little more than a thousand miles. It could fly loaded for fourteen hours up to a height of fifteen thousand metres, carrying four Hellfire air-to-surface missiles and two Paveway laser-guided bombs.
One of the Hellfires had taken out the building, specifically an AGM-114P Hellfire II, specially designed to be fired from a high-altitude drone. The Hellfire air-to-surface missile was developed for tank-hunting and the nickname came from its initial designation of Helicopter Launched, Fire and Forget Missile. But the armed forces of the West soon realised that, when fired from a high-flying drone, the Hellfire could be a potent assassination tool for taking out high-value targets. It was the Israelis who had first used it against an individual when their air force killed Hamas leader Ahmed Yassin in 2004. But the Americans and British had taken the technique to a whole new level, using it to great effect in Pakistan, Somalia, Iraq and Syria. Among the terrorists killed by Hellfire missiles launched from drones were Al-Shabaab leader Ahmed Abdi Godane, and British-born Islamic State terrorist Mohammed Emwazi, also known as Jihadi John.
The Hellfire missile was efficient and, at less than a hundred thousand dollars a shot, cost-effective. It was just over five feet long, had a range of eight thousand metres and carried a nine-kilogram shaped charge that was more than capable of taking out a tank. It was, however, less effective against a stone building. While there was no doubt that the men on the roof would have died instantly, the sniper might well have survived, if he had made it outside.
Shepherd twisted in his seat. Alex Shaw, the mission coordinator, was sitting at his desk in front of six flat-screen monitors. He was in his early thirties with a receding hairline and wire-framed spectacles. ‘What do you think, Alex? Did we get him?’
‘I’d love to say yes, Spider, but there’s no doubt he was moving.’ He shrugged. ‘He could have got downstairs and out before the missile hit but he’d have to have been moving fast.’
Shepherd wrinkled his nose. The primary target had been a British jihadist, Ruhul Khan and it had been Khan they had spent four hours following until he had reached the roof. It was only when the sniper had unpacked his rifle that Shepherd realised what the men were up to. While the death of the British jihadist meant the operation had been a success, it was frustrating not to know if they’d succeeded in taking out the sniper.
Shaw stood up and stretched, then walked over to stand by Shepherd. Donoghue had switched the camera back to regular HD. There were several pick-up trucks racing away from the ruins of the building, and a dozen or so men running towards it. None of the men on the ground looked like the sniper. It was possible he’d made it to a truck, but unlikely. And if he had made it, there was no way of identifying him from the air.
‘We’ll hang around and wait for the smoke to clear,’ said Shaw. ‘They might pull out the bodies. Muslims like to bury their dead within twenty-four hours.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Time for a quick smoke.’
‘Just give me a minute or two, will you, Alex?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Let’s see if we can work out what the sniper was aiming at.’
‘No problem,’ said Shaw, dropping back into his seat.
‘Start at about three hundred metres and work out,’ said Shepherd.
‘Are you on it, Steve?’ asked Shaw.
‘Heading two-five-zero,’ said Morris, slowly moving his joystick. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘Anything a sniper might be interested in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Military installation. Army patrol. Government building.’
‘It’s mainly residential,’ said Donoghue, peering at the main screen.
Shepherd stared at the screen. Donoghue was right. The area was almost all middle-class homes, many with well-tended gardens. Finding out who the occupants were would be next to impossible, and there were dozens of houses within the sniper’s range. There was movement at the top of the screen. Five vehicles, travelling fast. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
Donoghue changed the camera and zoomed in on the convoy. Two army jeeps in front of a black SUV with tinted windows, followed by an army truck with a heavy machine-gun mounted on the top followed by a troop-carrier. ‘That’s someone important, right enough,’ said Donoghue.
Shepherd nodded. ‘How far from where the sniper was?’
‘A mile or so.’ Donoghue wrinkled his nose. ‘That’s a bit far, isn’t it?’
‘Not for a good one,’ said Shepherd. ‘And he looked as if he knew what he was doing.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘They’re probably running because of the explosion. Whoever that guy is, he’ll probably never know how close he came to taking a bullet.’
‘Or that HM Government saved his bacon,’ said Shaw. He grinned. ‘Well, not bacon, obviously.’
‘Can we get back to the house, see if the smoke’s cleared?’ said Shepherd. He stood and went over to Shaw’s station. ‘Can you get me close-ups of the sniper and his gun?’
‘No problem. It’ll take a few minutes. I’m not sure how good the images will be.’
‘We’ve got technical guys who can clean them up,’ said Shepherd.
‘Denis, could you handle that for our guest?’ said Shaw, then to Shepherd: ‘Thumb drive okay?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Put a selection of images on a thumb drive, Denis, while I pop out for a smoke.’ Shaw pushed himself up out of his chair.
‘I’m on it,’ said Donoghue.
Shaw opened a door and Shepherd followed him out. The unit was based in a container, the same size and shape as the ones used to carry goods on ships. There were two in a large hangar. Both were a dull yellow, with rubber wheels at either end so that they could be moved around, and large air-conditioning units attached to keep the occupants cool. The hangar was at RAF Waddington, four miles south of the city of Lincoln.
Shaw headed for the hangar entrance as he lit a cigarette. On the wall by the door was the badge of 13th Squadron – a lynx’s head in front of a dagger – and a motto: ADJUVAMUS TUENDO, ‘We Assist by Watching’. It was something of a misnomer as the squadron did much more than watch. Shaw blew smoke at the mid-morning sky. ‘It was like he had a sixth sense, wasn’t it? The way that sniper moved.’
‘Could he have heard the drone?’
