The Fijian's voice filled the net, very slow, very laid back, speaking as if he couldn't smell a whiff of shit. 'We're turning on to the target street now. Four hundred to go. Street is lit, house lights going out.'
13
The PRRs fell silent as the Fijian counted us in. Serious faces looked up and out at the buildings that hemmed us in on both sides.
'Fifteen… twenty…'
Dave pushed down the locking bar of the rear door and held it closed.
I checked my Osprey collar was up and the Velcro fastening in the front was secure enough to keep it that way.
'On target — stop, stop, stop!'
The wagon tipped forward. Dave hurled the door open before it had even finished rocking. He and the second medic both jumped out and disappeared towards the front of the wagon. He had to organize the strike and the protection, and relay everything back to the company commander. Sonia stayed in the wagon to receive any casualties.
Pete tumbled out. He had a job to do as well. He had to keep as close as he could to the entry team without getting killed.
Dom and I were close behind. All the Bulldog commanders were ripping down the cables overhead. Bulbs shattered on the ground. Lights went out along the rows of buildings as the area closed down and got ready for a nightmare. Petrified kids screamed at each other inside the buildings all round us.
Pete had reached the door in the outer wall of the target. The strike team was forming up each side. Terry checked it wasn't unlocked before the battering ram was swung into action. The bang of steel on steel mixed with the rumble of the wagon power packs, smashing glass and the screams of revved-up soldiers and terrified civilians.
Dom filmed with the IR camera in front of him as we moved along the line of Bulldogs. I gripped the back of his Osprey to steady him and keep him out of the team's way as he concentrated on the small digital screen.
The ladder crews ran across our path from left to right, heading for the rear of the building. Others legged it to the far side of the street. They needed to get Barney and his snipers up on vantage-points both sides of the road, soon as. Guys with Minimis followed to give all-round defence.
There was an almighty crash as the battering ram slammed into the steel door for the fifth time. Its top hinge ripped apart and the door fell halfway to the ground but held.
Pete's stills camera flashed on multidrive. The strobe effect made the entry team's movements look like something out of the Keystone Kops.
Snipers raced up ladders and on to walls.
The entry team formed up on the front door, half a dozen each side. Terry already had his weapon in the shoulder, facing in. His zit-covered face glistened with sweat. His mate behind held him by his Osprey, as if he was restraining a hyped-up greyhound.
'Get that fucking door in!' The yell echoed above the Bulldogs' engines.
The battering ram crashed against the steel door again and again. Pete did his paparazzo thing, triggering so many bursts of flashlight it seemed like there were a dozen cameras, not just one.
The steel door came off its hinges and crashed to the ground.
'Get in there! Now!' Dave somehow managed to make himself heard above the din of engines, shouts and screams from what seemed like every building in the street.
Terry yelled at the top of his voice as he was released, and disappeared through the open door. The number two followed. The entry team with their battering ram were next, and I heard the first thud as they pounded against the wooden front door of the house just two metres inside the wall.
Dom arrived at the breach and stood trying to get some film of the guys inside. Most of the strike team hadn't been able to get into the confined space between the wall and the door.
'It's blocked inside! It's blocked!'
'Fucking hit it! Hit it!'
Pete got up on the tips of his toes. He stretched his arm and aimed the camera over the wall, then hit the multidrive.
Dom strained forward, trying to get into the tiny courtyard with the team. He really thought that forcefield of his would make him bulletproof.
I hauled him back, doing my job. Even Terry was holding back from the door frame until it was time to move.
I shouted into Dom's ear, 'Just let them get on with it, mate.'
There was fire from inside the house. I pulled Dom further back. He fell. Good. I wanted him on the ground anyway. I wanted him anywhere out of the line of fire as Riflemen collapsed against the wall each side of the door as it erupted in a cloud of splinters. Another burst headed the Riflemen's way. The rounds hit the outer wall. Pete, now on the ground streetside, was showered with concrete dust.
'Gunner! Gunner!'
A Rifleman ran to the door and fired his Minimi from the hip. As he moved from the side of the door to directly in front of it, his body rocked back and his helmet rattled with the recoil of a good thirty-round burst.
The echoes bounced round the street, drowning out all other noise. I hauled Dom up so he could film. Pete saw us move and jumped up to get his camera back over the wall.
It's not enough just to be able to carry one of these machine-guns. You need to have the attitude to use the fucking thing. This lad had it. He kicked off a twenty-round burst, standing not even a metre from the door. Gun oil smoked on its red-hot barrel.
The wagon commanders chucked rocks at the last few lights that couldn't be reached any other way. Cyalume sticks glowed on the roofs and walls around us to indicate the location of the snipers. When the shit hit the fan, the GPMG gunners on the Bulldogs would know to aim at anything but blue.
The Minimi stopped. The air was thick with cordite. The gunner jumped out of the way as the door collapsed and Terry and the strike team surged through. Their shouts were mixed with screams from terrified women and children.
Dom moved through the gateway as a burst of AK came from inside followed by four or five quick rounds of 5.56.
It was pitch dark now. No more flashes from Pete, and the last of the street-lights had been killed.
Pete pushed his way inside. 'Hope Tel's OK, eh?'
I let go of Dom, only for him to get knocked aside by the RMPs as they barged their way through. One had a full Royal Mail post sack over her shoulder.
The air was thick with sweet, flowery incense to hide the smell of shit from the open sewers, but it couldn't hide the cordite. There were just three small, dimly lit rooms on the ground floor. An external stairway curled up to the second floor. The Minimi had disintegrated the wall opposite. It was now rubble spread across the floor.
Riflemen dominated every room.
14
One of the Rifles was an Arab from Birmingham. He yelled at a man kneeling on the threadbare carpet in a narrow room to our right. The prisoner was young twenties, definitely of fighting age. Cushions lined one wall. His hands had been plasticuffed in front of him. He was still begging the interpreter as a pair of ski goggles blacked out with gaffer-tape was pulled over his eyes.
One of the RMPs went ballistic, screaming questions for the Arab to translate. 'Name? What's your name? Any more men in the house?'
She checked her picture cards of Basra's most wanted as she went. He looked up, his hands pleading as desperately as his mouth.
'Shut the fuck up!' She bent down until she was inches from his face. 'Name! ID card! Where's your ID?'
Dom carried on filming. Riflemen drenched in sweat shouted at each other as they controlled the rooms.
Screams came from the middle room. Dom swung round. He got some footage through the half-closed door as women, young and old, huddled on the floor with the children. The other RMP jabbered away in Arabic, trying to calm them as she opened the mailbag and handed the kids little day sacks. Bad cop, good cop.