The Angry Sea, page 31
Carr had punched through the murder hole immediately after McMullen, going right and clearing the opening.
As he’d gone through, he’d first heard the AK, and the rounds smacking into the plasterwork above his head, and then the reply from Kev’s weapon.
He resisted the urge to turn and help, and instead searched for targets of his own.
In the choking dust and darkness, he picked out a woman, curled up on a bed, hands over her head, and the shape of a man, moving purposefully from left to right.
Instantly, John Carr fired two shots.
The first clipped the guy in the right elbow, deflecting the bullet down and out of his arm at the wrist, taking out both of those joints, along with the controlling tendons and most of the muscle, and rendering his arm useless.
The second round took the man in the hip, ripped onwards through his stomach, and dropped him, blood spraying and pumping, to the floor.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Carr congratulated himself: not bad shooting, when you’ve just had a dozen 7.62mm rounds fired six inches over your head.
The target was screaming and writhing in pain, but he was also trying to drag himself into the corner of the room, his good arm stretching out for something.
Carr fired a single shot into the crawling man’s head.
The round smashed his skull open, painting the floor and wall with brain and other tissue, and the overpressure forced his eyes from their sockets.
He flopped to the floor, blood pulsing from his shattered body and quickly beginning to pool around him.
Eight seconds.
‘Clear the room, Kev,’ shouted Carr.
He maintained a firing position, half-turned to watch McMullen, but keeping his weapon aimed at the girl sitting on the mattress in front of him.
From outside, came the heavy, percussive rattle of several AK47s, and responding bursts of fire – controlled, deliberate, aimed – from the Minimis of Geordie Skelton and Fred West.
Behind him, McMullen moved towards the man he’d shot, who was thrashing noiselessly around on the ground, and placed the barrel of his Diemaco to the man’s forehead. The guy actually pressed upwards against the hot steel, almost gratefully, embracing his end as Kev pulled the trigger.
McMullen patted the two women down, looking for weapons in their shapeless clothing. Once he was happy that they posed no threat, he quickly cleared the rest of the room.
When he got to the corner near Carr, he turned.
‘Suicide vest,’ he said.
Twelve seconds.
‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘They…’
But just then, the girl sat up, and pointed at the man he’d shot.
‘Shoot that bastard!’ she yelled. ‘Shoot him! Shoot him!’
‘Stay down,’ shouted Carr, holding out his hand, palm up. ‘He’s already dead. Stay the fuck down, and shut up.’
But the girl ignored him, and stood up.
McMullen turned, hand to her chest, and pushed her firmly back onto the bed.
‘Stay down,’ he barked. ‘And be fucking quiet.’
‘Shoot him,’ she said, more quietly.
‘He’s fucking dead,’ said Carr.
Behind him, he became aware of the sound of the other woman, wailing.
Over his shoulder, Carr said, ‘For fuck’s sake, Kev, shut her up, will you?’
But McMullen, on that side of the room, was already grabbing her by the shoulders.
‘You’re okay,’ he said, staring into her eyes. ‘We’re here to help, but you’ve got to be quiet.’
The screaming continued, so McMullen slapped her hard across the face.
She shut up.
For the first time since they had entered the room there was silence.
Apart from the cacophony of the firefight going on outside.
‘Which one of you is Charlotte Morgan?’ said Carr.
No reply.
He looked at the nearest of them.
‘Which one’s Charlotte?’ he said, louder.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
‘And that’s Martha?’ said Carr.
‘Yes. Did he have to slap her?’
Carr looked down at her.
It was too dark – and she was too skinny and dirty and bedraggled – for him to positively identify her, but he’d heard her voice and knew that it was her.
Tough little fucker, worrying about her mate, with all this shit going on around her, and after all they’d been through.
‘He did,’ he said. ‘We need to get out of here, and you girls need to listen in. It’s not over yet.’
As he spoke, there was a loud bang outside – the sound of Fred West setting off the Claymore positioned outside the front door to the main building.
That meant men had been coming through.
And he could hear the distinctive sound of the Minimis, and the duration of the bursts was increasing, as Geordie and Fred attempted to gain the upper hand and win the firefight.
But there was a lot of AK flying back the other way: they were in a major contact, clearly, and time was pressing.
Carr turned, keying his pressel, trying to get some situational awareness out of the empty doorway.
A few rounds punched into the outside wall.
He looked at his watch.
Less than a minute since they’d entered.
He transmitted blind, not expecting the guys to answer.
‘Jackpot, Jackpot, Jackpot,’ he said.
We’ve got them both.
‘Who are you?’ said Charlotte Morgan. ‘SAS?’
‘Close,’ said Carr. ‘All you need to know is we’re the good guys and we’re going to get you out of here. But it’s not going to be easy. Can you run?’
‘Out of here?’ said Charlotte. ‘Of course I can bloody run.’
Good girl, thought Carr, again. Ballsy as fuck.
‘Her?’ he said, nodding at Martha.
Martha Percival was lying back on her bed, staring wide-eyed at them, making a low, croaky moan through her filthy, skeletal fingers.
