Crossfire (7 page)

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.

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.

The Rifleman guarding the door pointed at
Dom's camera. 'Not here, mate. Just let her do
her stuff. Leave the women alone and they'll tell
you more than these cunts.'

Flashes from Pete's camera bounced into the
hallway from the third room. I went with Dom to
see the body of another man of fighting age, a bit
older than the last, stretched out on the floor. His
blood soaked the carpet and had splattered over a
pile of what looked like mud bricks wrapped in
heavy polythene in front of the TV. Tom and Jerry
kicked the shit out of each other on screen. An AK
lay in the corner. There was a pistol tucked under
the waistband of his jeans. Muqtada Al-Sadr, sunbeams
radiating from behind his head, gazed
down at him from a massive poster on the wall.

Terry stood over him, waiting to see who he'd
dropped.

A corporal with a set of picture cards was
down on his knees, inspecting his handiwork.
'Yep, you got him. One of the bombers.'

Dom was examining the pile of brown blocks.
'And what looks like half Afghanistan's heroin
output for a month.'

The lad's face lit up as he took slaps on the
back from the lads.

Pete did the same. 'Well done, mate – and still
alive to tell your old man the tale. Good news.'

Our PRRs sparked up. 'One dead, one lifted,'
the company commander said. 'They've confirmed,
we've got them both.'

A mobile phone rang the Nokia tune and its
display flashed in the dead man's jeans.

Dom and Pete filmed the AK and the polythene
blocks of heroin being placed in
clear-plastic evidence bags. Kingsmen took
digital pictures of notebooks, photographs and
anything else evidential before it, too, was
bagged up and taken away.

Terry nodded down at the body. The mobile
was still ringing. 'Wonder if it's his mates warning
him there's a patrol.'

Pete smiled back. 'Nah, it's the neighbours
telling him to turn the fucking noise down.'

Our PRRs sparked up once more as Dave now
took control from the street. 'OK, listen in.
Barney, your snipers set?'

'Set.'

'Wagon commanders, set?'

'Yeah, all set.' The Fijian sounded as if he was
ordering pizza.

'Strike team, crack on and finish the search. I
want this done quickly before we're taking
incoming.'

They lifted books from their shelves, flicked
through all the pages, and pulled drawers from
an antique sideboard that might have been
looted from Basra Palace.

We moved back into the other room. Dom
filmed the live body again. The guy was still on
his knees, but his plasticuffed hands were now
covered with a clear-plastic bag to preserve any
explosive or weapon residue on his skin. He also
had a set of defenders over his ears, and a white
markerboard hung round his neck on a loop of
paracord upon which the name SADIQ had been
written in marker pen. A yellow cyalume stick
was taped to the board to help with ID in the
confusion and darkness. The interrogator stood
over him, taking digital pictures.

Dave came into the building and got on his
PRR. 'All call signs, stand to. They'll be here
soon.'

He grabbed a squaddy in body armour
moving past him. 'Where are the women and
kids?'

He was directed to the middle room. He
knocked on the door. 'OK, girls, let's get them
out.'

The kids were playing with colouring books,
plastic toys, the sort of stuff they hand out on
long-haul flights. The women were totally
covered. Evidence bags containing three mobile
phones and a couple of notebooks lay by their
feet. The RMPs were scribbling details.

The search teams had unearthed more
weapons. A couple of AKs, some pistols and
ammunition were being bagged up, together
with some DVDs. According to the crude photocopies
on the covers, they were of Western
hostages being decapitated, Algerian soldiers
having their throats slit, and IED attacks on
American Humvees. Dom filmed it all with the
IR.

The RMPs and a couple of Riflemen escorted
the women and kids to a Bulldog. They would sit
out the next couple of hours in cover while the
rest of us waited for the inevitable.

The search team entered the newly vacated
room and started to rip it apart.

As if on cue, two shots rang out from the
snipers above us. Barney's voice barked over
the net: 'That's one down. I'm claiming it.'

'Tel, mate, look over 'ere . . .'

