Elephants can't hide forever Read online

  The timing of the snatch was of paramount importance to its success; like all military operations preparation and rehearsal was the key. What happened on the battlefield was determined by the planning, and Mike and the squad had this down to a fine art. Davey and Jim McClougin, who was known as Badger (due to a period in his life several years previously, when he had lived in a badgers sett for nine consecutive nights, somewhere in Kent, whilst training with the boys from Special Branch) left the hovel that had been home for the last few weeks by the front opening, took one side of the road each and made their way towards the square. The walk was to take three minutes forty-five seconds as they traversed the square, keeping as close to the ramshackle buildings as possible to avoid any late night curiosity. Mike and Jock slid out of the back entrance and into the car for the one minute fifty five second drive that would see them at the front of the house to coincide with the arrival of the other two.

  It was four minutes past 2am as Davey and the Badger turned into the alley; even the hour had been debated thoroughly, and all agreed on the tried and tested practice that any surprise assault should occur when the enemy are at their most vulnerable, both physically and mentally, and this was the early morning hours between two and four am.

  Both guards were extinguishing their cigarettes when they simultaneously spotted the two shadowy figures approaching. The weeks of inactivity had made them careless, and neither heard the double discharge from two silenced Sig Saurs pistols as two cartridges entered each man’s body, one each through the skull just above the right ear, and one each through the chest cavity, turning their two main vital organs into a scrambled mush before they hit the floor. Hopefully Allah and the virgins were ready for them.

  As the Volga, lights now off, turned into the alley Davey and the Badger were by the door of the house securing the plastic explosives to the door frame, so far so good. This next move was due to take less than two minutes: to get in, silence the guards, suppress Bin Laden and bundle him into the boot of the Volga. Mike jumped out of the passengers’ door, thirty feet from the house. Ten seconds later, as he lobbed the first Flash Bang through the window, Davey detonated the plastics which hurled the door inward as it splintered into a thousand deadly shards. Jim the Badger followed the shattered door into the blinding light the Flash Bang had created; with his Night Goggles he saw four burly men, two to his right, two to his left, and all had looks of fear and astonishment on their faces, but all four had AK 47 sub machine guns to hand. Jim knew he could not take down all four, as they were already gathering their senses and reaching for their weapons. All those hours of training back at Sterling Lines came to fruition- Jim didn’t consider the men to his left, he fired off four rounds, two each into the two men on his right, dropping them like stones. Before they hit the bare floor, the other two to his right suffered the same ending as Davey, who had followed Jim into the building, and despatched his victims with the same confidence that his comrade had exhibited.

  As Davey and Jim crouched to observe any other guards, Mike had gone between them and in a single action kicked the internal door, which led to the only other room in the building, off its hinges and despatched another Flash Bang into the middle of the room. Mike followed the grenade into the windowless room and immediately spotted over in the far corner the shape of a man huddled up and trying to cover himself with one of the rough blankets that were strewn on the bed- and which up to a minute ago Osama Bin Laden, his quarry, had been sleeping soundly on. Mike was the only member of the team carrying the MAC SMG; as last into the building, he would either need a fast repeating weapon if things did not work out, or nothing and nothing was the case.

  Mike crossed the room with lightning speed, ripped the blanket off the last live terrorist in the house, and brought the butt of the MAC down onto the temple of the man who cowered in front of him, Osama Bin Laden. For a fleeting second, Mike’s training to never dwell on the battlefield left him; here right in front of him was a crumpled man, helpless- was it really the same person who had wreaked carnage on the United States of America and had half the armed forces of the Western World hunting him? To Bin Laden it must have felt like the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse had come calling, and Mike could only stare in near disbelief that the man lying in front of him, bruised and broken, was World public enemy number one. All this happened in under a second, and Mike was now back in charge of himself and the troop.

  “All clear here and ready to move out.” he called.

  “And here,” replied The Badger.

  “And here,” replied Davey.