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlotte.
‘Can you help her? We need to be able to use our weapons.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Of course.’
‘Quick,’ said Carr, using his knife to slice through the plastic tie holding her to the bed. ‘And keep your head down.’
Charlotte Morgan got off her bed and ran across the room to Martha.
Carr cut her tie, too, and then knelt by the two women, as Kev McMullen – standing back in the dark shadows of the room – fired a couple of shots at fleeting targets.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Stick with us and just do as we say, yes?’
Charlotte nodded. Martha did not respond.
‘Get her up,’ said Carr.
Charlotte tried to pull her friend upright, but she was a dead weight.
‘Please, Martha,’ she said. ‘Stand. Come on, you need to.’
But the other woman just sat there, eyes vacant.
‘Fuck,’ said Carr. ‘Okay, change of plan. Kev, you’re going to have to carry her, mate.’
McMullen put a thumb up.
Carr turned to Charlotte. ‘Right, listen,’ he said, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘You hear all that shit going on out there? That’s where we’re going, okay? You need to get your head round that.’
Charlotte nodded, trying to ignore the terrifying noise.
‘I know it’s scary,’ said Carr, ‘but you’ll be fine if you do as I say. I’ll lead, you follow. And stay close. Kev will bring up the rear with Martha. Do not stop for anything. Understand? Doesn’t matter what happens, you keep moving. You stop moving, it’s game over.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Yes, yes, I understand. Keep moving, never stop. I understand.’
She realised that she was gabbling, but in her defence she was terrified. The shooting outside was unbelievable – she could hear bullets smacking into the walls, and the ricochets pinging off into the night.
Suddenly, she didn’t want to leave.
She felt safe inside this building, behind the block walls, and the dirty-white plaster.
But she knew that that feeling was an illusion.
She didn’t want to leave, but she had to.
She looked up at Carr – marvelling at how calm, and assured, and in control he looked.
‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘What?’ said Carr.
‘What’s your name? If I’m going to die here, I’d like to know the name of the man who tried to save me.’
‘You’re not going to die as long as you do as I say,’ said Carr. ‘Then again, I have been known to be wrong. So I’m John. That’s Kev, and outside are Geordie and Fred.’
‘Is that it?’ she said.
‘That’s your lot, darling,’ said Carr. ‘But we don’t need any more than that.’
He bent his head and spoke into his mike.
‘Geordie, Fred,’ he said. ‘Stand by to give rapid fire and blow the gates on my call. We’re about to come out.’
Carr looked at McMullen. ‘You ready, mate?’ he said.
‘Yep,’ replied McMullen. ‘I’m fucking ready, John.’
99.
OUTSIDE, GEORDIE SKELTON and Fred West had taken up supporting positions a few metres apart, behind what cover they could find.
Each man had a belt of 200 rounds fed into his Minimi, and ready to go, and a further 600 alongside him, with more stowed in his pack.
They’d heard Carr’s ‘Who Dares Wins’ call, and then the burst of fire from inside the servants’ quarters.
A few seconds later, Carr’s door charge had gone off, and all hell had broken loose.
They heard more shooting – clearly AK – from inside the small outbuilding, and glanced over at each other.
But they were committed, and there was nothing they could do to help – they were about to have their own hands very full indeed.
If it was all going south then they’d deal with it, as and when they could.
For now, they waited, weapons into their shoulders, focused on the main villa – where the reaction would surely come from.
And come it did.
From an upstairs window, a man opened up on the servant’s quarters with an AK.
Immediately, Geordie Skelton put a burst of a dozen rounds into the room and the guy vanished.
Whether he’d been dropped or had just taken cover, Skelton couldn’t tell, but his fire had the effect of drawing the attention of the fighters inside the villa to his position.
Several weapons opened up from various points inside the building, and both Skelton and Fred West replied – relying on their better accuracy and discipline, and the far greater weight of fire that their Minimis could supply, compared with the assault rifles being used against them, to keep them on top.
Suddenly, the front door of the villa opened, and three men emerged.
They started to move towards the corner of the building which would lead them around to the servants’ quarters, but they’d taken only a few steps when West detonated his Claymore, showering them in a lethal hail of molten steel.
Two were killed instantly, eviscerated by the fragmentation, but the third, almost unbelievably, was left unscathed. Skelton tracked the man with his muzzle as he turned and ran back into the building, but he was unable to catch up with him before he vanished.
‘Lucky fucking bastard,’ breathed Geordie.
Both he and Fred – moving to whatever new cover they could find – began to fire deliberate, aimed bursts through the windows, trying to keep the men inside on the back foot.
It seemed to be working – the incoming was patchy and sporadic – until they were lit up by a long burst from an automatic weapon coming from the villa.
It was inaccurate, but it was close enough.
‘Where the fuck’s that come from?’ shouted Skelton.
‘I didn’t…’ said West.
But then there was a second burst, closer this time, and he saw a hint of muzzle flash from one of the upper floor windows.
