The day wore on like a heavy sack. The mountains that had seemed so brown now looked blue in the distance. As he placed one weary foot in front of another, Ashe noticed that the rocks were not brown either, but covered in a rusty-red lichen. The Martian character of the mountain suited the operation, but just as Ashe had got used to the redness, psyching himself up for the unknown that lay ahead, the troops rounded the base of a low mountain and entered a lush gorge.
On either side of its bank grew may bushes, terebinth trees with jade-coloured berries rotting on the boughs, oleanders, poplar trees, rock roses and sturdy little oaks. The stony ground was pocked with thistles and weeds. This route had been traced by tired soldiers since the days of Alexander the Great.
Richmond had told Ashe that four SAS men were already in the target area, establishing OPs. These observation posts were known as bashas – damp, desperately uncomfortable holes that were more suited to ascetic hermits of extreme persuasions, or psychopaths.
The men had been told that in addition to their minimal rations, they might, at night, also pick an edible weed called khubbaz. This could be supplemented by the milky-white kivar thistle, which could be warmed up on their elementary stoves but was best chewed cold since cooking smells were to be avoided so close to the target.
Richmond signalled for Kev Norton to approach with an update from the entrenched advance party. The long Afghani dagger flashing under Norton’s vest explained why his oppos called him The Blade. Norton noticed Ashe’s interest and quickly covered his personal weapon.
Hayes, Tongue and Scrabster darted over rocks into foliage on opposite sides of the stream, gripping their Colt Commandos and covering the distracted major, who was bent over Norton’s PRC 319 radio system. Ashe knelt on one knee, his submachine gun at the ready, ten metres in front of the major.
Two minutes later, Richmond signalled Ashe to join him, then signalled the other three men to climb as far up the banks as possible, making use of the trees and bushes. It was perilous to be so close to the target area in daylight, but the strike had been agreed for dusk, after dinner, when the enemy was likely to be least alert.
A dead-of-night operation had been discussed but was rejected because the enemy also had night-vision equipment provided by Turkish special forces. Furthermore, the entrance to the cave facility was already extremely dark due to rock overhangs and dense forest.
Complete surprise would be their trump card, and the mist that rose off the streams at dusk would also help. It had also been observed that night guards were posted to the facility’s perimeter just after nightfall.
Two of the advance group were sniper specialists, trained to kill at up to 1,000 metres. Geoff Barrow and Tim Blakeley carried Accuracy International L96A1 rifles with Schmidt & Bender telescopic sights. They had already spent thirty-six hours dug into the dampness and cold, monitoring the positioning of facility guards. When the time came, ice-cold nerve and steady hands would ensure success.
Some three kilometres north of Richmond’s position, four groups of four from D Squadron’s Air Troop had advanced to assess the enemy’s likely escape routes and set up a maximum of two ambush sites. The plotting of potential routes had been assisted by Jolo’s men. They had discovered four possible paths. Available troop numbers ensured only the two most likely routes would be covered. Should things go badly at the target site, they could respond to calls for reinforcements.
Jolo’s enthusiastic irregulars covered remaining routes using M16s with attached 40 mm M203 grenade launchers. The D Squadron troop had also carried two 81 mm mortars to the anticipated contact area – an amazing feat of strength, given the weight of operational loads.
The ascent of the gorge had been gruelling, but the last half-kilometre was even worse: the men now had to crawl through the scrub on their stomachs, negotiating the rocks and endless thistles in complete silence.
The plateau ended abruptly at a mossy slope that ran down into a narrow gorge. God knew how Jolo’s men and the advance group had been able to position themselves there without being caught. As the sun hovered over the western horizon, Ashe heard noises.
Below Ashe and Richmond, at the foot of the gorge, some thirty Ansar al-Sunna terrorists had gathered round a large fire and were eating goat, raisins and rice. Some wore black combat suits with full-face balaclavas rolled up over their foreheads. Others wore blue cotton thobes, the male robe common in Arab countries, under green combat jackets. Many sported the Palestinian headscarf, folded on a diagonal, with tassels at the corners. Others wore red Arabic headscarves with the familiar zigzag pattern. All sported bandanas, side pistols and belts laden with AK-47 magazines.
The timing was perfect. Hardly any of them had their hands on their guns. Above the sharp voices of the terrorists, Ashe barely heard the two sniper shots that took out the two tired guards positioned on the sides of the gorge. From further up the lip of the gorge, short bursts of GPMG fire, lethal shots from M16s and Colt Commandos and a sudden barrage of grenades turned the dining party into a mangled, bloody mess. Some more snipers’ shots, a brief strafing of machine-gun fire, and the gorge was quiet, but for the flow of the tiny stream as it flowed red over its stony bed. Smoke rose like a veil over the scene.
