The New Patrol Page 6

  Card Alpha was the name given to the strict Rules of Engagement – ROE – set out by the British Army. It didn’t look anything special, just a small, laminated, yellow card that every soldier carried with them. But the weight of power it held was that of life and death, literally.

  ‘Still,’ said Liam, ‘she seemed pretty clear on what she thought about what we should be doing.’

  ‘That’s her job,’ said Clint, and he tapped a finger on Liam’s forehead. ‘You just keep up here the six-step targeting process, right? Go through that checklist every time something is about to kick off and you’ll know if you’re morally and legally allowed to engage an enemy.’

  ‘I know we have the right to self-defence,’ said Liam. ‘But all that stuff about holding off the trigger and having a chat? She’s having a laugh, right?’

  ‘It’s her job to say the right thing to whoever is, or may be, listening,’ said Clint, ‘That’s all she really said.’

  ‘How the hell is going over to shake the hand of someone emptying an AK at me going to help?’ Liam asked. He was getting agitated now. Not at Clint, but at what the politician had said. He couldn’t understand it.

  ‘It’s about protecting lives,’ said Clint, ‘particularly civilian ones. This is no longer a war, mate. We’re handing over to the ANA. Soon we’ll be gone and they’ll be alone to face what’s left. What they need is the locals on their side, rather than on the Taliban’s. That’s what it’s about.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  Clint shrugged. ‘I have to. We all have to.’ He checked his watch. ‘Come on. Time to go listen to Miller and Cowell brief us again on the details of our new hotel. I hope it has a swimming pool. In this heat, it’s going to be no holiday without one.’

  A few minutes later, Liam and Clint sat down with Martin, Ade, Rob and the rest of the multiple he would be stationed with. Lieutenant Steers took the stand, with Miller, Cowell and the other NCOs alongside. Everyone knew the lieutenant would be running the show. And with the support of NCOs like Miller, Liam had some confidence that their leadership was strong.

  ‘Right, I’ll get straight to the point,’ said the lieutenant. ‘In a little under an hour you will all be saying goodbye to this holiday camp and heading off to do the job you get paid for. Like all of you, I’m keen to get out there and get on with it.’

  Everyone nodded and Liam heard a few murmurs of ‘Too right, sir,’ and ‘About bloody time’.

  The lieutenant was a tall man, athletically built, with cropped dark hair and serious eyes. Liam knew, as they all did, that he was in the presence of an excellent leader. This was no short-term officer looking for a bit of experience before heading off into civvy-street. This was a man here for the duration, a career soldier to his very core.

  ‘I don’t need to stand here and tell you what you need to do, so I won’t,’ continued the lieutenant. ‘You’ve already been told, by Major Varley, by Miller and the rest, and by me. However, I for one would prefer it if you didn’t set off out of Bastion in an hour leaving shit behind for someone else to sort out. Understood?’

  There was another murmur of agreement. Liam knew what Lieutenant Steers was getting at. Once out of Camp Bastion, they’d be as good as cut off from the outside world. No mobiles. Post would be sporadic at best. They would also be living under the constant threat of injury and death. And that meant sorting out goodbyes and death letters, just like Major Varley had ordered. Being reminded again was, Liam knew, just the army way – keep telling you until it becomes instinct. Liam had written his during his last tour and his parents would get it in the event of his death. It had been a tough thing to write for numerous reasons, but he’d got it done and that was that. However, he couldn’t help wondering how it was for Clint. Having a family at home, two young kids? That was a totally different situation, and if he was honest he wasn’t quite sure how he’d deal with it if he were in the same position. He had no frame of reference, not with his own family the way it was – a dad who cared more for the contents of a bottle than for his son and a mum too timid to stand up to him.

  The lieutenant allowed his eyes to cast a glare around the men in front of him. Somehow he managed to catch the eye of each and every soldier. It wasn’t a threatening glare, but one that said, quite simply: You will do your best – I fully expect it. Liam also noticed clear respect between the lieutenant and Miller and that was reassuring. Despite this, though, he was still thinking about what the politician had said. It had unnerved him. He wondered if the lieutenant was now going to back her up and tell them that they had to think twice about firing back if the Taliban attacked.

