A Noble Deed

By Peter Mallon

'CLOSE ENOUGH TO SEE THEM SWEAT WAS TOO CLOSE.'

Operating in the second most dangerous place on the planet outside of Iraq; his orders take him to the dark, unescapable alleyways of Kabul to negotiate with the same people, whose sole mission every other day of the week is to kill him and his team.

Arriving in Helmand he becomes aware of an all-persuasive; powerful enemy that is hell-bent on completing the mission, whatever the cost.

Doyle realises he has less than twenty-four hours to devise and execute a plan that if he’s lucky; will save not only his own life but the lives of those depending on him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Mallon
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215544235

Book preview

Prologue

A guard stumbled through the gap, sank to his knees then collapsed face-first onto the concrete after losing grip on the curtain. Immediately behind him, one of his colleagues was edging out of the reception area back first while firing his weapon back inside, then in a moment of panic after realising his weapon had either jammed or was out of bullets, he began tugging frantically on the AK cocking handle while striking the bottom of the magazine with the palm of his hand.

It was too late.

In an act of sheer desperation, he threw the AK47 inside the reception area barrel first and before he had a chance to turn around, a hail of bullets ripped through his stomach and chest, launching him off his feet and onto his buddy.

Feeling my grip on the vehicle handset, tighten; I depressed the transmit button while continuing to gawk at what was unfolding only metres away, then, knowing that they wouldn’t be able to hear me, I shouted into the mic.

Ged!

CONTACT!

CONTACT! Front gate. Over.

At the same moment the second guard fell, the attackers were through the reception area and spread out on either side of the pedestrian exit; each one waving the barrel of his AK aimlessly from side to side; spraying the compound with 7.62 bullets. The police officer on the ground reached up to one of the attackers with what seemed like a final plea for mercy. The attacker, feeling his loose pants being tugged on, looked down with a face filled with hatred, kicked out to free the police officer’s grip, and then fired another two bursts into him and his buddy lying on top of him. After spitting on the dead body, he joined his brothers in shooting the people who broke cover from behind the vehicles, thinking they could make it to safety inside the building.

Without waiting on confirmation from Ged, I had to inform the Ops room and anyone else who was listening.

Zero! Zero! This is Blue five.

Contact! Blue five.

Vehicle 302 in Contact!

Above the thunderous sound of the gunfire, I heard Ged’s voice in my ear.

Calli! Give me a Sit-rep! What the hell’s happening down there?

As soon as Ged’s message stopped. Zero acknowledged, but the timing wasn’t good.

Still sitting upright in the driver’s seat, I was unable to tear my eyes away from watching the bodies fall and the four attackers close in on any who still showed signs of life, to finish them off with another hail of bullets.

In seconds, the compound was littered with dead bodies. Splatters of blood were already being absorbed into the fine gravel in the parking area and flowing down the slight gradient of the grey concrete walkway. Suddenly, in a surreal moment, as if everyone in the scene were being given instructions by a movie director, crouching behind the camera; the attackers stopped firing, huddled shoulder to shoulder and stared directly at me. It didn’t take the brains of a rocket scientist to realise that I was next.

Two of the group remained a couple of metres behind the attackers to observe. One stood head and shoulders above the rest. At his left shoulder, a smaller, stockier-built, older-looking guy kept close while snapping his head in all directions. After a weird moment, which seemed like an age of me staring back, switching my gaze from one set of eyes to the next; the tall one began shouting while wagging his outstretched forefinger in my direction.

Forgetting momentarily that Zero had acknowledged, I shouted into the radio mic again.

Zero! Zero! Blue five.

Contact my location!

Contact my location! Over,

Zero. Received. Blue five in Contact! The Embassy ops room replied.

Relieved to hear the reply and aware that they’d be listening in on my comms with Ged, I sent the two pieces of info that I knew would set the QRF wheels in motion.

Six Tallies! I repeat. Six Tallies inside the compound.

Multiple fatalities! Multiple injuries!

Once the tall Tally finished shouting orders to his attack dogs, standing metres from the bonnet; they raised their barrels, placed the butt of their weapons into their shoulder and began to surround me. Two stopped a metre from the bonnet. The other two flanked one on either side and pointed their barrels directly at the side windows. The feeling of my heart about to burst through my body armour convinced me that now would be a good time to update Ged before whatever was going to happen; Happened!

Unsure if he’d heard the info that I sent to Zero. I relayed it to him.

Ged. Calli.