The fucker was keeping his weapon in the room, and firing from depth – he knew what he was doing, but it also made it difficult for him to locate Skelton and West, and so he was firing blind.
Fred West put a long burst into the room, and the shooter quietened down.
And then the weight of the enemy fire dramatically increased again.
It was coming from several of the ground and upper floor windows, and was clearly concentrated and controlled by someone who was giving commands, and was no fool.
It was inaccurate, mostly smacking into the wall high behind them, but both Geordie and Fred recognised it immediately for what it was – an attempt at suppressive fire, intended to force their heads down.
That could only mean that other fighters were going to try and flank them.
Geordie heard Carr’s ‘Jackpot, Jackpot, Jackpot’ call over the net at exactly the same moment that he saw movement at the left-hand corner of the building in front of him.
As the tempo of fire from the building increased again, two men stepped out from the corner.
One began firing at Geordie Skelton, close enough that he heard the whine of the rounds passing his head.
The other had something long over his shoulder, and now he levelled it at the two Britons.
‘RPG!’ shouted Geordie, firing a sustained burst at the men.
He hit them both, but not before the RPG man pulled the trigger on his weapon.
Geordie saw the blazing, firework trail of the warhead as it left the tube and started towards him, almost in slow motion at first, until the warhead suddenly seemed to accelerate.
It disappeared harmlessly over the wall and out into the desert; Skelton just had time to confirm that both shooters were dead where they’d stood before he was back on his gun and trying to kill a man who was firing two- and three-round bursts from an upper window.
Just as he thought he’d got the guy, his weapon stopped firing. ‘Stoppage!’ he shouted, cursing.
At that exact moment, Fred West yelled the same thing from his position a few metres away, down behind a short, fat date palm.
There was a split second’s silence, as both men realised that they’d run out at the same time.
‘Change your belt, Kev, change your belt,’ shouted Skelton. With that, he stood up and reached for the 66mm LAW he was carrying on his back.
‘Motherfucker,’ he said, feeling for the pin holding the rear cap in place and pulled it out, the sling taking the front cap away too.
As he extended the weapon, he felt the rounds from multiple firing points passing him – standing there like this, big bastard target that he was, was truly shit without covering fire.
For a fleeting moment, his courage almost failed him, the desire to take cover all but overwhelming.
But it passed in a heartbeat: he had to do this, or they were fucked.
Geordie fully extended the weapon, pulled the arming lever forward, and quickly aligned the sight with the upper window where most of the fire was coming from.
As he located the target, something punched him in the chest and rocked him back a little – a single round had hit him straight over the heart, but his body armour had done its job.
Taking a breath, he realigned the sight and depressed the firing mechanism.
The flaming trail of the rocket flew straight into the blockwork just to the side of the window, spewing white-hot shrapnel and heavy chunks of masonry into the room.
He had no way of knowing it, but the shot had killed two of the shooters and mortally wounded a third.
He threw the empty tube away and dived back behind his Minimi, feeding a new belt into it as Fred’s weapon banged away to his right.
‘They fucking shot me, Fred,’ he shouted.
‘You mental bastard,’ shouted West, not moving his eye from his gunsight. ‘That was fucking crazy.’
Over to his right, near the servants’ quarters, he saw a figure, crouching low, holding a long weapon, run from behind the house and get down behind the three vehicles which were parked there.
Moving the muzzle, West fired a long burst into the area around the vehicles.
A moment later, and to his irritation, he saw the figure run back for the safety of the building.
‘You okay, you daft cunt?’ he yelled.
‘Think so,’ shouted back Skelton. ‘Thank fuck for Kevlar.’
It seemed like an eternity they’d been out here, but it had in reality been no more than two minutes.
And they were starting to win the firefight.
They’d never know how many men they had killed, and how many had been wounded or had just lost their nerve, but the weight of fire coming back at them was definitely dropping.
But it was not finished.
‘We need to get the fuck out of here,’ shouted Geordie Skelton.
‘No fucking shit,’ said Fred.
Come on, John, thought Geordie. Our luck won’t last forever.
And just then he heard Carr’s voice in his earpiece.
‘Geordie, Fred. Stand by to give rapid fire and blow the gates on my call. We’re getting ready to come out.’
‘Roger,’ said Geordie.
Over to his right, Fred West was already reaching for his detonator.
Skelton resumed a steady rate of fire into the building.
100.
KHASMOHMAD KADYROV and Argun Shishani had barely lain back down on their mattresses when the first shots rang out.
Shishani sprang up, heart beating hard, and hurried down the corridor to Kadyrov’s room.
This time, he barged in without knocking.
‘They found us, brother,’ he said, his voice high with an unexpected panic.
Outside, there was the sound of an explosion.
‘Calm yourself, Argun,’ said Kadyrov, reaching for his AKS-74U Krinkov. ‘Who has found us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Shishani. ‘The shooting… I just thought…’
Kadyrov cut him off, irritably.
‘Fear is for women, and stories are for children,’ he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. ‘I need to know what is happening, not what you think is happening. Go and find out.’