  The lieutenant spoke once more. ‘We’ll be patrolling villages,’ he said, ‘building and improving relations with the locals, providing medical checks, visible security, with the aim of handing security over to the ANA. We shall, as Major Varley stated, lead by example. That is our mission statement. That is what we are here to do. Trust me when I say we shall do it well. Any questions?’

  Liam’s hand was up before he could stop himself.

  It was Corporal Cowell who answered, not Steers. ‘Yes, what is it, Scott?’

  ‘It’s just about what that politician said,’ said Liam. ‘What happens when we get attacked? What rules are we following?’

  Liam knew he sounded pissed off. He couldn’t help it. They were heading out into dangerous territory and there were people out there waiting to kill them.

  ‘It’s like Lieutenant Steers just said,’ answered Cowell, backing up his commanding officer. ‘We’re going to be leading by example. We can’t go off on one and blast the shit out of every grassy knoll hiding some Tally fucker taking a pot shot. That’s not going to win anyone a medal.’

  Was that a dig? thought Liam. Was Cowell suggesting he was out here for glory?

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ said Liam, but Cowell shut him down.

  ‘It’s not fucking Rorke’s Drift or the Charge of the Light Brigade. You all know Card Alpha. And you all – instinctively, I bloody well hope – know the six-step targeting process, right?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ said Liam.

  ‘Well, while we’re here then, Scott, how’s about you run through it for us, just to make sure?’

  Bastard, thought Liam.

  ‘On your feet, Scott.’

  Liam stood. ‘You want all six?’

  Cowell nodded and Liam noticed a faint grin.

  ‘One, establish ROE – Rules of Engagement. Two, PID – positively identify target. Three, all reasonable steps taken to minimize collateral damage.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Cowell.

  Fucking bastard, thought Liam. ‘Correct weapon system for situation, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Four, battle damage assessment to minimize Taliban propaganda. Five, clearance – can I, should I, must I?’

  ‘And six?’ asked Cowell.

  ‘Engage,’ said Liam, and sat down. Sounding out the six steps had taken him straight back to his days of training, always having to prove you knew what you were doing, the assumption always seeming to be that you knew fuck all.

  ‘Thank you, Scott,’ said Cowell. ‘You’ve answered your own question. Right?’

  Liam caught a glance shoot between Sergeant Miller and Lieutenant Steers. It was the lieutenant who stepped in.

  ‘Let me assure each and every one of you here, your safety is paramount.’ The expression on the man’s face was as hard as granite. He meant every word and his commitment to the men in front of him was unshakeable. ‘Card Alpha is there to protect you. You all know it inside out. And if anyone is stupid enough to decide to come along and have a go at us, and those six points Scott sounded out are ticked off . . .’ Lieutenant Steers fell silent, his face stern.

  Then Miller stood up and a cold and rarely seen hard grin flickered.

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ he said.

  9

  Liam was strapped into the back of a Chinook, one of the huge twin-rotor helicopters used to fe
rry around everything from soldiers and supplies to vehicles and casualties. With afternoon drawing on, the day seemed even darker now that they were away from Bastion. As Patrol Base 1 – PB1 – was situated in a very remote part of the Yakchal Valley, they were flying in. Driving there would have taken considerably longer, with the risk of drawing attention from any Taliban along the way.

  Liam’s Personal Role Radio – PRR – was switched off for the flight, not that it would have made any difference. The only people who could hear anything were the flight crew, and they were using their own separate communication system.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse. It had been pretty much non-stop sun since they’d arrived, but now a wind was getting up and it had been touch and go as to whether they would be delayed. Everyone had been relieved when they’d got the go-ahead to set off. Despite Bastion’s comforts, everyone wanted to get on with the job in hand. Waiting only prolonged the agony of nervous anticipation at what was waiting for them.

