Elephants can't hide forever (11 page)

Finalising this array of warfare, there were four MAC-11 SMGs compacts, able to fire off an incredible 1600rpm; a favoured sub machine gun of the SAS to use at close quarters, and also capable
of carrying a suppressor.

Mike opened the first aid kit and withdrew a small phial of colourless liquid- it was in fact a fast acting paralytic drug developed in the laboratories of a well known UK pharmaceutical company
named Succinylchlorine. With rock steady hands, he broke open the small glass jar and inserted a syringe into the neck, carefully sucking the liquid into the plastic tube.

“Fucking Mother Theresa,” came the comment from Jock Wallace, sitting immediately opposite Mike, and watching his every move.

“Once we get this inside the target, he’s out for eight hours,” retorted Mike. Changing the subject, he then asked: “So how’s the wheels then, Jock?”

“All fuelled up and ready to go,” replied Jock confidently. He had bought an Old Russian Volga from a trader in Kabul the previous week, it looked and was a shit heap, but no one in
the regiment could touch Jock when it came to engines and this little baby was going to deliver them to the Rendezvous point, no problem. Whilst once again not drawing any curious looks from the
locals.

“Right,” said Mike. “We go in thirty minutes, so here’s the brief...”

All three troopers stopped their cleaning and polishing, and looked attentively towards Mike. They had guessed it was a snatch, but were about to find out whom. It was always considered
imperative on a black mission that team members were all treated on a strictly need to know basis, and when to know. As tough as these men were, no man alive could withstand modern day
interrogation techniques for extended periods, so if any one was captured, or the mission compromised, during the long wait in the town they knew little to tell, which would actually make their
interrogation far longer and considerably more painful than if they had known anything. They knew the risks.

Mike continued: “Inside that house that we’ve been watching these last four weeks is a target very valuable to our lords and masters,” he said almost in a matter of fact
way.

“Well there’s a fucking surprise, “chortled Jock, “And I thought we were going to buy the place.” The others laughed,

“Osama bin Laden,” said Mike trying to be as measured as he could, but those three words were enough to wipe the grins off the faces of the assembled snatch squad. No one said a word
for several seconds, then in total unison the tension was broken as the three SAS troopers said “Fucking hell, “and burst out laughing.

“So,” Mike continued, knowing he had their full attention. “Let’s keep it simple. Davey and Jim, you two walk down the alley and slot the two guards, remember they look
like a couple of Afghan shepherds, but you can bet they’re the bollocks, so no chances. Jock and me will drive the motor up and take out the front door, the same time as you lob the flash
bangs through the window, we are pretty sure there are four hostiles in the house plus the target, so remember all the training back in the killing house at Hereford and we’ll be fine. I will
take the target, get him knocked out, and Jock will help me get him into the boot of the motor. The four hostiles are down to Davey and Jim. I want to be out and on the road in forty-five
seconds.” The other three nodded confirming, they could achieve this.

“Once on the road,” continued Mike, “we head due south. I’m going to cross into Pakistan using the border crossing at Torkham.”

“Why not go straight through the Khyber Pass?” asked Davey. “It’s quicker and there’s more traffic to get lost amongst.”

Mike acknowledged a fair point. “Davey, if the shit hits the fan and we get into a fire fight on the border, then the chances of us getting through are greater at Torkham where the border
guards are less well trained and would not be expecting us to go that way. We just don’t know how quick the word will get out that we’ve got Allah’s first premier lieutenant in
the boot.”

They all laughed at the preposterousness of the situation. Without waiting for the group to comment on the merits of the extra time in the mountains of Afghanistan by crossing at Torkham, Mike
continued: “Once inside Pakistan, we head north to Peshawar, about one hundred klicks south there’s a flat piece of land, a small valley where we RV with a Little Bird. There’s
just enough ground for him to land.”

The Little Bird was an all weather light attack aircraft with a fuel range of four hundred and thirty klicks, and was capable of carrying the five people who would be waiting. “The Bird
takes us into Islamabad Airfield where there is currently a joint training exercise occurring between the Pakistan Air Force and the Royal Air Force”

“Mighty convenient,” grinned Davey.

