Spider Shepherd: SAS: #1 (5 page)

‘They do,’ Harry conceded, ‘but it’s not technically advanced, uses standard ammunition and has a telescopic sight which, compared with Western optics, is of pretty limited use.’

After much discussion, Shepherd and Harry decided that the enemy snipers would be working at a maximum range of up to 700 yards. When they laid out the inverted “L” for that night’s supply drop, they deliberately calculated for a third of the containers to land in the open.

During the night everything appeared to be going to plan. The Hercules arrived dead on time and the team saw some of the load landing where they had calculated. Harry allowed another hour to elapse, giving the Serbs and their Russian “volunteers” time to lose their vigilance in the immediate aftermath of the air-drop, then Shepherd watched through his scope and PNGs as Harry broke cover. He used all his SAS tradecraft to move undetected through the trees and scrub and down the valley side across the patches of open ground. Twice he paused to change camouflage, lying up in dead ground, hidden from the Serb spotters on the ridge line above him while he removed the gorse sprigs and bracken fronds that he’d inserted into the hessian sniper suit he wore, and replaced them with clumps of the pale, bleached stalks of the late summer grasses, flowers and thistles that grew in the open areas. At times he seemed to move with painful slowness, sometimes belly-crawling or lying motionless for minutes at a time when his instincts told him he was exposed and at risk. At others, shielded from the view of the Serb watchers above him, he moved quicker, eating up the ground with an effortless stride.

Diesel and Spud covered him while he moved, ready to unleash an avalanche of fire if he was spotted. But Harry managed to remain undetected as he crossed the meandering stream in the valley floor, slipped across the last of the exposed ground and moved up the slopes, going to ground in the patch of cover he had identified through his binoculars before he had set off.

Sure that Harry was in position, Shepherd settled himself to wait for dawn. As the light strengthened, he took up his position on the driving seat of a tractor at the edge of the trees. He took a deep breath, then revved up the tractor and drove out into the open, going as fast as the creaking old tractor would allow. The remaining Serb guns on the heights opened up half-heartedly, but within seconds, a couple of F-16’s had appeared and they quickly dealt with the threat.

At the same time, directed by Diesel, the Muslim mortars began to shoot the fire plan. Shepherd was driving hell for leather, swerving from side to side to throw off any snipers’ aim, the tractor bouncing and jolting almost uncontrollably as it crossed the rough ground.

He drove straight past the dropped parachute loads to the edge of the higher ground, then leaped off the still moving tractor and sprinted uphill towards the rendezvous point he had agreed with Harry. As he got closer he could hear the sounds of a struggle, and saw Harry and a heavy set man in a Russian uniform struggling on the ground. Shepherd ran forward and stuck the barrel of his SA-80 into the Russian’s neck. The man immediately froze, his mouth open in surprise.

‘Don’t shoot him,’ Harry said. ‘We want to hear what he’s got to say first.’

They took their prisoner back to the Muslim lines. The Muslims were all for a summary execution, brandishing knives and spitting in the captive’s face, but Harry forced them back at gunpoint. ‘He’s our prisoner, we’ll deal with him,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Shortly afterwards he was interrogating the prisoner, speaking to him in fluent Russian. The conversation went on for a few minutes, though it was Harry who did most of the talking.

‘I didn’t know you spoke his language,’ Shepherd said.

‘I speak Russian colloquially and I also speak a lot of other things that he understands,’ Harry said. ‘What do you think, Dan? Do you think we’ve taken out all the snipers?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

‘We need more than hope,’ said Harry. He gestured at the captured Russian. ‘I’m giving Ivan the choice of being airlifted back to Sarajevo and being at the centre of a show trial and media circus or giving him a chance to get away Scot free.’

‘What have you got in mind?’

Harry winked. ‘Watch and learn.’ He turned back to the Russian ‘Your options are you get executed or dumped in a Bosnian jail for the rest of your life, Ivan - and think how much fun that’s going to be. If you’re lucky enough to get back to Mother Russia, can you imagine the welcome they are going to prepare for the man who exposed their secret war and humiliated them in the eyes of the world? I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’ He let that sink in for a few minutes. ‘So, here’s the alternative: you can go for a walk up there.’ He jerked his head towards the open spaces beyond the wreckage of the tractor where the blood of the Muslim boy that the Russian had shot still stained the grass. ‘If you make it to the far side, you’re home free. If not… Well, at least you’ll have a soldier’s death.’