  Liam had, from the moment he’d first seen a Chinook up close, been in bewildered awe of not just the machines themselves, but the pilots keeping them in the air. The choppers seemed almost to disobey all the laws of gravity, as well as sense and logic. Soldiers affectionately called them ‘cows’, a term which Liam thought was a bit unfair, as although they did look ungainly on the ground, when in the air they had a real presence to them, the kind of craft that owned the sky. A part of him envied pilots – flying helicopters was possibly the coolest job on the planet. That something so big, ugly and cumbersome could be flown with such accuracy and grace astonished him. The sight of them coming in to land, or just buzzing through the air like fat, drunken wasps, always gave him a boost of confidence. Liam realized this probably had a lot to do with the fact that one had come to his rescue during his last tour. He had been lost in the field and carrying an injured mate with the Taliban closing in. He had used every last bit of energy he had left to leg it to the open rear door of the Chinook that had come to their rescue. Sergeant Reynolds had been in the back, yelling at them to get a move on, while at the same time holding the Taliban back with a relentless spray of rounds from the Gimpy fixed in the tail.

  With the signal sent round that they were soon to come in to land, and with the vivid memory of that day making him smile, Liam looked up to glance around at everyone else in the back of the Chinook with him. Not counting the crew of the Chinook, he was racing over the Afghanistan desert with eleven others, all of them heavily armed and ready to go. He had to admit that all crammed together they looked like a ferocious fighting force.

  The multiple comprised Lieutenant Steers, supported by Sergeant Miller, Corporal Cowell and Lance Corporal Clark, with Liam and the rest of the lads – eight of them in total, including himself – making up the rest. Nicky was an addition, bringing their number to a lucky thirteen. Across to Liam’s left, furthest from the rear door, she looked relaxed and calm.

  Liam knew this was a big moment. Once they landed and stepped out of the helicopter, onto the Helicopter Landing Site – HLS – their whole lives changed. Life in Bastion was relatively safe. Out here, though, every day brought with it the risk of serious injury or death.

  Martin was directly opposite. Liam noticed the Chinook dipping now, clearly heading in to land. He stared across at Martin, who was fiddling with his lucky rugby ball keyring, caught his eye, nodded and smiled. Martin just stared back. Unable to speak or even shout over the sound of the engines and the rotor blades, Liam mouthed, ‘You’ll be fine,’ and gave a thumbs-up. Martin eventually responded with a nervous smile and a return thumbs-up.

  Liam saw a shard of light grow across the inside of the cabin as the rear door of the Chinook lowered to allow everyone to exit quickly. This was a precautionary measure – get it done now so that their exit could be smooth and quick and allow the helicopter to leave ASAP. On the ground the Chinook was an easy target.

  Out through the door, Liam caught his first glance of where he was going to be living. It was a bleak landscape of scrub and desert and rock, and all around, staring down, were mountains: huge rocky figures silently watching another fight at their feet. Patrol Base 1 itself was a walled compound, and more substantially built than Liam was expecting. Usually, compounds were mud-walled, but this was brick, as far as he could tell, reinforced by piles of sandbags. As for what was inside, he couldn’t yet tell. Running alongside it was a wide road.

  Liam rested his head back, closed his eyes, and prepared himself for what was to come.

  And it was then – as the Chinook touched down on the HLS near Patrol Base 1 – that the RPG hit . . .

  The flash of the blast blinded Liam for a moment and the aircraft bucked to one side, tipping him forward. The grenade had, he realized, smashed into the outside of the helicopter, though by some stroke of luck it had failed to pierce the fuselage and cause a bloodbath. But he knew with utter certainty that the Taliban were sure to follow up with another hit.

  Seconds later, Liam was on his feet, rifle at the ready, half dragging, half carrying his kit, and racing out of the back of the Chinook. Hard ground met him, a mix of baked soil, sand and rock. He switched on his PRR. They had all been issued with the small transmitter-receiver radio, which allowed them to communicate over short distances, even through buildings and walls. Soldiers still learned all the usual shouted orders and hand signals, but the PRR had seriously upped their combat effectiveness in theatre.