Richmond whispered, ‘Fucking good. Stage one done. Wait here.’
As Richmond eased his way gently down into the gorge, there was a brief wait. At the end of the gorge was a dark rocky overhang, with dripping moss and ivy cascading down. That was the entrance to the cave. Whoever was inside would be very confused.
There were groans from the gorge. One of Jolo’s men hurried around the massacred corpses and delivered swift death to the wounded.
The first four seconds of a hostage-release scenario always belong to the SAS.
An explosion at the far end of the gorge. The demolition guys were on the job with PE4 plastic explosives. The outer door to the cave was now twisted metal. Two Remington 870 pump-action shotguns blew the hinges off the inner doors. The SAS entered with stun grenades, CS gas and deadly shots from handguns. Dazed guards came tumbling out of the cave entrance, scraping their eyes and crying, wildly firing rounds from Kalashnikov submachine guns. Hayes was hit in the leg. His body fell onto his bleeding stump, which trailed the shattered limb. Scotsman Andy Tongue ran to Hayes’ aid with his medicine bag and reached for morphine. Hayes had passed out.
Richmond screamed to Norton, ‘Check arrival time for the Chinook! We’ve got wounded.’ Richmond was knocked backwards as two shots bounced off the ceramic plates in his Kevlar suit.
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Just send the message!’
Norton checked the coordination digits with his handheld GPS receiver. Richmond got back on his feet as the last of the main-gate guards fell to sniper fire.
Scrabster, his face encased in a helmet and respirator, emerged from the cave entrance. ‘Ready inside, sir. We got a brace.’
‘Not yet, sir. Looks like the Turkish SF reserve have taken to the tunnels.’
Richmond reached for his Acme Thunderer and blew a piercing whistle that resounded across the gorge. The remaining SAS force and a dozen of Jolo’s irregulars emerged from the undergrowth.
At that moment, heavy machine-gun fire sprayed across the gorge from a ridge in the side of a deep gully.
‘Christ! It’s the suicide squad!’
Richmond blew his whistle again. The firing stopped. There were casualties.
‘Get that bloody position!’
Richmond reached for Norton’s M16. ‘Hayes! Grenade!’
Hayes tossed Richmond a grenade. Richmond loaded it into the launcher on the underside of the M16, pressed the trigger and fired at the flashpoint.
‘Fuck it! Give me another!’
Looking down, Ashe caught the flash of a mighty explosion as a huge cloud of smoke enveloped the cave entrance. ‘Shit! They’ve got a Fagot!’
The 9K111-2 Fagot M-type was a Russian-made rocket launcher of deadly accuracy. As the smoke cleared, it was obvious things at the cave entrance were desperate. Hayes and Norton were dead. Richmond, shielded from the blast by the shattered door of the facility, was pinned down.
Ashe checked the aiming projector sight on his MP5. Now the image intensifier and infra-red feature came into its own. He scoured the area from which the rocket had been fired. He could see it. He could see the emplacement.
A burst of heavy machine-gun fire resounded across the gorge. The enemy quickly retaliated with another rocket. This too was accurate. The machine-gun fire ceased.
Richmond knew that to move was certain death. He could only hope his men inside the cave complex had assessed the situation correctly and would not attempt to emerge from it. The enemy would be waiting for them.
More heavy machine-gun fire spattered across the gorge, keeping Jolo’s men crouching in the undergrowth. Another grenade shot across the gorge, narrowly missing the enemy. Seconds ticked by.
Ashe could see the best means of getting to the enemy was from above. He unstrapped his heavy pack, took out two stun grenades and hooked them to his vest, then got up out of the grass and ran as fast as he could round the edge of the lip until he was above the emplacement.
An SAS sniper, biding his moment on the opposite side, saw what Ashe was trying to do and gave him pin-accurate covering fire.
Ashe lay down, checking the viewfinder as his submachine gun dipped over the edge. Damn! He’d have to go down. Suddenly his legs became jelly, and dizziness swept over him. Bile rose into his throat, but he was already half over the edge, his boot dangling in search of a foothold. God! Please, a ridge! Just a fucking ridge. Anything! His foot found purchase; another foot, a hand. He slid down. He carried on sliding. He couldn’t stop. He’d had it. He couldn’t stop himself. Ashe kept sliding. He tumbled down hard onto the ridge, then rolled over into the gully. Two militants gripped a captured Minimi. In shocked surprise, they turned. The Minimi’s tripod was tangled up in camouflage netting. They panicked. Lying on his back, Ashe delivered fatal rounds into the faces and shoulders of the men.
A great cheer swept across the gorge. Ashe had won his spurs all right. But would he ever have the greater courage to admit his victory had been a complete accident?