Authors: Chris Ryan
Fifty metres to the Land Rover. Danny went to ground again. Waited. No sound. No movement. He pushed on. Now that he was close to the Land Rover, Danny flipped up his NV goggles. It was old, creamy beige in colour and had certainly seen better days. The bodywork was dented and rusted. The rear windscreen had a jagged crack along the centre and it stank of oil and petrol. Bizarrely, one of the side windows had a peeling Arsenal sticker on the inside. The vehicle was facing away from the village. Danny positioned himself at its front, where he kneeled down and unfurled the detonation wire from each Claymore. The mines were about twenty centimetres by ten and slightly curved at one end. This convex face was embossed with the words ‘Front Toward Enemy’. Claymores being directional, you wanted to be very sure you were orientating them correctly, hence the kindergarten-style instruction. As every training officer he’d ever come across was so keen on saying: keep it simple, stupid. Not that this was a guarantee of success. Danny had heard stories of American troops in Vietnam laying Claymores to snare the enemy, only for the Vietcong to creep out under cover of night and reverse the direction of the mines. Being peppered by 700 steel balls moving at 1200 metres per second was a bad way to go.
Danny placed the Claymores two metres in front of the Land Rover, their convex sides facing it. He unwound each detonation wire, held the clacker at each end and moved these into position 100 metres to the north-east of the village. After laying them carefully on the ground, he returned to the vehicle.
Moment of truth.
Danny removed his cutting tool from his belt kit and crouched down to feel under the Land Rover’s engine. It took him less than ten seconds to locate the fuel line. The tool cut through the metal tube like it wasn’t even there. Danny felt petrol drip on to his hand and the fumes immediately hit his nose. He returned the cutting tool to his belt kit and swapped it for his dad’s old Zippo. He sparked it up and touched the flame to the dripping fuel. And then he ran.
Danny followed the Claymores’ det wires. He’d run fifty metres by the time he heard an explosion behind him. He glanced once over his shoulder – flames were already licking from the Land Rover’s engine – before reaching the clackers ten seconds later and throwing himself to the ground. He pulled his spotting scope from his belt kit and quickly got a visual on his diversion.
It took half a minute for the militants to emerge. Two of them, to start with. They looked perplexed and loitered for a moment some five metres from the blazing vehicle, their AKs strapped across their bodies, before one of them turned towards the village, put his hand to his mouth and shouted something. Thirty seconds later three more men emerged. Although Danny couldn’t hear them, he could tell they were shouting at each other. Arguing.
And all the time moving closer to the Land Rover.
With one hand he felt for the clackers. The militant closest to the vehicle was two metres from it. The furthest about seven, and getting nearer.
Just a little closer
, Danny thought.
Five metres.
They were bunched up.
One of them pushed another in the chest. They were definitely arguing. No point waiting for the row to split them up. If he could take out all five in one hit, the rest of the job would be a lot more straightforward.
He squeezed the clackers.
The sound of the Claymores erupting echoed across the desert. The Land Rover exploded and a flurry of body parts showered around it, but Danny had already panned his scope to the right. It took just a few seconds for him to see three hunched silhouettes, about thirty metres from the edge of the village, sprinting towards it now that the signal to advance – the detonation of the Claymores – had been given. Danny got to his feet, flicked the selector switch of his M4 to automatic and sprinted towards the village to join his mates.
They had to move fast. As soon as the militants realised they were under attack, the hostages would be in even greater danger than they were already. When he was twenty-five metres from the main building, Danny saw a figure at the entrance. He raised his weapon and lined up the scope. AK-47. Bandolier. Danny lined the weapon up with the militant’s chest and squeezed a short burst. The target hit the ground and Danny picked up pace again.
He reached the building ten seconds later. Boydie was waiting for him, standing to the right of the entrance, his back against the wall, a flashbang in his hand. Danny took up position on the opposite side of the open door and held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
Boydie threw the flashbang into the building. Danny steeled himself for the explosion. It came within a split second – a burst of light and a deafening crack that would disorientate anybody in there. Boydie entered first, NV in place, weapon engaged. Danny did the same.