‘You’ll shoot me anyway,’ the Russian said in halting English.

‘Oh no,’ Harry said, speaking in Russian. ‘We won’t be shooting at you, but I’m betting you know a man who will. So it’s up to you, you can take your chances at the hands of the Muslims in Sarajevo, or you can take your chances here.’

“I don’t get it,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We need to know if there’s still a sniper up there,’ said Harry. ‘Ivan here can lure then out. No sniper means he’ll be on his way, if there is a sniper he’ll show himself and hopefully you’ll be able to pick him off.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Bloody right. We need to know if there are still snipers up there.’

‘But what about the Geneva Convention?’

‘Do you think the snipers care about the Geneva Convention? I’ve seen enough dead women and kids to know that they don’t.’

After a lot more verbal to-ing and fro-ing the Ivan had made up his mind and gave a grudging nod. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘Right, take off your jacket,’ Harry said, looking at Shepherd.

‘Me?’ said Shepherd, confused.

‘Yes you. You’re going to lend it to our friend here.’

The Russian struggled into the jacket. ‘It’s a bit small,’ Harry said, ‘But it’ll do.’ He bound the Serb’s arms loosely with cable ties. ‘We can’t have you waving to your buddy and giving the game away, now can we?’ he said. ‘And now for the finishing touch. Dan, you’ve still got your beret with you, haven’t you?’

Shepherd took it from his bergen and gave it to him with a dubious look. Harry set the red beret on the Russian’s head and adjusted it to a jaunty angle. ‘Looks a picture, doesn’t he?’ Harry said to Shepherd. He winked at the Russian. ‘Your mum would be so proud if she could see you now, Ivan. Right, no time like the present, off you go.’ He gave him a push in the back, propelling him out of the cover of the trees and into the open. ‘Dan, get ready, yeah?’ Shepherd took up position.

The Russian hesitated, glancing fearfully about. ‘I wouldn't hang around if I were you,’ Harry called.

Still with Shepherd’s red beret on his head, the Russian began to walk slowly towards the foothills where he had been captured, glancing nervously around him all the time. He began to jog but had covered no more than a few yards when a single shot rang out from the hills and he fell to the ground, the back of his head blown off by the shot that had killed him.

Shepherd had been lying up with his rifle at the ready, waiting for the sniper to fire. He saw the muzzle flash and then a brief dark outline against the washed-out blue of the early morning sky as the sniper rose from cover for a second to see the results of his handiwork. His head filled the scope of Shepherd’s rifle as he zeroed in on him, took a deep breath in and then, as he exhaled in a long, slow sighing sound, he squeezed the trigger home smoothly. He was concentrating so hard he barely heard the report of the rifle or felt the recoil into his shoulder, but he saw the sniper suddenly disappear from sight, one hand thrown up and the sunlight glinting from the barrel of the weapon he had been holding, as it tumbled from his grasp.

Shepherd smiled. ‘Definite wound, probable kill,’ he said.

‘Nice one, Dan,’ Diesel said.

Shepherd nodded in acknowledgement. He had almost certainly just snuffed out an individual human’s life, but he spared the dead man no more thought than the sniper would have given for Shepherd, had their positions been reversed. They were soldiers, this was their job and Shepherd took out the human target that had been offered to him with no more concern than if it had been a bullseye painted on a wooden board.

The body of the other Russian still lay in the open. Shepherd stared at it for a few moments, then said, ‘Cover me.’

Harry stared at him. ‘What for?’

‘There’s something I need to get.’

‘It’s just a hat, Dan.’

‘It’s more than that to me.’

Harry gave a theatrical sigh but he and Diesel took up positions to cover him. Shepherd took a few slow, deep breaths, studying the ground he would have to cross, then broke cover. He moved fast, ducking low, dodging and weaving as he ran, and making use of every scrap of natural cover. Even so, his flesh was creeping, every sense tuned for the crack of a rifle. He reached the body, stooped for an instant, grabbed the beret and then sprinted back. As he ducked into the shadow of a boulder, he felt as much as heard a burst of Serb rounds chewing the earth around him and the whine of a bullet that almost parted his hair. A heartbeat later there was the thunder of answering gunfire as Harry and Diesel, spotting the muzzle flashes, sent a torrent of rounds towards them. Shepherd was already up and running again, diving for the cover of the tree line as the SAS men again loosed off suppressing fire.