Send, Calli, he replied immediately.

There are six Tallies inside the compound.

Weapons; AKs and chest rigs full of spare mags.

Get to the safe room now, I shouted into the handset.

Get to the safe room. Now! I repeated.

There isn’t one, he shouted back, then updated me on what was happening at his end.

The door to the roof is fucking padlocked and the other bodyguards have done a runner towards the main stairs with their clients.

Listen! Listen! Use the fire escape. Not the stairs! Get to the basement! I shouted back as I watched them edge closer.

Now close enough that I could see them sweat and tell the colour of their eyes; I stared at them one at a time. Their beards were neck long; dark, unkempt and clotted with a white foaming liquid saliva, mixed with dust and the remains of their last meal. Each one had a crazed, possessed look in his eyes, accompanied by the conquering smirk of a murderous psycho who was imagining ripping apart his next victim.

The initial thuds of 7.62 mm rounds piercing the soft skin panels and embedding in the steel armour plates made my body jerk but at the same time, gave me the kick up the arse I needed to snap back into focus.

‘This is happening whether you want it to or not matey boy. Deal with it!’ I told myself and began to breathe deep and slow; reminding myself I was locked inside an armoured box and unless a Taliban tank rolled through the gates; I was safe for now.

1

The sound of small arms fire shattered the quietness of the night, jolting me out of what felt like the most relaxing sleep I’d had since arriving in this war-ravaged but somehow still functioning Afghan capital. Tired and slightly annoyed, I wasn’t surprised that once again my sleep was so abruptly interrupted. I twisted onto my back, stared at the ceiling, and wondered who it might be this time keeping such unsociable hours, what sounded to be like only a stone’s throw from my safe house.

Snug as a bug under the heavy double bed-size quilt, I lay still and counted the seconds in my mind, hoping to guess the time interval before they fired the next shots. Eleven seconds later, the sound of a machine gun erupted with irregular bursts, making me think that the jittery, adrenaline-filled fingers of the bulging-eyed shooters had never been properly trained; but when had that ever mattered in places like this? I told myself. As long as their guns were making noise and bullets were coming out the pointy end; in their minds, they were the king of the hill.

Ironically, during the lulls of the noisy exchanges, the now-familiar crackling sounds echoed out from the six large square speakers mounted around the top of the central mosque minaret balcony. What sounded like a finger tapping vigorously on the circular foam ball of a live microphone stopped suddenly, then continued with a two-second gap between each tap; after the third, the voice of the muezzin began delivering the call to prayer.

Curious of the hour, I turned onto my side and glanced at the small square-shaped clock through half-open eyes. The red digits behind the plastic face were blurry, as was everything surrounding it, causing the muscles in my eyelids to strain and wind the blinds up a smidgen more until the display came into focus. As soon as my brain processed and recorded what I was looking at, I exhaled slowly and felt a smile emerge; since hitting the sack at eleven o’clock last night, I’d knocked out six undisturbed hours.

‘Bonus!’ I said aloud before relaxing onto my back, closing my eyes and wondering who had won the firefight, while welcoming the haunting but soothing sound of the muezzin’s voice as I felt myself drift back into unconsciousness. Now fully into his stride, I listened to how he used the full capacity of his lungs when emphasising the important words of the psalm; prolonging and raising the pitch of each note to make the performance of each subsequent line sound more impressive than the last. Without pausing for breath and after holding a note for what seemed like a record-breaking time, he continued seamlessly. In my dreamy state, I imagined the words floating in the morning breeze, drifting across the city rooftops, then losing height and reverberating off the walls of single and double-storey buildings, down into the streets, narrow pathways and courtyards to enter the gaps of ill-fitted windows and doors; before finally echoing around the rooms of every household in the city. How surreal I thought, while silently tipping my hat to the mosque chanter for casting a spell of truce over the noisy neighbours.

While dropping off, I imagined the fight scene in my mind. Given the prolonged automatic bursts that would have caused bullets to ricochet in all directions of the narrow back streets, I assumed at least one or two had to have taken a bullet, so spared a thought for the casualties, while being fully aware of how unpredictable the emergency service’s reaction could be; if they reacted at all. That, and that the chanter was now centre stage, I wondered if they’d make it, or would they be left to bleed out, as the victors placed their weapons to the side and unrolled their prayer mats to ask forgiveness.

All very unfortunate I thought until reality gave me a nudge and reminded me that the untimely interruption was just another day in Kabul. All that mattered now, was for the muezzin’s voice to continue rocking me back into dreamland until my alarm sounded in forty-five minutes.