Mike continued: “Once we hit Islamabad we all transfer to a Hercules already scheduled to fly out to Brize Norton, and that, chaps, is our work complete, piece of piss, any
questions?”

“Yeah,” said Jock, “Seeing how high profile this is, how come the Yanks aren’t involved? They want him more than us, and it’s not their way to trust us.”

“Because,” Mike grinned,” they haven’t been told about the party.”

The others shook their heads in disbelief. “Any other little gems you want to tell us about?” asked Jim.

“No, that’s it, shall we go?” enquired Mike.

In fact, Mike had one more piece of the jigsaw that he felt no need to disclose. He was going to have to let the British security services contact over in Islamabad know they were on their way.
Although this had all been pre arranged, the exact date of the extraction could not be pre arranged due to the unpredictable weather, so Mike needed to fire off an encrypted message as soon as they
collected the package. This, ironically, would go via GCHQ, from the satellite phone which would take a nano second to deliver. However, the danger was that it was going to alert any listeners just
as the original message had done so several weeks earlier. This time though, the listeners back at GCHQ were ready and waiting, and had been for several days now. They were primed to inform
Islamabad immediately. By the time any hostiles had picked up the message and passed it upwards realising there was mischief afoot, Mike and the boys would be long gone, and well, that was the
assumption anyway.

The timing of the snatch was of paramount importance to its success; like all military operations preparation and rehearsal was the key. What happened on the battlefield was determined by the
planning, and Mike and the squad had this down to a fine art. Davey and Jim McClougin, who was known as Badger (due to a period in his life several years previously, when he had lived in a badgers
sett for nine consecutive nights, somewhere in Kent, whilst training with the boys from Special Branch) left the hovel that had been home for the last few weeks by the front opening, took one side
of the road each and made their way towards the square. The walk was to take three minutes forty-five seconds as they traversed the square, keeping as close to the ramshackle buildings as possible
to avoid any late night curiosity. Mike and Jock slid out of the back entrance and into the car for the one minute fifty five second drive that would see them at the front of the house to coincide
with the arrival of the other two.

It was four minutes past 2am as Davey and the Badger turned into the alley; even the hour had been debated thoroughly, and all agreed on the tried and tested practice that any surprise assault
should occur when the enemy are at their most vulnerable, both physically and mentally, and this was the early morning hours between two and four am.

Both guards were extinguishing their cigarettes when they simultaneously spotted the two shadowy figures approaching. The weeks of inactivity had made them careless, and neither heard the double
discharge from two silenced Sig Saurs pistols as two cartridges entered each man’s body, one each through the skull just above the right ear, and one each through the chest cavity, turning
their two main vital organs into a scrambled mush before they hit the floor. Hopefully Allah and the virgins were ready for them.

As the Volga, lights now off, turned into the alley Davey and the Badger were by the door of the house securing the plastic explosives to the door frame, so far so good. This next move was due
to take less than two minutes: to get in, silence the guards, suppress Bin Laden and bundle him into the boot of the Volga. Mike jumped out of the passengers’ door, thirty feet from the
house. Ten seconds later, as he lobbed the first Flash Bang through the window, Davey detonated the plastics which hurled the door inward as it splintered into a thousand deadly shards. Jim the
Badger followed the shattered door into the blinding light the Flash Bang had created; with his Night Goggles he saw four burly men, two to his right, two to his left, and all had looks of fear and
astonishment on their faces, but all four had AK 47 sub machine guns to hand. Jim knew he could not take down all four, as they were already gathering their senses and reaching for their weapons.
All those hours of training back at Sterling Lines came to fruition- Jim didn’t consider the men to his left, he fired off four rounds, two each into the two men on his right, dropping them
like stones. Before they hit the bare floor, the other two to his right suffered the same ending as Davey, who had followed Jim into the building, and despatched his victims with the same
confidence that his comrade had exhibited.

