Kill Zone (A Spider Shepherd Short Story)

KILL
ZONE

By Stephen Leather

****

October 2002.

Afghanistan.

Spider Shepherd
squatted on his heels outside his tent, drinking his first brew of the day from
a battered mug as he watched the wind stirring dust devils from the dirt floor
of the compound. The dust covered every surface, leaving everything as brown
and drab as the wintry Afghan hills that surrounded him. Unshaven and wearing a
tee-shirt and fatigues worn and sun-faded from long use, Shepherd drank the
last of his brew and tossed the dregs into the dirt. ‘Why does a brew never
taste right out here?’ he asked.

Sitting next to
him with his legs outstretched was Geordie Mitchell, an SAS medic who was a
couple of years older than Shepherd. ‘That’d be one of those rhetorical
questions, would it?’ said Geordie. He had a floppy hat pulled low over his
head. His hair was thinning and his scalp was always the first area to burn
under the hot Afghan sun.

Shepherd stood up
and stretched. ‘It just never tastes right, that’s all.’

‘It’s because we
use bottled water, plus the altitude we’re at affects the boiling point of the
water, plus the milk is crap. Plus the sand gets everywhere.’ Geordie stood up
and looked at his watch, a rugged Rolex Submariner. ‘Soon be time for morning
prayers,’ he said.

The two men
strolled across the compound, their AK47s hanging on slings on their backs. They
heard raised voices at the entrance to the compound and headed in that
direction.

They found a
young SAS officer, Captain Todd, in the middle of a furious altercation with the
guard at the gates. Like all the Regiment’s officers, Harry Todd had been
seconded to the SAS from his own regiment for a three-year tour of duty, and
was on his first trip with them.
 
He’d only been in Afghanistan for two months and he was finding it tough
going. As if his Oxford, Sandhurst and The Guards background was not already
enough to raise hackles among the men he nominally led, Todd’s blond hair
flopped over his eyes like a poor man’s Hugh Grant and, despite his youth, his
nervous habit of clearing his throat made him sound like some ancient brigadier
harrumphing over the Daily Telegraph in the Army & Navy Club.

Shepherd had
managed to avoid the Captain so far, which suited him just fine. The Major had
realised that Todd was going to be an awkward fit and soon after he’d arrived
he had detached him from the Squadron to the Intelligence Clearing Centre,
largely with the aim of keeping him from getting under everybody’s feet. The
Clearing Centre was where all the intelligence received was collated and
evaluated. It came from a variety of sources; satellite and drone surveillance
imagery, communication intercepts from GCHQ, and humint – human
intelligence – in all its varied forms, from “eyes on” information from
SAS observation posts right down to tip-offs of often dubious value from
assorted spies, grasses and ordinary Afghans with grudges against their
neighbours.
  
Todd’s job was
to sift the intelligence as it came in and then brief the OC - the Boss - at
the morning prayers held at 0800 every day. Like documents passing across some
bureaucrat’s desk, the intelligence was divided into three categories: “For
Immediate Action” that might be acted on within hours or even minutes;
“Pending”, for events that might be coming up in the near future; and “File For
Future Use”. Documents in the latter category often disappeared into the back
of a filing cabinet and never saw the light of day again. Much of his work was
humdrum and routine, but Todd had clearly been looking for an opportunity to
show his worth and by the look of it, he had decided that today was the day.

Todd was standing
next to an Afghan in a black dishdasha, with an AK 74 slung across his back.
Initially Shepherd was more interested in the weapon than the Afghan - its
orange plastic furniture and magazine made it easy to identify as the updated
and improved version of the ubiquitous AK47, and it was an unusual weapon for
an Afghan to be carrying.

As Shepherd and
Geordie walked over, the Afghan turned to look at them. He had the hook-nosed profile,
sun and wind-burned skin, and dark beard and hair of a typical Afghan, but he
had a distinguishing feature that Shepherd noticed at once - though his right
eye was hazel, the pupil of his left one was a strange, milky white, almost
opalescent colour.

