Not that he was afraid of dying, he was a fatalist. And, in truth, right now at twenty years old, with no family and no girlfriend, he didn’t actually have anything in particular to live for. Unlike his new buddy, who was crazily in lust and love.
Soon after they’d first met, Scottie had showed him photographs over a pint or two in a local pub of a beautiful nineteen-year-old woman, Effie, who was his fiancée. Smoke hadn’t been able to resist telling this short, stocky, pugnacious-faced man that he appeared to be punching above his weight.
‘Always, my friend! Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’ Scottie had retorted.
‘What?’
‘Robert Browning.’
‘Who’s he? A politician?’
Scottie had shaken his head. ‘I always knew you Sassenachs were wankers — didn’t realize you were illiterate, too. He was a poet — only one of your most famous poets ever.’
He went on to tell Smoke that Effie was a beautician and that when he came home from this tour, with the money he had saved he was going to invest with her to set up her own salon, quit the Army and become her business partner. Oh, and that she was four months pregnant.
Smoke envied him his plan as much as he envied him his fiancée. He didn’t have any plan beyond what he was here to do right now.
They’d both been here for more than forty-eight hours now, in position to give cover to their platoon when it made its next advance towards a Taliban encampment 10 miles ahead. And also in a position to watch, and if necessary neutralize, any Taliban attempting to further mine the road ahead with Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) — homemade bombs.
The advance should have happened last night, but it hadn’t, and there’d been no word all day on his radio from his commanding officer, Brigadier Jason Finch. Now dusk was falling again. Falling fast. His supply of water was getting low and the artificial bladder he urinated into, painfully, via a catheter he’d inserted himself, was getting increasingly swollen. He needed a shit badly, but that was going to have to wait until—
He stiffened.
Voices. Faint.
But not coming from the right direction.
Peering through the dense leaves and the falling twilight, through his spotting scope, he saw — Jesus — a ragbag group of ten, maybe a dozen, heavily armed Taliban soldiers, some turbaned, marching straight towards them. Maybe a mile off. They would be here in about twenty minutes.
Keeping his voice low, Scottie told him he’d seen them too.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening.
Smoke did a quick calculation. He had three weapons. His L115A3 sniper rifle, fitted with a night-sight, his L85A2 semiautomatic rifle and his Glock 17 pistol. He had fifty rounds of .338 Lapua Magnum ammunition for his sniper rifle. But the bolt action was slow — he’d only pick a handful of them off before they began to return fire. And, as the AK47s the Taliban were armed with were capable of firing 650 rounds a minute, he and Scottie would be cut to ribbons in seconds.
He had a better chance with the semi-automatic, L85A2 rifle, strapped to his back. He had five magazines, each holding thirty rounds of 5.56 NATO ammo. That gave him a total of 150 rounds. The gun was capable of firing at a similar rate to the AK47 in automatic mode. But he and Scottie would need to make every bullet count. If not, they would both be in very big trouble.
He turned down the volume on his radio to its lowest setting, then radioed his lieutenant, and when he heard his calm, reassuring voice he said, ‘Sir, a group of estimated ten, maybe twelve Terry Taliban heading towards us. ETA twenty minutes. Do you want us to engage?’
‘Are you and Scottie well concealed?’ he asked.
‘We are, sir,’ he replied, then immediately regretted it. If they could have blasted the bastards to pieces, which they could have done with their combined firepower, they could have been back at base in an hour for a shit, a shower and some decent grub. And kip.
‘Hold station. I don’t want you to reveal your presence.’
Jon Smoke was to reflect, as he stalked the corridors of Buckingham Palace all these years later, on the impact that brief radio comms, which he shared with Scottie, was to have on his life.
When, fifteen minutes later, as both snipers held their breath, and the Taliban marched directly beneath them, Jon heard a loud crack. Then a yell. Followed by a yelp of pain.
Then a lot of shouting in a language he did not understand.
And despite the now poor light, he could see what had happened. He had a ringside view he would never want again for the rest of his life. One of the key branches Scottie had been perched on had broken and he’d plummeted to the ground. Straight into the middle of nearer fifteen — not ten — ragbag and angry enemy soldiers.
At first they began yelling at his colleague, and that was sort of understandable, sort of fine. And grabbing poor, helpless Scottie’s weapons, that was understandable too.
But not what happened next.
37
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, 2007
Smoke could not see clearly but he could hear, louder than he had ever wanted to, screams of terror and agonizing pain. Then more screaming. Then he heard his name, howled in desperation. ‘Jon! Jon!’
Jesus Christ.
He reached for his semi-automatic and pointed down. But between the leaves obscuring his view and the dark and the sea of people beneath him he couldn’t tell where Scottie was exactly and did not dare fire for fear of hitting him.
Then he heard the worst, most ear-piercing scream he had ever heard in his life. It was a scream that rose from the very pit of hell.
And a desperate cry again. ‘Jon! Jon!’ But weaker this time.
Immediately followed by another scream that was even worse.
Smoke felt physically sick. He just wanted to fire. To shoot every bastard, but still he did not dare and then—
‘Ahhh a hahhhhhhh... a hahhhhhhh! No — NO! NO! NO! PLEEEEASE. JONNNNNN!’
A final terrible shriek.
Then silence.
A moment of utter silence that was even more terrible than the screams. It was followed by shouting in the same language he did not understand, but which sounded like a command. Then the ragbag platoon moved on, towards his base. And he couldn’t contain himself any more. He clamped on the night scope, set the switch to automatic and took aim.
Squeezed the trigger.
And mowed every one of them down before any had the chance to return fire. He kept on shooting, methodically, until every damned one of them was on the ground.
Then he climbed down from his tree, and as soon as his boots hit the sand he sank into a crouch, pulling out his Glock. He saw several people moving, writhing, and heard moans of pain. Removing the night scope from his rifle, he raised it to his eyes, checking no one was aiming a gun at him. Then he looked for Scottie. And saw his motionless body.
‘Fucking bastards,’ he murmured, very deeply shocked and upset. Then, still crouching, he moved forward. He passed three dead Taliban. Then one who was still moving. He put a bullet in the back of his head and he stopped moving. Smoke had three magazines for the Glock, each holding seventeen bullets. He used thirty-six bullets. Not one of the group was moving now.
Finally, he stood upright and walked back to Scottie’s body. And fought back the bile that rose in his throat, shaking his head, and also fighting back tears at the sight of the remains of his friend.
They had poked his eyes out, then cut him open down his midriff and pulled out his entrails in some weird replication of the old British method of hanging, drawing and quartering traitors and other miscreants.