As he got to his feet, chest heaving, with his Para beret clenched in his hand, Harry gave him a pitying look. ‘Like I said, it’s just a hat.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s a lucky hat now.’ He pointed to the neat hole the Serb sniper round had drilled an inch or so to the left of the cap badge.

‘I don’t see how you work that out,’ Diesel said. ‘It wasn’t too lucky for that bloody Ivan, was it? He got bleeding drilled while he was wearing it.’

‘That’s what makes it lucky for me,’ Shepherd said. ‘Lightning never strikes twice in the same place, right?’

‘Yeah, you keep believing that,’ Harry said, ‘and Diesel and me will be acting as pall bearers at your funeral. Superstitions like that will get you killed. There’s only one thing will keep you alive and that’s your skill at soldiering, and you don’t get that from the colour of the hat you wear.’

Shepherd grimaced but didn’t say anything.

‘You’re good already, but if you want to be the best, there’s only one place to learn that: apply for SAS Selection,’ said Harry. ‘If you’re good enough, you’ll get in. And from what I’ve seen, you’re good enough. You’ll enjoy it. We don’t do marching, saluting, yes sir, no sir, or any of that Green Army bullshit. We just do what we do and we do it better than anyone. You should give it a try.’

‘You know what? Maybe I will,’ Shepherd said. And as soon as he said it, he knew that one day he surely would. He’d finally found a branch of the military that he figured he could thrive in.

NATURAL SELECTION

BELIZE.

April 1996.

Dan Shepherd sat on the edge of a clearing, staring at a column of leaf-cutter ants carrying shards of tamarind leaves on an endless trek through the deep litter of the forest floor. He and his comrades were deep in the Belizean jungle, several days walk from the nearest road. ‘Don’t blame the ants, it’s not their fault.’

He glanced up. His mate Liam McKay was watching him with a quizzical expression in his dark eyes. ‘Last time I saw a man look that pissed off, he’d just been told his leave had been cancelled.’ Liam’s mother was from Belfast and even though they’d moved to England when he was only five, there were still faint echoes of a Northern Irish brogue when he spoke. They’d met on their first day on Selection and immediately hit it off.  Liam was now a good mate, and he was also the hardest man Shepherd had ever met - and he’d known a few.

The Jungle Training part of Selection came after almost twenty weeks of the most intensive special forces course in the world. SAS Selection began in Hereford with a one-week briefing course with swimming, navigation, first aid and combat fitness tests and a lot of runs up and down the local hills. That was followed by a month on the SAS’s fitness and navigation course based at the Sennybridge Training Camp in Wales including the army’s Combat Fitness Test – 45 press-ups and 55 sit-ups in two minutes each followed by a mile and half run in under nine and a half minutes. Neither had been a problem for Shepherd, he had spent the year prior to Selection getting himself into peak physical condition. While at Sennybridge, Shepherd had been introduced to the Fan Dance – a gruelling fifteen-mile run over two sides of Pen Y Fan, the highest mountain in the Brecon Beacons, with a fully-loaded bergen. The fourth week of the hills phase had been a killer. The instructors - the Directing Staff – called it test week and it consisted of six marches on consecutive days with increasing distances and weights carried. The final day was a forty mile march across the Brecon Beacons with a fifty-five pound bergen which had to be completed in less than twenty hours. It had been pouring down with rain the entire march but Shepherd and Liam had completed it in a little over eighteen hours. Those that hadn’t failed or quit went on to do fourteen weeks of weapons, vehicle, demolitions and patrol tactics before they were flown to Belize for the six-week jungle training course.

‘I’m not pissed off,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just a bit disillusioned I guess. I don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere, you know?’

‘We’ve flown half way around the world,’ laughed Liam. ‘That not good enough for you?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘You know what I mean, you daft sod.  I thought we’d be part of the elite, the absolute ultimate in soldiering, but-’ he dropped his voice and gestured around them. ‘I mean, this is supposed to be the best Regiment in the world but there’s a real lack of intensity in a lot of the training we’ve been doing. I was more tested on some of the stuff I did with the Paras, and I don’t rate some of the guys we’re training with. A few are keen enough but the others…’  He shrugged. ‘Some of the guys here just aren’t putting in the effort. Seems to me they’re doing the minimum, just enough to get by.’

‘Fair comment,’ said Liam. ‘But not everyone wants to be an action hero like us. Some of them will be happy enough with a base or admin post, or signals.’