As Davey and Jim crouched to observe any other guards, Mike had gone between them and in a single action kicked the internal door, which led to the only other room in the building, off its
hinges and despatched another Flash Bang into the middle of the room. Mike followed the grenade into the windowless room and immediately spotted over in the far corner the shape of a man huddled up
and trying to cover himself with one of the rough blankets that were strewn on the bed- and which up to a minute ago Osama Bin Laden, his quarry, had been sleeping soundly on. Mike was the only
member of the team carrying the MAC SMG; as last into the building, he would either need a fast repeating weapon if things did not work out, or nothing and nothing was the case.

Mike crossed the room with lightning speed, ripped the blanket off the last live terrorist in the house, and brought the butt of the MAC down onto the temple of the man who cowered in front of
him, Osama Bin Laden. For a fleeting second, Mike’s training to never dwell on the battlefield left him; here right in front of him was a crumpled man, helpless- was it really the same person
who had wreaked carnage on the United States of America and had half the armed forces of the Western World hunting him? To Bin Laden it must have felt like the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse had
come calling, and Mike could only stare in near disbelief that the man lying in front of him, bruised and broken, was World public enemy number one. All this happened in under a second, and Mike
was now back in charge of himself and the troop.

“All clear here and ready to move out.” he called.

“And here,” replied The Badger.

“And here,” replied Davey.

Whilst Jim and Davey started a meticulous search of the building, collecting each and every scrap of paper no matter how obscure, then stuffing it all into their Bergens for the spooks to pour
over, Mike had opened up the first aid kit, removed the loaded syringe, and with a quick flick of the cylinder to remove any accumulated air bubbles, (well after all this work he didn’t
really want to send a rogue air bubble to Bin Laden’s heart and kill him now), firmly jabbed the needle into the terrorist’s neck and pushed the plunger with little finesse, down as far
as it would go.

As he removed the needle from Bin Laden’s neck, Jock hurried into the room. Without saying a word, Jock grabbed Bin Laden’s feet, Mike grabbed his shoulders, and together they
carried him out to the alley where the Volga was ticking over. The boot was open, and they unceremoniously dumped him into the waiting chamber and banged it shut. As they climbed into their seats,
Davey and Jim came out of the house, now a morgue, and jumped into their seats in the rear of the vehicle. The decision had been made not to torch the house, it would only raise the locals quicker
and furthermore, once the shit hit the fan, Bin Laden’s mob were hardly likely to send round the local SOCO, or Scenes of Crimes Officers.

The whole operation was exactly within the time frame planned, and the Volga slid gently out of town without a soul noticing; well they sure as hell must have heard the door implode if nothing
else, still, in this part of the world people tend not to see any thing extraordinary, and Mike and the troop hoped this would be the case and buy them enough time to get to the border.

As the Volga left town and hit the unlit semi-metalled road, Mike told Jock to slow right down. Mike jumped out of the car and walked thirty meters behind, placing the Claymores at regular
intervals. If there were any hostiles left in the village, this would stop them in a hurry, and if there weren’t, then some unlucky bastard would meet an untimely end sometime in the morning;
still, life was cheap round these parts, and Bin Laden for a couple of locals was a good enough swap.

As Mike placed the last mine, he removed the Sat phone from his pack and sent the coded message up into space that would get the Little Bird airborne, and them out of this Godforsaken land. With
a quick glance upwards, as if to wish the message luck, he caught up with the motor and regained his seat. The journey down to the border was uneventful, if that was possible considering the prize
safely ensconced in the trunk.

As the Volga approached the border, it was noticeable that the increase in human flotsam and jetsam seemed to be endlessly meandering both towards the border and away from it. The dramatically
painted Lorries that the Pakistani truck drivers loved to adorn with pictures of their loved ones, their homes and any other significance in their lives, had now ground to a halt, but the cars and
pedestrians were still moving, and the checkpoint was now in view. No words were spoken between the four SAS men, but each had placed their MAC SMG within close proximity and placed them on
continuous fire; any trouble and they would have to shoot their way across the border, probably leaving the prisoner behind and heading into the mountains. The crossing point was now upon them, and
as they drew up Mike wound down his window to do the talking; he was fluent in Urdu and hoped he would be the only one needing to talk. The Volga drew level with a heavily moustached and heavily
armed official, who peered into the motor, looked Mike in the eye, and waved them through, no checking of papers, passports or contents, nothing Jack Shit.