Pete kept snapping away as Terry and the
strike teams prepared to surge out of the house
and back on to the street. Dave was sharp with
him. 'No more flash – you'll make yourself a
target.'

Pete's tin helmet was tilted back so he could
get the camera to his right eye. He looked ridiculous.
Even the Riflemen laughed at him as they
ran past. He packed his stills camera away in his
Batman utility belt and took over with the IR
handheld, changing batteries like Riflemen
change magazines. Always have a full weapon.

I leant against one of the interior walls near the
door and watched the guys look mega-warlike
for the camera as they waited their turn to move
out. I felt a pang of jealousy. At least they were in
control. It always felt good to be able to fire back.

A Manchester lad of eighteen or nineteen did a
last check of the link on his Minimi before
moving out with his team. He was about as tall
as his weapon – and with the collapsible butt
folded down, that wasn't much bigger than a
ketchup bottle. Sweat poured down his face and
dripped off his nose.

His lance corporal eyeballed him. 'You OK?'

The lad nodded.

Dom moved away and rolled up the dead
man's sleeves. I could see the trackmarks even
from where I was standing. He looked up at the
lad. 'They're high as kites. Be careful.'

It was nearly the Rifleman's turn to leg it out of
the building. He nodded at me. 'Where the fuck's
he from?' Manchester, by the sound of it.

'He's Polish. He's the Polish Jeremy Bowen.'

He glanced back at me blankly as he got the go
from his corporal. 'Who the fuck's Jeremy
Bowen?' He legged it out on to the street before I
could answer.

The rest of the team followed. The PRRs were
full of chatter but soon cut it when the first burst
of AK rattled down the street.

Dave appeared next to me. 'Here we go.' He
jerked a thumb as the last man disappeared
through the hole in the wall and into the street.
'It's up to you what you lot do. Stay in the house,
go back to the wagon, or get out there. Just don't
get in the lads' way, OK?'

Pete shouted over at Dom: 'We going, Drac, or
what?'

The AK kicked off again and six or seven
SA80s gave some back. All of a sudden it seemed
the whole street was alive with gunfire. AK
rounds bounced off the wagons and into walls.

The Riflemen gave it back in spades.

I caught Pete's eye. 'You all right?' It seemed
the thing to say when this sort of shit was
happening.

'Don't be fucking stupid. I'm shitting myself.'

The air filled with the roar of engines and the
squeal of tracks as the wagons moved out to
make better use of their guns.

Dave called for sit reps from the roof snipers. It
was pointless Pete asking Dom what he wanted
to do. We both knew.

'Wait here.' I left the building and stuck my
head through the gap in the wall where there'd
once been a door. Most of the Bulldogs were on
the move, taking both ends of the street and
covering the corners with their GPMGs. One, the
rear command vehicle, stayed static. Its top cover
cracked off rounds in all directions. Every dog
and human in the neighbourhood was going
berserk.

Pete was behind me, camera up. Dom was
redundant until he could get his report in, but he
was tucked in behind him.

We legged it to the command Bulldog and
moved along its flank to a Rifleman at the front-corner
bar armour.

Briefly, a bright burst of muzzle fire lit the
dark. Weapon reports echoed along the street,
making it hard to work out where they had
originated. The Rifleman loosed off six or seven
shots in reply.

I held Pete by his body armour to steady and
control him as he filmed. 'Follow the road up on
the left, about a hundred. There's an alleyway.
That's where they're firing from.'

Suddenly the Rifleman stopped firing and
jumped back. I yanked Pete so the guy could get
into cover. Pro that he was, Pete filmed the lad as
he hit his release catch and the mag fell to the
ground. He slammed in a fresh one, hit the
release catch for the working parts to go forward,
and swung back into position. Pete moved
behind him, filming over his shoulder.

Dom tugged at my arm. 'Let's go.'

Another bright burst of AK lit the alley mouth
and thudded into the command wagon. Pete
turned back to Dom. 'Go forward? You got a
death wish, Drac, or what? We'll get enough
good gear here.'

Before he'd even finished, all hell let loose on the
PRR. The snipers had seen more Iraqis moving in.