Chris Ryan - Osama

The American turned to Fletcher, who was ready with his instructions: ‘Joe, Ricky, team Alpha. JJ, Raz, team Bravo.’

‘You have’ – the American checked his watch – ‘twenty-five minutes to familiarize yourself with the imagery. Departure 0645. We have support groups preparing your gear. Let’s move, gentlemen. We’ve caught the big fish; now let’s hose up the tiddlers. You find our man, and remember he’s notched up a fair few American names on his bedpost. You have my express permission to fuck him up pretty good.’

He looked directly at Hernandez and nodded. The Americans stood up as a single man as their commander left the room.

0715 hours.

The sun, low in the sky, streamed into the dirty interior of the Black Hawk. A thick, oily stench of aviation fuel clung to everything and the surfaces were covered in sand. Joe couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a mouthful of food that didn’t contain grit, or wiped his arse without it feeling like he was sandpapering it.

Joe sat next to Ricky on the dull, hard, black seats that lined the chopper. No attempts to disguise themselves as locals today. Kevlar helmets cut away around the ears. Body armour and multicam. Ops vests stashed with extra ammo and grenades. If – when – they caught up with the bomb-maker, they’d need to go in hard and fast. A Camelbak full of fresh water was strapped to each man’s back, with a little plastic tube emerging around his neck. Rehydration was almost as important as ammo in theatres like this. Stopping to drink from a bottle could mean wasting time they didn’t have.

Every man wore the Skye Precision gear common to the Regiment, the SEALs and Delta, the only differences being that the Yanks had their kneepads sewn into their trousers, whereas Joe and Ricky had had to fix theirs around the outside. The Yanks had Velcro patches with the stars and stripes fixed to their body armour; Joe and Ricky had Union Jacks with a difference. In common with some of the other old sweats in the Regiment, their badges were embroidered with Arabic lettering which translated, very precisely, as ‘Fuck Al-Qaeda’. The Yanks were all bigger than both Joe and Ricky, and they carried a bit more shite on them: there were more knives tucked into their rigs, and Joe saw that Hernandez had a pair of surgical scissors to snip Plasticuffs with.

He felt eyes on him. Why was Hernandez looking at him like that? He shook off the paranoia. He’d seen enough men go off on missions to realize that different people prepared themselves in different ways. There was seldom a party atmosphere while you were waiting to be inserted. When the loadie shouted ‘Five minutes in!’ above the noisy grind of the aircraft, and held up five fingers in the direction of the Americans but ignored Joe and Ricky, he told himself it was a US chopper and a US flight crew. Of course they were going to pay more attention to their countrymen than to the Brits. Joe had been on enough joint ops to realize it was always that way.

He closed his eyes and cleared his head. He wished he’d slept last night.

They started losing height, suddenly and sharply. Standard flight practice: keep high, out of the range of the type of rockets the Taliban were expected to have, then swoop down at a steep gradient when you’re almost at your insertion point. They didn’t touch down immediately, but skirted just a couple of metres above the desert. Joe knew why this was – their final insertion point was camouflaged by undulating ground and this manoeuvre would decrease the chance of their being spotted by Taliban scouts. But it was dangerous. The pilots’ vision would be compromised by dust from the downdraft, and the aircraft could easily lose that couple of metres of height. This was something only a special forces flight crew would attempt.

Final checks: weapons locked and loaded, ops vests tightly strapped. The Black Hawk finally touched down, and within seconds the eight men were exiting from the side, forming a semicircle around the back of the chopper and kneeling down in the firing position. Once more, Joe found himself surrounded by a cloud of dust which only started to settle as the chopper lifted up into the air.

The blur of brown-out all around faded and their location eased into view. They were in a patch of bare desert. The area around Bagram was a featureless dustbowl, a harsh environment even for the locals, and the earth was baked hard even this early on in the year, but with a fine, silty covering of dust that accepted footprints. Here and there, some hardy foliage was trying to force its way out of the cracks in the ground. To Joe’s left, two metres away, was the long, craggy branch of a mulberry tree. But there were no other trees in the vicinity. Either it had been blown here in a winter storm, dragged here by a wild animal, or a person had placed it here: a reminder that even deserted places were never deserted for long. The mountain ranges of the Afghanistan–Pakistan border were at Joe’s six o’clock. Ahead of him, the terrain sloped uphill. Gradient, one in five, peaking in the brow of the hill about half a klick on and 100 metres high, curling round to the south. To the north: horizon.

Joe’s earpiece crackled into life. Hernandez’s voice was clearer through the comms than in person, even though he was only five metres to Joe’s right. ‘Team Alpha in position,’ he said. Only when he had relayed this information back to their ops centre at Bagram did he raise his arm again and jab his forefinger north in the direction of the brow of the hill.

Joe and Ricky stood up. Their role was well defined. You could have all the intel in the world, but until real men with real eyes had scoped the place out, you never quite knew what was waiting. They bent low as they ran uphill, knowing that the Americans had them covered. They ran fifteen metres apart – that way, if they did get into contact, they weren’t bunched up as a single target – and it took approximately three minutes to cover the ground.

Fifteen metres from the top of the hill they hit the dirt. Joe looked to his right and caught Ricky’s eye. They both nodded at the same time and started to crawl, edging closer to the brow and keeping low. Stand here on the summit and you’d be observable for miles around.

The terrain beyond the downhill slope of the hill was an open plain. A deep wadi – one of the dried-up river beds that characterized this part of the world – ran from the bottom of the hill, across the wide expanse of open ground and into the heart of Nawaz, two kilometres away. The town itself was a sprawling hotchpotch of compounds around the edges and low concrete buildings surrounding a tall, thin minaret in the centre, all wavering in the heat haze. A road ran into it from the north-east, and even with his naked eye Joe could make out the metallic glint of three vehicles heading into the town. Their plan was to approach Nawaz using this wadi with high, craggy sides as cover, knowing that it would take them within 100 metres of their target’s suspected hideout.

Joe edged forward another couple of metres, keeping his body pressed flat against the ground, and moving slowly. His pixellated digicam would help him blend into the scenery from a distance; but it was movement, more than anything else, that caused people to be seen. Before leaving camp, he had carefully removed his wristwatch. Rule number one of daytime surveillance: remove anything reflective.

Now he carefully took a small, handheld scope from his ops vest. It was coated with non-reflective black paint to prevent sunlight glinting off it; the lens was hooded for the same reason. Joe draped a camo-net over the end of the lens to make triple sure that the sun didn’t reflect off it, then put it to his eye and started to scan.