Elephants can't hide forever (12 page)

As the motor swung north, heading towards the RV point, Jock spoke first.

“Fucking hell,” he exclaimed as he let out a whistle that is a universal exclamation for a lucky escape. The tension in the motor evaporated as the troopers, who had been ready for
any scenario, relaxed knowing they were nearly home and dry.

Mike stared straight ahead. The intuition, sixth sense, déjà vu that had kept him alive for all these years had kicked into overdrive- that crossing was wrong, it was too easy, and
it was like they were expecting them. That seemed impossible, even if somehow word had got out they would have been gunned down and not allowed to cross. Could it be paranoia as this was to be
Mike’s last mission? Nonetheless, Mike had a feeling of deep unease.

And well he should.

Throughout the centuries, the arrogance of the British Army in underestimating its opposition had caused the Empire to lose more conflicts than it should. The current enemies
of the civilised world were hidden in the near impregnable caves of the Tora Bora mountain range- to be more precise two thousand Al Qaeda soldiers of freedom were living in the inside of one of
the many peaks in the neighbourhood of the village of Tora Bora. Soaring to a majestic thirteen thousand feet, the mountain of Gree Khil, which housed these pirates, looked down almost mockingly at
the village,

The great irony was that in the 1980s, these mountains had been developed into sophisticated bunkers to house Afghan warlords and regular militia men by the best engineers America had to offer.
The Russian invasion of Afghanistan had not suited the Americans, and so they had blasted great chambers up to a thousand feet deep into the caves of Tora Bora, to assist the Afghans against the
common foe. Whether this assisted the Afghans in humiliating the superior Russian forces remains debatable, but what is known is that the labyrinth of tunnels was being put to good use by the now
enemies of the USA.

In the mountain of Gree Khil, there were six levels that contained every conceivable commodity with which an army could survive. The hydroelectric power was sourced by mountain streams, and six
inch steel doors were positioned throughout the complex in the event of a gas attack or worse.

On the third level stood rows of computer banks,; this entire level looked like the NASA control room at Houston, in fact it had been NASA engineers that had designed and installed the equipment
that was now the centre of attention and causing much excitement.

Osama Bin Laden stood in the centre of the hall, head bowed in deep conversation with one of his cohorts.

“The British are so stupid,” he was saying, “They have taken the bait in their excitement to capture me, phase one of the plan is complete, they have now crossed into Pakistan.
In another hour they intend to rendezvous with their aircraft, our allies are waiting and Osama Bin Laden will be killed in the ambush, and the great Satan will have his revenge and go back to
sleep.” Both men laughed conspiratorially.

Indeed the plan, as daring as it was, had worked. A full second before Mike’s radio communication had arrived at GCHQ, it had been picked up by the equipment on level three of the high
peak known as Gree Khil.

The engineers of Al Qaeda had been expecting the communiqué, just as the listeners at GCHQ had. From the very first radio message picked up by the drone all those months ago, the entire
discovery of Bin Laden had been a charade, masterminded by Mr Bin Laden himself. If the western agencies were to believe he was dead, he could once again travel the world with the impunity he had
had before the events of 9/11.

Now the final phase to the plan was about to unfold. It was just as outrageous as the first part; the false Bin Laden would have to be destroyed inside Pakistan, but the papers that had been
collected from the house in Gandamak, which bore genuine handwriting from Bin Laden, would have to find their way to the security services of Britain and America to substantiate that the body left
in Pakistan was indeed that of Osama Bin Laden. Could the great power of the West be fooled by such a hoax? Bin Laden and his generals knew the answer to that.

It was unthinkable to the British that their defence systems could be compromised, but that was indeed the case, and nowhere less than GCHQ where three senior civil servants, who each had access
to top priority state secrets, were all Al Qaeda fundamentalists. All three were sleepers, introduced into the British way of life in their early teens, and left to adapt to and infiltrate the
establishment wherever they could. There was no contact from their masters year after year, but all knew that the call would come, and when it did they must be ready. And so it was that on a cold
December night in late 2001, Sally Dixon had returned to her one bedroom flat in the centre of Cheltenham and made the call, which would end the lives of people she would never know.