The building comprised a single room some ten metres by fifteen. Beds along one side, otherwise empty of furniture. It was full of smoke from the flashbang, but through his NV Danny counted three militants, all of them crouched on the ground, hands over their ears. They were in a neat little row, three metres apart and about eight metres from Danny’s position. ‘Go left!’ Boydie shouted, and Danny knew what he meant. He directed his weapon at the crouching figure on the left and delivered a second burst of fire. The figure shuddered with the impact of the rounds, then fell still. Boydie had gone right, nailing a second militant just as quickly. Which left only one.
Boydie strode towards him, his weapon aimed directly at his head.
‘
Kam antun?
’ he asked.
How many men are you?
The militant didn’t answer. There was a harsh, arrogant look on his face.
‘
Kam antun?
’
Still no reply.
Danny loosened the ivory-handled knife in his belt.
A man always has need of a good knife, kiddo.
He strode towards the militant, whose attention was all on Boydie, and grabbed his right hand. With a sudden, brutal thrust, he slammed the exquisitely sharp point of the knife between the tendons that led to the man’s third and fourth fingers. At first the militant only gasped. When Danny twisted the knife forty-five degrees, hitting the nerve endings, the man screamed.
‘
Kam antun
?
’ Danny hissed.
‘
Hamastash . . .
’ the man squealed.
Fifteen.
That was all they needed. Boydie fired a single shot into the militant’s head and he slumped to the floor. Then he turned to Danny, saying, ‘Those MREs did their job. Quite the fucking psycho tonight, aren’t we?’
‘We didn’t seem to be getting very far. That’s eight men down by my count.’
Boydie spoke over the radio. ‘Seven men still standing,’ he reported to Tommo and Five Bellies.
From outside the building came four more bursts of fire. ‘Make that three,’ Tommo reported.
‘Any sign of the hostages?’
‘Negative.’
Boydie and Danny stepped outside, panning their weapons left and right. A terrible silence had fallen on the encampment, broken only by the crackle of the burning Land Rover. Boydie jabbed one finger eastwards, indicating that Danny should take that side of the building. Danny followed the patrol leader’s instruction, feeling the heat from the vehicle just ten metres to his left. He covered the five metres to the corner of the building. To his right there was a passageway, two metres wide, formed by the wall of the building and a smaller outhouse. Danny swung round, his weapon aimed down the passageway, his trigger finger ready. The passageway extended eight or nine metres, but it was empty.
Suddenly, to Danny’s eight o’clock, somewhere behind him on the other side of the outhouse, he heard the coughing of a car engine. He heard Five Bellies’ voice in his ear: ‘They’re doing a runner!’
The sound of the car moved south, towards the burning Land Rover. ‘I got it,’ Danny said. He spun round 180 degrees and, using the wall of the outhouse for cover, looked out towards the conflagration. He was just in time to see the open-topped technical speed away from the eastern side of the village. High acceleration – he had just two seconds before it disappeared behind the cover of the Land Rover. Four figures in the back. Silhouettes only. Insufficient time to verify, if he was about to open fire on the hostages. He lowered his rifle and discharged a long burst towards the technical’s rear left tyre. The vehicle skidded badly on the desert earth, then came to a halt.
Danny threw himself back into the passageway. Just in time. The response from the .50-cal was thunderous, the rounds blasting a chunk from the corner of the building he and Boydie had just left. Sweating profusely, Danny pressed his back to the wall. ‘Tyre’s out,’ he reported into his boom mike. His voice sounded high-pitched. Wired.
‘Tommo, Five, draw their fire,’ Boydie ordered.