Todd was
haranguing two armed guards at the entrance who appeared to be refusing to
allow the Captain and the Afghan into the compound. ‘I’ll have you on a charge
for this, I’m warning you!’ said Todd.

‘What’s the
problem, Captain?’ Geordie said.

‘This guard is
refusing to let us into the compound,’ Todd said, flicking his hair from his
eyes.

Geordie grinned. ‘That’s
probably because you’ve got an armed and unknown Afghan with you,’ he
said.
 
He didn’t call the officer
‘sir.’
 
That was the SAS way. No saluting
and no honorifics, though the Major was always referred to as ‘Boss’.

‘This man is
Ahmad Khan, a Surrendered Enemy Personnel,’ said the Captain.

‘Well, that
doesn’t carry too much weight in these parts,’ said Geordie. ‘I can tell you
from my own experience that SEPs are like junkies - they’re only with you long
enough to get their next fix: cash, weapons, whatever, and then they’re gone
again. With respect, Captain, no experienced guy would trust an SEP as far as
he could throw him.’

Todd glared at the
medic. ‘This man has vital intelligence I need to put before the Boss and I am
not going to exclude him from the compound just because of your prejudice
against SEPs and perhaps Afghans in general.’

Shepherd could
see that Geordie was close to giving the officer a piece of his mind, and while
he preferred not to get involved, he figured that he should at least try to
defuse the situation.
 
‘It’s not
about prejudice,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘It’s based on bitter
experience. We’ve had more than our fair share of green on blue attacks out
here.’
 
He pointed at the Afghan’s
rifle. ‘One: He’s carrying a loaded AK74. Only the top guys in the Taliban
carry them. So he’s not some tribesman picking up a few extra dollars for
fighting the faranji invaders, he’s one of their leaders. Two: This is a secure
compound. Not even a Brit would get in here without being vetted or vouched
for, and yet you’re trying to bring an armed Taliban fighter in here.’

Geordie pointed a
finger at the officer. ‘The thing is, Captain, you’re not only jeopardising the
safety of everyone here, but you’d better watch your own back, because I’d take
odds that he’d rub you out if he thought he could get away with it.’

‘Your comments
are noted,’ Todd said, barely keeping the fury from his voice. ‘Now step aside,
the OC needs to hear what he has to say.’

The two guards
– both paratroopers – stood their ground, their weapons in the
ready position.

‘With the
greatest of respect, Captain, they’re not going to let you in while your SEP
has a loaded weapon,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if he unloads his weapon and leaves
the magazine and his ammunition belt with the guards, he can probably be
allowed into the compound. He can pick them up again on his way out.’

Ahmad Khan looked
to Todd for guidance, then shrugged and began unloading his AK 74, but he
glared at Shepherd, clearly unhappy.

‘Do you speak
English?’ Geordie asked the Afghan.

‘Enough,’ said
the man, handing his ammunition belt and magazine to one of the paratroopers.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ahmad Khan.’

‘Well, Ahmad
Khan, you’d better be on your best behaviour while you’re here because we’ll be
watching you.’

The Afghan
smiled. ‘Do I scare you, soldier? Is that it?’ He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I can
see the fear in your eyes.’ He chuckled.

‘You don’t scare
me, mate,’ said Geordie. ‘I’ve slotted more than my fair share of guys like
you.’

The Afghan gave a
mirthless smile. ‘Tread carefully, my friend. We Afghans are a proud people. We
don’t give in to threats, nor tolerate insults to our honour.’

‘Leave it,
Geordie,’ said Shepherd, putting a hand on the medic’s shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt
anyone now.’ He nodded at the Captain. ‘Morning prayers are about to start,’ he
said.

Shepherd and
Geordie walked away from the entrance as the two paratroopers stepped aside to
allow the Captain and the Afghan to enter.
 
They caught up with Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, an SAS trooper who
had been on selection with Shepherd four years earlier.

