Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (13 page)

‘Ours not to reason why,’ said Shepherd. ‘You sound pretty disillusioned.’

Hawkins snorted. ‘Not with the regiment. I love it. Can’t imagine being anywhere else. But disillusioned with the politicians who run our country? How can you not be? Especially with the way they fucked up Iraq and Afghanistan. It was different for you, maybe. You went in at the start when everyone was gung-ho. I was there towards the end, and it was obvious it had been a major ’-up. The Afghans hated us, the Taliban were just waiting for us to leave and the public had had enough.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to rant.’

‘Nah, I understand completely. I’ve been on missions before where you have to wonder if the top brass knew what they were doing.’

‘The Major said you left the regiment because you had a kid.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Liam. He’s seventeen now.’

‘Will he join the regiment?’

Shepherd laughed harshly. With a drugs conviction Liam would be hard pressed to follow any half-decent career, but he figured it best not to tell too many people until he’d had a chance to sort it out. There was still a possibility that he could persuade the cops not to charge his son. ‘I don’t think so. He’s never shown any signs of wanting to sign up. I guess I wasn’t the best role model while he was growing up. I was away a lot and when I was with his mum there were always arguments.’

‘She didn’t want you to be in the SAS?’

‘She wanted a husband, not a voice over the phone, which is what I was for most of our marriage.’ He shrugged. ‘What about you? Married?’

Hawkins shook his head. ‘A girl in every port,’ he said. ‘Actually, that’s bollocks. The odd passing ship, maybe, but no one steady. Who has the time?’

‘Married to the regiment?’

‘You know what it’s like. We can be sent anywhere at short notice, we can’t tell anyone where we are or what we’re doing. Not many will put up with that.’ He gestured at the plateau. ‘Let’s get set up.’

He led the way up the slope. It was steep in places and Shepherd had to scramble up on all fours. The plateau was about eight feet wide and twelve feet long. Hawkins threw down the blanket. He opened a leather case and took out a pair of powerful binoculars. ‘Let’s see how the Major is getting on.’

Shepherd unslung the rifle and flipped out the bipod and the folding stock before placing it on the blanket. There was a bulbous suppressor on the end of the barrel to cut down on the flash and noise.

‘You’ll like this,’ said Hawkins, passing the binoculars to Shepherd. Shepherd scanned the bleak countryside and found the Major. He was about a kilometre away, placing a watermelon on the ground. The Major then straightened up and put a transceiver to his mouth. The transceiver on Hawkins’ waist crackled. He picked it up.

‘How’s that, Happy? Over.’

‘Looks good, boss,’ said Hawkins. ‘But what have you got against fruit?’

The Major went back to his kitbag and pulled out a second watermelon. He placed it to the right of the first one. The next item he pulled from the kitbag was yellow and smaller than the watermelon. Shepherd laughed. It was a honeydew melon, about half the size of the watermelon. It was followed by a mango, a grapefruit and an apple. Shepherd handed the binoculars back. ‘I hope he doesn’t start putting out grapes.’

Hawkins laughed. ‘We could ask him to do a William Tell.’

‘Best not,’ said Shepherd, lying flat and putting his eye to the scope. ‘You know why snipers got called snipers?’

‘Snipers snipe, I thought that was all there was to it.’

‘It’s from the bird, the snipe. It’s one of the hardest birds to hunt. They’re hard to find and almost impossible to creep up on, and when they fly they have this erratic way of flying that makes them hard to target. Back in the day when hunters sold their kills at the market, only the best shooters would bring in snipe. So they became known as snipers.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hawkins.

‘You learn something new every day,’ said Shepherd.

‘That’s true. Then you die and forget it all.’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘Happy really is a terrific nickname for you,’ he said. He got himself into position. He shoved a rolled-up piece of cloth under his shirt around his right shoulder then he used his left hand to support the butt of the rifle, placing it next to his chest and resting the end of the rifle butt on it. By balling his hand into a fist he could raise the butt, and relaxing his hand would lower it.

Hawkins put the transceiver to his mouth. ‘Boss, we’re ready here, over.’

‘I’ll give you plenty of room, over,’ replied the Major.