Almost immediately Danny heard a burst of rifle fire from the other side of the encampment. He didn’t need to ask what Boydie had in mind. It was obvious. He ran along the passageway to find himself on the edge of the central square. It was still surrounded by canvas tents. Boydie was running towards Danny from the right. He nodded at him and they headed east, past a particularly threadbare tent and ten metres out into the open desert. Another burst from the .50-cal confirmed that Tommo and Five Bellies’ decoy fire was taking all the militants’ attention. Which gave Danny and Boydie the opportunity to approach the technical unseen. It was twenty metres away, a distinct black shadow against the burning Land Rover just a few metres beyond it. The headlamps were off – clearly the driver had calculated they were a less easy target that way – but the result was that the Regiment men had the cover of darkness with which to approach.
Another burst of rifle fire. The .50-cal replied in kind. Danny saw the silhouette of a figure being hustled down from the back of the technical by a single armed figure and taken round to the far side of the vehicle, leaving two other figures in the back. The driver had his door open and was climbing out, rifle in hand. The militants’ attention was fully on Tommo and Five Bellies’ incoming fire. None of them noticed Boydie and Danny until it was too late.
The driver was Danny’s. The burst from his M4, from a distance of five metres, coincided with the roar of the .50-cal, rendering it barely audible but no less deadly for that. The driver had just put his feet on the ground when the rounds hit his torso, throwing him violently against the cab of the pick-up. Boydie ran towards the rear of the vehicle, firing on the militant manning the .50-cal when he was five metres distant. A new silhouette of blood and brain matter showered down in front of the burning Land Rover.
The firing ceased. There was whimpering from the back of the pick-up. At least one of the hostages was still alive.
By Danny’s calculation there was a single militant remaining: the one who had taken the other hostage round to the far side of the technical. Now the Libyan started shouting – desperate words, threats, in Arabic that Danny couldn’t make out, but their meaning was clear enough. He had only one play to make: I’ve got the hostage. Come any closer and he dies.
Danny and Boydie were up against the technical now, crouching low to stay out of the sight of the surviving militant. ‘Hold his attention,’ Danny said. Boydie nodded and they separated, creeping around opposite ends of the vehicle. Peering round by the headlamps, Danny took in the scene. The militant and his hostage were standing five metres away. They were facing the opposite direction, the militant standing behind the hostage, left arm around his neck and a pistol in his right, pressed up against the captive’s head. Danny couldn’t risk a shot. A round from the M4 or even the Sig could go straight through the militant’s body and into the hostage.
Boydie appeared from the far side of the technical. He had his weapon engaged and trained directly on the two figures. The militant started screaming incomprehensible threats again. His whole body was shaking, his weapon aimed at the hostage’s head. Boydie didn’t move. He just stood there, relentless, threatening, maintaining the stalemate.
Keeping the militant’s attention very firmly on him, while Danny emerged from the cover of the Land Rover.
As silent as smoke.
Danny stood very still, his sights lined up with the back of the target’s head. He was aware that the blazing Land Rover made his shadow unnaturally huge on the technical. He ignored it. All attention on the target. There was no scope for error. The bastard had to be put down before he fired out of nerves.
Slowly, Boydie lowered his weapon. He let it hang by its halyard while he raised his hands, palms outward in a gesture of surrender.
The militant swallowed it. In a single movement he threw the hostage to one side and aimed his gun at Boydie. He barely had time to straighten his arm. Danny fired a single shot. The round slammed into the back of the Libyan’s head and he flew forwards, landing face down on the hard-baked earth with a dull slam.
‘Nice shot,’ Boydie said.
There is a special kind of silence that falls in the wake of a contact. The silence of the dead. Danny was only half aware of the man he’d just killed, half his skull blown away, hair matted over what remained of it, blood oozing thickly from the wound like a tiny oil slick. His attention had already moved on. Were all the enemy down? Were there any more threats? The hostage staggered back, clearly struck dumb by the sudden brutality he had just witnessed. Danny pulled him roughly to the ground while Boydie kept his weapon engaged and started scanning the area, looking out for any more enemy targets. The other hostage was still whimpering in the back of the pick-up, but at least he was keeping out of sight.