‘Action hero?’

Liam laughed. ‘You know what I mean. You love it, Dan. The guns, the flash bangs, the jumping out of planes. You’re an adrenaline junkie.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You just don’t see it, but it’s true.’ He held up his hands. ‘Hey, I love it as much as you do. That’s why I wanted to join the SAS. Best unit in the army, no question.’

‘I’m not doing it for the buzz,’ said Shepherd.

Liam raised one eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

‘Seriously, I’m doing it because the SAS are the best, like you said. The Paras are great, but even they don’t come close.’ He looked around to check that none of the Directing Staff were within earshot. ‘To be honest, I don’t rate some of the trainers and their “big time” attitudes either.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Liam said. ‘They’re supposed to lead by example, aren’t they? But a couple of them got the local tribesmen to build their bashas for them - and they’re a lot more luxurious than the others have got, let alone ours. And then they spend a lot of time lying around in them, lording it over the rest of us.’ 

Only the oldest SAS men had ever served in Malaysia but the use of “bazaar Malay” words was still common in the Regiment.  Barrack rooms, jungle shelters and accommodation areas anywhere in the world were always referred to as the “basha” - the Malay word for hut or shelter.

‘That three weeks of “Hard Routine” we did,’ Shepherd said, ‘two-man patrols, carrying minimum kit, sleeping on the ground and eating minimum cold rations, with no cooking allowed - that was the real deal and the way it should be every day, trying to replicate what it’ll be like when we’re actually on active service out in the real world. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘You’re a masochist, mate,’ said Liam.

By now, Geordie Mitchell and Jim “Jimbo” Shortt had also wandered over to join them. Jimbo was a couple of years older than the rest of the team. His pale blue eyes seemed faded by the sun and even in his mid-twenties, there were stress lines etched into his forehead.  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Dan’s having a moan about the Directing Staff,’ said Liam.

‘When’s he never not moaning?’ said Geordie. ‘A couple of the trainers are pretty canny, mind,’ he said. ‘Lofty’s good and so’s Taff.’

‘Yeah, they’re good, though no one could ever accuse them of being imaginative in their choice of nicknames, eh Geordie?’ Shepherd.

‘You don’t get to choose your nickname, you know that,’ said Geordie. ‘We’re still working on yours.  ‘How about Sheepish?’ He was the same age as Shepherd - twenty-two - but a good bit taller than the typical SAS man. Shorter, stockier men tended to have greater powers of endurance and, since the ability to carry a monstrously heavy bergen over long distances at a ridiculously fast pace was one of the many things that set SAS men apart from the rest, most of them were no more than five foot nine.

‘God, I’m starving,’ Liam said. He claimed to have a metabolism that made it necessary for him to eat every two hours or keel over, and his principal hobby seemed to be searching for food. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s got some spare scran squirreled away?’ he said, more in hope than expectation. ‘I’m that hungry I could even eat my mother’s cooking.’

‘Her cooking’s not that bad, is it?’ Jimbo said.

‘Come to lunch when we’re home then, if you’re brave enough,’ said Liam. ‘We try to have takeaways whenever we can.’ He broke off as he caught sight of an older-looking soldier standing in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. ‘Where the hell did that guy come from?’

There had been no sound or visible movement, but the man now stood there, watching and listening, his posture upright and alert, the barrel of his weapon tracking the path of his gaze. Satisfied, he lowered his weapon and stepped into the open. He was hard-muscled, but lean and whippet-thin, and his skin was pale enough to suggest that he had seen little sunlight in quite some time. His green uniform was almost black with the sweat and humidity caused by the long hard march he had made through the jungle.

He walked across the clearing, pausing to shake hands and exchange a couple of words with two of the trainers, Lofty and Taff, but pointedly ignoring the others. He walked on, found a space away from everyone else and, without cutting any foliage, put up a very spartan basha: a waterproof sheet and a hammock. Ignoring everyone, he then spent the remaining hours of daylight studying his maps. He was alone, self contained and apparently completely at home in the jungle environment.

As night was falling, Shepherd went across to Lofty’s basha. ‘Who is that guy?’ he said., gesturing towards the new arrival.

Lofty smiled. ‘His nickname’s Pilgrim.’

‘Pilgrim? That doesn’t sound like a typical regimental nickname.’