Osama Bin Laden, who had just been notified of Sally Dixon’s message and was holding court with his trusted few, commented: “How can we trust these treacherous pirates?”

“Because, Sire,” came the reply “They answer to one God and that is the US Dollar. When we get confirmation from our source in Britain that you are dead, they get 200,000
dollars, and not before.”

“Very good,” replied Bin Laden “The next few hours are critical then”

“Indeed” was the answer.

The border was now well behind Mike and the boys. No one spoke as they journeyed north, steadily making their way nearer the RV. The terrain was unforgiving, but the Volga
never missed a beat. Mike was still troubled with the ease of the crossing, but he kept his thoughts to himself. If there was any thing tangible he would have voiced his concerns, but as the Leader
he couldn’t show he was spooked by a hunch, no, he would remain extra diligent until they were out of these mountains.

Jock tapped Mike on the shoulder and pointed ahead. Both men could see the faint outline of the terrain as it levelled out, this was the RV point. Mike checked his watch, five minutes before the
Little Bird landed. The plan was for the Volga to station itself at the end of the valley, flash the lights a couple of times and rely on the skills of the pilot to land the plane as near to them
as possible. There was to be no Hollywood style lighting up of the air strip, the natives in these parts were mighty suspicious and mighty dangerous.

The land was now flat enough for Mike to cut the lights on the motor and cautiously make his way round to the head of the valley. All the troopers were now on full alert, this was the last place
things could go seriously tits up.

The Volga was in position and waiting when four things happened almost simultaneously. The faint hum of the Little Bird’s engine came into earshot, the night sky lit up with six ark lights
all trained on the Volga, the air was filled with a loudhailer which instructed the car’s occupants to leave the car immediately (although the command was in the local dialect of Pashto all
of the troop understood the order), and surrounding the car were four UAZ 469s Russian all terrain jeeps, each full to the brim with local tribesmen. The four SAS soldiers were blinded by the
light; the positioning of the jeeps had sealed off any escape route in the car, and their only chance was to exit the car and attempt a fire fight, but things didn’t look good.

As they began slowly to leave the car, each man trying to distance himself from the others to increase the target they made and buy some time, a streak of yellow light filled the night sky as it
soared air bound from behind a small hillock half way down the runway. It was another Russian leftover, a MANPADS, which was a Man-Portable Air Defence System, fired from the shoulder of a man.
This was the FIM-43c model, otherwise known generally as a SAM or Surface to Air Missile. This model, when launched, would lock onto the thermal signature of its target and be drawn in by the heat
of the engine.

Mesmerised by the trajectory of the missile, all the troopers could do was watch in horrific fascination as it traversed the night sky before, after ten seconds, it found and detonated inside
the engine of the Little Bird. The plane disintegrated in a fireball. It was like the movies. The crew had no chance for evasive manoeuvring, they were just too near the landing point, it was
probably for the best- if they had been three klicks out they would have still had no chance, just longer to acclimatise to their death.

As the remnants of the plane fell to the ground, another rocket was launched, and this time it came from the back of one of the UAZs, maybe fifty meters away. This was a GTGM or Ground to Ground
missile; another destructive weapon that could be launched from a man’s shoulder, this was a RPG-7 or rocket propelled grenade, and in under a second it had torn into the Volga, causing
another spectacular explosion. With Bin Laden still secreted in the trunk when the missile hit, it was highly unlikely there would be any remains left, let alone any identifiable body parts.

It was for situations like this that the SAS trained its troops so vigorously; no matter what the odds, in any given confrontation there was always a point where an opportunity came in which the
overwhelmed might just grab the proverbial lifeline, and so it was that as the Volga exploded the attention of the aggressors was wavering between the two fireballs and the troopers who were just
clear of the car. It had been no coincidence how the four men had exited the vehicle. Badger and Davey went to the left hand side, both men ten feet apart, and Mike and Jock in the same position
went to the right of the car. All four men instinctively knew this was the chance to resist their imminent execution. As one, they raised the concealed MAC SMGs that were fully primed, and blasted
at the headlights of the UAZs. All hell let loose, with the lamps on the jeeps being extinguished, and several screams from the bandits who would have been mortally injured in the frenzy. Mike and
Jock broke for cover to their right, and Jim and Davey to their left. Although there were several tribesmen down, there was no way of knowing how many were out there, and now the troop was divided
there was little chance of regrouping. Mike and Jock holed up behind a jagged rock, still only twenty meters from the killing zone.