  Whilst Jim and Davey started a meticulous search of the building, collecting each and every scrap of paper no matter how obscure, then stuffing it all into their Bergens for the spooks to pour over, Mike had opened up the first aid kit, removed the loaded syringe, and with a quick flick of the cylinder to remove any accumulated air bubbles, (well after all this work he didn’t really want to send a rogue air bubble to Bin Laden’s heart and kill him now), firmly jabbed the needle into the terrorist’s neck and pushed the plunger with little finesse, down as far as it would go.

  As he removed the needle from Bin Laden’s neck, Jock hurried into the room. Without saying a word, Jock grabbed Bin Laden’s feet, Mike grabbed his shoulders, and together they carried him out to the alley where the Volga was ticking over. The boot was open, and they unceremoniously dumped him into the waiting chamber and banged it shut. As they climbed into their seats, Davey and Jim came out of the house, now a morgue, and jumped into their seats in the rear of the vehicle. The decision had been made not to torch the house, it would only raise the locals quicker and furthermore, once the shit hit the fan, Bin Laden’s mob were hardly likely to send round the local SOCO, or Scenes of Crimes Officers.

  The whole operation was exactly within the time frame planned, and the Volga slid gently out of town without a soul noticing; well they sure as hell must have heard the door implode if nothing else, still, in this part of the world people tend not to see any thing extraordinary, and Mike and the troop hoped this would be the case and buy them enough time to get to the border.

  As the Volga left town and hit the unlit semi-metalled road, Mike told Jock to slow right down. Mike jumped out of the car and walked thirty meters behind, placing the Claymores at regular intervals. If there were any hostiles left in the village, this would stop them in a hurry, and if there weren’t, then some unlucky bastard would meet an untimely end sometime in the morning; still, life was cheap round these parts, and Bin Laden for a couple of locals was a good enough swap.

  As Mike placed the last mine, he removed the Sat phone from his pack and sent the coded message up into space that would get the Little Bird airborne, and them out of this Godforsaken land. With a quick glance upwards, as if to wish the message luck, he caught up with the motor and regained his seat. The journey down to the border was uneventful, if that was possible considering the prize safely ensconced in the trunk.

  As the Volga approached the border, it was noticeable that the increase in human flotsam and jetsam seemed to be endlessly meandering both towards the border and away from it. The dramatically painted Lorries that the Pakistani truck drivers loved to adorn with pictures of their loved ones, their homes and any other significance in their lives, had now ground to a halt, but the cars and pedestrians were still moving, and the checkpoint was now in view. No words were spoken between the four SAS men, but each had placed their MAC SMG within close proximity and placed them on continuous fire; any trouble and they would have to shoot their way across the border, probably leaving the prisoner behind and heading into the mountains. The crossing point was now upon them, and as they drew up Mike wound down his window to do the talking; he was fluent in Urdu and hoped he would be the only one needing to talk. The Volga drew level with a heavily moustached and heavily armed official, who peered into the motor, looked Mike in the eye, and waved them through, no checking of papers, passports or contents, nothing Jack Shit.

  As
the motor swung north, heading towards the RV point, Jock spoke first.

  “Fucking hell,” he exclaimed as he let out a whistle that is a universal exclamation for a lucky escape. The tension in the motor evaporated as the troopers, who had been ready for any scenario, relaxed knowing they were nearly home and dry.

  Mike stared straight ahead. The intuition, sixth sense, déjà vu that had kept him alive for all these years had kicked into overdrive- that crossing was wrong, it was too easy, and it was like they were expecting them. That seemed impossible, even if somehow word had got out they would have been gunned down and not allowed to cross. Could it be paranoia as this was to be Mike’s last mission? Nonetheless, Mike had a feeling of deep unease.

  And well he should.

