“By that statement, you don’t think anybody is going to listen to us.”
David had continued to smile at him, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he had replied, “A great piece of work, Ali.”
Six hours later, having reached their primary target and unaware of the global politics and instead focused on the mission, Thomas and the team approached the buildings. Immediately they encountered a large long truck with a canopy around it. Using his night vision goggles he quickly spotted only two men guarding it, and everything was very, very quiet.
The young Captain was pleased. The mission was going without a hitch so far.
Giving the silent order to advance by way of fist pumps and points, the eight man assault team quickly went in, killing the two guards with their knives and then setting the explosives on the truck.
Suddenly, Thomas sensed movement to his right side, coming from the door opening in the building.
He didn’t have time to think. The instincts of one of his troopers reacted for him as the magazine was emptied into the person at the door.
The whole place erupted. The patrol was compromised.
Straight away, heavy machine gunfire rained down on the patrol as they attempted to make their escape.
Sensing they were in danger of being overwhelmed, Thomas gave the order to withdraw with a hand signal. As he did so, a tracer round whizzed past his ear, and the patrol moved back quickly to a place of cover. His heart pumped faster. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
Being well trained, he didn’t need to give the order for the team to stop, turn, and return fire to stall the retreat. Three hundred yards out on cue, they did it automatically, immediately unleashing a barrage of covering fire in the direction of the Iraqi guards.
Screams erupted.
Yet still not one word had been said by the men of Thomas’s assault team only a group hand signals between one another to signal where to aim their fire.
Suddenly the Iraqi night sky lit up!
“Bigwig this is Hawkbit,” over the radio’s loudspeaker quickly caught the attention of Ali Mansoor, the Colonel and the RSM. He was using the codenames of characters from the famous story of Watership Down. Another of the RSM’s witty ideas!
“Objective successful,” confirmed the crackling voice.
“Woundwort destroyed,” came the confirmation. “Under heavy fire. Requesting immediately air support and EXFIL ASAP at original drop-in!” squawked Thomas’s voice, referring to the Standard Operation Procedure (SOP) of returning to your original drop in point to wait for a helicopter that once every twenty-four hours would return to pick up a comprised patrol.
The relieved looking Colonel immediately went to pick up the radio. The hand of the man belonging to a CIA Intelligence officer who had flown in the afternoon from Riyadh stopped him.
“Sorry, Colonel,” the Virginian said. “No, Air support or emergency Air Vac,” he ordered.
“WHAT!”
“This mission is off-book,” the Virginian calmly stated. “Emergency Air support requires logs and confirmation and gets journalists who hang around the base very interested as to why,” he said coolly and without emotion.
The fury in the face of the Colonel said it all. “Those are my bloody men out there! I am NOT leaving them to FUCKING DIE.”
The Senior CIA officer looked at him impassively, calmly pulled a letter out of his briefcase, and then offered it towards the Colonel.
The RSM snatched it from the Virginian’s hand, quickly handing it to his commanding officer. He promptly read it.
“RSM,” the Colonel said with sad eyes. “Pass me the radio.”
“Understood Bigwig,” answered Thomas despite his mind thinking anything but as he turned towards the team. “Looks like we on our own,” he said. Nobody said a word. They didn’t have to.
“It’s the back-up plan then,” said Taff Jones. Grimly, Thomas nodded.
“Well at least I don’t have to listen to the fucking RSM talking about tablecloths!” Taff offered in the way of humor.
Split into two teams of four and as had been pre-agreed in their pre-mission briefing if they couldn’t EXFIL. One team led by Taff Jones set off for Saudi Arabia, whilst the other led by Thomas headed for the Syrian border and their secondary pick up point that was about twenty-five miles away from the border, a distance that was at least hundred and twenty miles away from where they were now.
As freezing wind and driving sleet hit their faces, Thomas and his team watched Taff and rest of boys disappear into the night. He had no idea that it would be the last time he ever saw them again.
Forty miles into the trek, as they took a break in the first of the four LUP they had planned to take on water, Thomas and the men had their first contact since they destroyed the missile.
The hand signal of Mickey Ward, a thin and willowy Trooper from Essex, about eight hundred yards in front on point alerted them to the danger.
In the open and with limited cover all knew their options were few. Thomas focused in eyes in front of him. It was an Armored Personnel Carrier and an infantry truck that had spotted them.
He didn’t hesitate and neither did the rest of the three-man team, despite the Standard Operation Procedure (SOP) calling for a soldier to run away from Armor as fast as possible.
Mickey Ward fired the first shot, taking out the man on the top of the Armored Personnel Carrier with the 7.62mm machine gun.
Following the Trooper’s lead, Thomas let off a volley of anti-armor grenades, advancing quickly towards the enemy and Mickey’s position while Stevie provided cover fire with his FN Mimi 5.62mm machine gun in the direction of the truck.
The sounds of screaming Iraqis being hit by the rounds of ammunition rippled across the ground towards them as he closed the gap.
On reaching a position just to the left of Mickey in a matter of seconds, Thomas stopped and knelt on one knee continuing to let off more rounds towards the direction of the troops exiting from the armored personnel carrier. More screams erupted from the Iraqis.
As Thomas began to focus his gaze towards the threat of the truck, his peripheral vision took in the sight of Mickey being hit.
Traveling at speeds exceeding 3,200 feet per second and despite a soldier’s training, he may or may not see a bullet coming. In the end that is pretty much irrelevant, as you’re certainly not going to have time to respond to it.
That was why Ward didn’t duck, yell, or indicate to Thomas he had been hit.
Instead, Thomas relied on the blood spatter with Mickey’s hair, skin, and muscle hitting his face, followed by the acrid smell of powder burning flesh assailing his nostrils to tell him that the Trooper had been hit.
The Iraqi who released the round into Mickey also didn’t have time to respond. The 5.62mm rounds of his and Stevie Wiltshire’s machine guns tore him to pieces.
Seconds after that, Thomas gave the order to cease-fire with a hand pump signal from Thomas.
The early morning wind brought the sound of whimpering soldiers to be added to the smell of burning flesh that filled the air around him.
“Take his tag,” he ordered Stevie without emotion, referring to the bracelet with his name, rank, and serial number on it. The time for mourning would be at the Trooper’s memorial service at Hereford if they made it. Without saying a word, the Trooper did just that.
Stevie and the other remaining Trooper, who also doubled as the team’s Medic, Tony Patterson, calmly made sure there were no survivors in the burning truck and Armored Personnel Carrier. Taking out his binoculars, Thomas focused his gaze on the horizon, ignoring the screams in Arabic of the wounded Iraqis as he did so.