Almost fully immersed back in slumberland, a slideshow of memories flashed past my mind’s eye, accompanied by the repeated clicking sound of an old-style film tape, running fast until it stopped abruptly and came into focus. The large black numbers displaying a one beside a zero were clear; it paused for a second, then began clicking slowly down from nine to zero; just as the countdown on the main screen in the old picture houses did years ago. The screen went dark and then suddenly began to show memories of my first day in-country. As if having some kind of out-of-body experience; there I was, floating in mid-air, looking down at myself; watching my expression change from dread to relief as the wheels of the Russian-made Antonov-747 met the tarmac of the Kabul International airport after banking aggressively to avoid smashing cockpit first into the treacherous mountain walls.

During the descent, the demons in my head tried their best to up the trepidation level every time the plane caught the upward surge of a thermal air pocket before dropping almost immediately at the speed of a man-hole cover; making me gulp and fear the worst.

‘This is it Calli boy. You’re done for. Time to crash and burn soldier boy.’ They whispered menacingly.

The more the aircraft creaked and rattled made my hands grip tighter the armrests of my seat, almost convincing me to concede that this time, they might just be right.

‘Fuck off and leave me alone," I batted back.

‘This is nothing compared to arriving in Baghdad!’ I replied rebelliously, refusing to believe it was my time to go.

‘Yeah! Baghdad! What a rush.’

The high altitude roller-coaster we used to call it. I remembered it well.

Usually without any announcement from the guys at the wheel. The aggressive, gravity-bending, right or left sudden banking of the aircraft, followed by an almost vertical drop in altitude was the indication that we were about to enter the evasive, cork-screw descent that would make any Euro-Disney funfair ride seem tame. On my first trip, I remembered the guy sitting next to me offering me a handful of salted almonds before putting my mind at ease.

‘It’s the best way to avoid heavy weapons fire or surface-to-air missiles,’ he said calmly, then continued munching and nodding his head back and forth to whatever music it was he was listening to.

As the G-Force pressure in my neck began to ease, I glanced out of the window to see the wings of the Antonov beginning to level out. Apart from some strong crosswind action, the pilots had it under control. Relaxing my white-knuckle grip, I wondered what the chances were that the captain and his number two used to be Russian military aviators. If they were and happened to be in the forty to fifty years old range, there was a chance that maybe, one or both had made this very same approach numerous times during their extended Afghan adventure vacation, some years back.

After making it through the small 1950’s style dilapidated arrivals and immigration area, I latched on behind a gaggle of English speakers being directed by four hefty individuals whose gait and confident swagger suggested soldiers, or in this case: ex-soldiers. The four waited until the group was apart from the other travellers and huddled close together before one of the four introduced himself.

Hello, everyone! My name is Frank. I work for the FCO at the British Embassy, he conveyed in the tone of a drill Sergeant.

My hunch was correct.

Holding a green plastic clipboard in front of him, he called out names.

Doyle! he shouted, after reading down the list. I waited for someone else to raise their hand or reply but no one did. Sounding a tad impatient, he shouted the name a second time.

Doyle!

Standing behind the rest, next to two women who were being chatted up by a broad-shouldered Geordie bloke, I raised my arm and kept it raised until Frank broke eye contact and ticked me off.

After repacking the clipboard into his daysack, he looked over the group.

OK team, follow on, he ordered casually in his broad Northern Irish accent.

As soon as the doors slid left and right, two weirdos with precisely shaped facial hair and slick, Elvis hairstyles caught my attention. Standing shoulder to shoulder and waving frantically like two lifelong Spice-Girl fans, they were in the middle of other welcoming parties, behind the waist-high steel barriers ten metres away from the exit.

Even though they weren’t wearing the colours of the rainbow, the volume control of their brightly coloured green and orange, eagle-winged shirt collars on the lapels of the tight-fitted and matching black leather jackets suggested which type of company they preferred to be around.

In addition to the fashion show, the extra-large meet-and-greet white placards they were waving above their heads, made certain that anyone passing through the arrival doors wouldn’t be able to avoid seeing them. The placard on the left displayed four names written in black marker pen: Presgrave, Kelly, Smith, and Gornall. The one on the right looked more official and professionally put together. It displayed the insignia and names of the three largest private security companies in Kabul.

Frank waved and motioned them to join us.