  Chapter 16

  The Tora Bora mountains

  Throughout the centuries, the arrogance of the British Army in underestimating its opposition had caused the Empire to lose more conflicts than it should. The current enemies of the civilised world were hidden in the near impregnable caves of the Tora Bora mountain range- to be more precise two thousand Al Qaeda soldiers of freedom were living in the inside of one of the many peaks in the neighbourhood of the village of Tora Bora. Soaring to a majestic thirteen thousand feet, the mountain of Gree Khil, which housed these pirates, looked down almost mockingly at the village,

  The great irony was that in the 1980s, these mountains had been developed into sophisticated bunkers to house Afghan warlords and regular militia men by the best engineers America had to offer. The Russian invasion of Afghanistan had not suited the Americans, and so they had blasted great chambers up to a thousand feet deep into the caves of Tora Bora, to assist the Afghans against the common foe. Whether this assisted the Afghans in humiliating the superior Russian forces remains debatable, but what is known is that the labyrinth of tunnels was being put to good use by the now enemies of the USA.

  In the mountain of Gree Khil, there were six levels that contained every conceivable commodity with which an army could survive. The hydroelectric power was sourced by mountain streams, and six inch steel doors were positioned throughout the complex in the event of a gas attack or worse.

  On the third level stood rows of computer banks,; this entire level looked like the NASA control room at Houston, in fact it had been NASA engineers that had designed and installed the equipment that was now the centre of attention and causing much excitement.

  Osama Bin Laden stood in the centre of the hall, head bowed in deep conversation with one of his cohorts.

  “The British are so stupid,” he was saying, “They have taken the bait in their excitement to capture me, phase one of the plan is complete, they have now crossed into Pakistan. In another hour they intend to rendezvous with their aircraft, our allies are waiting and Osama Bin Laden will be killed in the ambush, and the great Satan will have his revenge and go back to sleep.” Both men laughed conspiratorially.

  Indeed the plan, as daring as it was, had worked. A full second before Mike’s radio communication had arrived at GCHQ, it had been picked up by the equipment on level three of the high peak known as Gree Khil.

  The engineers of Al Qaeda had been expecting the communiqué, just as the listeners at GCHQ had. From the very first radio message picked up by the drone all those months ago, the entire discovery of Bin Laden had been a charade, masterminded by Mr Bin Laden himself. If the western agencies were to believe he was dead, he could once again travel the world with the impunity he had had before the events of 9/11.

  Now the final phase to the plan was about to unfold. It was just as outrageous as the first part; the false Bin Laden would have to be destroyed inside Pakistan, but the papers that had been collected from the house in Gandamak, which bore genuine handwriting from Bin Laden, would have to find their way to the security services of Britain and America to substantiate that the body left in Pakistan was indeed that of Osama Bin Laden. Could the great power of the West be fooled by such a hoax? Bin Laden and his generals knew the answer to that.

  It was unthinkable to the British that their defence systems could be compromised, but that was indeed the case, and nowhere less than GCHQ where three senior civil servants, who each had access to top priority state secrets, were all Al Qaeda fundamentalists. All three were sleepers, introduced into the British way of life in their early teens, and left to adapt to and infiltrate the establishment wherever they could. There was no contact from their masters year after year, but all knew that the call would come, and when it did they must be ready. And so it was that on a cold December night in late 2001, Sally Dixon had returned to her one bedroom flat in the centre of Cheltenham and made the call, which would end the lives of people she would never know.

  Osama Bin Laden, who had just been notified of Sally Dixon’s message and was holding court with his trusted few, commented: “How can we trust these treacherous pirates?”

  “Because, Sire,” came the reply “They answer to one God and that is the US Dollar. When we get confirmation from our source in Britain that you are dead, they get 200,000 dollars, and not before.”

  “Very good,” replied Bin Laden “The next few hours are critical then”

  “Indeed” was the answer.

