Nothing more would be said now. They say that once the first shot is fired, the planning is over and it is in the lap of the gods, along with the training kicking in and a steady hand.
Corporal West watched the first vehicle, a Mitsubishi 4x4 with four people inside. All the windows were down, and the shimmering green figures inside, seen through his NVG goggles, had weapons held at port-arms, ready to leap out and complete whatever task they had set themselves. The Mitsubishi crawled along Dyke’s Way and was closely followed by a second, this one an old Volvo. This too had its windows down and was also making its way down Dyke’s Way carefully.
“Get ready,” West hissed to his men. “Lead vehicle approaching Trigger-Two. Sierra-Two, this is Sierra-Four. Do you have visual? Over.”
“Sierra-Two. Roger. Just coming into view.”
“All call signs, this is Sierra-Four. Trigger-Two, Trigger-Two. Out.”
The entire company now knew that the lead vehicle had passed Sierra-Four and was in sight of Sierra-Two, close to the warehouse entrance. The convoy snaked down Dyke Way, the NCO counting the vehicles as they passed until the last one, a Toyota, was directly opposite.
“Steady, steady, steady. Now!” yelled Corporal West.
He smacked at the clackers, one after the other, and Mark Grant triggered the line of flares set up along the road. The 700 steel balls from each of the Claymore mines bracketed the last four vehicles in the convoy. Some were deflected by the vehicle chassis or engines; others flew over the roofs or passed through the gaps in between each car. But hundreds found their mark.
Those furthest away from the swathe of steel balls clambered out of their seats, throwing themselves to the ground, blinded and silhouetted by the flares that lined that side of the road. They left half a dozen of their comrades behind, either dead or wounded. Those that had received some military training immediately positioned themselves behind some form of protection, preferably using the engine block as a barrier against the incoming fire, West’s men having now opened up from inside the warehouse as well as from the roof. Those less experienced simply hugged the ground, hoping that the incoming fire would cease and they could get in a better position to return fire.
The flares continued to burn, lighting up the column of vehicles. Kirby stepped out from where Golf-One and Two were hidden, onto the road and, as planned, levelled an anti-tank missile at the rearmost vehicle. Locking on, the operator triggered the launch, and the missile, once leaving the launch tube, rocketed towards its mark. Missing its intended target, the rearmost car, it shot by, streaking past the face of one of the intruders kneeling behind the rear wheel, about to take a pot shot at the soldiers across the road. Without connecting with the man’s head, the sheer heat and velocity of the passing missile literally peeled back the man’s face from his left ear to his right, taking his lower jaw with it, leaving behind his upper molars and a gaping mass of destroyed tissue. Thrown sideways, the man struck the tarmac road, unconscious, oblivious to the pain and his imminent death. Cursing, the soldier who had missed the target allocated to him ran across to the far side of the road as he heard the roar of the Scimitar tank, Golf-One pulling alongside him.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Five 30mm rounds fired from the Scimitar’s RARDEN cannon struck the immobilised convoy, shattering windscreens, tearing into metal, ripping apart the vehicle bodies that had been providing the attackers with some form of cover. Five more rounds smashed into the wreckage, devastation becoming more and more apparent. Powell raised a second Javelin anti-tank weapon, and another missile flew towards its target, hitting the side of the lead vehicle which erupted in a ball of flame, torn apart, flipping up and over, and landing on its roof some twenty metres from its original position. The second vehicle in the line was forced over onto its side. A woman and a man, previously given some protection behind the vehicles that had just been wiped out, were now partially exposed to the fire coming from the soldiers in warehouse. Both shocked by the violence of the explosion, panicked and ran from the Volvo, darting for the buildings behind them, seeking safety amongst the walls.
Perched on top of the warehouse, the gunner, one of the men in Sierra-Four, opened fire on the two fleeing attackers, sparks flying around their feet as high-velocity rounds tore into the road. Using tracer rounds to guide him onto his target, a five-round burst soon struck the two fleeing enemy. The woman took a 7.62mm round in her lower back, shattering her spine, and a second in her left shoulder, spinning her around and forcing her sprawling body to the ground where her wide eyes flickered left and right as she struggled to move her paralysed body. Her comrade, who was in fact her beau, was equally unfortunate. The single round that punched through the back of his neck, taking the majority of the man’s oesophagus with it, left him gagging and gasping for breath, bubbles of pink froth exuding from the mangled mess that was once his neck. He dropped to his knees, clutching his bloodied throat with both hands, his face alive with panic as he sucked phlegm, gore and spittle into his lungs. A second bullet hit him in the back, throwing him to the ground, his heart ruptured and silent, his life extinguished seconds later.
The flares died down, the area suddenly in darkness, silence, a break in the firing, only broken by the groans of the wounded. Sergeant Dunn fired two flares, lighting up the area again as the Scimitar, now with the Fox covering its back, moved further down the line of vehicles, its turret swung over to the right. Two soldiers walked behind the rear of the reconnaissance tank, protecting it and its crew from any attack. Corporal West, accompanied by Mark Grant, left the warehouse they were in, to provide additional cover. They now needed to finish the enemy off, or to at least flush them out and clear them from the local area. In the middle of the convoy, the survivors of the Claymore mines, after throwing themselves out of the peppered vehicles, moved west, congregating at the front of the convoy as the tank ground towards them, 30mm shells whittling away their protective cover. Sierra-Two, taking advantage of the confusion, fired round after round into the cowering cluster of attackers, bullets tearing through flesh and bone, the massed bodies proving to be a perfect target. Out of the seven, two, one clutching a shattered arm, managed to drag themselves into cover off the road. Lance Corporal Bryant ordered a ceasefire, coinciding with the Scimitar also ceasing its pummelling of the convoy. There was near silence again; just a steady drone from his ears, the after effects of the heavy gunfire, the distant sound of a fire fight at the back of the warehouse and the groans and cries from the wounded. Apart from Grant, who had a gash in his leg from a ricocheting splinter, the soldiers of Sierra-Two and Four along with Golf-One and Two were unharmed.
Whoosh… whoosh. Two ground-based flares lit up the area, followed by the louder thumps of four Claymore mines that swept the concrete apron, normally used by HGVs and other vehicles to deposit or collect goods from the rear of the warehouse, with a lethal hail of hundreds of steel balls. Five of the intruders crumpled as the balls peppered their fragile bodies, causing horrific wounds to their faces and bodies. The nine men who had been waiting for the cacophony of sound to come from the front of the warehouse, indicative of the main attack being launched, had run across the open ground, mistakenly secure in the knowledge that all focus would be at the front gate of the warehouse.
Haynes, his L115A3 sniper rifle tucked in close to his body, his cheek snug against the butt, had already zoned in with his telescopic sight, and he now breathed out, holding his breath halfway, and squeezed the trigger. Almost instantaneously, the figure in the scope’s lens jerked as the 8.59mm slug knocked him sideways. The scope moved. Haynes was already changing targets. The four still alive, one dragging a shredded leg behind him, were soon picked off. Haynes accounted for another one, the LMG and Sergeant Thompson the rest. It hadn’t been a fair fight. Marsh, crouching next to Bennet, spotting for him on the LMG, cried out as a heavy round from a hunting rifle, fired by one of the wounded lying on the concrete apron, smacked into her chest. As she was thrown backward, she immediately began struggling to breathe, pink froth forming around her mouth, the wound to her ribcage preventing her lungs from expanding.