Shepherd placed the butt of the rifle firmly in the pocket of his shoulder. The cloth pad he had placed there would minimise the movement from his pulse and breathing. He gripped the pistol grip of the stock with his right hand, using his bottom three fingers to keep the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder. He slipped his thumb over the top of his pistol grip. Only when he was completely happy with his grip did he place his index finger on the trigger.

He took several breaths to calm himself, then wiggled his elbows until he felt completely relaxed. He rested his cheek against the stock.

‘Okay,’ said Hawkins. ‘Just follow the same procedure as you did at the range. Visualise. Focus. Relax. Aim. Breathe. Count one, two, three. shoot. Control the trigger. Follow through.’

Shepherd didn’t reply. He was totally focused on the target, the watermelon on the far left. He had to find his NPA, the Natural Point of Aim. He kept his head in the same position but looked away from the scope, to the right. Then he looked back. The crosshairs had drifted slightly. He adjusted his position and repeated the move, looking away and back. The drift was less this time. He corrected his position. This time the crosshairs remained on the target.

‘You’re holding your breath,’ said Hawkins. ‘Only hold your breath when you’re ready to take the shot.’

Hawkins was right, Shepherd realised. It was the tension kicking in. He allowed himself to breathe again as he focused on the watermelon. The crosshairs rose and fell as he breathed in and out.

He mentally prepared himself for the shot. The trigger had to be pulled when the sight picture was perfect and done in such a way that the rifle didn’t move. And the trigger had to be squeezed so that the balance of the rifle wasn’t compromised. So many things could go wrong that he had to be totally focused. A poor marksman anticipated the recoil by moving his shoulder forward when the trigger was pulled. Jerking the trigger was another fault – it had to be pulled back smoothly, and the action had to be continued after the shot was fired. Flinching was another problem, where the whole body overreacted to the sound of the shot, to the point where sometimes the sniper closed his eyes.

The follow-through was as important as actually firing and Shepherd ran through every step in his mind, visualising everything that needed to happen to make the shot perfect. Even after the shot had been made, Shepherd had to keep his cheek pressed against the stock. The finger had to stay on the trigger until all the recoil had dissipated. He had to keep looking through the scope. He had to stay totally relaxed. Actually pulling the trigger was only a small part of what was necessary to be a successful sniper. It was a process, and every part of that process was vital. He blinked, looked away, and then looked back through the scope. The crosshairs were centred on the watermelon. He took a breath and concentrated, focusing on the target and nothing else. All that mattered was the target, he had to zone out everything else. He exhaled, breathing tidally. His finger tightened on the trigger. He inhaled, exhaled halfway, then held his breath and began counting in his head – one, two, three.

As he got to three he slowly started to apply pressure on the trigger. He made the movement smooth and firm, knowing that the slightest jerk would throw the shot off. The cartridge exploded and the stock kicked against his shoulder. Even though the shot had been made he continued to squeeze the trigger until it was fully back, and then released it slowly.

He saw the round slam into the ground to the left of the watermelon and kick up a small divot of earth.

‘Three inches to the left,’ said Hawkins, watching through his binoculars. ‘Slightly down.’

Shepherd smiled thinly. There was nothing to be ashamed of in missing with the first shot with an uncalibrated weapon. There were two knobs on the scope. The top one zeroed the point of impact vertically, the one on the side compensated for windage and affected the POI horizontally.

He adjusted the top knob first, by one click. That would put the next round slightly higher, hopefully by six inches. Then he adjusted the side knob, which would move the next round to the right.

He relaxed, breathed tidally, and looked through the scope again. His second shot kicked a large chunk out of the side of the watermelon. ‘Not bad,’ said Hawkins. ‘One click should do it.’

Shepherd clicked the side knob and prepared to make his third shot. It smacked into the centre of the watermelon and it disintegrated into a mass of red and green pulp.

‘Confirmed kill,’ said Hawkins.

Shepherd took aim at the second watermelon and hit it dead centre. His fifth shot destroyed a honeydew melon, then he reloaded.

‘Fruit cocktail anyone?’ laughed Hawkins.

‘I’m surprised I got up to speed so quickly,’ said Shepherd.

‘Nah,’ said Hawkins. ‘It’s like riding a bike. You never lose it.’