  Chapter 17

  The North West Frontier

  The border was now well behind Mike and the boys. No one spoke as they journeyed north, steadily making their way nearer the RV. The terrain was unforgiving, but the Volga never missed a beat. Mike was still troubled with the ease of the crossing, but he kept his thoughts to himself. If there was any thing tangible he would have voiced his concerns, but as the Leader he couldn’t show he was spooked by a hunch, no, he would remain extra diligent until they were out of these mountains.

  Jock tapped Mike on the shoulder and pointed ahead. Both men could see the faint outline of the terrain as it levelled out, this was the RV point. Mike checked his watch, five minutes before the Little Bird landed. The plan was for the Volga to station itself at the end of the valley, flash the lights a couple of times and rely on the skills of the pilot to land the plane as near to them as possible. There was to be no Hollywood style lighting up of the air strip, the natives in these parts were mighty suspicious and mighty dangerous.

  The land was now flat enough for Mike to cut the lights on the motor and cautiously make his way round to the head of the valley. All the troopers were now on full alert, this was the last place things could go seriously tits up.

  The Volga was in position and waiting when four things happened almost simultaneously. The faint hum of the Little Bird’s engine came into earshot, the night sky lit up with six ark lights all trained on the Volga, the air was filled with a loudhailer which instructed the car’s occupants to leave the car immediately (although the command was in the local dialect of Pashto all of the troop understood the order), and surrounding the car were four UAZ 469s Russian all terrain jeeps, each full to the brim with local tribesmen. The four SAS soldiers were blinded by the light; the positioning of the jeeps had sealed off any escape route in the car, and their only chance was to exit the car and attempt a fire fight, but things didn’t look good.

  As they began slowly to leave the car, each man trying to distance himself from the others to increase the target they made and buy some time, a streak of yellow light filled the night sky as it soared air bound from behind a small hillock half way down the runway. It was another Russian leftover, a MANPADS, which was a Man-Portable Air Defence System, fired from the shoulder of a man. This was the FIM-43c model, otherwise known generally as a SAM or Surface to Air Missile. This model, when launched, would lock onto the thermal signature of its target and be drawn in by the heat of the engine.

  Mesmerised by the trajectory of the missile, all the troopers could do was watch in horrific fascination as it traversed the night sky before, after ten seconds, it found and detonated inside the engine of the Little Bird. The plane disintegrated in a fireball. It was like the movies. The crew had no chance for evasive man
oeuvring, they were just too near the landing point, it was probably for the best- if they had been three klicks out they would have still had no chance, just longer to acclimatise to their death.

  As the remnants of the plane fell to the ground, another rocket was launched, and this time it came from the back of one of the UAZs, maybe fifty meters away. This was a GTGM or Ground to Ground missile; another destructive weapon that could be launched from a man’s shoulder, this was a RPG-7 or rocket propelled grenade, and in under a second it had torn into the Volga, causing another spectacular explosion. With Bin Laden still secreted in the trunk when the missile hit, it was highly unlikely there would be any remains left, let alone any identifiable body parts.

  It was for situations like this that the SAS trained its troops so vigorously; no matter what the odds, in any given confrontation there was always a point where an opportunity came in which the overwhelmed might just grab the proverbial lifeline, and so it was that as the Volga exploded the attention of the aggressors was wavering between the two fireballs and the troopers who were just clear of the car. It had been no coincidence how the four men had exited the vehicle. Badger and Davey went to the left hand side, both men ten feet apart, and Mike and Jock in the same position went to the right of the car. All four men instinctively knew this was the chance to resist their imminent execution. As one, they raised the concealed MAC SMGs that were fully primed, and blasted at the headlights of the UAZs. All hell let loose, with the lamps on the jeeps being extinguished, and several screams from the bandits who would have been mortally injured in the frenzy. Mike and Jock broke for cover to their right, and Jim and Davey to their left. Although there were several tribesmen down, there was no way of knowing how many were out there, and now the troop was divided there was little chance of regrouping. Mike and Jock holed up behind a jagged rock, still only twenty meters from the killing zone.