‘What’s up with
Goldilocks?’ asked Jimbo as Shepherd and Geordie fell into step with him.
‘Porridge too cold?’

‘He’s come in
with an SEP,’ Shepherd said. ‘And because the guy speaks English, Todd thinks
he’s some sort of Deep Throat in a dishdasha.’

Jimbo gave a
weary shake of his head. ‘Typical fucking Rupert,’ he said. ‘They always think
locals who can speak English must be trustworthy.’

They walked up to
the HQ - a grandiose name for the mud-brick building shielded by berms and
banks of sandbags, that served as camp office, briefing room, and sleeping
quarters for the officers. They filed through the doorway and along a corridor
with a series of small, dark rooms opening off it, lit only by narrow windows
high up in the walls. There was no furniture in the rooms, just mattresses on
the floor with personal belongings kept in plastic bags hanging from nails
hammered into the walls. At the far end was a larger space, the office and
briefing room, with two trestle tables pushed together in the centre of the
room and the walls and every available surface covered with maps, documents and
surveillance photographs.

There were
already half a dozen troopers there and the three men flopped down into empty
chairs.
 
Major Allan Gannon
appeared and took his place at the head of the table. He was a big man with
wide shoulders and a nose that had been broken at least twice.
 
The Major looked at his watch just as
Captain Todd appeared.
 
The Captain
nodded at the Major. ‘Sorry, Boss,’ he said.

‘No problem,’
said The Major.

The Captain led
the morning prayers, giving his intelligence briefing including outlining
possible targets on satellite surveillance photographs. When he’d finished, he
folded his arms and looked at the Major. ‘I have some very interesting human
intel that I want to take advantage of,’ he said to the Major. ‘I have access
to an SEP who has just defected.
 
He’s on the compound as we speak. But Ahmad Khan has not only defected
himself, he has persuaded the rest of his group of twenty Taliban fighters to
surrender as well.
 
I need an escort.
All his fighters want is five hundred US dollars each and the guarantee of safe
conduct that your presence will provide.’

The Major raised
his eyebrows. ‘Where has this come from?’

‘He walked up to
an Afghan Army patrol and gave himself up. He said he wanted to speak to the
Brits.’

‘And not the
Yanks?’ said The Major.

‘He says he
doesn’t trust the Americans.’

‘Is that so? And
what is he exactly? A Taliban fighter?’

‘He was a sniper,
but he’s been trained in explosives and IEDs.’

‘Has he now?’

‘Boss, this
stinks to high Heaven,’ said Geordie.
 
‘If this was genuine then his men would have come in with him.’

‘He thinks there
is a risk to their safety if they come in on their own. His men fear that the
Afghans might be trigger-happy. They want an escort to bring them in.’

‘Boss, I wouldn’t
trust this raghead as far as I can throw him,’ said Geordie. ‘I certainly won’t
be taking a trip up the road with him.’

‘That sort of
language is unacceptable,’ said the Captain.

‘What sort of
language?’ asked Geordie.

‘You know what
I’m talking about,’ said the Captain. He looked over at the Major, obviously
hoping for his support.

‘I think we do
need to tread carefully,’ said the Major.

‘Talk about into
the lion’s den,’ said Jimbo. ‘For all we know, he could be setting up an
ambush.’

‘I’ve spoken to
the man, I can vouch for him,’ said Todd.

‘Then you can go
and bring in his men,’ said Geordie.

‘You can’t trust
these guys,’ said Jock McIntyre, his voice a Glaswegian growl. Jock was a
twelve-year veteran of the SAS and had been a Para for eight years before that.
In all he had five times as much experience as the Captain, and both men knew
it. ‘If they switch sides once, they’ll do it again. And I wouldn’t want them
in the compound with guns in their hands.’

Captain Todd was
faced with a row of nodding heads and his lips tightened into a thin white
line. Although he outranked them, Todd had already discovered that in the SAS,
respect was given only to skill and battlefield experience, not to stripes on
the sleeve or pips on the shoulder.