  Wind whipped around him, coming from the blades of the crippled Chinook and a blast that howled its way out of distant mountain passes. Dirt and dust swirled through the air. Patrol Base 1 was little more than two hundred metres away, but Liam had a feeling that he wouldn’t be getting there without a fight. Then he spotted the telltale trail of another RPG heading towards them. Instinct took over and he dropped to the ground, covering his head as the missile hammered into the back of the helicopter and tore it apart. The heat of the explosion sucked the air dry, pulling it from his lungs.

  Liam felt something zip past and then thump into the ground. That he was able to feel it was enough – a clear indication that whatever it was had landed within a metre of him. It was time to get a move on.

  When he looked up, Liam saw that it wasn’t a round of enemy fire – it was a section of the Chinook’s fuselage, at least a metre in diameter. Its ragged edges were sharp and twisted and Liam knew that if he had dropped to the ground just a step earlier, it would have cut him in two. A messy way to go, but probably quick.

  Liam heard the snap and crack of rounds overhead. Experience took over and he quickly identified where the direction of fire was coming from. He called it out over the PRR.

  ‘Right! Three hundred! Ten o’clock!’

  Three short commands, but enough to help, telling everyone not just where the fire was coming from, but also the range.

  When the lads followed his directions, Liam’s confidence leaped. He wasn’t just a grunt, he was a soldier and they respected him enough to listen to him and his experience. At the same time he was up on one knee, rifle into his shoulder, and staring down the LDS attached to his SA80, returning fire. The ROE was a given – a firefight was on.

  As he joined in and returned fire, Liam caught the sound of a large round being fired close by. Turning, he spotted another soldier, but the weapon he was holding was no ordinary SA80.

  In his late twenties, with hair blond enough to make Flash Gordon envious, sharp cheekbones, and his height hitting six foot two, Neil Carter looked like he’d stepped out of an advert in GQ. So much so, in fact, that it had become his nickname.

  Neil’s weapon was the L115A3 rifle. Firing an 8.59mm round, it had improved range over its predecessor, the L96. It came with state-of-the-art telescopic day-and-night all-weather sights, and was capable of a first-round hit at 600 metres, its range extending up to 1100 metres. It was one serious weapon.

  Calmly, Neil took his shots, making sure each one counted. Liam could see their effect through his ow
n sights. He hadn’t yet tried out the L11, and he didn’t mind admitting that he was itching to get his mitts on the Sharpshooter as well, but that was in the hands of Lance Corporal Clark, who as well as being an NCO, was an excellent shot. And that meant he wouldn’t be getting a look in.

  A shout came in over the PRR. ‘Scott!’

  While Neil fired another deadly round, Liam turned to see Miller signalling to him from about fifteen metres away.

  ‘Right! Two-fifty! One o’clock!’

  That meant rounds were coming in from another direction. This wasn’t just a random attack, it was well planned and seeming increasingly like an ambush.

  Liam hammered a few more rounds into where he had identified incoming fire, changed magazines, then stared hard at where Miller was telling him to look. Lieutenant Steers was directing other soldiers to find cover and return fire. After the relative calm of Camp Bastion the shock of the firefight was almost overwhelming. But as always, Liam’s training just took over. It was instinctive. It had to be. There was no time during a contact to ponder on the meaning of life, because as soon as you did, there was a chance a round would thump home and end it in a smashing of bone and ripping of flesh.

  He spotted a knot of bush and scrub clambering up and around a long section of crumbling mud wall. Then muzzle flash. Then another. Liam had no idea how many Taliban were hiding there, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was stopping them.

  Liam opened fire. At this range, with the target at least a hundred metres away, fully auto was a waste of rounds. You only ever used that if things had gone seriously to shit and all other options were dead. Instead, Liam peppered the place as rapidly as he could with accurate fire, the SA80 coming into its own as a weapon with a worldwide reputation for unequalled accuracy. He changed his magazine again in one smooth motion, hardly missing a beat.

  Heavy fire was coming from the compound now – the lads already at the patrol base were up at the walls and pummelling the surrounding area with a deadly rate of firepower. Liam saw Clint giving it some with his own rifle. He hadn’t yet seen Martin but was sure he was being kept busy too. It was one hell of a way to start off a tour.