“Fucking hell” Mike said, trying to catch his breath and assess the damage, “That’s Bin Laden gone, did you see if the others made ground?” he enquired of Jock.

“Nope” replied Jock, his eyes darting around the surrounding area constantly, “It was too bright and too quick, how the hell did that happen, where did those fuckers come
from?” he asked.

“Fuck knows,” replied Mike, “and at this time I don’t give a shit, but they were waiting and this was an eyes only operation, so someone’s got a big problem back
home, but we’ve got a bigger problem right here so let’s stay focused on getting out of these mountains alive” he said.

“What about the other two?” asked Jock.

“You know the procedure,” Mike said. “We’re in a hostile land, separated from them with no means of contact, we still have evidence from the house back in Gandamak that
we need to get delivered, so if we see them, fine, but our immediate priority is to get somewhere safer. We don’t know how many hostiles are still out there or what fire power they’re
holding, so we’re going to crawl out of here the way we came until we can circle around this area and head north on foot.”

Jock wanted to remonstrate with Mike, but he knew Mike was right; it was every man for himself in a situation as fraught as this. Jesus, it was hardly going to be a walk in the park getting out
of these badlands as it was.

As Mike and Jock began the painfully slow crawl to engineer some distance between themselves and the bad guys, Mike had that uneasy feeling return, but this time with good justification. He
motioned to Jock with a closed fist, which was a battlefield gesture to stop.

“Jock” he said “Where the fuck are the bad guys? They had us bang to rights, even if we made our ground they could have flattened the entire area with the ordinance
they’ve got.”

“I was wondering that myself, Boss” Jock whispered. “But right now I don’t give a toss. If we get out of here I’ll kiss Allah’s arse and answer that question
then.”

“Fair enough” came the reply.

As the sun rose to the east, Mike and Jock continued to slither between the rocks and grassy knolls, trying to distance themselves from the devastating scene of a few hours earlier; they had
covered no more than fifty meters in the three hours since the ambush.

Standing high above them was the leader of the tribesmen and forty followers. The leader had been observing their progress through his night vision goggles initially, and as dawn had broken, he
had reverted to normal vision. His eyes were trained to spot a small animal at fifty meters in this hostile environment, so observing Mike and Jock was no problem.

“Just as we were instructed,” he said to the man to his immediate left. “Two to escape and two to die.”

“Allah has looked favourably on us this night” came the reply.

“Tell the men they will get their Yankee dollars, and then take the jeep back to the border and inform our friends all has gone to plan” instructed the commander, and with that he
turned to the rear of ledge he and his men had occupied since the fire fight. Lying semi-conscious, bleeding, bruised and battered, were two members of Britain’s elite Special Forces, the
SAS.

With a malevolent smirk the leader of the guerrillas addressed them in his native tongue: “Two of you go and two of you stay, and you my friends stay, whoever your God is, give him my
regards,” and with that he withdrew his pistol and at point blank range discharged a single round into the forehead of each man. Davey and the Badger died, thankfully instantaneously.

You would think that the clandestine operations involved in the security of the United Kingdom would be housed away from the public at large, and hidden in a remote Scottish
Glen or some where else of that ilk, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The Secret Intelligence Service, otherwise known as M15, or The Firm, occupied the building at 85 Albert
Embankment, Vauxhall Cross, London. Just to make sure it was unmissable it was nicknamed Lego Land by those in the know, and to take one look at the building is to understand why. In recent years
the building has featured in no less than three James Bond films, and on September 20
^th
2000 the eight floor was severely damaged by a Russian RPG-22 anti-tank missile launched somewhere
behind Westminster Bridge Road. The Real IRA was held accountable.