‘It isn’t. It’s more of a mark of respect. The very last thing you’ll have to do before you complete the final stage of Selection is to memorise part of a James Elroy Flecker poem called “The Golden Journey to Samarkand”. It’s our creed, if you like:

“But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,

You dirty bearded, blocking up the way?”

“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,

Across that angry or that glimmering sea.”

‘There’s more of it, but you get the drift: we are the Pilgrims. There are only two ways to get the experience you need in the Regiment: one is to serve long enough to do everything, and the other is to learn at the feet of a master. Most of the highly skilled guys in the Regiment learned their tradecraft from a senior mentor.’

‘Got you,’ Shepherd said. ‘So Pilgrim’s a mentor - one of the “old and bold” - but what’s he doing here?’

‘You’ll find out tomorrow,’ Lofty said. ‘Meanwhile get some shut-eye, you’ll need it.’

The following morning, as Shepherd, Liam, Geordie and Jimbo were sorting their kit, ready to join the others on the march back to the road-head for the transport back to base, Pilgrim walked over to them. He didn’t introduce himself, just said, ‘You four are not going back with the others. You’ve been picked out for further testing, so I’m going to take you on a patrol to evaluate you and see how good you actually are.’

Shepherd looked across at Liam and couldn’t help but smile. This was the sort of training that he wanted.

‘The criteria I will be applying is whether you’re good enough to be accepted into a Sabre Squadron Troop or a patrol led by me on active service,’ Pilgrim continued. ‘You won’t find it a picnic; one of the things that makes the SAS unique is that the physical and mental effort required of you is greater in an operational squadron than in any and all of the various tests you have undergone during Selection.’

He paused, holding the gaze of each of them in turn. ‘You’ve been issued with maps of this area. I suggest you devote some time to studying them. When we first came here, the only maps of Belize dated from before the Second World War and we had to update them as we went along. The bedrock’s limestone, so the topography is always changing. There was one big river marked on the old map that had gone underground years before. The jungle had reclaimed the riverbed and we spent days searching for a river that no longer existed. You won’t have that problem to deal with but, as you’ll already have noticed, you can’t use the sun, the stars or the topography to navigate in the jungle, because you can’t see any of them, so you have to be able to navigate with map and compass alone.’

A mosquito landed on his neck and he smacked his hand against it as he continued.

‘In the jungle noise and smell are always more of a giveaway than movement. Even the absence of noise can be significant; if the constant background noise of bird and animal calls is interrupted, it can only indicate that something’s alarmed the wildlife. You can hear much further than you can see, so to survive, you spend much of your time just listening.  Animals do not break twigs; if you hear a twig breaking it has been done by a human. You also use your sense of smell because anything from the smell of food to a whiff of sweat or aftershave can be enough either to give you away, or enable you to detect an enemy. You’ve probably already been told that we never drink coffee in the jungle because the smell of coffee travels a long way.  Your eyes are pretty much your least valuable sense in the jungle because most of the time you can’t see more than a few yards in front of you.’

As Pilgrim paused, Shepherd glanced at his companions. They were all hanging on the veteran SAS man’s every word.  ‘And no matter how good your eyesight,‘ Pilgrim said, ‘you can’t travel after dark in the jungle, so there’s a lot of downtime which you can use in one of two ways. You can either piss the time away reading James Bond or Harold Robbins, or you can take a course of study.  In my experience, the easiest and best time to learn a language is when you’ve got nothing else to do in the jungle at night. Most languages have a core vocabulary of about six hundred words.  If you learn twenty a night, then in a month you’ll know enough words to speak a pidgin version of the language, and if you can conjugate a few verbs you’ll be able to have an educated conversation.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a suggestion. What you do with your down time is your own business.’

‘I was thinking of learning the piano,’ joked Jimbo, but Pilgrim silenced him with a dark look.

‘Right,’ he continued, ‘let’s talk about uniform. The Army-issue camouflage uniform you’re wearing is useless in the jungle because of the high humidity. It’s much better to use an older jungle green uniform which dries out much quicker.’ He tugged at his sleeve and rubbed the material with his fingers. ‘Get one. You’ll really notice the difference. Now rations: to survive when patrolling in the jungle you must eat at least seven thousand calories a day but it’s almost impossible to carry that amount of rations on a long patrol, so we rely mainly on lots of sugar, sweets, dark chocolate, biscuits, nuts and raisins. The good news for those of you carrying an extra pound or two,’ he gave Jimbo a meaningful look, ‘is that you’ll be coming back from patrol a lot lighter than when you set out.