S
hepherd drove to Leeds first thing on Monday morning. He had phoned ahead and DS Drinkwater hadn’t been around but another detective on the case, DC Shaun Allen, had agreed to see him at eleven o’clock. Shepherd had to park on the street a short walk away from the city centre station and, after a brief wait on a plastic chair in reception, a side door opened and a man in a grey suit waved him over. ‘Mr Shepherd?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Dan,’ he said, figuring it would be better to get on first-name terms with the detective.

‘Detective Constable Shaun Allen,’ said the detective. They shook hands. Allen was in his mid to late thirties with blond hair cut short and the start of a paunch that was straining at the jacket of his suit. ‘Come on through.’ He led Shepherd down a corridor to an interview room where a second man was waiting for them. He was in his late twenties, a few inches taller than Allen with receding dark brown hair and black square-framed spectacles. He was sitting on the far side of a table with a closed file in front of him and simply watched as Shepherd followed Allen into the room. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Paul Drinkwater,’ said Allen. ‘He’s in charge of Liam’s case.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Shepherd. ‘And thanks for seeing me.’

Drinkwater didn’t get up or offer to shake hands. He just waved dismissively at the chair on the other side of the table. ‘We would have been interviewing you at some point anyway,’ said Drinkwater.

‘Why’s that?’ said Shepherd, sitting down.

‘Your son is about to be charged with possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply.’ He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

‘Liam isn’t a dealer,’ said Shepherd.

‘He did have sixteen grams of cocaine in his possession,’ said Drinkwater, opening the file in front of him. ‘I doubt that a seventeen-year-old would have that much for personal use.’

‘He didn’t know it was cocaine,’ said Shepherd. ‘He thought it was a bit of cannabis. And if it had been cannabis he’d have been let off with a caution.’

Drinkwater shook his head. ‘The guidelines are clear. A person found in possession of one form of drug, believing it to be another form of drug should be charged with the substantive offence of possession of the actual drug. He should not be charged with attempted possession of the drug he believed it to be. That’s what the CPS says.’ He sounded as if he were reading from a textbook.

‘But you’re allowed some flexibility, surely? Liam’s just a kid; he was holding something for a friend. Someone he thought was a friend. He didn’t open the package, he didn’t use, he didn’t sell. All he’s guilty of is stupidity.’

‘His guilt or innocence isn’t up to me,’ said Drinkwater. ‘That’s for a court to decide. But the charge will be possession of a Class A drug with intent to supply.’

‘Even though he wasn’t supplying? And didn’t intend to?’

‘Again, intent is down to a court to decide.’

Shepherd held up his hands. ‘Okay, yes, you’re right. Look, I’m as anti-drug as the next man, and believe me I’ve read the riot act to my son, but he’s not a drug dealer. He’s just a kid who made a bad choice. He trusted the wrong person. And from what I understand, he’s already told you who that person is.’

Allen nodded. ‘Roger Flynn. Yes. But Mr Flynn isn’t prepared to corroborate your son’s story.’

‘It’s not a story. It’s what happened. Look, Liam isn’t the bad guy here.’

‘Actually he is, Mr Shepherd,’ said Drinkwater. ‘He was caught with sixteen grams of cocaine.’

‘But it wasn’t his, he didn’t know what it was, and didn’t intend to sell it.’

‘Then he can tell that to the court. Did you know that your son took drugs?’

Shepherd didn’t reply.

‘Do you understand the question, Mr Shepherd?’

‘Yes, I understand the question. I’m damn sure that Liam hasn’t taken cocaine.’

‘What about other drugs? Ecstasy? Cannabis?’

Shepherd didn’t answer.

‘What about alcohol? Does your son drink, do you know?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ asked Shepherd.

Drinkwater leaned across the table towards Shepherd. ‘Your son has admitted to us that he smoked cannabis and attended parties where alcohol was consumed.’

‘He’s a teenager.’

‘So do you condone his behaviour?’

‘Of course not. I’m not happy about him drinking or smoking cannabis, but he’s an adult next year. Look, he made some bad choices but he’s not a criminal.’

‘Again, you say that, Mr Shepherd, but by definition someone who breaks the law is a criminal. And your son has broken the law.’

‘Do you have kids, Paul?’

Shepherd could see from the way the detective’s jaw tightened that he didn’t appreciate being addressed by his first name.