Emerging from the shadow of the white canvas canopy, the yellow and white rays of the sun welcomed us with instant warmth. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I gazed up to ask for more; it gave generously, along with more of the blinding glare that made my eyeballs feel as if someone had just bored a red-hot, one-millimetre drill through each of my pupils.

Stepping to the side, I closed my eyes and reached inside the chest pocket of my jacket for my Oakleys. Once I looped the dark green cord over my head and seated the rubber nose pads above the bony part of my nose, I looked skyward again. Now able to look at it without risking a retina burnout, it was nestling centimetres above the jagged outline of the same treacherous-looking mountain peaks that the pilots had narrowly avoided, but from down here the scene looked less threatening.

After a few metres more of taking in the views while strolling at the rear of the pack on the extra-wide pavement. The sound of small arms fire snapped my mind out of its stroll down memory lane. Instinctively, I twisted my head right and looked in the direction of where I knew the airport perimeter fence was; just over three hundred metres away. Beyond that was a dual carriageway and after the road, the outskirts of the city.

‘Worth the work,’ I said to myself, thinking back to the hours of map study I’d conducted in Bali. I knew it would come in handy but not so soon after wheels down. Unfazed by the controlled rate of fire that I suspected to be nothing more than the local police clearing a path through the traffic outside the wire, I dismissed it and watched half the group scream a gaggle of embarrassing high-pitched noises as they scampered behind anyone bigger than themselves.

Assuming by the frantic body language that this was their first trip to a hostile environment, I empathised with their reaction and the panic picture that I knew would still be racing through their minds; activating their fight-or-flight response and the only question that would be at the forefront of their minds. The question everyone fears to ask themselves when hearing gunfire up close for the first time. That dreaded question proceeding the dry mouth and the sudden onset of sweat, followed by the immediate spike in blood pressure that initiates the rush of adrenaline and a sickly feeling in the pit of the stomach. Then, in the blink of an eye and before the sound of the gunfire has dissipated; they whisper it to themselves, hoping not to attract death.

‘Well! Is this it? Is this how I’m checking out? Or am I going to do something in order to live and fight another day?’

Glancing at the others, I got the impression that if asked how they were feeling after being jolted by the suddenness and closeness of the gunfire; which of them, if any, would be honest enough to answer truthfully; especially the experienced, who, instead of defusing the awkward moment and reinforcing to the new arrivals that we were safe; they continued to walk on by, shaking their heads and sniggering into their jackets.

Waiting for the group to recover and continue, I took a moment to enjoy one more view of the ridgeline before lowering my gaze onto the shadowed tree-covered hills below the snowline and the mucky light brown haze that was hovering above the city.

Communication antennas were on every rooftop, but my eyes gravitated towards the tallest of at least twenty smaller ones clustered on the same roof of the highest most prominent building in that area. Antennas that tall and the communication networks that I knew accompanied them cost money; money that I knew already, only a handful of entities in this town could afford.

The American Embassy.

The ISAF military group, followed closely by any of the other international Embassies and of course, all the high-profile hotels. Ironically, all the Afghan government buildings were last on my list of Kabul’s richest.

The building with the busy rooftop was easily four floors higher than the others in its shadow below. A guesstimate glance of the distance between each floor, then visualising and multiplying it against the tallest antenna, put it at around thirty metres above the roof. Whatever the height was, it was high enough for its tip to pierce the underbelly of the dark blanket of contaminated smog floating above it and the rest of the city.

Approximately two hundred metres from the airport building Frank stopped at the edge of the pavement and shouted back to the rest of us.

Close up!

Careful of the traffic as you cross, he stressed in a dulcet uninterested tone which I translated as meaning; ‘If you can’t be bothered to suck in the environment and as a result; get knocked down, hospitalised and flown back to where you came from; tough shit.’

I allowed myself a grin, appreciated and agreed with his traffic warden’s warning, and then looked at the flimsy barrier and gates on the opposite side of the road. Unmistakable, unless you were one of those Frank just alluded to, or your head was permanently glued to your smartphone; the white letters set against the light blue background of a large rectangular sign above the entrance opposite, suggested that whatever lay behind it was for embassy personnel only.

‘RESTRICTED AREA.’

Whatever was behind the thickly weaved lush green hedge and four-meter-high metal perimeter fence was well hidden. Two Afghan guards dressed in battleship grey uniforms, wearing matching weird-shaped baseball-style caps, stepped forward from the open door of their wooden panelled guard hut. AKs shoulder slung with the