Shaw flashed him an admonishing look. The men of 13th Squadron didn’t refer to the Predators as drones. They were RPAs, remotely piloted aircraft. Shepherd supposed it was because without the word ‘pilot’ in there somewhere, they might be considered surplus to requirements. Shepherd grinned and corrected himself. ‘RPA. Could he have heard the RPA?’
‘Not at the height we were at,’ said Shaw.
‘Must have spotters then, I guess.’
‘The two men with him were eyes on the target. They weren’t checking the sky.’
‘I meant other spotters. Somewhere else. In communication with him via radio or phone.’
‘I didn’t see any of them using phones or radios,’ said Shaw.
‘True,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he could have a phone set to vibrate. The phone vibrates, he grabs his gun and runs.’
‘Without warning his pals?’
‘He could have shouted as he ran. They froze. Bang.’
‘Our target was one of the guys with him. The Brit. Why are you so concerned about the one that got away?’
‘Usually snipers have just one spotter,’ said Shepherd. ‘Their job is to protect the sniper and help him by calling the wind and noting the shots. That guy had two. Plus it looks like there were more protecting him from a distance. That suggests to me he’s a valuable Islamic State resource. One of their best snipers. If he got away, I’d like at least to have some intel on him.’
‘The Brit who was with him. How long have you been on his tail?’
‘Khan’s been on our watch list since he entered Syria a year ago. He’s been posting some very nasty stuff on Facebook and Twitter.’
‘It was impressive the way you spotted him coming out of the mosque. I couldn’t tell him apart from the other men there.’
‘I’m good at recognising people, close up and from a distance.’
‘No question of that. I thought we were wasting our time when he got in that truck but then they picked up the sniper and went up on the roof. Kudos. But how did you spot him?’
‘Face partly. I’d seen his file in London and I never forget a face. But I can recognise body shapes too, the way people move, the way they hold themselves. That was more how I spotted Khan.’
‘And what is he? British-born Asian who got radicalised?’
‘In a nutshell,’ said Shepherd. ‘A year ago he was a computer-science student in Bradford. Dad’s a doctor, a GP. Mum’s a social worker. Go figure.’
‘I don’t understand it, do you? What the hell makes kids throw away their lives here and go to fight in the bloody desert?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s a form of brainwashing, if you ask me. Islamic State is a cult. And like any cult they can get their believers to do pretty much anything they want.’
Shaw blew smoke at the ground and watched it disperse in the wind. ‘What sort of religion is it that says booze and bacon are bad things?’ he said. ‘How can anyone in their right mind believe for one moment that a God, any God, has a thing about alcohol and pork? And that women should be kept covered and shackled? And that old men should have sex with underage girls? It’s fucking mad, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so. But it’s not peculiar to Islam. Jews can’t eat pork. Or seafood. And orthodox Jews won’t work on the Sabbath.’
‘Hey, I’m not singling out the Muslims,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s all religions. We’ve got a Sikh guy in the regiment. Sukhwinder, his name is, so you can imagine the ribbing he takes. Lovely guy. Bloody good airman. But he wears a turban, doesn’t cut his hair and always has to have his ceremonial dagger on him. I’ve asked him, does he really believe God wants him not to cut his hair and to wear a silly hat?’ Shaw grinned. ‘Didn’t use those exact words, obviously. He said, yeah, he believed it.’ He took another pull on his cigarette. ‘So here’s the thing. Great guy. Great airman. A true professional. But if he really, truly, honestly believes that God wants him to grow his hair long, he’s got mental-health issues. Seriously. He’s as fucking mad as those nutters in the desert. If he truly believes God is telling him not to cut his hair, how do I know that one day his God won’t tell him to pick up a rifle and blast away at non-believers? I don’t, right? How the hell can you trust someone who allows a fictional entity to dictate their actions?’
‘The world would be a much better place without religion – is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying people should be allowed to believe in anything they want. Hell, there are still people who believe the earth is flat, despite all the evidence to the contrary. But the moment that belief starts to impact on others …’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just want the world to be a nicer, friendlier place and it’s not, and it feels to me it’s religion that’s doing the damage. That and sex.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Sex?’
‘Haven’t you noticed? The more relaxed a country is about sex, the less violent they are. The South Americans, they hardly ever go to war.’
‘Argentina? The Falklands?’
‘That was more of a misunderstanding than a war. But you know what I mean. If you’re a young guy in Libya or Iraq or Pakistan, your chances of getting laid outside marriage are slim to none. They cover their women from head to toe, for a start. So all that male testosterone is swilling around with nowhere to go. Of course they’re going to get ultra-violent.’
‘So we should be sending hookers to Iraq and Libya, not troops?’
‘I’m just saying, if these Islamic State guys got laid more often they wouldn’t be going around chopping off so many heads. If Khan had been getting regular sex with a fit bird in Bradford, I doubt he’d be in such a rush to go fighting in the desert.’
‘It’s an interesting theory,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if I were you I’d keep it to myself.’
‘Yeah, they took away our suggestions box years ago,’ said Shaw. He flicked away the remains of his cigarette. ‘I’ll get you your thumb drive and you can be on your way.’
They went back inside the container. Donoghue had the thumb drive ready and handed it to Shepherd, who thanked him and studied the main screen. The dust and smoke had pretty much dispersed. The roof and upper floor had been reduced to rubble but the ground floor was still standing. ‘No sign of any bodies?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Anything on the roof would have been vaporised, pretty much,’ said Morris. ‘If there was anyone on the ground floor, we won’t know until they start clearing up, and at the moment that’s not happening. They’re keeping their distance. Probably afraid we’ll let fly a second missile. We can hang around for a few hours but I won’t be holding my breath.’