'And he has the new weapon I sent months ago?'
'He has not let it out of his sight.'
From Kandahar, Smith had arranged for the infamous sniper Khalid Hassan to be sent the very latest British sniper rifle, the L115A3, known by the British as simply the 'long range rifle.' Now in service with all U.K. combat units in Afghanistan, it was capable of killing with pinpoint accuracy at unheard-of ranges up to one mile. The new telescopic sight had twice the magnifying power of the older model. It could even cut through the heat haze off the desert floor.
'I am glad he received it.'
'Received it? I think it receives him! I'm beginning to think he loves that damn gun. The two are never separated, keeps it in his bed when he sleeps. Between you and me, I suspect he fires it all day and fucks it all night.'
Smith laughed. 'He is having success with it, then?'
'Oh, yes. What a weapon! I tell you, it is devastating to enemy morale when a number of their fighters are suddenly shot in almost the same instant, and they cannot even see where the firing is coming from. They tend to withdraw most rapidly behind their lines. We will need more of these guns for the coming time, many more.'
'I shall see that you get them.'
'And what exactly will you require from me?'
'I will need provisions delivered to me at your camp in the south of Afghanistan, in Helmand Province near the town of Sangin. Food, water, weapons, and ammunition for a week. Horses and mules. A Furaya satellite phone and an automobile battery in my saddlebag to power it. My target has been under surveillance. He is on patrol most every day. He operates out of a small British forward operating base on the outskirts of Sangin. If all goes well, I anticipate a five-to seven-day mission at most. Weather will be a factor. High winds will delay us. But I am optimistic we shall succeed.'
'Inshallah.'
'Inshallah.'
'Your request is granted. I will speak with General Machmud. Everything will be in readiness when you arrive at my small base camp. I look forward to your triumphant success, my friend and brother in arms. And the death of this…this infidel princeling…this Bullet Magnet, as he calls himself. Let Khalid Hassan's message of lead find the dead center of his heart.'
FORTY-SIX
UNDER A TATTERED TENT PITCHED beneath a vast black dome pricked with sharp, ice-white stars, they ate. The two men sat directly opposite each other on the stained Bokhara rug. They were drinking steaming potions of cardamom tea spiked with vodka and eating their meal of boiled mutton, raisins, onions, carrots, and rice. The sniper, his rifle close beside him on the Bokhara, ate in stolid silence.
This was fine with Smith. His man was a shooter, not a talker, and it bode well for the approaching mission.
Dressed in his well-worn Afghan mufti, an anonymous tunic over shapeless cotton trousers and the traditional pako headcover, Smith felt strangely at home inside the tent, the horses and mules tied outside. But there was a strong strain of the nomad in his blood, and he gladly went anywhere in the world his life might lead.
Beyond the tent, the surrounding landscape resembled the far side of the moon. U.S. Air Force B-52 long-range bombers and AC-130 Spectre gunships had been pounding these limestone mountains for days, raining death from above on entrenched Taliban fighters, their military bunkers and strongholds. Not the safest neighborhood perhaps, but fields of battle seldom were. Field was such an odd, incongruous word in the context of war, Smith thought, suggesting vast acres of green clover or bright red poppies, rather than rivers of blood.
Sangin, his destination, was a small Afghan town, with a population of less than fifteen thousand. The inhabitants were all Pashtun and all fiercely supportive of the Taliban. Sangin was also infamous as the center of the opium trade in southern Afghanistan. Since the summer of 2006 British, American, and Canadian troops had engaged in heavy fighting with Taliban insurgents and allied opium traffickers in the area.
Many had died on both sides. Recently, a large group of Taliban fighters attacked a UN convoy making its way up a narrow mountain pass. The convoy somehow reversed down the narrow twisting road, escaped, and was rescued by U.K. and Canadian forces supporting them. The frustrated Taliban attempted escape by crossing the Helmand River. Air support was called in. All were killed by a single two-thousand-pound bomb delivered by a USAF B-52 bomber based out of Saudi Arabia, completely out of sight, circling high above.
That bomb had been called in by a young British Army soldier acting as a forward air controller. His responsibility was calling in fighter jet support and bombing strikes on suspected Taliban targets. He also had the ability to provide the enemy's GPS coordinates for drone weapons to take them out. The job of the young FAC was critical, especially on battlefields where U.K. forces were typically outnumbered.
Bomber pilots circling above knew the young soldier as Widow Six Seven, never suspecting the voice crackling on the radio belonged to Second Lieutenant Harry Wales.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER BIDDING SHEIK al-Rashad farewell in his Islamabad hospital sanctuary, Smith and his Talib sniper Khalid were making their way on horseback, traveling south through the footlands of the southern mountains. Reaching the Helmand River just as night fell, they crossed, then started upward again trekking silently through the dark night, their sure-footed mounts climbing toward the peak of a snow-covered mountain. Their destination was a cave whose mouth overlooked the small village of Sangin far below.
There were countless mountain caves here, deep and well fortified, built over the decades by the Taliban, first used against the Soviets and now the Americans and their British allies.
On an earlier exploration, traveling alone, Smith had discovered that one of these caves had a direct sightline to the heavily guarded front gate of the British Compound. He had spent two days in this perch, watching the comings and goings of the FAC patrols through high-powered binoculars, jotting down every bit of information he would need for his mission to succeed.
Three hours after fording the river, having climbed three thousand feet, the two men had reached that very cave.
The British Army's forward outpost on the outskirts of Sangin was clearly visible from their position, the lights of the town and the outlying camp twinkling below. The cave, nearly a mile from the British position, was the last place British Army spotters would be expecting a Taliban sniper to be setting up shop. Typical Talib snipers used AK-47s, and such weapons were hardly accurate at anywhere near such a distance. But Khalid was not a typical Talib sniper and his weapon was definitely not an AK-47.
Once inside the cave, the men ate hungrily, fed the animals, and, exhausted, bedded down for a few hours of sleep.
Smith and Khalid Hassan rose an hour before dawn to get themselves in position before daybreak. They wedged themselves into the surrounding rock formations protecting the cave. A flat, stable surface at the bottom of a narrow crevice provided an ideal rest location for Khalid's long-range weapon.
The kill would be from a distance no other Taliban or al Qaeda sniper Khalid knew could even conceive of. Nor would they. He would never speak of this to anyone. Almost a mile! He'd been told early on in his training that if he ever informed anyone of this most secret action, he and his family would be beheaded.
The sun rose, turning everything violent shades of red and gold. The sniper began the long process of sighting in his weapon, adjusting for distance, elevation, windage, humidity, and haze. This gun was a miracle and he'd no doubt, God willing, that he'd accomplish the mission.
Smith crouched beside him, just to his right, hidden behind the massive rock formation, a pair of high-powered binoculars hung round his neck. Both men had a plastic-coated color photo of the target taped around the outside of the left sleeve of their fur coats for quick reference. Khalid got the distinct feeling the man beside him would like to be taking the shot himself. He was glad there was only room for one of them at the bottom of the V-shaped crevice or the man would be asking to look through his telescopic sight.
